21992	----	The Cole Lectures for 1922 delivered before Vanderbilt University Christianity and Progress By HARRY EMERSON FOSDICK _Professor of Practical Theology in the Union Theological Seminary; Preacher at the First Presbyterian Church, New York_ NEW YORK ------ CHICAGO Fleming H. Revell Company LONDON AND EDINBURGH Copyright, 1922, by FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY New York: 158 Fifth Avenue Chicago: 17 North Wabash Ave. London: 21 Paternoster Square Edinburgh: 75 Princes Street THE COLE LECTURES The late Colonel E. W. Cole of Nashville, Tennessee, donated to Vanderbilt University the sum of five thousand dollars, afterwards increased by Mrs. E. W. Cole to ten thousand, the design and conditions of which gift are stated as follows: "The Object of this fund is to establish a foundation for a perpetual Lectureship in connection with the School of Religion of the University, to be restricted in its scope to a defense and advocacy of the Christian religion. The lectures shall be delivered at such intervals, from time to time, as shall be deemed best by the Board of Trust; and the particular theme and lecturer will be determined by the Theological Faculty. Said lecture shall always be reduced to writing in full, and the manuscript of the same shall be the property of the University, to be published or disposed of by the Board of Trust at its discretion, the net proceeds arising therefrom to be added to the foundation fund, or otherwise used for the benefit of the School of Religion." Preface No one who ever has delivered the Cole Lectures will fail to associate them, in his grateful memory, with the hospitable fellowship of the elect at Vanderbilt University. My first expression of thanks is due to the many professors and students there, lately strangers and now friends, who, after the burdensome preparation of these lectures, made their delivery a happy and rewarding experience for the lecturer. I am hoping now that even though prepared for spoken address the lectures may be serviceable to others who will read instead of hear them. At any rate, it seemed best to publish them without change in form--addresses intended for public delivery and bearing, I doubt not, many marks of the spoken style. I have tried to make a sally into a field of inquiry where, within the next few years, an increasing company of investigators is sure to go. The idea of progress was abroad in the world long before men became conscious of it; and men became conscious of it in its practical effects long before they stopped to study its transforming consequences in their philosophy and their religion. No longer, however, can we avoid the intellectual issue which is involved in our new outlook upon a dynamic, mobile, progressive world. Hardly a better description could be given of the intellectual advance which has marked the last century than that which Renan wrote years ago: "the substitution of the category of _becoming_ for _being_, of the conception of relativity for that of the absolute, of movement for immobility." [1] Underneath all other problems which the Christian Gospel faces is the task of choosing what her attitude shall be toward this new and powerful force, the idea of progress, which in every realm is remaking man's thinking. I have endeavoured in detail to indicate my indebtedness to the many books by whose light I have been helped to see my way. In addition I wish to express especial thanks to my friend and colleague, Professor Eugene W. Lyman, who read the entire manuscript to my great profit; and, as well, to my secretary, Miss Margaret Renton, whose efficient service has been an invaluable help. H. E. F. New York [1] Renan: Averroès et L'Averroisme, p. vii. Contents LECTURE I THE IDEA OF PROGRESS LECTURE II THE NEED FOR RELIGION LECTURE III THE GOSPEL AND SOCIAL PROGRESS LECTURE IV PROGRESSIVE CHRISTIANITY LECTURE V THE PERILS of PROGRESS LECTURE VI PROGRESS AND GOD LECTURE I THE IDEA OF PROGRESS I The supposition that fish do not recognize the existence of water nor birds the existence of air often has been used to illustrate the insensitive unawareness of which we all are capable in the presence of some encompassing medium of our lives. The illustration aptly fits the minds of multitudes in this generation, who live, as we all do, in the atmosphere of progressive hopes and yet are not intelligently aware of it nor conscious of its newness, its strangeness and its penetrating influence. We read as a matter of course such characteristic lines as these from Tennyson: "Yet I doubt not thro' the ages one increasing purpose runs, And the thoughts of men are widen'd with the process of the suns." Such lines, however, are not to be taken as a matter of course; until comparatively recent generations such an idea as that never had dawned on anybody's mind, and the story of the achievement of that progressive interpretation of history is one of the most fascinating narratives in the long record of man's mental Odyssey. In particular, the Christian who desires to understand the influences, both intellectual and practical, which are playing with transforming power upon Christianity today, upon its doctrines, its purposes, its institutions, and its social applications, must first of all understand the idea of progress. For like a changed climate, which in time alters the fauna and flora of a continent beyond the power of human conservatism to resist, this progressive conception of life is affecting every thought and purpose of man, and no attempted segregation of religion from its influence is likely to succeed. The significance of this judgment becomes the more clear when we note the fact that the idea of progress in our modern sense is not to be found before the sixteenth century. Men before that time had lived without progressive hopes just as before Copernicus they had lived upon a stationary earth. Man's life was not thought of as a growth; gradual change for the better was not supposed to be God's method with mankind; the future was not conceived in terms of possible progress; and man's estate on earth was not looked upon as capable of indefinite perfectibility. All these ideas, so familiar to us, were undreamed of in the ancient and medieval world. The new astronomy is not a more complete break from the old geocentric system with its stationary earth than is our modern progressive way of thinking from our fathers' static conception of human life and history. II It will be worth our while at the beginning of our study to review in outline this development of the idea of progress, that we may better understand the reasons for its emergence and may more truly estimate its revolutionary effects. In the ancient world the Greeks, with all their far-flung speculations, never hit upon the idea of progress. To be sure, clear intimations, scattered here and there in Greek literature, indicate faith that man in the past had improved his lot. Aeschylus saw men lifted from their hazardous lives in sunless caves by the intervention of Prometheus and his sacrificial teaching of the arts of peace; Euripides contrasted the primitive barbarism in which man began with the civilized estate which in Greece he had achieved--but this perceived advance never was erected into a progressive idea of human life as a whole. Rather, the original barbarism, from which the arts of civilization had for a little lifted men, was itself a degeneration from a previous ideal estate, and human history as a whole was a cyclic and repetitious story of never-ending rise and fall. Plato's philosophy of history was typical: the course of cosmic life is divided into cycles, each seventy-two thousand solar years in length; during the first half of each cycle, when creation newly comes from the hands of Deity, mankind's estate is happily ideal, but then decay begins and each cycle's latter half sinks from bad to worse until Deity once more must take a hand and make all things new again. Indeed, so far from reaching the idea of progress, the ancient Greeks at the very center of their thinking were incapacitated for such an achievement by their suspiciousness of change. They were artists and to them the perfect was finished, like the Parthenon, and therefore was incapable of being improved by change. Change, so far from meaning, as it does with us, the possibility of betterment, meant with them the certainty of decay; no changes upon earth in the long run were good; all change was the sure sign that the period of degeneration had set in from which only divine intervention could redeem mankind. Paul on Mars Hill quoted the Greek poet Aratus concerning the sonship of all mankind to God, but Aratus's philosophy of history is not so pleasantly quotable: "How base a progeny sprang from golden sires! And viler shall they be whom ye beget." [1] Such, in general, was the non-progressive outlook of the ancient Greeks. Nor did the Romans hit upon the idea of progress in any form remotely approaching our modern meaning. The casual reader, to be sure, will find occasional flares of expectancy about the future or of pride in the advance of the past which at first suggest progressive interpretations of history. So Seneca, rejoicing because he thought he knew the explanation of the moon's eclipses, wrote: "The days will come when those things which now lie hidden time and human diligence will bring to light. . . . The days will come when our posterity will marvel that we were ignorant of truths so obvious." [2] So, too, the Epicureans, like the Greek tragedians before them, believed that human knowledge and effort had lifted mankind out of primitive barbarism and Lucretius described how man by the development of agriculture and navigation, the building of cities and the establishment of laws, the manufacture of physical conveniences and the creation of artistic beauty, had risen, "gradually progressing," to his present height.[3] Such hopeful changes in the past, however, were not the prophecies of continuous advance; they were but incidental fluctuations in a historic process which knew no progress as a whole. Even the Stoics saw in history only a recurrent rise and fall in endless repetition so that all apparent change for good or evil was but the influx or the ebbing of the tide in an essentially unchanging sea. The words of Marcus Aurelius are typical: "The periodic movements of the universe are the same, up and down from age to age"; "He who has seen present things has seen all, both everything which has taken place from all eternity and everything which will be for time without end; for all are of one kin and of one form"; "He who is forty years old, if he has any understanding at all, has, by virtue of the uniformity that prevails, seen all things which have been and all that will be." [4] When with these Greek and Roman ideas the Hebrew-Christian influences blended, no conception of progress in the modern sense was added by the Church's contribution. To be sure, the Christians' uncompromising faith in personality as the object of divine redemption and their vigorous hope about the future of God's people in the next world, if not in this, calcined some elements in the classical tradition. Belief in cycles, endlessly repeating themselves through cosmic ages, went by the board. This earth became the theatre of a unique experiment made once for all; in place of the ebb and flow of tides in a changeless sea, mankind's story became a drama moving toward a climactic denouement that would shake heaven and earth together in a divine cataclysm. But this consummation of all history was not a goal progressively to be achieved; it was a divine invasion of the world expectantly to be awaited, when the victorious Christ would return and the Day of Judgment dawn. The development of this apocalyptic phrasing of hope has been traced too often to require long rehearsal here. If the Greeks were essentially philosophers and welcomed congenially ideas like endless cosmic cycles, the Hebrews were essentially practical and dramatic in their thinking and they welcomed a picture of God's victory capable of being visualized by the imagination. At first their national hopes had been set on the restoration of the Davidic kingdom; then the Davidic king himself had grown in their imagination until, as Messiah in a proper sense, he gathered to himself supernal attributes; then, as a child of their desperate national circumstances, the hope was born of their Messiah's sudden coming on the clouds of heaven for their help. Between the Testaments this expectation expanded and robed itself with pomp and glory, so that when the Christians came they found awaiting them a phrasing of hope which they accepted to body forth their certainty of God's coming sovereignty over all the earth. This expectation of coming triumph was not progressive; it was cataclysmic. It did not offer the prospect of great gains to be worked for over long periods of time; it offered a divine invasion of history immediately at hand. It was pictured, not in terms of human betterment to be achieved, but of divine action to be awaited. The victory would suddenly come like the flood in Noah's day, like the lightning flashing from one end of the heaven to the other, like a thief in the night. To be sure, this eager expectation of a heavenly kingdom immediately to arrive on earth soon grew dim among the Christians, and the reasons are obvious. For one thing, the Church herself, moving out from days of hardship to days of preferment and prosperity, began to allure with her inviting prospects of growing power the enthusiasms and hopes of the people, until not the suddenly appearing kingdom from the heavens, but the expanding Church on earth became the center of Christian interest. For another thing, Christ meant more to Christians than the inaugurator of a postponed kingdom which, long awaited with ardent expectation, still did not arrive; Christ was the giver of eternal life now. More and more the emphasis shifted from what Christ would do for his people when he came upon the clouds of heaven to what he was doing for them through his spiritual presence with them. Even in the Fourth Gospel one finds this good news that Christ had already come again in the hearts of his people insisted on in evident contrast with the apocalyptic hope literally conceived. For another thing, dramatic hopes of a sudden invasion of the world are always the offspring of desperate conditions. Only when people are hard put to it do they want history catastrophically stopped in the midst of its course. The Book of Daniel must be explained by the tyrannies of Antiochus Epiphanes, the Book of Revelation by the persecutions of Domitian, the present recrudescence of pre-millennialism by the tragedy of the Great War. But when the persecution of the Church by the State gave way to the running of the State by the Church; when to be a Christian was no longer a road to the lions but the sine qua non of preferment and power; when the souls under the altar ceased crying, "How long, O Master, the holy and true, dost thou not judge and avenge our blood on them that dwell on the earth?" then the apocalyptic hopes grew dim and the old desire for a kingdom immediately to come was subdued to an expectation, no longer imperative and urgent, that sometime the course of history would stop on Judgment Day. In all these Greek and Roman, Hebrew and Christian contributions, which flowed together and then flowed out into the medieval age, there was no suggestion of a modern idea of progress, and in the medieval age itself there was nothing to create a fresh phrasing of expectancy. Men were aware of the darkness of the days that had fallen on the earth; even when they began to rouse themselves from their lethargy, their thoughts of greatness did not reach forward toward a golden age ahead but harked back "To the glory that was Greece And the grandeur that was Rome," and their intellectual life, instead of being an adventurous search for new truth, was a laborious endeavour to stabilize the truth already formulated in the great days of the early Church. Indeed, the Church's specific contribution of a vividly imagined faith in a future world, as the goal of the most absorbing hopes and fears of men, tended rather to confirm than to dissipate the static conception of earthly life and history. With an urgency that the ancient world had never known the Christian world believed in immortality and visualized the circumstances of the life to come so concretely that in a medieval catechism the lurid colour of the setting sun was ascribed to the supposition that "he looketh down upon hell." [5] Nothing in this life had any importance save as it prepared the souls of men for life to come. Even Roger Bacon, his mind flashing like a beacon from below the sky-line of the modern world, was sure that all man's knowledge of nature was useful only in preparing his soul to await the coming of Antichrist and the Day of Judgment. There was no idea of progress, then, in the medieval age. Human life and history were static and the only change to be anticipated was the climactic event "When earth breaks up and heaven expands." III The emergence of modern progressive hopes out of this static medievalism is one of the epic occurrences of history. The causes which furthered the movement seem now in retrospect to be woven into a fabric so tightly meshed as to resist unraveling. Nevertheless, it is not difficult to see at least some of the major factors which furthered this revolutionary change from a static to a progressive world. Among the first, scientific invention is surely to be noted. Even Roger Bacon, prophecying with clairvoyant insight far in advance of the event, foresaw one of the determining factors of the modern age: "Machines for navigating can be made so that without rowers great ships can be guided by one pilot on river or sea more swiftly than if they were full of oarsmen. Likewise vehicles are possible which without draught-animals can be propelled with incredible speed, like the scythed chariots, as we picture them, in which antiquity fought. Likewise a flying machine is possible in the middle of which a man may sit, using some ingenious device by which artificial wings will beat the air like those of a flying bird. Also machines, small in size, can be constructed to lift and move unlimited weights, than which in an emergency nothing is more useful." [6] So dreamed the great friar in the thirteenth century. When, then, we find the minds of men first throwing off their intellectual vassalage to antiquity and beginning to believe in themselves, their present powers and their future prospects, it is this new-found mastery over nature's latent resources which is the spring and fountain of their confidence. Cardan, in the sixteenth century, marveling at the then modern inventions of the compass, the printing press, and gunpowder, cried, "All antiquity has nothing comparable to these three things." [7] Every year from that day to this has deepened the impression made upon the minds of men by the marvelous prospect of harnessing the resources of the universe. The last one hundred and twenty-five years have seen the invention of the locomotive, the steamship, the telegraph, the sewing machine, the camera, the telephone, the gasoline engine, wireless telegraphy and telephony, and the many other applications of electricity. As one by one new areas of power have thus come under the control of man, with every conquest suggesting many more not yet achieved but brought within range of possibility, old theories of cosmic degeneration and circular futility have gone to pieces, the glamour of antiquity has lost its allurement, the great days of humanity upon the earth have been projected into the future, and the gradual achievement of human progress has become the hope of man. Another element in the emergence of the modern progressive outlook upon life is immediately consequent upon the first: world-wide discovery, exploration and intercommunication. Great as the practical results have been which trace their source to the adventurers who, from Columbus down, pioneered unknown seas to unknown lands, the psychological effects have been greater still. Who could longer live cooped up in a static world, when the old barriers were so being overpassed and new continents were inviting adventure, settlement, and social experiment hitherto untried? The theological progressiveness of the Pilgrim Fathers, starting out from Leyden for a new world, was not primarily a matter of speculation; it was even more a matter of an adventurous spirit, which, once admitted into life, could not be kept out of religious thought as well. In Edward Winslow's account of Pastor Robinson's last sermon before the little company of pioneers left Leyden, we read that Robinson "took occasion also miserably to bewaile the state and condition of the Reformed Churches, who were come to a period in Religion, and would goe no further than the instruments of their Reformation: As for example, the _Lutherans_ they could not be drawne to goe beyond what _Luther_ saw, for whatever part of God's will he had further imparted and revealed to _Calvin_, they will die rather than embrace it. And so also, saith he, you see the _Calvinists_, they stick where he left them: a misery much to bee lamented; For though they were precious shining lights in their times, yet God hath not revealed his whole will to them: And were they now living, saith hee, they would bee as ready and willing to embrace further light, as that they had received." [8] Static methods of thinking are here evidently going to pieces before the impact of a distinctly unstatic world. They were looking for "more truth and light yet to breake forth out of his holy Word" [9] because they lived in a time when new things had been happening at an exhilarating rate and when pioneering adventure and general travel in a world of open avenues were already beginning to have that liberating effect which has increased with every passing century. Closely allied with the two elements already noted is a third: the increase of knowledge, which, as in the case of astronomy, threw discredit upon the superior claims of antiquity and made modern men seem wiser than their sires. For ages the conviction had held the ground that the ancients were the wisest men who ever lived and that we, their children, were but infants in comparison. When, therefore, the Copernican astronomy proved true, when the first terrific shock of it had passed through resultant anger into wonder and from wonder into stupefied acceptance, and from that at last into amazed exultation at the vast, new universe unveiled, the credit of antiquity received a stunning blow. So far was Aristotle from being "the master of those who know" whom the medievalists had revered, that he had not even known the shape and motion of the earth or its relation with the sun. For the first time in history the idea emerged that humanity accumulates knowledge, that the ancients were the infants, that the moderns represent the age and wisdom of the race. Consider the significance of those words of Pascal in the seventeenth century: "Those whom we call ancient were really new in all things, and properly constituted the infancy of mankind; and as we have joined to their knowledge the experience of the centuries which have followed them, it is in ourselves that we should find this antiquity that we revere in others." [10] For the first time in history men turned their faces, in their search for knowledge, not backward but forward, and began to experience that attitude which with us is habitual--standing on tip-toe in eager expectancy, sure that tomorrow some new and unheard of truth will be revealed. New inventions, new discoveries, new knowledge--even before the eighteenth century all these factors were under way. Then a new factor entered which has played a powerful part in substituting a progressive for a static world: new social hopes. The medieval age had no expectation of a better social life on earth. Charity was common but it was purely individual and remedial; it did not seek to understand or to cure the causes of social maladjustment; it was sustained by no expectation of better conditions among men; it was valued because of the giver's unselfishness rather than because of the recipient's gain, and in consequence it was for the most part unregulated alms-giving, piously motived but inefficiently managed. In the eighteenth century a new outlook and hope emerged. If man could pioneer new lands, learn new truth and make new inventions, why could he not devise new social systems where human life would be freed from the miseries of misgovernment and oppression? With that question at last definitely rising, the long line of social reformers began which stretched from Abbé de Saint-Pierre to the latest believer in the possibility of a more decent and salutary social life for human-kind. The coming of democracy in government incalculably stimulated the influence of this social hope, for with the old static forms of absolute autocracy now broken up, with power in the hands of the people to seek as they would "life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness," who could put limits to the possibilities? The medieval age was gone; the modern age had come, and its distinctive note was progress, with new inventions, new discoveries, new knowledge and new social hope. It would be a fascinating task to watch these interweaving factors at their work and to trace their commingled influence as slowly their involved significance became clear, now to this man and now to that. The best narrative that has been written yet of this epochal movement is contained in Professor Bury's volume on "The Idea of Progress." There one sees the stream of this progressive conception of life pushing its way out as through a delta by way of many minds, often far separated yet flowing with the same water. Some men attacked the ancients and by comparison praised the modern time as Perrault did with "The Age of Louis the Great"; some men foresaw so clearly the possibility of man's control over nature that they dreamed of terrestrial Utopias as Francis Bacon did in "New Atlantis"; some men, like Descartes, sought to grasp the intellectual conditions of human improvement; and others, like Condorcet, became the fervid prophets of human perfectibility; some, like Turgot, re-examined history in terms of the new ideas; and some, like Saint Simon and Comte, sought to discover the law by which all progress moves. This new idea of life and history came "by divers portions and in divers manners," but no one can doubt its arrival. The life of man upon this earth was no longer conceived as static; it was progressive and the possibilities that lay ahead made all the achievements of the past seem like the play of childhood. At last, in the nineteenth century, the climactic factor was added which gathered up all the rest and embraced them in a comprehensive philosophy of life. Evolution became a credible truth. No longer a dim conjecture, it was established in biology, and then it spread its influence out into every area of human thought until all history was conceived in genetic terms and all the sciences were founded upon the evolutionary idea. Growth became recognized as the fundamental law of life. Nothing in the universe without, or in man's life within, could longer be conceived as having sprung full-statured, like Minerva from the head of Jove. All things achieved maturity by gradual processes. The world itself had thus come into being, not artificially nailed together like a box, but growing like a tree, putting forth ever new branches and new leaves. When this idea had firmly grasped the human mind, the modern age had come indeed, and progress was its distinctive category of understanding and its exhilarating phrasing of human hope. Then came the days of mid-Victorian optimism with songs like this upon men's lips: "Every tiger madness muzzled, every serpent passion kill'd, Every grim ravine a garden, every blazing desert till'd, "Robed in universal harvest up to either pole she smiles, Universal ocean softly washing all her warless isles." [11] IV Any one, however, who has lived with discerning thought through the opening years of the twentieth century, must be aware that something has happened to chasten and subdue these wildly enthusiastic hopes of the mid-Victorian age. Others beside the "gloomy dean" of St. Paul's, whether through well-considered thought or through the psychological shock of the Great War, have come to look upon this rash, unmitigated enthusiasm about the earth's future as a fool's paradise. At any rate, no treatment of the idea of progress would be complete which did not dwell upon the limitations to that idea, now definitely obvious to thoughtful men. As early as 1879, in Saporta's "Le Monde des Plantes," we run upon one serious setback to unqualified expectations of progress. Men began to take into account the fact that this earth is not a permanent affair. "We recognize from this point of view as from others," wrote Saporta, "that the world was once young; then adolescent; that it has even passed the age of maturity; man has come late, when a beginning of physical decadence had struck the globe, his domain." [12] Here is a fact to give enthusiasm over earthly progress serious pause. This earth, once uninhabitable, will be uninhabitable again. If not by wholesale catastrophe, then by the slow wearing down of the sun's heat, already passed its climacteric, this planet, the transient theatre of the human drama, will be no longer the scene of man's activity, but as cold as the moon, or as hot as colliding stars in heaven, will be able to sustain human life no more. "The grandest material works of the human race," wrote Faye in 1884, "will have to be effaced by degrees under the action of a few physical forces which will survive man for a time. Nothing will remain, not even the ruins." [13] Every suggested clew to a possible escape from the grimness of the planet's dissolution has been followed up with careful search. The discovery of radioactivity seemed to promise endlessly extended life to our sun, but Sir E. Rutherford, before the Royal Astronomical Society, has roundly denied that the discovery materially lengthens our estimate of the sun's tenure of life and has said that if the sun were made of uranium it would not because of that last five years the longer as a giver of heat.[14] Whether we will or not, we have no choice except to face the tremendous fact, calmly set down by von Hartmann in 1904: "The only question is whether . . . the world-process will work itself out slowly in prodigious lapse of time, according to purely physical laws; or whether it will find its end by means of some metaphysical resource when it has reached its culminating point. Only in the last case would its end coincide with the fulfilment of a purpose or object; in the first case, a long period of purposeless existence would follow after the culmination of life." [15] In a word, men delighted at the prospect of human progress on this planet have made an idol of it, only to discover that on a transient earth it leads nowhere without God and immortality. One disciple of naturalism recently denied his desire to believe in God because he wanted a risky universe. But the universe without God is not risky; it is a foregone conclusion; the dice are all loaded. After the lapse of millions of years which, however long they be stretched out, will ultimately end, our solar system will be gone, without even a memory left of anything that ever was dreamed or done within it. That is the inevitable issue of such a "risky" universe. When scientifically-minded men, therefore, now take a long look ahead, the Utopian visions of the mid-Victorian age are not foremost in their thought. Rather, as one of them recently wrote: "One is tempted to imagine this race of supermen, of some millions of years hence, grimly confronting the issue of extinction. Probably long before that time science will have perfectly mastered the problem of the sun's heat, and will be able to state precisely at what period the radiation will sink to a level which would normally be fatal to the living inhabitants of the planets. Then will begin the greatest of cosmic events: a drama that has doubtless been played numbers of times already on the stage of the universe: the last stand of the wonderful microcosm against the brute force of the macrocosm. . . . . "One conceives that our supermen will face the end philosophically. Death is losing its terrors. The race will genially say, as we individuals do to-day, that it has had a long run. But it will none-the-less make a grim fight. Life will be worth living, for everybody, long before that consummation is in sight. The hovering demon of cold and darkness will be combatted by scientific means of which we have not the germ of a conception." [16] If ever a river ran out into a desert, the river of progressive hopes, fed only from springs of materialistic philosophy, has done so here. At least the Greeks had their immortality and the Hebrews their coming Kingdom of God, but a modern materialist, with all his talk of progress, has neither the one nor the other, nor anything to take their place as an ultimate for hope. Whatever else may be true, progress on a transient planet has not done away with the need of God and life eternal. Moreover, not only have our twentieth century thought and experience seriously qualified the meaning of progress on this earth by the limiting of the earth's duration; men have come also to distrust, as a quite unjustified flourish of sentimentality, the mid-Victorian confidence in an automatic evolution which willy-nilly lifts humanity to higher levels. Said Herbert Spencer, "Progress is not an accident, not a thing within human control, but a beneficent necessity." "This advancement is due to the working of a universal law; . . . in virtue of that law it must continue until the state we call perfection is reached. . . . Thus the ultimate development of the ideal man is logically certain--as certain as any conclusion in which we place the most implicit faith; . . . so surely must the things we call evil and immorality disappear; so surely must man become perfect." [17] There is no scientific basis whatever for such a judgment. Evolution is not an escalator which, whether or not man run in addition to its lift, will inevitably raise humanity to a heaven on earth. Potatoes in the cellar shooting out long white eyes in search of light are evolving, but they are evolving worse. Upon the basis of a scientific doctrine of evolution, no idolatrous superstition could be much more lacking in intellectual support than Spencer's confidence in a universal, mechanical, irresistible movement toward perfection. The plain fact is that human history is a strange blend of progress and regress; it is the story of the rhythmic rise and fall of civilizations and empires, of gains made only to be lost and lost only to be fought for once again. Even when advance has come, it has come by mingled progress and cataclysm as water passes, through gradual increase of warmth, from ice suddenly to liquid and from liquid suddenly to vapour. Our nineteenth century ideas of evolution tended to create in us the impression that humanity had made a smooth and even ascent. We artificially graded the ascending track of human history, leveled and macadamized it, and talked of inevitable progress. Such sentimental optimism has ceased even to be comforting, so utterly untenable has it become to every well-instructed mind. To such unfounded faith in automatic progress a valuable counterweight is acquaintance with the life of a man like St. Augustine. As one reads Augustine's sermons one can hear in the background the collapse of a great civilization. One can tell from his discourses when the barbarians began to move on Rome. One can hear the crash when Alaric and his hordes sacked the Eternal City. One can catch the accent of horror at the tidal waves of anarchy that everywhere swept in to engulf the falling empire. "Horrible things," said Augustine, "have been told us. There have been ruins, and fires, and rapine, and murder, and torture. That is true; we have heard it many times; we have shuddered at all this disaster; we have often wept, and we have hardly been able to console ourselves." [18] At last, the empire in ruins, the old civilization tottering to its collapse, Augustine died in his episcopal city of Hippo, while the barbarians were hammering at the city gates. Through such scenes this generation too has lived and has had to learn again, what we never should have forgotten, that human history is not a smooth and well-rolled lawn of soft ascents; that it is mountainous, precipitous, terrific--a country where all progress must be won by dint of intelligence and toil, and where it is as easy to lose the gains of civilization as it is to fall over a cliff or to surrender a wheat field to the weeds. An archeologist in Mesopotamia talked with an Arab lad who neither read, himself, nor knew any one who did; yet the lad, when he acknowledged this, stood within a stone's throw of the site where milleniums ago was one of the greatest universities of the ancient world and where still, amid the desolation, one could dig and find the old clay tablets on which the children of that ancient time had learned to write. Progress? Regress! While history as a whole, from the Cro-Magnon man to the twentieth century, does certainly suggest a great ascent, it has not been an automatic levitation. It has been a fight, tragic and ceaseless, against destructive forces. This world needs something more than a soft gospel of inevitable progress. It needs salvation from its ignorance, its sin, its inefficiency, its apathy, its silly optimisms and its appalling carelessness. V Nevertheless, though it is true that our modern ideas of progress on this earth never in themselves can supply an adequate philosophy of life, and though it is true that they do not dispense with, but rather emphasize, our need of God and immortality and the saving powers which Christians find in Christ, yet those ideas have in them a permanent contribution to the life of man from whose influence the race cannot escape. When we have granted the limitations which disillusioned thoughtfulness suggests concerning progress upon this earth, it still remains true that, in our new scientific control over the latent resources of the earth without and over our own mental and moral processes within, we have a machinery for producing change that opens up exciting prospects before humanity. Never in our outlook upon man's earthly future can we go back to the endless cosmic cycles of the Greeks or the apocalyptic expectations of the Hebrews. We are committed to the hope of making progress, and the central problem which Christianity faces in adjusting her thought and practice to the modern age is the problem of coming to intelligent terms with this dominant idea. These lectures are an excursion to spy out this land and to see, if we may, what the idea of progress through the scientific control of life is likely to mean and ought to mean to Christianity. If this modern idea is not intelligently guided in its effect upon our faith and practice, it will none the less have its effect in haphazard, accidental, unguided, and probably ruinous ways. If one listens, for example, to the preaching of liberal ministers, one sees that every accent of their teaching has been affected by this prevalent and permeating thought. The God they preach no longer sits afar like Dante's deity in the stationary empyrean beyond all reach of change; their God is here in the midst of the human struggle, "their Captain in the well-fought fight." H. G. Wells may be a poor theologian but he is one of our best interpreters of popular thought and his idea of God, marching through the world "like fifes and drums," calling the people to a progressive crusade for righteousness, is one which modern folk find it most easy to accept. He is a God of progress who undergirds our endeavours for justice in the earth with his power; who fights in and for and with us against the hosts of evil; whose presence is a guarantee of ultimate victory; and whose effect upon us is to send us out to war against ancient human curses, assured that what ought to be done can be done. As men's thought of God has thus been molded by the idea of progress on the earth, so, too, the Christ they preach is not primarily, as of old, the victim by whose substitutionary sacrifice the race of men has found an open door from the bottomless pit of endless woe to a blessed immortality in Paradise. The modern emphasis is all another way. Christ is the divine revealer whose spirit alone can transform individuals and save society. The sort of character he was, the life he lived, the ideas he promulgated, are the salt that can preserve human life, the light that can illumine the way to a kingdom of righteousness on earth. He himself is the leader in the fight for that kingdom, his sacrifice part of the price it costs, his spirit the quality of life that is indispensable to its coming, and when we think of him we sing, "The Son of God goes forth to war. . . . Who follows in his train?" So, too, the Church, as presented by typical modern preachers, is no longer an ark to which, from the flood of wrath divine, the few may flee for safety. If men tried to preach in that way, the message would stick in their throats. The Church is primarily an instrument in God's hands to bring personal and social righteousness upon the earth. When her massed influence overcomes a public evil or establishes a public good, men find the justification of her existence and a first-rate weapon of apologetic argument in her behalf. When wars come, the Church is blamed because she did not prevent them; when wars are over, she takes counsel how she may prove the validity of her message by making their recurrence impossible; and the pitiful dismemberment of the Church by sects and schisms is hated and deplored, not so much because of economic waste or theological folly, as because these insane divisions prevent social effectiveness in bringing the message of Christ to bear influentially on modern life. Likewise, hope, deeply affected by modern ideas of earthly progress, is not primarily post-mortem, as it used to be. Men believe in immortality, but it seems so naturally the continuance of this present life that their responsible concern is chiefly centered here. The hopes which waken immediate enthusiasm and stir spontaneous response are hopes of righteousness victorious upon the earth. Because men believe in God, they believe that he has great purposes for humankind. The course of human history is like a river: sometimes it flows so slowly that one would hardly know it moved at all; sometimes bends come in its channel so that one can hardly see in what direction it intends to go; sometimes there are back-eddies so that it seems to be retreating on itself. If a man has no spiritual interpretation of life, if he does not believe in God, he may well give up hope and conclude that the human river is flowing all awry or has altogether ceased to move. A Christian, however, has a spiritual interpretation of life. He knows that human history is a river--not a whirlpool, nor a pond, but a river flowing to its end. Just as, far inland, we can tell that the Hudson is flowing to the sea, because the waters, when the tide comes in, are tinctured with the ocean's quality, so now, we believe that we can tell that the river of human history is flowing out toward the kingdom of our God. Already the setback of the divine ocean is felt among us in ideals of better life, personal, social, economic, national. That it is Christianity's function to believe in these ideals, to have faith in the possibility of their realization, to supply motives for their achievement, and to work for them with courage and sacrifice, is the familiar note of modern Christian hope. The modern apologetic also is tinctured with this same quality. Not as of old is it a laboured working out of metaphysical propositions. Rather, a modern Christian preacher's defense of the Gospel may be paraphrased in some such strain as this: You never can achieve a decent human life upon this planet apart from the Christian Gospel. Neither outward economic comfort nor international treaties of peace can save the day for humanity. Not even when our present situation is described as "a race between education and catastrophe" has the case been adequately stated. What kind of education is meant? If every man and woman on earth were a Ph. D., would that solve the human problem? Aaron Burr had a far keener intellect than George Washington. So far as swiftness and agility of intelligence were concerned, Burr far out-distanced the slow-pacing mind of Washington. But, for all that, as you watch Burr's life, and many another's like him, you understand what Macaulay meant when he exclaimed: "as if history were not made up of the bad actions of extraordinary men, as if all the most noted destroyers and deceivers of our species, all the founders of arbitrary governments and false religions, had not been extraordinary men, as if nine tenths of the calamities which have befallen the human race had any other origin than the union of high intelligence with low desires." Was Nebuchadnezzar of Babylon unintelligent? Caesar and Napoleon--were they unintelligent? Has the most monumental and destructive selfishness in human history been associated with poor minds? No, with great minds, which, if the world was to be saved their devastation, needed to be reborn into a new spirit. The transforming gospel which religion brings is indispensable to a building of the kingdom of righteousness upon the earth. Wherever one listens, then, to the typical teaching of modern Christians, he finds himself in the atmosphere of the idea of progress. Men's thoughts of God, of Christ, of the Church, of hope, their methods of apologetic, are shaped to that mold--are often thinned out and flattened down and made cheap and unconvincing by being shaped to that mold--so that an endeavour to achieve an intelligent understanding of Christianity's relationship with the idea of progress is in part a defensive measure to save the Gospel from being unintelligently mauled and mishandled by it. Marcus Dods, when he was an old man, said: "I do not envy those who have to fight the battle of Christianity in the twentieth century." Then, after a moment, he added, "Yes, perhaps I do, but it will be a stiff fight." It is a stiff fight, and for this reason if for no other, that before we can get on much further in a progressive world we must achieve with wisdom and courage some fundamental reconstructions in our Christian thinking. [1] Aratus of Soli: Phaenomena, lines 122-3. [2] Lucius Annaeus Seneca: Naturalium Quaestionum, Liber VII, 25. [3] T. Lucretius Carus: De Rerum Natura, Lib. V, 1455--"Paullatim docuit pedetentim progredienteis." [4] Marcus Aurelius Antoninus: Meditations, IX, 28; VI, 37; XI, 1. [5] Andrew D. White: A History of the Warfare of Science with Theology in Christendom, Vol. I, p. 97. [6] Roger Bacon: Epistola de Secretis Operibus Artis et Naturae, et de Nullitate Magiae, Caput IV, in Opera Quaedam Hactenus Inedita, edited by J. S. Brewer, p. 533. [7] Jerome Cardan: De Subtilitate, Liber Decimusseptimus: De artibus, artificiosisque rebus. [8] Edward Winslow: Hypocrisie Unmasked, p. 97. [9] Ibid. [10] Blaise Pascal: Opuscules, Preface to the Treatise on Vacuum, in The Thoughts, Letters and Opuscules of Blaise Pascal, Translated by O. W. Wight, p. 550. [11] Alfred Tennyson: Locksley Hall Sixty Years After. [12] Comte de Saporta: Le Monde des Plantes avant L'Apparition de L'Homme, p. 109. [13] H. Faye: Sur L'Origine du Monde, Chapitre XI, p. 256-7. [14] Joseph McCabe: The End of the World, p. 112. [15] Eduard von Hartmann: Ausgewählte Werke, viii, pp. 572-3 (Leipzig, 1904). [16] Joseph McCabe: The End of the World, pp. 116-117. [17] Herbert Spencer: Illustrations of Universal Progress, Chapter I, Progress: Its Law and Cause, p. 58; Social Statics, Part I, Chapter II, The Evanescence of Evil, Sec. 4, p. 78 ff. [18] Louis Bertrand: Saint Augustin, p. 342. LECTURE II THE NEED FOR RELIGION I One of the first effects of the idea of progress, whose development our last lecture traced, has been to increase immeasurably man's self reliance and to make him confident of humanity's power to take care of itself. At the heart of the idea of progress is man's new scientific control over life, and this new mastery, whereby the world seems ready to serve the purposes of those who will learn the laws, is the dominant influence in both the intellectual and practical activities of our age. That religion, in consequence, should seem to many of minor import, if not quite negligible, and that men, trusting themselves, their knowledge of law, their use of law-abiding forces, their power to produce change and to improve conditions, should find less need of trusting any one except themselves, was inevitable, but for all that it is fallacious. Already we have seen that a stumbling and uneven progress, precarious and easily frustrated, taking place upon a transient planet, goes but a little way to meet those elemental human needs with which religious faith has dealt. In our present lecture we propose a more specific consideration of this abiding necessity of religion in a progressive world. How difficult it is to go back in imagination to the days before men grasped the meaning of natural law! We take gravitation for granted but, when Newton first proclaimed its law, the artillery of orthodox pulpits was leveled against him in angry consternation. Said one preacher, Newton "took from God that direct action on his works so constantly ascribed to him in Scripture and transferred it to material mechanism" and he "substituted gravitation for Providence." [1] That preacher saw truly that the discovery of natural law was going to make a profound difference to religion. For ages men had been accustomed to look for the revelation of supernatural power in realms where they did not know the laws. And as men were tempted to look for the presence of God in realms where they did not know the laws, so in those realms they trusted God to do for them what they did not know how to do for themselves. Then men began discovering natural laws, and every time they laid their hands on a new natural law they laid their hands on a new law-abiding force and began doing for themselves things of which their fathers had never dreamed. Stories of old-time miracles are overpassed in our modern days. Did Aladdin once rub a magic lamp and build a palace? To-day, knowledge of engineering laws enables us to achieve results that would put Aladdin quite to shame. He never dreamed a Woolworth Tower. Did the Israelites once cross the Red Sea dry-shod? One thing, however, they never would have hoped to do: to cross under and over the Hudson River day after day in multitudes, dry-shod. Did an axe-head float once when Elisha threw a stick into the water? But something no Elisha ever dreamed of seeing we see continually: iron ships navigating the ocean as though it were their natural element. Did Joshua once prolong the day for battle by the staying of the sun? Yet Joshua could never have conceived an habitual lighting of the city's homes and streets until by night they are more brilliant than by day. Did Jericho's walls once fall at the united shout of a besieging people? Those childlike besiegers, however, never dreamed of guns that could blast Jerichos to pieces from seventy miles away. Huxley was right when he said that our highly developed sciences have given us a command over the course of non-human nature greater than that once attributed to the magicians. The consequence has been revolutionary. Old cries of dependence upon God grow unreal upon the lips of multitudes. Sometimes without knowing it, often without wanting it, men are drawn by the drift of modern thought away from all confidence in God and all consciousness of religious need. Consider two pictures. The first is an epidemic in New England in the seventeenth century. Everybody is thinking about God; the churches are full and days are passed in fasting and agonizing prayer. Only one way of getting rid of such an epidemic is known: men must gain new favour in the sight of God. The second picture is an epidemic in New England in the twentieth century. The churches are not full--they are closed by official order and popular consent to prevent the spread of germs. Comparatively few people are appealing to God; almost everybody is appealing to the health commissioner. Not many people are relying upon religion; everybody is relying upon science. As one faces the pregnant significance of that contrast, one sees that in important sections of our modern life science has come to occupy the place that God used to have in the reliance of our forefathers. For the dominant fact of our generation is power over the world which has been put into our hands through the knowledge of laws, and the consequence is that the scientific mastery of life seems man's indispensable and sufficient resource. The issue is not far to seek. Such has been public confidence in the efficacy and adequacy of this scientific control of life to meet all human needs, that in multitudes of minds religion has been crowded to the wall. Why should we trust God or concern ourselves with the deep secrets of religious faith, if all our need is met by learning laws, blowing upon our hands, and going to work? So even Christians come secretly to look upon their Christianity as a frill, something gracious but not indispensable, pleasant to live with but not impossible to live without. Christian preachers lose their ability, looking first upon their spiritual message and then upon their fellow men, to feel how desperately the two need each other. Religion has become an "elective in the university of life." But religion cannot persist as a frill; it either is central in its importance or else it is not true at all. Its great days come only when it is seen to be indispensable. We may use what artificial respiration we will upon the Church, the days of the Church's full power will not come until the conviction lays hold upon her that the endeavour to found civilization upon a materialistic science is leading us to perdition; that man needs desperately the ministry of religion, its insight into life's meanings, its control over life's use, its inward power for life's moral purposes; that man never needed this more than now, when the scientific control of life is arming him with so great ability to achieve his aims. II As we try to discern wherein man's need of religion lies with reference to the scientific control of life, let us start with the proposition that, when we have all the facts which science can discover, we still need a spiritual interpretation of the facts. All our experiences are made up of two elements: first, the outward circumstance, and second, the inward interpretation. On the one side is our environment, the world we live in, the things that befall us, the kaleidoscopic changes of fortune in the scenery of which our lives are set. On the other side are the inward interpretations that we give to this outward circumstance. Experience is compounded of these two elements. This clearly is true in ordinary living. Two men, let us say, go to their physicians and are told that they have only a few months to live. This is the fact which faces both of them. As we watch them, however, we are at once aware that this fact is not the whole of their experience. One of the men crumples up; he "collapses into a yielding mass of plaintiveness and fear." Thinking of the event which he is facing, he sees nothing there but horror. That is his interpretation of it. The other man so looks upon the event which is coming that his family, far from having to support his spirit, are supported by him. He buoys them up; he carries them along; his faith and courage are contagious; and when he thinks of his death it appears in his eyes a great adventure concerning which the old hymn told the truth: "It were a well-spent journey Though seven deaths lay between." That is his interpretation. As we regard the finished experiences of these two men, we see clearly that, while the same fact lay at the basis of both, it was the inward interpretation that determined the quality of the experience. This power to transform facts so that they will be no longer merely facts, but facts plus an interpretation, is one of the most distinctive and significant elements in human life. The animals do not possess it. An event befalls a dog and, when the dog is through with it, the event is what it was before. The dog has done nothing to it. But the same event befalls a man and at once something begins to happen to it. It is clothed in the man's thought about it; it is dressed in his appreciation and understanding; it is transformed by his interpretations. The event comes out of that man's life something altogether different from what it was when it went in. The man can do almost anything with that event. For our experiences do not fall into our lives in single lumps, like meteors from a distant sky of fate; our experiences always are made up of the fortunes that befall us and the interpretations that we give to them. So far as the relative importance of these two factors is concerned, we may see the truth in the application of our thought to happiness. If there is any area in human experience where the outward circumstance might be supposed to control the results, it is the realm of happiness; yet probably nine-tenths of the problem of happiness lies, not in the outward event, but in the inward interpretation. If we could describe those conditions in which the happiest people whom we have known have lived, can any one imagine the diversity of environment that would be represented in our accounts? Let them move in procession before the eyes of our imagination, those happy folk whose friendship has been the benediction of our lives! What a motley company they are! For some are blind, and some are crippled, and some are invalid; not many are rich and fortunate; many are poor--a company of handicapped but radiant spirits whose victorious lives, like the burning bush which Moses saw, have made in a desert a spot of holy ground. If, now, we ask why it is that happiness can be so amazingly independent of outward circumstance, this is the answer: every experience has two factors, the fortune that befalls and the inward interpretation of it; and, while we often cannot control the fortune, we always can help with the interpretation. That is in our power. That is the throne of our sovereignty over our lives. III The deep need of a worthy interpretation of life is just as urgent in a world where the idea of progress reigns as in any other, and to supply that need is one of the major functions of religion. For religion is something more than all the creeds that have endeavoured to express its thought. Religion is something more than all the organizations that have tried to incarnate its purposes. Religion is the human spirit, by the grace of God, seeking and finding an interpretation of experience that puts sense and worth, dignity, elevation, joy, and hope into life. A body of students recently requested an address upon the subject: "What is the use of religion anyway?" The group of ideas behind the question is not hard to guess: that science gives us all the facts, that facts and their laws are all we need, that the scientific control of life guarantees progress, and that religion therefore is superfluous. But in such a statement one towering interrogation has been neglected: what about the interpretation of the very facts which science does present? Could not one address himself to the question of those students in some such way as this? You say that science has disclosed to us the leisureliness of the evolving universe. Come back, then, on the long road to the rear on which Bishop Usher's old date of creation is a way station an infinitesimal distance behind us; come back until together we stand at the universe's postern gate and look out into the mystery whence all things came, where no scientific investigation can ever go, where no one knows the facts. What do you make of it? Two voices rise in answer. One calls the world "a mechanical process, in which we may discover no aim or purpose whatever." [2] And another voice says: "The heavens declare the glory of God; And the firmament showeth his handiwork." [3] That is not a difference in facts, upon which we can get our hands. That is a difference in the interpretation of the facts. Or come forward together to look into that mystery ahead, toward which this universe and we within it are so prodigiously plunging on. Do we not often feel, upon this earth whirling through space, like men and women who by some weird chance have found themselves upon a ship, ignorant of their point of departure and of their destination? For all the busyness with which we engage in many tasks, we cannot keep ourselves from slipping back at times to the ship's stern to look out along its wake and wonder whence we came, or from going at times also to its prow to wonder whither we are headed. What do you make of it? Toward what sort of haven is this good ship earth sailing--a port fortunate or ill? Or may it be there is no haven, only endless sailing on an endless sea by a ship that never will arrive? So questioning, we listen to conflicting voices. One says there is no future except ultimate annihilation, and another voice sings: "All we have willed or hoped or dreamed of good, shall exist." That is not a difference in the facts, that eyes can see and hands handle; that is a difference in the interpretation of the facts. Or from such large considerations come down into some familiar experience of daily life. Here is a man having a hard battle between right and wrong. There is no more impressive sight on earth to one who looks at it with understanding eyes. What do you make of this mysterious sense of duty which lays its magisterial hand upon us and will not be denied? At once various voices rise. Haeckel says the sense of duty is a "long series of phyletic modifications of the phronema of the cortex." [4] That is his interpretation. And Wordsworth: "Stern Daughter of the Voice of God! O Duty!" This sharp contrast is not a difference between facts, which can be pinned down as the Lilliputians pinned down Gulliver; it is a difference in the interpretation of the facts. Or let us go together up some high hill from which we can look out upon the strange history of humankind. We see its agonies and wars, its rising empires followed by their ruinous collapse, and yet a mysterious advance, too, as though mankind, swinging up a spiral, met old questions upon a higher level, so that looking back to the Stone Age, for all the misery of this present time, we would be rather here than there. What can we make of it? Hauptmann's Michael Kramer says "All this life is the shuddering of a fever." And Paul says, "the eternal purpose which he purposed in Christ." That is not a difference in the facts. It is a difference in the interpretation of the facts. Yet once more, come into the presence of death. The facts that human eyes can see are plain enough, but what can we make of it--this standing on the shore, waving farewell to a friendly ship that loses itself over the rim of the world? Says Thomson of the world's treatment of man, "It grinds him some slow years of bitter breath, Then grinds him back into eternal death." And Paul says: "This corruptible must put on incorruption, and this mortal must put on immortality. But when this corruptible shall have put on incorruption, and this mortal shall have put on immortality, then shall come to pass the saying that is written, Death is swallowed up in victory." That is not a contrast between facts; that is a contrast between interpretations of facts. Is it not plain why religion has such an unbreakable hold upon the human mind? The funeral of Christianity has been predicted many times but each time the deceased has proved too lively for the obsequies. In the middle of the eighteenth century they said that Christianity had one foot in the grave, but then came the amazing revival of religious life under the Wesleys. In the middle of the last century one wiseacre said, "In fifty years your Christianity will have died out"; yet, for all our failures, probably Christianity in all its history has never made more progress than in the last half century. If you ask why, one reason is clear: man cannot live in a universe of uninterpreted facts. The scientific approach to life is not enough. It does not cover all the ground. Men want to know what life spiritually means and they want to know that it "means intensely, and means good." Facts alone are like pieces of irritating grit that get into the oyster shell; the pearl of life is created by the interpretations which the facts educe. In this difference between the facts of experience and their interpretations lies the secret of the contrast between our two words _existence_ and _life_. Even before we define the difference, we feel it. To exist is one thing; to live is another. Existence is comprised of the bare facts of life alone--the universe in which we live, our heritage and birth, our desires and their satisfactions, growth, age and death. All the facts that science can display before us comprise existence. But life is something more. Life is existence clothed in spiritual meanings; existence seen with a worthy purpose at the heart of it and hope ahead, existence informed by the spirit's insights and understandings, transfigured and glorified by the spirit's faiths and hopes. It follows, therefore, that while existence is given us to start with, life is a spiritual achievement. A man must take the facts of his existence whether he wants to or not, but he makes his life by the activity of his soul. The facts of existence are like so much loose type, which can be set up to many meanings. One man leaves those facts in chaotic disarrangement or sets them up into cynical affirmations, and he exists. But another man takes the same facts and by spiritual insight makes them mean gloriously, and he lives indeed. To suppose that mankind ever can be satisfied with existence only and can be called off from the endeavour to achieve this more abundant life, is utterly to misconceive the basic facts of human nature. And this profound need for a spiritual interpretation of life is not satisfied by an idea of temporal progress, stimulated by a few circumstances which predispose our minds to immediate expectancy. IV When, therefore, any one asserts the adequacy of the scientific approach to life, one answer stands ready to our hand: science deals primarily with facts and their laws, not with their spiritual interpretations. To put the same truth in another way, science deals with one specially abstracted aspect of the facts; it drains them of their qualitative elements and, reducing them to their quantitative elements, it proceeds to weigh and measure them and state their laws. It moves in the realm of actualities and not in the realm of values. One science, for example, takes a gorgeous sunset and reduces it to the constituent ether waves that cause the colour. What it says about the sunset is true, but it is not the whole truth. Ask anybody who has ever seen the sun riding like a golden galleon down the western sea! Another science takes a boy and reduces him to his Bertillon measurements and at the top of the statistics writes his name, "John Smith." That is the truth about John Smith, but it is not the whole truth. Ask his mother and see! Another science takes our varied and vibrant mental life and reduces it to its physical basis and states its laws. That is the truth about our mental life, but it is not the whole truth. What is more, it is not that part of the truth by which men really live. For men live by love and joy and hope and faith and spiritual insight. When these things vanish life is "a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing." When a man takes that quantitative aspect of reality, which is the special province of natural science, as though it were the whole of reality, he finds himself in a world where the physical forces are in control. We, ourselves, according to this aspect of life, are the product of physical forces--marionettes, dancing awhile because physical forces are pulling on the strings. In a word, when a man takes that quantitative aspect of reality, which natural science presents, as though it were the whole of reality, he becomes a materialistic fatalist, and on that basis we cannot permanently build either personal character or a stable civilization. It is not difficult, then, to see one vital significance of Jesus Christ: he has given us the most glorious interpretation of life's meaning that the sons of men have ever had. The fatherhood of God, the friendship of the Spirit, the sovereignty of righteousness, the law of love, the glory of service, the coming of the Kingdom, the eternal hope--there never was an interpretation of life to compare with that. If life often looks as though his interpretation were too good to be true, we need not be surprised. Few things in the universe _are_ as superficially they _look_. The earth looks flat and, as long as we gaze on it, it never will look any other way, but it is spherical for all that. The earth looks stationary and if we live to be as old as Methuselah we never will see it move, but it is moving--seventy-five times faster than a cannon ball! The sun looks as though it rose in the east and set in the west, and we never can make it look any other way, but it does not rise nor set at all. So far as this earth is concerned, the sun is standing still enough. We look as though we walked with our heads up and our feet down, and we never can make ourselves look otherwise, but someone finding a safe stance outside this whirling sphere would see us half the time walking with our heads down and our feet up. Few things are ever the way they look, and the end of all scientific research, as of all spiritual insight, is to get behind the way things look to the way things are. Walter Pater has a rememberable phrase, "the hiddenness of perfect things." One meaning, therefore, which Christ has for Christians lies in the realm of spiritual interpretation. He has done for us there what Copernicus and Galileo did in astronomy: he has moved us out from our flat earth into his meaningful universe, full of moral worth and hope. He has become to us in this, our inner need, what the luminous phrase of the Book of Job describes, "An interpreter, one among a thousand." And in spite of all our immediate expectancy, born out of our scientific control of life, mankind never needed that service more than now. V There is a second proposition to which we should attend as we endeavour to define the need for religion with reference to the scientific mastery of life. Consider why so often men are tempted to suppose that science is adequate for human purposes. Is it not because science supplies men with power? Steam, electricity, petroleum, radium--with what progressive mastery over the latent resources of the universe does science move from one area of energy to another, until in the imagination of recent generations she has seemed to stand saying: all power is given unto me in heaven and in earth. With such power to bestow, is she not our rightful mistress? But who that has walked with discerning eyes through these last few years can any longer be beguiled by that fallacious vision? Look at what we are doing with this new power that science has given us! The business to which steel and steam and electricity, explosives and poisons have recently been put does not indicate that humanity's problem is solved when new power is put into our hands. Even the power of wide-spread communication can so be used that a war which began in Serajevo will end with lads from Kamchatka and Bombay blasted to pieces by the same shell on a French battlefield. Even the power of modern finance can be so used that nations will exhaust the credit of generations yet unborn in waging war. How some folk keep their cheap and easy optimism about humanity's use of its new energies is a mystery. We have come pretty near to ruining ourselves with them already. If we do not achieve more spiritual control over them than we have yet exhibited we will ruin ourselves with them altogether. Once more in history a whole civilization will commit suicide like Saul falling on his own sword. The scientific control of life, by itself, creates more problems than it solves. The problem of international disarmament, for example, has been forced on us by the fear of that perdition to the suburbs of which our race has manifestly come through the misuse of scientific knowledge. Humanity is disturbed about itself because it has discovered that it is in possession of power enough to wreck the world. Never before did mankind have so much energy to handle. Multitudes of people, dubious as to whether disarmament is practical, are driven like shuttles back and forth between that doubt, upon the one side, and the certainty, upon the other, that armament is even less practical. The statisticians have been at work upon this last war and their figures, like the measurements of the astronomers, grow to a size so colossal that the tentacles of our imaginations slip off them when we try to grasp their size. The direct costs of this last war, which left us with more and harder difficulties than we had at the beginning, were about $186,000,000,000. Is that practical? At the beginning of 1922 almost all the nations in Europe, although by taxation they were breaking their people's financial backs, were spending far more than their income, and in the United States, far and away the richest nation on the planet, we faced an enormous deficit. Is that practical? In this situation, with millions of people unemployed, with starvation rampant, with social revolution stirring in every country--not because people are bad, not because they impatiently love violence, but because they cannot stand forever the social strain and economic consequence of war--what were we doing? We were launching battleships which cost $42,000,000 to build, which cost $2,000,000 a year to maintain and which, in a few years, would be towed out to sea to be used as an experimental target to try out some new armour-piercing shell. I wonder if our children's children will look back on that spectacle and call it practical. In 1912 the naval expenses of this country were about $136,000,000. In 1921 our naval expenses were about $641,000,000--approximately five times greater in nine years. So over all the earth war preparations were pyramiding with an ever accelerating momentum. And because any man can see that we must stop sometime, we have been trying desperately to stop now; to turn our backs upon this mad endeavour to build civilization upon a materialistic basis, bulwarked by physical force; to turn our faces toward spiritual forces, fair play, reasonable conference, good-will, service and co-operation. Yet how hard it is to make the change effective! Long ages ago in the primeval jungle, the dogs' ancestors used to turn around three times in the thicket before they lay down, that they might make a comfortable spot to nestle in, and now your highbred Pekingese will turn around three times upon his silken cushion although there is no earthly reason why he should. So difficult is it to breed beasts and men out of their inveterate habits. So hard is it going to be to make men give up the idea that force is a secure foundation for international relationships. Yet somehow that change must be made. They are having trouble with the housing problem in Tokyo and the reason is simple. Tokyo is built on earthquake ground and it is insecure. You cannot put great houses on unstable foundations. One story, two stories, three stories--that is about as high as they dare go. But in New York City one sees the skyscrapers reaching up their sixty stories into the air. The explanation is not difficult: Manhattan Island is solid rock. If you are going to build great structures you must have great foundations. And civilization is a vast and complicated structure. We cannot build it on physical force. That is too shaky. We must build it upon spiritual foundations. There are those who suppose that this can be done by progress through the scientific control of life, and who treat religion as a negligible element. Such folk forget that while a cat will lap her milk contentedly from a saucer made of Wedgwood or china, porcelain or earthenware, and will feel no curiosity about the nature of the receptacle from which she drinks, human beings are not animals who thus can take their food and ask no questions about the universe in which it is served to them. We want to know about life's origin and meaning and destiny. We cannot keep our questions at home. We cannot stop thinking. If this universe is fundamentally physical, if the only spark of spiritual life which it ever knew is the fitful flame of our own unsteady souls, if it came from dust and to dust will return, leaving behind no recollection of the human labour, sacrifice and aspiration which for a little time it unconsciously enshrined, that outlook makes an incalculable difference to our present lives. For then our very minds themselves, which have developed here by accident upon this wandering island in the skies, represent the only kind of mind there is, and what we do not know never was thought about or cared for or purposed by anyone, and we, alone in knowing, are ourselves unknown. The consequence of this sort of thinking, which is the essence of irreligion, is to be seen on every side of us in folk who, having thus lost all confidence in God and the reality of the spiritual world, still try to labour for the good of men. They have kept one part of Christianity, its ideals of character and service; they have lost the other part, which assures them about God. In a word, they are trying to build an idealistic and serviceable life upon a godless basis. Now, the difficulty with this attitude toward life lies here: it demands a quality of spirit for which it cannot supply the motive. It demands social hope, confidence, enthusiasm and sacrifice, and all the while it cuts their nerves. It tells men that the universe is fundamentally a moral desert, that it never was intended even to have an oasis of civilization in it, that if we make one grow it will be by dint of our own effort against the deadset of the universe's apathy, that if, by our toil, an oasis is achieved, it will have precarious tenure in such alien and inhospitable soil, and that in the end it will disappear before the onslaught of the cosmic forces; yet in the same breath it tells men to work for that oasis with hope, confidence, joy and enthusiastic sacrifice. This is a world view which asks of men a valorous and expensive service for which it cannot supply the driving power. Yet many of our universities are presenting just that outlook upon life to our young men and women. The youth are being urged to fight courageously and sacrificially for righteousness upon the earth, and at the same time they are presented with a view of the background and destiny of human life similar to that which Schopenhauer expressed: "Truly optimism cuts so sorry a figure in this theatre of sin, suffering, and death that we should have to regard it as a piece of sarcasm, if Hume had not explained its origin--insincere flattery of God in the arrogant expectation of gain." [5] What this generation, which so disparages religion and like the ancient Sadducee calls its good right arm its god, will ultimately discover is that the fight for righteousness in character and in society is a long and arduous campaign. The Bible says that a thousand years in God's sight are but as yesterday when it is past, and as a watch in the night. It certainly seems that way. It is a long and roundabout journey to the Promised Land. Generations die and fall by the way. The road is white with the bones of pilgrims who attained not the promises but saw them and greeted them from afar. Some Giordano Bruno, who gives himself to the achievement of mankind's high aims, is burned at the stake; centuries pass and on the very spot where he was martyred a monument is built with this inscription on it: "Raised to Giordano Bruno by the generation which he foresaw." This is exhilarating when the story is finished, but in the meantime it is hard work being Giordano Bruno and sacrificially labouring for a cause which you care enough for and believe enough in and are sure enough about so that you will die for it. When such faith and hope and sacrifice are demanded one cannot get them by exhortation, by waving a wand of words to conjure his enthusiasm up. Nothing will do but a world-view adequate to supply motives for the service it demands. Nothing will do but religion. One wonders why the preachers do not feel this more and so recover their consciousness of an indispensable mission. One wonders that the churches can be so timid and dull and negative, that our sermons can be so pallid and inconsequential. One wonders why in the pulpit we have so many flutes and so few trumpets. For here is a world with the accumulating energies of the new science in its hands, living in the purlieus of hell because it cannot gain spiritual mastery over the very power in which it glories. Here is a world which must build its civilization on spiritual bases or else collapse into abysmal ruin and which cannot achieve the task though all the motives of self-preservation cry out to have it done, because men lack the very elements of faith and character which it is the business of religion to supply. VI We have said that when science has given us all its facts we still need a spiritual interpretation of the facts; that when science has put all its energies into our hands we still need spiritual mastery over their use. Let us say in conclusion that, when science has given us all its power, we still need another kind of power which it is not the business of science to supply. Long ago somebody who knew the inner meaning of religion wrote: "The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; He leadeth me beside still waters. He restoreth my soul." That last phrase sums up one of the deepest needs of human life. We are in constant want of spiritual repair; we are lost without a fresh influx of inward power; we desperately need to have our souls restored. A young British soldier once came in from the trenches where his aggressive powers had been in full employ and, having heard one of the finest concert companies that London could send out, he wrote in a letter to his family: "I have just come down from the trenches, and have been listening to one of the best concerts I ever attended. It makes one feel that perhaps there is a good God after all." The two aspects of life which that soldier discovered in himself all men possess. One takes us to life's trenches; the other throws us back on some revelation of grace and beauty that we may be sure of God. With one we seek aggressively to master life; with the other we seek receptively to be inspired. Every normal man needs these two kinds of influence: one to send him informed and alert to his tasks, the other to float his soul off its sandbars on the rising tide of spiritual reassurance and power. Every normal man needs two attitudes: one when he goes into action determined to do his work and to do it well, and the other when he subdues his spirit to receptivity and with the Psalmist cries, "My soul, wait thou in silence for God only; For my expectation is from him." When science has given us all the power it can, we still need another kind of power which science cannot give. Whatever else the scientific control of life may have accomplished, it has not saved mankind from the old and devastating problems of trouble and sin. So far as individual experience of these is concerned, there is little discernable difference between two thousand years before Christ and two thousand years afterward. Still disasters fall upon our lives, sometimes as swift in their assault as wild beasts leaping from an unsuspected ambush. Still troubles come, long drawn out and wearying, like the monotonous dripping of water with which old torturers used to drive their victims mad. Still sins bring shame to the conscience and tragic consequence to the life, and tiresome work, losing the buoyancy of its first inspiration, drags itself out into purposeless effort and bores us with its futility. Folk now, as much as ever in all history, need to have their souls restored. The scientific control of life, however, is not adequate for that. Electricity and subways and motor cars do not restore the soul; and to know that there are millions upon millions of solar systems, like our own, scattered through space does not restore the soul; and to delve in the sea or to fly in the air or to fling our words through the ether does not restore the soul. The need of religion is perennial and would be though our scientific control over life were extended infinitely beyond our present hope, for the innermost ministry of religion to human life is the restoration of the soul. In this fact lies the failure of that type of naturalism which endeavours to keep religion as a subjective experience and denies the reality of an objective God. If we are not already familiar with this attempted substitution we soon shall be, for our young people are being taught it in many a classroom now. One of the basic principles of this new teaching is belief in the spiritual life but, when one inquires where the spiritual life is, he discovers that it is altogether within ourselves--there is no original, creative and abiding Spiritual Life from whom we come, by whom we are sustained, in whom we live. Rather, as flowers reveal in their fragrance a beauty which is not in the earth where they grow nor in the roots on which they depend, so our spiritual life is the mysterious refinement of the material out of which we are constructed, and it has nothing to correspond with it in the source from which we sprang. Nevertheless, the new naturalism exalts this spiritual life within us, calls it our crown and glory, bids us cultivate and diffuse it, says about it nearly everything a Christian says except that it is a revelation of eternal reality. Moreover, it is difficult to differentiate from this outspoken group of professed naturalists another group of humanists who do retain the idea of God, but merely as the sum total of man's idealistic life. "God," says one exponent, "is the farthest outreach of our human ideals." That is to say, our spiritual lives created God, not God our spiritual lives. God, as one enthusiastic devotee of this new cult has put it, is a sort of Uncle Sam, the pooling of the idealistic imaginations of multitudes. Of course he does not exist, yet in a sense he is real; he is the projection of our loyalties, affections, hopes. It should go without saying that this idea of God has about as much intellectual validity as belief in Santa Claus and is even more sentimental, in that it is a deliberate attempt to disguise in pleasant and familiar terms a fundamentally materialistic interpretation of reality. The vital failure of this spiritualized naturalism, however, lies in the inability of its Uncle Sam to meet the deepest needs on account of which men at their best have been religious. This deified projection of our ideals we made up ourselves and so we cannot really pray to him; he does not objectively exist and so has no unifying meaning which puts purposefulness into creation and hope ahead of it; he does not care for any one or anything and so we may not trust him; and neither in sin can he forgive, cleanse, restore, empower, nor in sorrow comfort and sustain. A god who functions so poorly is not much of a god. Once more, therefore, one wonders why in a generation when, not less, but more, because of all our scientific mastery the souls of men are starved and tired, the Church is not captured by a new sense of mission. It is precisely in a day when the active and pugnacious energies of men are most involved in the conquest of the world that the spirit becomes most worn for lack of sustenance. To be assured of the nearness and reality and availability of the spiritual world is a matter of life and death to multitudes of folk to-day. There could hardly be a more alluring time in which to make the Holy Spirit real to the world. For the supreme moral asset in any man's life is not his aggressiveness nor his pugnacity, but his capacity to be inspired--to be inspired by great books, great music, by love and friendship; to be inspired by great faiths, great hopes, great ideals; to be inspired supremely by the Spirit of God. For so we are lifted until the things we tried to see and could not we now can see because of the altitude at which we stand, and the things we tried to do and could not we now can do because of the fellowship in which we live. To one asserting the adequacy of the scientific control of life, therefore, the Christian's third answer is clear: man's deepest need is spiritual power, and spiritual power comes out of the soul's deep fellowships with the living God. Such, then, is the abiding need of religion in a scientific age. To be scientifically minded is one of the supreme achievements of mankind. To love truth, as science loves it, to seek truth tirelessly, as science seeks it, to reveal the latent resources of the universe in hope that men will use them for good and not for evil, as science does, is one of the chief glories of our race. When, however, we have taken everything that science gives, it is not enough for life. When we have facts, we still need a spiritual interpretation of facts; when we have all the scientific forces that we can get our hands upon, we still need spiritual mastery over their use; and, beyond all the power that science gives, we need that inward power which comes from spiritual fellowships alone. Religion is indispensable. To build human life upon another basis is to erect civilization upon sand, where the rain descends and the floods come and the winds blow and beat upon the house and it falls and great is the fall thereof. [1] Andrew D. White: A History of the Warfare of Science with Theology in Christendom, Vol. II, p. 16. [2] Quoted in the Hibbert Journal, Vol. III, January 1905, p. 296. [3] Psalm 19:1. [4] Ernst Haeckel: The Wonders of Life, p. 413. [5] Arthur Schopenhauer: Die Welt als Wille und Vorstellung, Zweiter Band, Kapital 46, Von der Nichtigkeit und dem Leiden des Lebens, p. 669. LECTURE III THE GOSPEL AND SOCIAL PROGRESS I Our last lecture started with the proposition that the dominant influence in the intellectual and practical activity of the modern age is man's scientific mastery over life. This present lecture considers one of the consequences of this primary fact: namely, the humanitarian desire to take advantage of this scientific control of life so to change social conditions that mankind may be relieved from crushing handicaps which now oppress it. For the growth of scientific knowledge and control has been coincident with a growth of humanitarian sentiment. This movement for human relief and social reform, in the midst of which we live, is one of the chief influences of our time. It has claimed the allegiance of many of the noblest folk among us. Its idealism, its call to sacrifice, the concreteness of the tasks which it undertakes and of the gains which it achieves, have attracted alike the fine spirits and the practical abilities of our generation. What attitude shall the Christian Church take toward this challenging endeavour to save society? How shall she regard this passionate belief in the possibility of social betterment and this enthusiastic determination to achieve it? The question is one of crucial importance and the Church is far from united on its answer. Some Christians claim the whole movement as the child of the Church, born of her spirit and expressing her central purpose; others disclaim the whole movement as evil and teach that the world must grow increasingly worse until some divine cataclysm shall bring its hopeless corruption to an end; others treat the movement as useful but of minor import, while they try to save men by belief in dogmatic creeds or by carefully engineered emotional experiences. Meanwhile, no words can exaggerate the fidelity, the vigour, the hopefulness, and the elevated spirit with which many of our best young men and women throw themselves into this campaign for better conditions of living. Surely, the intelligent portion of the Church would better think as clearly as possible about a matter of such crucial import. At first sight, the devotee of social Christianity is inclined impatiently to brush aside as mere ignorant bigotry on the Church's part all cautious suspicion of the social movement. But there is one real difficulty which the thoughtful Christian must perceive when he compares the characteristic approach to the human problem made by the social campaign, on the one side, and by religion, on the other. Much of the modern social movement seems to proceed upon the supposition that we can save mankind by the manipulation of outward circumstance. There are societies to change everything that can be changed and, because the most obvious and easy subjects of transformation are the external arrangements of human life, men set themselves first and chiefly to change those. We are always trying to improve the play by shifting the scenery. But no person of insight ever believed that the manipulation of circumstance alone can solve man's problems. Said Emerson, "No change of circumstances can repair a defect of character." Said Herbert Spencer, "No philosopher's stone of a constitution can produce golden conduct from leaden instincts." Said James Anthony Froude, "Human improvement is from within outwards." Said Carlyle, "Fool! the Ideal is in thyself, the impediment too is in thyself: thy Condition is but the stuff thou art to shape that same Ideal out of." Said Mrs. Browning: "It takes a soul, To move a body: it takes a high-souled man To move the masses even to a cleaner stye: ..... Ah, your Fouriers failed, Because not poets enough to understand That life develops from within." Now, religion's characteristic approach to the human problem is represented by this conviction that "life develops from within." So far from expecting to save mankind by the manipulation of outward circumstance, it habitually has treated outward circumstance as of inferior moment in comparison with the inner attitudes and resources of the spirit. Economic affluence, for example, has not seemed to Christianity in any of its historic forms indispensable to man's well-being; rather, economic affluence has been regarded as a danger to be escaped or else to be resolutely handled as one would handle fire--useful if well managed but desperately perilous if uncontrolled. Nor can it be said that Christianity has consistently maintained this attitude without having in actual experience much ground for holding it. The possession of economic comfort has never yet guaranteed a decent life, much less a spiritually satisfactory one. The morals of Fifth Avenue are not such that it can look down on Third Avenue, nor is it possible anywhere to discern gradation of character on the basis of relative economic standing. It is undoubtedly true that folks and families often have their moral stamina weakened and their personalities debauched by sinking into discouraging poverty, but it is an open question whether more folks and families have not lost their souls by rising into wealth. Still, after all these centuries, the "rich fool," with his overflowing barns and his soul that sought to feed itself on corn, is a familiar figure; still it is as easy for a camel to go through a needle's eye as for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of Heaven. When, therefore, the Christian, approaching the human problem, not from without in, but from within out, runs upon this modern social movement endeavouring to save mankind by the manipulation of outward circumstance, his cautious and qualified consent may be neither so ignorant nor so unreasonable as it at first appears. As an example of manipulated circumstance in which we are asked to trust, consider the new international arrangements upon which the world leans so heavily for its hopes of peace. Surely, he would be a poor Christian who did not rejoice in every reasonable expectation which new forms of co-operative organization can fulfil. But he would be a thoughtless Christian, too, if he did not see that all good forms of international organization are trellises to give the vines of human relationship a fairer chance to grow; but if the vines themselves maintain their old acid quality, bringing out of their own inward nature from roots of bitterness grapes that set the people's teeth on edge, then no external trellises will solve the problem. It is this Christian approach to life, from within out, which causes the common misunderstanding between the social movement and the Church. The first thinks mainly of the importance of the trellis; the second thinks chiefly about the quality of the vine. The more deep and transforming a man's own religious experience has been, the more he will insist upon the importance of this inward approach. Here is a man who has had a profound evangelical experience. He has gone down into the valley of the shadow with a deep sense of spiritual need; he has found in Christ a Saviour who has lifted him up into spiritual freedom and victory; he has gone out to live with a sense of unpayable indebtedness to him. He has had, in a word, a typical religious experience at its best with three elements at the heart of it: a great need, a great salvation, a great gratitude. When such a man considers the modern social movement, however beautiful its spirit or admirable its concrete gains, it seems to him superficial if it presents itself as a panacea. It does not go deep enough to reach the soul's real problems. The continual misunderstanding between the Church and the social movement has, then, this explanation: the characteristic approach of the Christian Gospel to the human problem is from within out; the characteristic approach of much of the modern social movement is from without in. II If, therefore, the Christian Gospel is going to be true to itself, it must carefully preserve amid the pressure of our modern social enthusiasms certain fundamental emphases which are characteristic of its genius. It must stress the possibility and the necessity of the inward transformation of the lives of men. We know now that a thorny cactus does not have to stay a thorny cactus; Burbank can change it. We know that a crab-apple tree does not have to stay a crab-apple tree; it can be grafted and become an astrakhan. We know that a malarial swamp does not have to stay a malarial swamp; it can be drained and become a health resort. We know that a desert does not have to stay a desert; it can be irrigated and become a garden. But while all these possibilities of transformation are opening up in the world outside of us, the most important in the series concerns the world within us. The primary question is whether human nature is thus transformable, so that men can be turned about, hating what formerly they loved and loving what once they hated. Said Tolstoy, whose early life had been confessedly vile: "Five years ago faith came to me; I believed in the doctrine of Jesus, and my whole life underwent a sudden transformation. What I had once wished for I wished for no longer, and I began to desire what I had never desired before. What had once appeared to me right now became wrong, and the wrong of the past I beheld as right." [1] So indispensable to the welfare of the world is this experience, that we Christians need to break loose from our too narrow conceptions of it and to set it in a large horizon. We have been too often tempted to make of conversion a routine emotional experience. Even Jonathan Edwards was worried about himself in this regard. He wrote once in his diary: "The chief thing that now makes me in any measure question my good estate is my not having experienced conversion in those particular steps wherein the people of New England, and anciently the dissenters of old England, used to experience it." Poor Jonathan! How many have been so distraught! But the supreme folly of any man's spiritual life is to try thus to run himself into the mold of any other man's experience. There is no regular routine in spiritual transformation. Some men come in on a high tide of feeling, like Billy Bray, the drunken miner, who, released from his debasing slavery and reborn into a vigorous life, cried, "If they were to put me into a barrel I would shout glory out through the bunghole! Praise the Lord!" Some men come in like Bushnell, the New England scholar and preacher, who, when he was an unbelieving tutor at Yale, fell on his knees in the quiet of his study and said, "O God, I believe there is an eternal difference between right and wrong and I hereby give myself up to do the right and to refrain from the wrong." Some men break up into the new life suddenly like the Oxford graduate who, having lived a dissolute life until six years after his graduation from the university in 1880, picked up in his room one day Drummond's "Natural Law in the Spiritual World," and, lo! the light broke suddenly--"I rejoiced there and then in a conversion so astounding that the whole village heard of it in less than twenty-four hours." Some come slowly, like old John Livingstone, who said, "I do not remember any particular time of conversion, or that I was much cast down or lift up." Spiritual transformation is infinitely various because it is so infinitely vital; but behind all the special forms of experience stands the colossal fact that men can be transformed by the Spirit of God. That this experience of inward enlightenment and transformation should ever be neglected or minimized or forgotten or crowded out is the more strange because one keeps running on it outside religion as well as within. John Keats, when eighteen years old, was handed one day a copy of Spenser's poems. He never had known before what his life was meant to be. He found out that day. Like a voice from heaven his call came in the stately measures of Spenser's glorious verse. He knew that he was meant to be a poet. Upon this master fact that men can be inwardly transformed Christ laid his hand and put it at the very center of his gospel. All through the New Testament there is a throb of joy which, traced back, brings one to the assurance that no man need stay the way he is. Among the gladdest, solemnest words in the records of our race are such passages in the New Testament as this: Fornicators, adulterers, thieves, covetous, drunkards, revelers, extortioners, such were some of you; but ye were washed, but ye were sanctified, but ye were justified in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ and in the Spirit of our God. One cannot find in the New Testament anything stiff and stilted about this experience. Paul's change came suddenly; Peter's came slowly. They did not even have, as we have come to have, a settled word to describe the experience. Ask James what it is and, practical-minded man that he is, he calls it _conversion_--being turned around. Ask Peter what it is and, as he looks back upon his old benighted condition, he cries that it is like _coming out of the darkness into a marvelous light_. Ask Paul what it is and, with his love of superlative figures, he cries that it is like _being dead and being raised again with a great resurrection_. Ask John what it is and, with his mystical spirit, he says that it is _being born again_. See the variety that comes from vitality--no stiff methods, no stiff routine of experience, but throbbing through the whole book the good news of an illuminating, liberating, transforming experience that can make men new! It is the more strange that this central element in the Christian Gospel should be neglected in the interests of social reformation because it is so indispensable to social reformation. Wherever a new social hope allures the efforts of forward-looking men, there is one argument against the hope which always rises. You cannot do that--men say--human nature is against it; human nature has always acted another way; you cannot change human nature; your hope is folly. As one listens to such skepticism he sees that men mean by human nature a static, unalterable thing, huge, inert, changeless, a dull mass that resists all transformation. The very man who says that may be an engineer. He may be speaking in the next breath with high enthusiasm about a desert in Arizona where they are bringing down the water from the hills and where in a few years there will be no desert, but orange groves stretching as far as the eye can reach, and eucalyptus trees making long avenues of shade, and roses running wild, as plenteous as goldenrod in a New England field. But while about physical nature he is as hopeful of possible change as a prophet, for human nature he thinks nothing can be done. From the Christian point of view this idea of human nature is utterly false. So far from being stiff and set, human nature is the most plastic, the most changeable thing with which we deal. It can be brutalized beneath the brutes; it can rise into companionship with angels. Our primitive forefathers, as our fairy tales still reveal, believed that men and women could be changed into anything--into trees, rocks, wolves, bears, kings and fairy sprites. One of the most prominent professors of sociology in America recently said that these stories are a poetic portraiture of something which eternally is true. Men can be transformed. That is a basic fact, and it is one of the central emphases of the Christian Gospel. Of all days in which that emphasis should be remembered, the chiefest is the day when men are thinking about social reformation. III It is only a clear recognition of the crucial importance of man's inward transformation which can prepare us for a proper appreciation of the social movement's meaning. For one point of contact between religion's approach to the human problem from within out and reformation's approach from without in lies here: to change social environments which oppress and dwarf and defile the lives of men is one way of giving the transforming Spirit a fair chance to reach and redeem them. All too slowly does the truth lay hold upon the Church that our very personalities themselves are social products, that we are born out of society and live in it and are molded by it, that without society we should not be human at all, and that the influences which play upon our lives, whether redeeming or degrading, are socially mediated. A man who says that he believes in the ineffable value of human personalities and who professes to desire their transformation and yet who has no desire to give them better homes, better cities, better family relationships, better health, better economic resources, better recreations, better books and better schools, is either an ignoramus who does not see what these things mean in the growth of souls, or else an unconscious hypocrite who does not really care so much about the souls of men as he says he does. An illuminating illustration of this fact is to be seen in the expanding ideals of missionary work. When the missionaries first went to the ends of the earth they went to save souls one by one. They went out generally with a distinctly, often narrowly, individualistic motive. They were trying to gather into the ark a few redeemed spirits out of the wreck of a perishing world; they were not thinking primarily of building a kingdom of social righteousness in the earth. Consider, then, the fascinating story of the way the missionaries, whatever may have been the motives with which they started, have become social reformers. If the missionaries were to take the Gospel to the people, they had to get to the people. So they became the explorers of the world. It was the missionaries who opened up Asia and Africa. Was there ever a more stirring story of adventure than is given us in the life of David Livingstone? Then when the missionaries had reached the people to give them the Gospel, they had to give them the Bible. So they became the philologists and translators of the world. They built the lexicons and grammars. They translated the Bible into more than a hundred languages on the continent of Africa alone. Carey and his followers did the same for over a score of languages in India. The Bible to-day is available in over six hundred living languages. Everywhere this prodigious literary labour has been breaking down the barriers of speech and thought between the peoples. If ever we do get a decent internationalism, how much of it will rest back upon this pioneer spade work of the missionaries, digging through the barricades of language that separate the minds of men! When, then, the missionaries had books to give the people, the people had to learn to read. So the missionaries became educators, and wherever you find the church you find the school. But what is the use of educating people who do not understand how to be sanitary, who live in filth and disease and die needlessly, and how can you take away old superstitions and not put new science in their places, or deprive the people of witch doctors without offering them substitutes? So the missionaries became physicians, and one of the most beneficent enterprises that history records is medical missions. What is the use, however, of helping people to get well when their economic condition is such, their standards of life so low, that they continue to fall sick again in spite of you? So the missionaries are becoming industrial reformers, agriculturalists, chemists, physicists, engineers, rebuilding wherever they can the economic life and comfort of their people. The missionary cause itself has been compelled, whether it would or not, to grow socially-minded. As Dan Crawford says about the work in Africa: "Here, then, is Africa's challenge to its Missionaries. Will they allow a whole continent to live like beasts in such hovels, millions of negroes cribbed, cabined, and confined in dens of disease? No doubt it is our diurnal duty to preach that the soul of all improvement is the improvement of the soul. But God's equilateral triangle of body, soul, and spirit must never be ignored. Is not the body wholly _ensouled_, and is not the soul wholly _embodied_? . . . In other words, in Africa the only true fulfilling of your heavenly calling is the doing of earthly things in a heavenly manner." [2] Indeed, if any one is tempted to espouse a narrowly individualistic gospel of regeneration, let him go to the Far East and take note of Buddhism. Buddhism in wide areas of its life is doing precisely what the individualists recommend. It is a religion of personal comfort and redemption. It is not mastered by a vigorous hope of social reformation. In many ways it is extraordinarily like medieval Christianity. Consider this definition of his religion that was given by one Buddhist teacher: "Religion," he said, "is a device to bring peace of mind in the midst of conditions as they are." Conditions as they are--settle down in them; be comfortable about them; do not try to change them; let no prayer for the Kingdom of God on earth disturb them; and there seek for yourselves "peace of mind in the midst of conditions as they are." And the Buddhist teacher added, "My religion is pure religion." But is there any such thing as really caring about the souls of men and not caring about social habits, moral conditions, popular recreations, economic handicaps that in every way affect them? Of all deplorable and degenerate conceptions of religion can anything be worse than to think of it as a "device to bring peace of mind in the midst of conditions as they are?" Yet one finds plenty of Church members in America whose idea of the "simple Gospel" comes perilously near that Buddhist's idea of "pure religion." The utter futility of endeavouring to care about the inward transformation of men's lives while not caring about their social environment is evident when one thinks of our international relationships and their recurrent issue in war. War surely cannot be thought of any longer as a school for virtue. We used to think it was. We half believed the German war party when they told us about the disciplinary value of their gigantic establishment, and when Lord Roberts assured us that war was tonic for the souls of peoples we were inclined to think that he was right. When, in answer to our nation's call, our men went out to fight and all our people were bound up in a fellowship of devotion to a common cause, so stimulated were we that we almost were convinced that out of such an experience there might come a renaissance of spiritual quality and life. Is there anybody who can blind his eyes to the facts now? Every competent witness in Europe and America has had to say that we are on a far lower moral level than we were before the war. Crimes of sex, crimes of violence, have been unprecedented. Large areas of Europe are to-day in a chaos so complete that not one man in a thousand in America even dimly imagines it, with a break-down of all the normal, sustaining relationships and privileges of civilized life, and with an accompanying collapse of character unprecedented in Christendom since the days of the Black Plague. If we are wise we will never again go down into hell expecting to come up with spirits redeemed. To be sure, there are many individuals of such moral stamina that they have come out of this experience personally the better, not the worse. There are people who would build into the fiber of their character any experience that earth could offer them. But if we are thinking of the moral stability and progress of mankind, surely there is nothing in the processes of war, as we have seen them, or the results of war, as they now lie about us, that would lead us to trust to them for help. War takes a splendid youth willing to serve the will of God in his generation before he falls on sleep and teaches him the skilful trick of twisting a bayonet into the abdomen of an enemy. War takes a loyal-spirited man who is not afraid of anything under heaven and teaches him to drop bombs on undefended towns, to kill perchance the baby suckled at her mother's breast. The father of one of our young men, back from France, finding that his son, like many others, would not talk, rebuked him for his silence. "Just one thing I will tell you," the son answered. "One night I was on patrol in No Man's Land, and suddenly I came face to face with a German about my own age. It was a question of his life or mine. We fought like wild beasts. When I came back that night I was covered from head to foot with the blood and brains of that German. We had nothing personally against each other. He did not want to kill me any more than I wanted to kill him. That is war. I did my duty in it, but for God's sake do not ask me to talk about it! I want to forget it." That _is_ war, and no more damning influence can be thrown around the characters of people in general or around the victims of military discipline and experience in particular than that supplied by war. How then could inconsistency be made more extreme than by saying that Christianity is concerned about the souls of men but is not concerned about international good-will and co-operation? After all, the approaches to the human problem from without in and from within out are not antithetical, but supplementary. This tunnel must be dug from both ends and until the Church thoroughly grasps that fact she will lead an incomplete and ineffectual life. IV The purposes of Christianity involve social reform, not only, as we have said, because we must accomplish environmental change if we are to achieve widespread individual transformation, but also because we must reorganize social life and the ideas that underlie it if we are to maintain and get adequately expressed the individual's Christian spirit when once he has been transformed. Granted a man with an inwardly remotived life, sincerely desirous of living Christianly, see what a situation faces him in the present organization of our economic world! Selfishness consists in facing any human relationship with the main intent of getting from it for oneself all the pleasure and profit that one can. There are folk who use their families so. They live like parasites on the beautiful institution of family life, getting as much as possible for as little as possible. There are folk who use the nation so. To them their country is a gigantic grab-bag from which their greedy hands may snatch civic security and commercial gain. For such we have hard and bitter names. There is, however, one relationship--business--where we take for granted this very attitude which everywhere else we heartily condemn. Multitudes of folk go up to that central human relationship with the frank and unabashed confession that their primary motive is to make out of it all that they can for themselves. They never have organized their motives around the idea that the major meaning of business is public service. The fact is, however, that all around us forms of business already have developed where we count it shame for a man to be chiefly motived by a desire for private gain. If you thought that the preacher were in love with his purse more than with his Gospel, you would not come again to hear him, and you would be right; if you thought that the teacher of your children cared for payday first and for teaching second, you would find another teacher for them tomorrow, and you ought to; if you thought that your physician cared more for his fees than he did for his patients, you would discharge him to-night and seek for a man more worthy of his high profession; if you had reason to suppose that the judges of the Supreme Court in Washington cared more for their salary than they did for justice, you could not easily measure your indignation and your shame. In the development of human life few things are nobler than the growth of the professional spirit, where in wide areas of enterprise, not private gain, but fine workmanship and public service have become the major motives. If one says that a sharp line of distinction is to be drawn between what we call professions and what we call business, he does not know history. Nursing, as a gainful calling, a hundred years ago was a mercenary affair into which undesirable people went for what they could get out of it. If nursing to-day is a great profession, where pride of workmanship and love of service increasingly are in control, it is because Florence Nightingale, and a noble company after her, have insisted that nursing essentially is service and that all nurses ought to organize their motives around that idea. What is the essential difference between professions and business? Why should the building of a schoolhouse be a carnival of private profit for labourers and contractors alike, when the teaching in it is expected to be full of the love of fine workmanship and the joy of usefulness? Why, when a war is on, must the making of munitions here be a wild debauch of private profits, but the firing of them "over there" be a matter of self-forgetful sacrifice? Why, in selling a food which is essential to health, should the head of a sugar corporation say with impunity, "I think it is fair to get out of the consumers all you can, consistent with the business proposition," when the physician is expected to care for the undernourished with a devoted professional spirit utterly different from the sugar magnate's words? There is no real answer to that "why." The fact is that for multitudes of people business is still in the unredeemed state in which nursing and teaching and doctoring were at the beginning, and nothing can save us from the personal and social consequence of this unhappy situation except the clear vision of the basic meaning of business in terms of service, and the courageous reorganization of personal motive and economic institutions around that idea. If, then, Christianity is sincerely interested in the quality of human spirits, in the motives and ideals which dominate personality, she must be interested in the economic and industrial problems of our day. To be sure, many ministers make fools of themselves when they pass judgment on questions which they do not understand. It is true that a church is much more peaceable and undisturbing when it tries experiments upon religious emotions with colored lights than when it makes reports upon the steel trust. Many are tempted, therefore, to give in to irritation over misdirected ministerial energy or to a desire for emotional comfort rather than an aroused conscience. One has only to listen where respectable folk most congregate to hear the cry: let the Church keep her hands off! Let me talk for a moment directly to that group. If you mean, by your distaste for the Church's interest in a fairer economic life, that most ministers are unfitted by temperament and training to talk wisely on economic policies and programs, you are right. Do you suppose that we ministers do not know how we must appear to you when we try to discuss the details of business? While, however, you are free to say anything you wish about the ineptitude of ministers in economic affairs (and we, from our inside information, will probably agree with you), yet as we thus put ourselves in your places and try to see the situation through your eyes, do you also put yourselves in our places and try to see it through our eyes! I speak, I am sure, in the name of thousands of Christian ministers in this country endeavouring to do their duty in this trying time. We did not go into the ministry of Jesus Christ either for money or for fun. If we had wanted either one primarily, we would have done something else than preach. We went in because we believed in Jesus Christ and were assured that only he and his truth could medicine the sorry ills of this sick world. And now, ministers of Christ, with such a motive, we see continually some of the dearest things we work for, some of the fairest results that we achieve, going to pieces on the rocks of the business world. You wish us to preach against sin, but you forget that, as one of our leading sociologists has said, the master iniquities of our time are connected with money-making. You wish us to imbue your boys and girls with ideal standards of life, but all too often we see them, having left our schools and colleges, full of the knightly chivalry of youth, torn in the world of business between the ideal of Christlikeness and the selfish rivalry of commercial conflict. We watch them growing sordid, disillusioned, mercenary, spoiled at last and bereft of their youth's fine promise. You wish us to preach human brotherhood in Christ, and then we see that the one chief enemy of brotherhood between men and nations is economic strife, the root of class consciousness and war. You send some of us as your representatives to the ends of the earth to proclaim the Saviour, and then these missionaries send back word that the non-Christian world knows all too well how far from dominant in our business life our Christian ideals are and that the non-Christian world delays accepting our Christ until we have better proved that his principles will work. Everywhere that the Christian minister turns, he finds his dearest ideals and hopes entangled in the economic life. Do you ask us then under these conditions to keep our hands off? In God's name, you ask too much! In the sixteenth century the great conflict in the world's life centered in the Church. The Reformation was on. All the vital questions of the day had there their spring. In the eighteenth century the great conflict of the world's life lay in politics. The American and French revolutions were afoot. Democracy had struck its tents and was on the march. All the vital questions of that day had their origin there. In the twentieth century the great conflict in the world's life is centered in economics. The most vital questions with which we deal are entangled with economic motives and institutions. As in the sixteenth and eighteenth centuries great changes were inevitable, so now the economic world cannot possibly remain static. The question is not whether changes will occur, but how they will occur, under whose aegis and superintendence, by whose guidance and direction, and how much better the world will be when they are here. Among all the interests that are vitally concerned with the nature of these changes none has more at stake than the Christian Church with her responsibility for the cure of souls. V Still another point of contact exists between the Christian purpose and social reform: the inevitable demand of religious ideals for social application. The ideal of human equality, for example, came into our civilization from two main sources--the Stoic philosophy and the Christian religion--and in both cases it was first of all a spiritual insight, not a social program. The Stoics and the early Christians both believed it as a sentiment, but they had no idea of changing the world to conform with it. Paul repeatedly insisted upon the equality of all men before God. In his early ministry he wrote it to the Galatians: "There can be neither Jew nor Greek, there can be neither bond nor free, there can be no male and female; for ye all are one man in Christ Jesus." Later he wrote it to the Corinthians: "For in one Spirit were we all baptized into one body, whether Jews or Greeks, whether bond or free; and were all made to drink of one Spirit." In his last imprisonment he wrote it to the Colossians: "There cannot be Greek and Jew, circumcision and uncircumcision, barbarian, Scythian, bondman, freeman; but Christ is all, and in all." Yet it never would have occurred to Paul to disturb the social custom of slavery or to question the divine institution of imperial government. Nevertheless, while this idea of human equality did not at first involve a social program, it meant something real. If we are to understand what the New Testament means by the equality of men before God, we must look at men from the New Testament point of view. Those of us who have been up in an aeroplane know that the higher we fly the less difference we see in the elevation of things upon the earth. This man's house is plainly higher than that man's when we are on the ground but, two thousand feet up, small difference can we observe. Now, the New Testament flies high. It frankly looks from a great altitude at the distinctions that seem so important on the earth. We say that racial differences are very important--a great gulf between Jew and Gentile. We insist that cultural traditions make an immense distinction--that to be a Scythian or to be barbarian is widely separated from being Greek. We are sure that the economic distinction between bondman and freeman is enormous. But all the while these superiorities and inferiorities, which we magnify, seem from Paul's vantage point not nearly so important or so real as we think they are. He is sure about this central truth, that God asks no questions about caste or colour or race or wealth or social station. All men stand alike in his presence and in the Christian fellowship must be regarded from his point of view. It was utterly impossible, however, to keep this spiritual insight from getting ultimately into a social program. It appealed to motives too deep and powerful to make possible its segregation as a religious sentiment. For however impractical an ideal this thought of human equality may seem in general, and however hard it may be to grant to others in particular, it is never hard for us to claim for ourselves. If ever we are condescended to, does any assertion rise more quickly in our thought than the old cry of our boyhood, "I am as good as you are"? The lad in school in ragged clothes, who sees himself outclassed by richer boys, feels it hotly rising in his boyish heart: "I am as good as you are." The poor man who, with an anxiety he cannot subdue and yet dares not disclose, is desperately trying to make both ends meet, feels it as he sees more fortunate men in luxury: "I am as good as you are." The negro who has tried himself out with his white brethren, who wears, it may be, an honour key from a great university, who is a scholar and a gentleman, and yet who is continually denied the most common courtesies of human intercourse--he says in his heart, although the words may not pass his lips, "I am as good as you are." Now, the New Testament took that old cry of the human heart for equality and turned it upside down. It became no longer for the Christian a bitter demand for one's rights, but a glad acknowledgment of one's duty. It did not clamour, "I am as good as you are"; it said, "You are as good as I am." The early Christians at their best went out into the world with that cry upon their lips. The Jewish Christians said it to the Gentiles and the Gentiles to the Jews; the Scythians and barbarians said it to the Greeks and the Greeks said it in return; the bond said it to the free and the free said it to the bond. The New Testament Church in this regard was one of the most extraordinary upheavals in history, and to-day the best hopes of the world depend upon that spirit which still says to all men over all the differences of race and colour and station, "You are as good as I am." To be sure, before this equalitarian ideal could be embodied in a social program it had to await the coming of the modern age with its open doors, its freer movements of thought and life, its belief in progress, its machinery of change. But even in the stagnation of the intervening centuries the old Stoic-Christian ideal never was utterly forgotten. Lactantius, a Christian writer of the fourth century, said that God, who creates and inspires men, "willed that all should be equal." [3] Gregory the Great, at the end of the sixth century, said that "By nature we are all equal." [4] For ages this spiritual insight remained dissociated from any social program, but now the inevitable connection has been made. Old caste systems and chattel slavery have gone down before this ideal. Aristotle argued that slavery ethically was right because men were essentially and unchangeably masters or slaves by nature. Somehow that would not sound plausible to us, even though the greatest mind of all antiquity did say it. Whatever may be the differences between men and races, they are not sufficient to justify the ownership of one man by another. The ideal of equality has wrecked old aristocracies that seemed to have firm hold on permanence. If one would feel again the thrill which men felt when first the old distinctions lost their power, one should read once more the songs of Robert Burns. They often seem commonplaces to us now, but they were not commonplaces then: "For a' that and a' that, Their dignities, and a' that; The pith o' sense and pride o' worth Are higher rank than a' that!" This ideal has made equality before the law one of the maxims of our civilized governments, failure in which wakens our apprehension and our fear; it has made equal suffrage a fact, although practical people only yesterday laughed at it as a dream; it has made equality in opportunity for an education the underlying postulate of our public school systems, although in New York State seventy-five years ago the debate was still acute as to whether such a dream ever could come true; it is to-day lifting races, long accounted inferior, to an eminence where increasingly their equality is acknowledged. One with difficulty restrains his scorn for the intellectual impotence of so-called wise men who think all idealists mere dreamers. Who is the dreamer--the despiser or the upholder of an ideal whose upheavals already have burst through old caste systems, upset old slave systems, wrecked old aristocracies, pushed obscure and forgotten masses of mankind up to rough equality in court and election booth and school, and now are rocking the foundations of old racial and international and economic ideas? The practical applications of this ideal, as, for example, to the coloured problem in America, are so full of difficulty that no one need be ashamed to confess that he does not see in detail how the principle can be made to work. Nevertheless, so deep in the essential nature of things is the fact of mankind's fundamental unity, that only God can foresee to what end the application of it yet may come. At any rate, it is clear that the Christian ideal of human equality before God can no longer be kept out of a social program. VI There is, then, no standing-ground left for a narrowly individualistic Christianity. To talk of redeeming personality while one is careless of the social environments which ruin personality; to talk of building Christlike character while one is complacent about an economic system that is definitely organized about the idea of selfish profit; to praise Christian ideals while one is blind to the inevitable urgency with which they insist on getting themselves expressed in social programs--all this is vanity. It is deplorable, therefore, that the Christian forces are tempted to draw apart, some running up the banner of personal regeneration and some rallying around the flag of social reformation. The division is utterly needless. Doubtless our own individual ways of coming into the Christian life influence us deeply here. Some of us came into the Christian experience from a sense of individual need alone. We needed for ourselves sins forgiven, peace restored, hope bestowed. God meant to us first of all satisfaction for our deepest personal wants. "Rock of Ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in Thee"-- such was our cry and such was our salvation. If now we are socially minded, if we are concerned for economic and international righteousness, that is an enlargement of our Christian outlook which has grown out of and still is rooted back in our individual need and experience of God. Some of us, however, did not come into fellowship with God by that route at all. We came in from the opposite direction. The character in the Old Testament who seems to me the worthiest exhibition of personal religion before Jesus is the prophet Jeremiah, but Jeremiah started his religious experience, not with a sense of individual need, but with a burning, patriotic, social passion. He was concerned for Judah. Her iniquities, long accumulating, were bringing upon her an irretrievable disaster. He laid his soul upon her soul and sought to breathe into her the breath of life. Then, when he saw the country he adored, the civilization he cherished, crashing into ruin, he was thrown back personally on God. He started with social passion; he ended with social passion plus personal religion. Some of God's greatest servants have come to know him so. Henry Ward Beecher once said that a text is a small gate into a large field where one can wander about as he pleases, and that the trouble with most ministers is that they spend all their time swinging on the gate. That same figure applies to the entrance which many of us made into the Christian experience. Some of us came in by the gate of personal religion, and we have been swinging on it ever since; and some of us came in by the gate of social passion for the regeneration of the world, and we have been swinging on that gate ever since. We both are wrong. These are two gates into the same city, and it is the city of our God. It would be one of the greatest blessings to the Christian church both at home and on the foreign field if we could come together on this question where separation is so needless and so foolish. If some of us started with emphasis upon personal religion, we have no business to stop until we understand the meaning of social Christianity. If some of us started with emphasis upon the social campaign, we have no business to rest until we learn the deep secrets of personal religion. The redemption of personality is the great aim of the Christian Gospel, and, therefore, to inspire the inner lives of men and to lift outward burdens which impede their spiritual growth are both alike Christian service to bring in the Kingdom. [1] Leo M. Tolstoi: My Religion, Introduction, p. ix. [2] D. Crawford: Thinking Black, pp. 444-445. [3] L. C. F. Lactantius: The Divine Institutes, Book V, Chap. xv, xvi. [4] Gregory the Great: Moralium Libri, Pars quarta, Lib. XXI, Caput XV--"Omnes namque homines natura aequales sumus." LECTURE IV PROGRESSIVE CHRISTIANITY I Hitherto in the development of our thought, we have been considering the Christian Gospel as an entity set in the midst of a progressive world, and we have been studying the new Christian attitudes which this influential environment has been eliciting. The Gospel has been in our thought like an individual who, finding himself in novel circumstances, reacts toward them in ways appropriate alike to them and to his own character. The influence of the idea of progress upon Christianity, however, is more penetrating than such a figure can adequately portray. For no one can long ponder the significance of our generation's progressive ways of thinking without running straight upon this question: is not Christianity itself progressive? In the midst of a changing world does not it also change, so that, reacting upon the new ideas of progress, it not only assimilates and uses them, but is itself an illustration of them? Where everything else in man's life in its origin and growth is conceived, not in terms of static and final creation or revelation, but in terms of development, can religion be left out? Instead of being a pond around which once for all a man can walk and take its measure, a final and completed whole, is not Christianity a river which, maintaining still reliance upon the historic springs from which it flows, gathers in new tributaries on its course and is itself a changing, growing and progressive movement? The question is inevitable in any study of the relationship between the Gospel and progress, and its implications are so far-reaching that it deserves our careful thought. Certainly it is clear that already modern ideas of progress have had so penetrating an influence upon Christianity as to affect, not its external reactions and methods only, nor yet its intellectual formulations alone, but deeper still its very mood and inward temper. Whether or not Christianity ought to be a changing movement in a changing world, it certainly has been that and is so still, and the change can be seen going on now in the very atmosphere in which it lives and moves and has its being. For example, consider the attitude of resignation to the will of God, which was characteristic of medieval Christianity. As we saw in our first lecture, the medieval age did not think of human life upon this earth in terms of progress. The hopes of men did not revolve about any Utopia to be expected here. History was not even a glacier, moving slowly toward the sunny meadows. It did not move at all; it was not intended to move; it was standing still. To be sure, the thirteenth century was one of the greatest in the annals of the race. In it the foremost European universities were founded, the sublimest Gothic cathedrals were built, some of the world's finest works of handicraft were made; in it Cimabue and Giotto painted, Dante wrote, St. Thomas Aquinas philosophized, and St. Francis of Assisi lived. The motives, however, which originated and sustained this magnificent outburst of creative energy were otherworldly--they were not concerned with anticipations of a happier lot for humankind upon this earth. The medieval age did not believe that man's estate upon the earth ever would be fundamentally improved, and in consequence took the only reasonable attitude, resignation. When famines came, God sent them; they were punishment for sin; his will be done! When wars came, they were the flails of God to thresh his people; his will be done! Men were resigned to slavery on the ground that God had made men to be masters and slaves. They were resigned to feudalism and absolute monarchy on the ground that God had made men to be rulers and ruled. Whatever was had been ordained by the Divine or had been allowed by him in punishment for man's iniquity. To rebel was sin; to doubt was heresy; to submit was piety. The Hebrew prophets had not been resigned, nor Jesus Christ, nor Paul. The whole New Testament blazes with the hope of the kingdom of righteousness coming upon earth. But the medieval age was resigned. Its real expectations were post-mortem hopes. So far as this earth was concerned, men must submit. To be sure, in those inner experiences where we must endure what we cannot help, resignation will always characterize a deeply religious life. All life is not under our control, to be freely mastered by our thought and toil. There are areas where scientific knowledge gives us power to do amazing things, but all around them are other areas which our hands cannot regulate. Orion and the Pleiades were not made for our fingers to swing, and our engineering does not change sunrise or sunset nor make the planets one whit less or more. So, in the experiences of our inward life, around the realm which we can control is that other realm where move the mysterious providences of God, beyond our power to understand and as uncontrollable by us as the tides are by the fish that live in them. Captain Scott found the South Pole, only to discover that another man had been there first. When, on his return from the disappointing quest, the pitiless cold, the endless blizzards, the failing food, had worn down the strength of the little company and in their tent amid the boundless desolation they waited for the end while the life flames burned low, Captain Scott wrote: "I do not regret this journey. . . . We took risks, we knew we took them; things have come out against us, and therefore we have no cause for complaint, but bow to the will of Providence, determined still to do our best to the last." [1] That is resignation at its noblest. When, however, a modern Christian tries to do what the medieval Christians did--make this attitude of resignation cover the whole field of life, make it the dominant element in their religion, the proof of their trust and the test of their piety--he finds himself separated from the most characteristic and stirring elements in his generation. We are not resigned anywhere else. Everywhere else we count it our pride and glory to be unresigned. We are not resigned even to a thorny cactus, whose spiky exterior seems a convincing argument against its use for food. When we see a barren plain we do not say as our fathers did: God made plains so in his inscrutable wisdom; his will be done! We call for irrigation and, when the fructifying waters flow, we say, Thy will be done! in the way we think God wishes to have it said. We do not passively submit to God's will; we actively assert it. The scientific control of life at this point has deeply changed our religious mood. We are not resigned to pestilences and already have plans drawn up to make the yellow fever germ "as extinct as the woolly rhinoceros." We are not even resigned to the absence of wireless telephony when once we have imagined its presence, or to the inconvenience of slow methods of travel when once we have invented swift ones. Not to illiteracy nor to child labour nor to the white plague nor to commercialized vice nor to recurrent unemployment are we, at our best, resigned. This change of mood did not come easily. So strongly did the medieval spirit of resignation, submissive in a static world, keep its grip upon the Church that the Church often defiantly withstood the growth of this unresigned attitude of which we have been speaking and in which we glory. Lightning rods were vehemently denounced by many ministers as an unwarranted interference with God's use of lightning. When God hit a house he meant to hit it; his will be done! This attitude, thus absurdly applied, had in more important realms a lamentable consequence. The campaign of Christian missions to foreign lands was bitterly fought in wide areas of the Christian Church because if God intended to damn the heathen he should be allowed to do so without interference from us; his will be done! As for slavery, the last defense which it had in this country was on religious grounds: that God had ordained it and that it was blasphemous to oppose his ordination. In a word, this spirit of passive resignation has been so deeply ingrained in religious thinking that it has become oftentimes a serious reproach to Christian people. Now, however, the mood of modern Christianity is decisively in contrast with that medieval spirit. Moreover, we think that we are close to the Master in this attitude, for whatever difference in outward form of expectation there may be between his day and ours, when he said: "Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done, as in heaven, so on earth," that was not passive submission to God's will but an aggressive prayer for the victory of God and righteousness; it was not lying down under the will of God as something to be endured, but active loyalty to the will of God as something to be achieved. To be resigned to evil conditions on this earth is in our eyes close to essential sin. If any one who calls himself a conservative Christian doubts his share in this anti-medieval spirit, let him test himself and see. In 1836 the Rev. Leonard Wood, D. D., wrote down this interesting statement: "I remember when I could reckon up among my acquaintances forty ministers, and none of them at a great distance, who were either drunkards or far addicted to drinking. I could mention an ordination which took place about twenty years ago at which I myself was ashamed and grieved to see two aged ministers literally drunk, and a third indecently excited." [2] Our forefathers were resigned to that, but we are not. The most conservative of us so hates the colossal abomination of the liquor traffic, that we do not propose to cease our fight until victory has been won. We are belligerently unresigned. Or when militarism proves itself an intolerable curse, we do not count it a divine punishment and prepare ourselves to make the best of its continuance. We propose to end it. Militarism, which in days of peace cries, Build me vast armaments, spend enough upon a single dreadnaught to remake the educational system of a whole state; militarism, which in the days of war cries, Give me your best youth to slay, leave the crippled and defective to propagate the race, give me your best to slay; militarism, which lays its avaricious hand on every new invention to make gregarious death more swift and terrible, and when war is over makes the starved bodies of innumerable children walk in its train for pageantry,--we are not resigned to that. We count it our Christian duty to be tirelessly unresigned. Here is a new mood in Christianity, born out of the scientific control of life and the modern ideas of progress, and, however consonant it may be with the spirit of the New Testament, it exhibits in the nature of its regulative conceptions and in its earthly hopes a transformation within Christianity which penetrates deep. Progressive change is not simply an environment to which Christianity conforms; it is a fact which Christianity exhibits. II This idea that Christianity is itself a progressive movement instead of a static finality involves some serious alterations in the historic conceptions of the faith, as soon as it is applied to theology. Very early in Christian history the presence of conflicting heresies led the church to define its faith in creeds and then to regard these as final formulations of Christian doctrine, incapable of amendment or addition. Tertullian, about 204 A. D., spoke of the creedal standard of his day as "a rule of faith changeless and incapable of reformation." [3] From that day until our own, when a Roman Catholic Council has decreed that "the definitions of the Roman Pontiff are unchangeable," [4] an unalterable character has been ascribed to the dogmas of the Church of Rome. Indeed, Pius IX, in his Syllabus of Errors, specifically condemned the modern idea that "Divine revelation is imperfect, and, therefore, subject to continual and indefinite progress, which corresponds with the progress of human reason." [5] Nor did Protestantism, with all the reformation which it wrought, attack this central Catholic conception of a changeless content and formulation of faith. Not what the Pope said, but what the Bible said, was by Protestants unalterably to be received. Change there might be in the sense that unrealized potentialities involved in the original deposit might be brought to light--a kind of development which not only Protestants but Catholics like Cardinal Newman have willingly allowed--but whatever had once been stated as the content of faith by the received authorities was by both Catholics and Protestants regarded as unalterably so. In the one case, if the Pope had once defined a dogma, it was changeless; in the other, if the Bible had once formulated a pre-scientific cosmology, or used demoniacal possession as an explanation of disease, or personified evil in a devil, all such mental categories were changelessly to be received. In its popular forms this conception of Christianity assumes extreme rigidity--Christianity is a static system finally formulated, a deposit to be accepted in toto if at all, not to be added to, not to be subtracted from, not to be changed, its i's all dotted and its t's all crossed. The most crucial problem which we face in our religious thinking is created by the fact that Christianity thus statically conceived now goes out into a generation where no other aspect of life is conceived in static terms at all. The earth itself on which we live, not by fiat suddenly enacted, but by long and gradual processes, became habitable, and man upon it through uncounted ages grew out of an unknown past into his present estate. Everything within man's life has grown, is growing, and apparently will grow. Music developed from crude forms of rhythmic noise until now, by way of Bach, Beethoven and Wagner, our modern music, still developing, has grown to forms of harmony at first undreamed. Painting developed from the rough outlines of the cavemen until now possibilities of expression in line and colour have been achieved whose full expansion we cannot guess. Architecture evolved from the crude huts of primitive man until now our cathedrals and our new business buildings alike mark an incalculable advance and prophesy an unimaginable future. One may refuse to call all development real progress, may insist upon degeneration as well as betterment through change, but, even so, the basic fact remains that all the elements which go to make man's life come into being, are what they are, and pass out of what they are into something different, through processes of continual growth. Our business methods change until the commercial wisdom of a few years ago may be the folly of to-day; our moral ideals change until actions once respectable become reprobate, and the heroes of one generation would be the convicts of another; our science changes until ideas that men once were burned at the stake for entertaining are now the commonplace axioms of every school boy's thought; our economics change until schools of thought shaped to old industrial conditions are as outmoded as a one-horse shay beside an automobile; our philosophy changes like our science when Kant, for example, starts a revolution in man's thinking, worthy, as he claimed, to be called Copernican; our cultural habits change until marooned communities in the Kentucky mountains, "our contemporary ancestors," having let the stream of human life flow around and past them, seem as strange to us as a belated what-not in a modern parlour. The perception of this fact of progressive change is one of the regnant influences in our modern life and, strangely enough, so far from disliking it, we glory in it; in our expectancy we count on change; with our control of life we seek to direct it. Indeed no more remarkable difference distinguishes the modern world from all that went before than its attitude toward change itself. The medieval world idealized changelessness. Its very astronomy was the apotheosis of the unalterable. The earth, a globe full of mutation and decay; around it eight transparent spheres carrying the heavenly bodies, each outer sphere moving more slowly than its inner neighbour, while the ninth, moving most slowly of all, moved all the rest; last of all, the empyrean, blessed with changeless, motionless perfection, the abode of God--such was the Ptolemaic astronomy as Dante knew it. This idealization of changelessness was the common property of all that by gone world. The Holy Roman Empire was the endeavour to perpetuate a changeless idea of political theory and organization; the Holy Catholic Church was the endeavour to perpetuate a changeless formulation of religious dogma and hierarchy; the Summa of St. Thomas Aquinas was the endeavour to settle forever changeless paths for the human mind to walk in. To that ancient world as a whole the perfect was the finished, and therefore it was immutable. How different our modern attitude toward change has come to be! We believe in change, rely on it, hope for it, rejoice in it, are determined to achieve it and control it. Nowhere is this more evident than in our thought of the meaning of knowledge. In the medieval age knowledge was spun as a spider spins his web. Thinking simply made evident what already was involved in an accepted proposition. A premise was drawn out into its filaments and then woven into a fabric of new form but of the same old material. Knowledge did not start from actual things; it did not intend to change actual things; and the shelves of the libraries groan with the burden of that endless and largely futile cogitation. Then the new knowledge began from the observation of things as they really are and from the use of that observation for the purposes of human life. Once a lad, seventeen years old, went into the cathedral at Pisa to worship. Soon he forgot the service and watched a chandelier, swinging from the lofty roof. He wondered whether, no matter how changeable the length of its arc, its oscillations always consumed the same time and, because he had no other means, he timed its motion by the beating of his pulse. That was one time when a boy went to church and did well to forget the service. He soon began to wonder whether he could not make a pendulum which, swinging like the chandeliers, would do useful business for men. He soon began to discover, in what he had seen that day, new light on the laws of planetary motion. That was one of the turning points in human history--the boy was Galileo. The consequences of this new method are all around us now. The test of knowledge in modern life is capacity to cause change. If a man really knows electricity he can cause change; he can illumine cities and drive cars. If a man really knows engineering, he can cause change; he can tunnel rivers and bridge gulfs. It is for that purpose we wish knowledge. Instead of being dreaded, controlled change has become the chief desire of modern life. When, therefore, in this generation with its perception of growth as the universal law and with its dependence upon controlled change as the hope of man, Christianity endeavours to glorify changelessness and to maintain itself in unalterable formulations, it has outlawed itself from its own age. An Indian punkah-puller, urged by his mistress to better his condition, replied: "Mem Sahib, my father pulled a punkah, my grandfather pulled a punkah, all my ancestors for four million ages pulled punkahs, and, before that, the god who founded our caste pulled a punkah over Vishnu." How utterly lost such a man would be in the dynamic movements of our modern Western life!--yet not more lost than is a Christianity which tries to remain static in a progressive world. III Among the influences which have forced well-instructed minds first to accept and then to glory in the progressive nature of Christianity, the first place must be given to the history of religion itself. The study of religion's ancient records in ritual, monument and book, and of primitive faiths still existing among us in all stages of development, has made clear the general course which man's religious life has traveled from very childish beginnings until now. From early animism in its manifold expressions, through polytheism, kathenotheism, henotheism, to monotheism, and so out into loftier possibilities of conceiving the divine nature and purpose--the main road which man has traveled in his religious development now is traceable. Nor is there any place where it is more easily traceable than in our own Hebrew-Christian tradition. One of the fine results of the historical study of the Scriptures is the possibility which now exists of arranging the manuscripts of the Bible in approximately chronological order and then tracing through them the unfolding growth of the faiths and hopes which come to their flower in the Gospel of Christ. Consider, for example, the exhilarating story of the developing conception of Jehovah's character from the time he was worshiped as a mountain-god in the desert until he became known as the "God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ." We are explicitly told that the history of Jehovah's relationship with Israel began at Sinai and that before that time the Hebrew fathers had never even heard his name.[6] There on a mountain-top in the Sinaitic wilderness dwelt this new-found god, so anthropomorphically conceived that he could hide Moses in a rock's cleft from which the prophet could not see Jehovah's face but could see his back.[7] He was a god of battle and the name of an old book about him still remains to us, "The book of the Wars of Jehovah." [8] "Jehovah is a man of war: Jehovah is his name"--[9] so his people at first rejoiced in him and gloried in his power when he thundered and lightened on Sinai. Few stories in man's spiritual history are so interesting as the record of the way in which this mountain-god, for the first time, so far as we know, in Semitic history, left his settled shrine, traveled with his people in the holy Ark, became acclimated in Canaan, and, gradually absorbing the functions of the old baals of the land, extended his sovereignty over the whole of Palestine. To be sure, even then he still was thought of, as all ancient gods were thought of, as geographically limited to the country whose god he was. Milcolm and Chemosh were real gods too, ruling in Philistia and Moab as Jehovah did in Canaan. This is the meaning of Jephthah's protest to a hostile chieftain: "Wilt not thou possess that which Chemosh thy god giveth thee to possess?" [10] This is the meaning of David's protest when he is driven out to the Philistine cities: "They have driven me out this day that I should not cleave unto the inheritance of Jehovah, saying, Go, serve other gods." [11] This is the meaning of Naaman's desire to have two mules' burden of Jehovah's land on which to worship Jehovah in Damascus.[12] Jehovah could be worshiped only on Jehovah's land. But ever as the day of fuller understanding dawned, the sovereignty of Jehovah widened and his power usurped the place and function of all other gods. Amos saw him using the nations as his pawns; Isaiah heard him whistling to the nations as a shepherd to his dogs; Jeremiah heard him cry, "Can any hide himself in secret places so that I shall not see him? . . . Do not I fill heaven and earth?" [13]; until at last we sweep out, through the exile and all the heightening of faith and clarifying of thought that came with it, into the Great Isaiah's 40th chapter on the universal and absolute sovereignty of God, into the Priestly narrative of creation, where God makes all things with a word, into psalms which cry, "For all the gods of the people are idols; But Jehovah made the heavens." [14] Moreover, as Jehovah's sovereignty thus is enlarged until he is the God of all creation, his character too is deepened and exalted in the understanding of his people. That noblest succession of moral teachers in ancient history, the Hebrew prophets, developed a conception of the nature of God in terms of righteousness, so broad in its outreach, so high in its quality, that as one mounts through Amos' fifth chapter and Isaiah's first chapter and Jeremiah's seventh chapter, he finds himself, like Moses on Nebo's top, looking over into the Promised Land of the New Testament. There this development flowers out under the influence of Jesus. God's righteousness is interpreted, not in terms of justice only, but of compassionate, sacrificial love; his Fatherhood embraces not only all mankind but each individual, lifting him out of obscurity in the mass into infinite worthfulness and hope. And more than this development of idea, the New Testament gives us a new picture of God in the personality of Jesus, and we see the light of the knowledge of God's glory in his face. Moreover, this development, so plainly recorded in Scripture, was not unconsciously achieved by the drift of circumstance; it represents the ardent desire of forward-looking men, inspired by the Spirit. The Master, himself, was consciously pleading for a progressive movement in the religious life and thinking of his day. A static religion was the last thing he ever dreamed of or wanted. No one was more reverent than he toward his people's past; his thought and his speech were saturated with the beauty of his race's heritage; yet consider his words as again and again they fell from his lips: "It was said to them of old time . . . but I say unto you." His life was rooted in the past but it was not imprisoned there; it grew up out of the past, not destroying but fulfilling it. He had in him the spirit of the prophets, who once had spoken to his people in words of fire; but old forms that he thought had been outgrown he brushed aside. He would not have his Gospel a patch on an old garment, he said, nor would he put it like new wine into old wineskins. He appealed from the oral traditions of the elders to the written law; within the written law he distinguished between ceremonial and ethical elements, making the former of small or no account, the latter all-important; and then within the written ethical law he waived provisions that seemed to him outmoded by time. Even when he bade farewell to his disciples, he did not talk to them as if what he himself had said were a finished system: "I have yet many things to say unto you, but ye cannot bear them now. Howbeit when he, the Spirit of truth, is come, he shall guide you into all the truth." In Paul's hands the work which Jesus began went on. He dared an adventurous move that makes much of our modern progressiveness look like child's play: he lifted the Christian churches out of the narrow, religious exclusiveness of the Hebrew synagogue. He dared to wage battle for the new idea that Christianity was not a Jewish sect but a universal religion. He withstood to his face Peter, still trammeled in the narrowness of his Jewish thinking, and he founded churches across the Roman Empire where was neither Jew nor Greek, barbarian, Scythian, male nor female, bond nor free, but all were one man in Christ Jesus. Even more thrilling were those later days when in Ephesus the writer of the Fourth Gospel faced a Hellenistic audience, to whom the forms of thought in which Jesus hitherto had been interpreted were utterly unreal. The first creed about Jesus proclaimed that he was the Messiah, but Messiah was a Jewish term and to the folk of Ephesus it had no vital meaning. John could not go on calling the Master that and that alone, when he had hungry souls before him who needed the Master but to whom Jewish terms had no significance. One thing those folk of Ephesus did understand, the idea of the Logos. They had heard of that from the many faiths whose pure or syncretized forms made the religious background of their time. They knew about the Logos from Zoroastrianism, where beside Ahura Mazdah stood Vohu Manah, the Mind of God; from Stoicism, at the basis of whose philosophy lay the idea of the Logos; from Alexandrian Hellenism, by means of which a Jew like Philo had endeavoured to marry Greek philosophy and Hebrew orthodoxy. And the writer of the Fourth Gospel used that new form of thought in which to present to his people the personality of our Lord. "In the beginning was the Logos, and the Logos was with God, and the Logos was God"--so begins the Fourth Gospel's prologue, in words that every intelligent person in Ephesus could understand and was familiar with, and that initial sermon in the book, for it is a sermon, not philosophy, moves on in forms of thought which the people knew about and habitually used, until the hidden purpose comes to light: "The Logos became flesh and dwelt among us (and we beheld his glory, glory as of the only begotten from the Father), full of grace and truth." John was presenting his Lord to the people of his time in terms that the people could understand. Even within the New Testament, therefore, there is no static creed. For, like a flowing river, the Church's thought of her Lord shaped itself to the intellectual banks of the generation through which it moved, even while, by its construction and erosion, it transfigured them. Nor did this movement cease with New Testament days. From the Johannine idea of the Logos to the Nicene Creed, where our Lord is set in the framework of Greek metaphysics, the development is just as clear as from the category of Jewish Messiah to the categories of the Fourth Gospel. And if, in our generation, a conservative scholar like the late Dr. Sanday pleaded for the necessity of a new Christology, it was not because he was primarily zealous for a novel philosophy, but because like John of old in Ephesus he was zealous to present Christ to his own generation in terms that his own generation could comprehend.[15] IV Undoubtedly such an outlook upon the fluid nature of the Christian movement will demand readjustment in the religious thinking of many people. They miss the old ideas about revelation. This new progressiveness seems to them to be merely the story of man's discovery, finding God, here a little and there a little, as he has found the truths of astronomy. But God's revelation of himself is just as real when it is conceived in progressive as when it is conceived in static terms. Men once thought of God's creation of the world in terms of fiat--it was done on the instant; and when evolution was propounded men cried that the progressive method shut God out. We see now how false that fear was. The creative activity of God never was so nobly conceived as it has been since we have known the story of his slow unfolding of the universe. We have a grander picture in our minds than even the psalmist had, when we say after him, "The heavens declare the glory of God." So men who have been accustomed to think of revelation in static terms, now that the long leisureliness of man's developing spiritual insight is apparent, fear that this does away with revelation. But in God's unfolding education of his people recorded in the Scriptures revelation is at its noblest. No man ever found God except when God was seeking to be found. Discovery is the under side of the process; the upper side is revelation. Indeed, this conception of progressive revelation does not shut out finality. In scientific thought, which continually moves and grows, expands and changes, truths are discovered once for all. The work of Copernicus is in a real sense final. This earth does move; it is not stationary; and the universe is not geocentric. That discovery is final. Many developments start from that, but the truth itself is settled once for all. So, in the spiritual history of man, final revelations come. They will not have to be made over again and they will not have to be given up. Progress does not shut out finality; it only makes each new finality a point of departure for a new adventure, not a terminus ad quem for a conclusive stop. That God was in Christ reconciling the world unto himself is for the Christian a finality, but, from the day the first disciples saw its truth until now, the intellectual formulations in which it has been set and the mental categories by which it has been interpreted have changed with the changes of each age's thought. While at first, then, a progressive Christianity may seem to plunge us into unsettlement, the more one studies it the less he would wish it otherwise. Who would accept a snapshot taken at any point on the road of Christian development as the final and perfect form of Christianity? Robert Louis Stevenson has drawn for us a picture of a man trying with cords and pegs to stake out the shadow of an oak tree, expecting that when he had marked its boundaries the shadow would stay within the limits of the pegs. Yet all the while the mighty globe was turning around in space. He could not keep a tree's shadow static on a moving earth. Nevertheless, multitudes of people in their endeavour to build up an infallibly settled creed have tried just such a hopeless task. They forget that while a revelation _from_ God might conceivably be final and complete, religion deals with a revelation _of_ God. God, the infinite and eternal, from everlasting to everlasting, the source and crown and destiny of all the universe--shall a man whose days are as grass rise up to say that he has made a statement about him which will not need to be revised? Rather, our prayer should be that the thought of God, the meaning of God, the glory of God, the plans and purpose of God may expand in our comprehension until we, who now see in a mirror, darkly, may see face to face. "Le Dieu défini est le Dieu fini." This mistaken endeavour, in the interest of stability, to make a vital movement static is not confined to religion. Those of us who love Wagner remember the lesson of Die Meistersinger. Down in Nuremberg they had standardized and conventionalized music. They had set it down in rules and men like Beckmesser could not imagine that there was any music permissible outside the regulations. Then came Walter von Stolzing. Music to him was not a conventionality but a passion--not a rule, but a life--and, when he sang, his melodies reached heights of beauty that Beckmesser's rules did not provide for. It was Walter von Stolzing who sang the Prize Song, and as the hearts of the people were stirred in answer to its spontaneous melody, until all the population of Nuremberg were singing its accumulating harmonies, poor Beckmesser on his blackboard jotted down the rules which were being broken. Beckmesser represents a static conception of life which endeavours to freeze progress at a given point and call it infallible. But Beckmesser is wrong. You cannot take things like music and religion and set them down in final rules and regulations. They are life, and you have to let them grow and flower and expand and reveal evermore the latent splendour at their heart. V Obviously, the point where this progressive conception of Christianity comes into conflict with many widely accepted ideas is the abandonment which it involves of an external and inerrant authority in matters of religion. The marvel is that that idea of authority, which is one of the historic curses of religion, should be regarded by so many as one of the vital necessities of the faith. The fact is that religion by its very nature is one of the realms to which external authority is least applicable. In science people commonly suppose that they do not take truth on any one's authority; they prove it. In business they do not accept methods on authority; they work them out. In statesmanship they no longer believe in the divine right of kings nor do they accept infallible dicta handed down from above. But they think that religion is delivered to them by authority and that they believe what they do believe because a divine Church or a divine Book or a divine Man told them. In this common mode of thinking, popular ideas have the truth turned upside down. The fact is that science, not religion, is the realm where most of all we use external authority. They tell us that there are millions of solar systems scattered through the fields of space. Is that true? How do we know? We never counted them. We know only what the authorities say. They tell us that the next great problem in science is breaking up the atom to discover the incalculable resources of power there waiting to be harnessed by our skill. Is that true? Most of us do not understand what an atom is, and what it means to break one up passes the farthest reach of our imaginations; all we know is what the authorities say. They tell us that electricity is a mode of motion in ether. Is that true? Most of us have no first hand knowledge about electricity. The motorman calls it "juice" and that means as much to us as to call it a mode of motion in ether; we must rely on the authorities. They tell us that sometime we are going to talk through wireless telephones across thousands of miles, so that no man need ever be out of vocal communication with his family and friends. Is that true? It seems to us an incredible miracle, but we suppose that it is so, as the authorities say. In a word, the idea that we do not use authority in science is absurd. Science is precisely the place where nine hundred and ninety-nine men out of a thousand use authority the most. The chemistry, biology, geology, astronomy which the authorities teach is the only science which most of us possess. There is another realm, however, where we never think of taking such an attitude. They tell us that friendship is beautiful. Is that true? Would we ever think of saying that we do not know, ourselves, but that we rely on the authorities? Far better to say that our experience with friendship has been unhappy and that we personally question its utility! That, at least, would have an accent of personal, original experience in it. For here we are facing a realm where we never can enter at all until we enter, each man for himself. Two realms exist, therefore, in each of which first-hand experience is desirable, but in only one of which it is absolutely indispensable. We can live on what the authorities in physics say, but there are no proxies for the soul. Love, friendship, delight in music and in nature, parental affection--these things are like eating and breathing; no one can do them for us; we must enter the experience for ourselves. Religion, too, belongs in this last realm. The one vital thing in religion is first-hand, personal experience. Religion is the most intimate, inward, incommunicable fellowship of the human soul. In the words of Plotinus, religion is "the flight of the alone to the Alone." You never know God at all until you know him for yourself. The only God you ever will know is the God you do know for yourself. This does not mean, of course, that there are no authorities in religion. There are authorities in everything, but the function of an authority in religion, as in every other vital realm, is not to take the place of our eyes, seeing in our stead and inerrantly declaring to us what it sees; the function of an authority is to bring to us the insight of the world's accumulated wisdom and the revelations of God's seers, and so to open our eyes that we may see, each man for himself. So an authority in literature does not say to his students: The Merchant of Venice is a great drama; you may accept my judgment on that--I know. Upon the contrary, he opens their eyes; he makes them see; he makes their hearts sensitive so that the genius which made Shylock and Portia live captivates and subdues them, until like the Samaritans they say, "Now we believe, not because of thy speaking: for we have heard for ourselves, and know." That is the only use of authority in a vital, realm. It can lead us up to the threshold of a great experience where we must enter, each man for himself, and that service to the spiritual life is the Bible's inestimable gift. At the beginning, Christianity was just such a first-hand experience as we have described. The Christian fellowship consisted of a group of men keeping company with Jesus and learning how to live. They had no creeds to recite when they met together; what they believed was still an unstereotyped passion in their hearts. They had no sacraments to distinguish their faith--baptism had been a Jewish rite and even the Lord's Supper was an informal use of bread and wine, the common elements of their daily meal. They had no organizations to join; they never dreamed that the Christian Gospel would build a church outside the synagogue. Christianity in the beginning was an intensely personal experience. Then the Master went away and the tremendous forces of human life and history laid hold on the movement which so vitally he had begun. His followers began building churches. Just as the Wesleyans had to leave the Church of England, not because they wanted to, but because the Anglicans would not keep them, so the Christians, not because they planned to, but because the synagogue was not large enough to hold them, had to leave the synagogue. They began building creeds; they had to. Every one of the first Christian creeds was written in sheer self-defense. If we had been Christians in those first centuries, when a powerful movement was under way called Gnosticism, which denied that God, the Father Almighty, had made both the heaven and the earth, which said that God had made heaven indeed but that a demigod had made the world, and which denied that Jesus had been born in the flesh and in the flesh had died, we would have done what the first Christians did: we would have defined in a creed what it was the Christians did believe as against that wild conglomeration of Oriental mythology that Gnosticism was, and we would have shouted the creed as a war cry against the Gnostics. That is what the so-called Apostles' Creed was--the first Christian battle chant, a militant proclamation of the historic faith against the heretics; and every one of its declarations met with a head-on collision some claim of Gnosticism. Then, too, the early Christians drew up rituals; they had to. We cannot keep any spiritual thing in human life, even the spirit of courtesy, as a disembodied wraith. We ritualize it--we bow, we take off our hats, we shake hands, we rise when a lady enters. We have innumerable ways of expressing politeness in a ritual. Neither could they have kept so deep and beautiful a thing as the Christian life without such expression. So historic Christianity grew, organized, creedalized, ritualized. And ever as it grew, a peril grew with it, for there were multitudes of people who joined these organizations, recited these creeds, observed these rituals, took all the secondary and derived elements of Christianity, but often forgot that vital thing which all this was meant in the first place to express: a first-hand, personal experience of God in Christ. That alone is vital in Christianity; all the rest is once or twice or thrice removed from life. For Christianity is not a creed, nor an organization, nor a ritual. These are important but they are secondary. They are the leaves, not the roots; they are the wires, not the message. Christianity itself is a life. If, however, Christianity is thus a life, we cannot stereotype its expressions in set and final forms. If it is a life in fellowship with the living God, it will think new thoughts, build new organizations, expand into new symbolic expressions. We cannot at any given time write "finis" after its development. We can no more "keep the faith" by stopping its growth than we can keep a son by insisting on his being forever a child. The progressiveness of Christianity is not simply its response to a progressive age; the progressiveness of Christianity springs from its own inherent vitality. So far is this from being regrettable, that a modern Christian rejoices in it and gladly recognizes not only that he is thinking thoughts and undertaking enterprises which his fathers would not have understood, but also that his children after him will differ quite as much in teaching and practice from the modernity of to-day. It has been the fashion to regard this changeableness with wistful regret. So Wordsworth sings in his sonnet on Mutability: "Truth fails not; but her outward forms that bear The longest date do melt like frosty rime, That in the morning whitened hill and plain And is no more; drop like the tower sublime Of yesterday, which royally did wear Its crown of weeds, but could not even sustain Some casual shout that broke the silent air, Or the unimaginable touch of Time." Such wistfulness, however, while a natural sentiment, is not true to the best Christian thought of our day. He who believes in the living God, while he will be far from calling all change progress, and while he will, according to his judgment, withstand perverse changes with all his might, will also regard the cessation of change as the greatest calamity that could befall religion. Stagnation in thought or enterprise means death for Christianity as certainly as it does for any other vital movement. Stagnation, not change, is Christianity's most deadly enemy, for this is a progressive world, and in a progressive world no doom is more certain than that which awaits whatever is belated, obscurantist and reactionary. [1] Leonard Huxley: Scott's Last Expedition, Vol. I, The Journals of Captain R. F. Scott, Rn., C. V. O., p. 417. [2] Kirby Page; The Sword or the Cross, p. 41. [3] Tertullian: De Virginibus Velandis, Cap. I--"Regula quidem fidei una omnino est, sola immobilis et irreformabilis." [4] Vatican Council, July 18, 1870, First Dogmatic Constitution on the Church of Christ, Chapter IV, Concerning the Infallible Teaching of the Roman Pontiff. [5] The Papal Syllabus of Errors, A. D. 1864, Sec. 1, 5. [6] Exodus 6:3; Chap. 19. [7] Exodus 33:22-23. [8] Numbers 21:14. [9] Exodus 15:3. [10] Judges 11:24. [11] I Samuel 26:19. [12] II Kings 5:17. [13] Jeremiah 23:24. [14] Psalm 96:5. [15] William Sanday: Christologies Ancient and Modern. LECTURE V THE PERILS OF PROGRESS I In the history of human thought and social organization there is an interesting pendular swing between conflicting ideas so that, about the time we wake up to recognize that thought is swinging one way, we may be fairly sure that soon it will be swinging the other. Man's social organization, for example, has moved back and forth between the two poles of individual liberty and social solidarity. To pick up the swing of that pendulum only in recent times, we note that out of the social solidarity of the feudal system man swung over to the individual liberty of the free cities; then from the individual liberty of the free cities to the social solidarity of the absolute monarchies; then back again into the individual liberty of the democratic states. We see that now we are clearly swinging over to some new form of social solidarity, of which tendency federalism and socialism are expressions, and doubtless from that we shall recoil toward individual liberty once more. It is a safe generalization that whenever human thought shows some decided trend, a corrective movement is not far away. However enthusiastic we may be, therefore, about the idea of progress and the positive contributions which it can make to our understanding and mastery of life, we may be certain that there are in it the faults of its qualities. If we take it without salt, our children will rise up, not to applaud our far-seeing wisdom, but to blame our easy-going credulity. We have already seen that the very idea of progress sprang up in recent times in consequence of a few factors which predisposed men's minds to social hopefulness. Fortunately, some of these factors, such as the scientific control of life through the knowledge of law, seem permanent, and we are confident that the idea of progress will have abiding meaning for human thought and life. But no study of the matter could be complete without an endeavour to discern the perils in this modern mode of thought and to guard ourselves against accepting as an unmixed blessing what is certainly, like all things human, a blend of good and evil. One peril involved in the popular acceptance of the idea of progress has been the creation of a superficial, ill-considered optimism which has largely lost sight of the terrific obstacles in human nature against which any real moral advance on earth must win its way. Too often we have taken for granted what a recent book calls "a goal of racial perfection and nobility the splendour of which it is beyond our powers to conceive," and we have dreamed about this earthly paradise like a saint having visions of heaven and counting it as won already because he is predestined to obtain it. Belief in inevitable progress has thus acted as an opiate on many minds, lulling them into an elysium where all things come by wishing and where human ignorance and folly, cruelty and selfishness do not impede the peaceful flowing of their dreams. In a word, the idea of progress has blanketed the sense of sin. Lord Morley spoke once of "that horrid burden and impediment upon the soul which the Churches call Sin, and which, by whatever name you call it, is a real catastrophe in the moral nature of man." The modern age, busy with slick, swift schemes for progress, has too largely lost sight of that. Indeed, at no point do modern Christians differ more sharply from their predecessors than in the serious facing of the problem of sin. Christians of former times were burdened with a heavy sense of their transgressions, and their primary interest in the Gospel was its promised reestablishment of their guilty souls in the fellowship of a holy God. Modern Christianity, however, is distinguished from all that by a jaunty sense of moral well-being; when we admit our sins we do it with complacency and cheerfulness; our religion is generally characterized by an easy-going self-righteousness. Bunyan's Pilgrim with his lamentable load upon his back, crying, "What shall I do! . . . I am . . . undone by reason of a burden that lieth hard upon me," is no fit symbol of a typically modern Christian. Doubtless we have cause to be thankful for this swing away from the morbid extremes to which our fathers often went in their sense of sin. It is hard to forgive Jonathan Edwards when one reads in his famous Enfield sermon: "The God that holds you over the pit of hell, much as one holds a spider, or some loathsome insect, over the fire, abhors you, and is dreadfully provoked; . . . you are ten thousand times so abominable in his eyes, as the most hateful and venomous serpent is in ours." Any one who understands human nature could have told him that, after such a black exaggeration of human depravity as he and his generation were guilty of, the Christian movement was foredoomed to swing away over to the opposite extreme of complacent self-righteousness. Unquestionably we have made the swing. In spite of the debacle of the Great War, this is one of the most unrepentant generations that ever walked the earth, dreaming still of automatic progress toward an earthly paradise. Many factors have gone into the making of this modern mood of self-complacency. _New knowledge_ has helped, by which disasters, such as once awakened our fathers' poignant sense of sin, are now attributed to scientific causes rather than to human guilt. When famines or pestilences came, our fathers thought them God's punishment for sin. When earthquakes shook the earth or comets hung threateningly in the sky, our fathers saw in them a divine demand for human penitence. Such events, referred now to their scientific causes, do not quicken in us a sense of sin. _New democracy_ also has helped in this development of self-complacency. Under autocratic kings the common people were common people and they knew it well. Their dependent commonality was enforced on them by the constant pressure of their social life. Accustomed to call themselves miserable worms before an earthly king, they had no qualms about so estimating themselves before the King of Heaven. Democracy, however, elevates us into self-esteem. The genius of democracy is to believe in men, their worth, their possibilities, their capacities for self-direction. Once the dominant political ideas depressed men into self-contempt; now they lift men into self-exaltation. _New excuses for sin_ have aided in creating our mood of self-content. We know more than our fathers did about the effect of heredity and environment on character, and we see more clearly that some souls are not born but damned into the world. Criminals, in consequence, have come not to be so much condemned as pitied, their perversion of character is regarded not so much in terms of iniquity as of disease, and as we thus condone transgression in others, so in ourselves we palliate our wrong. We regard it as the unfortunate but hardly blamable consequence of temperament or training. Our fathers, who thought that the trouble was the devil in them, used to deal sternly with themselves. Like Chinese Gordon, fighting a besetting sin in private prayer, they used to come out from their inward struggles saying, "I hewed Agag in pieces before the Lord." But we are softer with ourselves; we find in lack of eugenics or in cruel circumstance a good excuse. Undoubtedly, the _new theology_ has helped to encourage this modern mood of self-complacency. Jonathan Edwards' Enfield sermon pictured sinners held over the blazing abyss of hell in the hands of a wrathful deity who at any moment was likely to let go, and so terrific was that discourse in its delivery that women fainted and strong men clung in agony to the pillars of the church. Obviously, we do not believe in that kind of God any more, and as always in reaction we swing to the opposite extreme, so in the theology of these recent years we have taught a very mild, benignant sort of deity. One of our popular drinking songs sums up this aspect of our new theology: "God is not censorious When His children have their fling." Indeed, the god of the new theology has not seemed to care acutely about sin; certainly he has not been warranted to punish heavily; he has been an indulgent parent and when we have sinned, a polite "Excuse me" has seemed more than adequate to make amends. John Muir, the naturalist, was accustomed during earthquake shocks in California to assuage the anxieties of perturbed Eastern visitors by saying that it was only Mother Earth trotting her children on her knee. Such poetizing is quite in the style of the new theology. Nevertheless, the description, however pretty, is not an adequate account of a real earthquake, and in this moral universe there are real earthquakes, as this generation above all others ought to know, when man's sin, his greed, his selfishness, his rapacity roll up across the years an accumulating mass of consequence until at last in a mad collapse the whole earth crashes into ruin. The moral order of the world has not been trotting us on her knees these recent years; the moral order of the world has been dipping us in hell; and because the new theology had not been taking account of such possibilities, had never learned to preach on that text in the New Testament, "It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God," we were ill prepared for the experience. Many factors like those which we have named have contributed to create our modern negligence of the problem of sin, but under all of them and permeating them has been the idea that automatic progress is inherent in the universe. This evolving cosmos has been pictured as a fool-proof world where men could make and love their lies, with their souls dead and their stomachs well alive, with selfish profit the motive of their economic order and narrow nationalism the slogan of their patriotism, and where still, escaping the consequences, they could live in a progressive society. A recent writer considers it possible that "over the crest of the hill the Promised Land stretches away to the far horizons smiling in eternal sunshine." The picture is nonsense. All the progress this world ever will know waits upon the conquest of sin. Strange as it may sound to the ears of this modern age, long tickled by the amiable idiocies of evolution popularly misinterpreted, this generation's deepest need is not these dithyrambic songs about inevitable progress, but a fresh sense of personal and social sin. What the scientific doctrine of evolution really implies is something much more weighty and sinister than frothy optimism. When a preacher now quotes Paul, "as in Adam all die," not many of the younger generation understand him, but when we are told that we came out of low, sub-human beginnings, that we carry with us yet the bestial leftovers of an animal heritage to be fought against and overcome and left behind, well-instructed members of this generation ought to comprehend. Yet in saying that, we are dealing with the same fundamental fact which Paul was facing when he said, "as in Adam all die"; we are handling the same unescapable experience out of which the old doctrine of original sin first came; we are facing a truth which it will not pay us to forget: that humanity's sinful nature is not something which you and I alone make up by individual deeds of wrong, but that it is an inherited mortgage and handicap on the whole human family. Why is it that if we let a field run wild it goes to weeds, while if we wish wheat we must fight for every grain of it? Why is it that if we let human nature run loose it goes to evil, while he who would be virtuous must struggle to achieve character? It is because, in spite of our optimisms and evasions, that fact still is here, which our fathers often appraised more truly than we, that human nature, with all its magnificent possibilities, is like the earth's soil filled with age-long seeds and roots of evil growth, and that progress in goodness, whether personal or social, must be achieved by grace of some power which can give us the victory over our evil nature. In past generations it was the preachers who talked most about sin and thundered against it from their pulpits, but now for years they have been very reticent about it. Others, however, have not been still. Scientists have made us feel the ancient heritage that must be fought against; novelists have written no great novel that does not swirl around some central sin; the work of the dramatists from Shakespeare until Ibsen is centrally concerned with the problem of human evil; and now the psycho-analysts are digging down into the unremembered thoughts of men to bring up into the light of day the origins of our spiritual miseries in frustrated and suppressed desire. We do not need artificially to conjure up a sense of sin. All we need to do is to open our eyes to facts. Take one swift glance at the social state of the world to-day. Consider our desperate endeavours to save this rocking civilization from the consequences of the blow just delivered it by men's iniquities. That should be sufficient to indicate that this is no fool-proof universe automatically progressive, but that moral evil is still the central problem of mankind. One would almost say that the first rule for all who believe in a progressive world is not to believe in it too much. Long ago Plato said that he drove two horses, one white and tractable, the other black and fractious; Jesus said that two masters sought man's allegiance, one God, the other mammon; Paul said that his soul was the battle-ground of two forces, one of which he called spirit and the other flesh; and only the other day one of our own number told of the same struggle between two men in each of us, one Dr. Jekyll, the other Mr. Hyde. That conflict still is pivotal in human history. The idea of progress can defeat itself no more surely than by getting itself so believed that men expect automatic social advance apart from the conquest of personal and social sin. II Another result of our superficial confidence in the idea of progress is reliance upon social palliatives instead of radical cures for our public maladies. We are so predisposed to think that the world inherently wants to be better, is inwardly straining to be better, that we are easily fooled into supposing that some slight easement of external circumstance will at once release the progressive forces of mankind and save the race. When, for example, one compares the immense amount of optimistic expectancy about a warless world with the small amount of radical thinking as to what really is the matter with us, he may well be amazed at the unfounded regnancy of the idea of progress. We rejoice over some slight disarmament as though that were the cure of our international shame, whereas always one can better trust a real Quaker with a gun than a thug without one. So the needs of our international situation, involving external disarmament, to be sure, involve also regenerations of thought and spirit much more radical than any rearrangement of outward circumstance. To forget that is to lose the possibility of real progress; and insight into these deep-seated needs is often dimmed by our too amiable and innocent belief in automatic social advance waiting to take place on the slightest excuse. To take but a single illustration of a radical change in men's thinking, difficult to achieve and yet indispensable to a decent world, consider the group of prejudices and passions which center about nationalism and which impede the real progress of international fraternity. What if all Christians took Jesus in earnest in his attitude that only one object on earth is worthy of the absolute devotion of a man--the will of God for all mankind--and that therefore no nationality nor patriotism whatsoever should be the highest object of man's loyalty? That ought to be an axiom to us, who stood with the Allies against Germany. Certainly, we condemned Germany roundly enough because so many of her teachers exalted the state as an object of absolute loyalty. When in Japan one sees certain classes of people regarding the Mikado as divine and rating loyalty to him as their highest duty, it is easy to condemn that. When, however, a man says in plain English: I am an American but I am a Christian first and I am an American only in the sense in which I can be an American, being first of all a Christian, and my loyalty to America does not begin to compare with my superior loyalty to God's will for all mankind and, if ever national action makes these two things conflict, I must choose God and not America--to the ears of many that plain statement has a tang of newness and danger. In the background of even Christian minds, Jesus to the contrary notwithstanding, one finds the tacit assumption, counted almost too sacred to be examined, that of course a man's first loyalty is to his nation. Indeed, we Protestants ought to feel a special responsibility for this nationalism that so takes the place of God. In medieval and Catholic Europe folk did not so think of nationalism. Folk in medieval Europe were taught that their highest obligation was to God or, as they would have phrased it, to the Church; that the Church could at any time dispense them from any obligation to king or nation; that the Church could even make the king, the symbol of the nation, stand three days in the snow outside the Pope's door at Canossa. Every boy and girl in medieval Europe was taught that his first duty was spiritual and that no nationality nor patriotism could compare with that. Then we Protestants began our battle for spiritual liberty against the tyranny of Rome, and as one of the most potent agencies in the winning of our battle we helped to develop the spirit of nationality. In place of the Holy Roman Church we put state churches. In place of devotion to the Vatican we were tempted to put devotion to the nation. Luther did more than write spiritual treatises; he sent out ringing, patriotic appeals to the German nobility against Rome. It is not an accident that absolute nationalism came to its climacteric in Germany where Protestantism began. For Protestantism, without ever intending it, as an unexpected by-product of its fight for spiritual liberty, helped to break up western Europe into nations, where nationalism absorbed the loyalty of the people. And now that little tiger cub we helped to rear has become a great beast and its roaring shakes the earth. A superficial confidence in automatic progress, therefore, which neglects an elemental fact like this at the root of our whole international problem is futile; it leads nowhere; it is rose water prescribed for leprosy. The trouble with nationalism is profound and this is the gist of it: we may be unselfish personally, but we group ourselves into social units called nations, where we, being individually unselfish with reference to the group, are satisfied with ourselves, but where all the time the group itself is not unselfish, but, it may be, is aggressively and violently avaricious. Yet to most people our sacrificial loyalty to the nation would pass for virtue, even though the nation as a whole were exploiting its neighbours or waging a useless, unjust war. The loyalty of Germans to Germany may be rated as the loftiest goodness no matter what Germany as a whole is doing, and the loyalty of Americans to America may be praised as the very passport to heaven while America as a whole may be engaged in a nationally unworthy enterprise. The fine spirit of men's devotion within the limits of the group disguises the ultimate selfishness of the whole procedure and cloaks a huge sin under a comparatively small unselfishness. We can see that same principle at work in our industrial situation. We break up into two groups; we are trades unionists or associated employers. We are unselfish so far as our group is concerned; we make it a point of honour to support our economic class; it is part of our code of duty to be loyal there. But while we are thus unselfish with reference to the group, the group itself is not unselfish; the group itself is fighting a bitter and selfish conflict, avaricious and often cruel. There is no ultimate way out of this situation which does not include the activity of people who have a loyalty that is greater than their groups. Henry George was once introduced at Cooper Institute, New York City, by a chairman who, wishing to curry favour with the crowd, called out with a loud voice, "Henry George, the friend of the workingman." George stood up and sternly began, "I am not the friend of the workingman"; then after a strained silence, "and I am not the friend of the capitalist"; then after another silence, "I am for men; men simply as men, regardless of any accidental or superficial distinctions of race, creed, colour, class, or yet function or employment." Until we can get that larger loyalty into the hearts of men, all the committees on earth cannot solve our industrial problems. Nor can anything else make it possible to solve our international problem. The curse of nationalism is that, having pooled the unselfishness of persons in one group under one national name and of persons in another group under another national name, it uses this beautiful unselfishness of patriotism to carry out national enterprises that are fundamentally selfish. One element, therefore, is indispensable in any solution: enough Christians, whether they call themselves by that name or not, who have caught Jesus' point of view that only one loyalty on earth is absolute--the will of God for all mankind. This last summer I spent one Sunday night in the home of Mr. Ozaki, perhaps the leading liberal of Japan, a man who stands in danger of assassination any day for his international attitude. Suddenly he turned on me and said, "If the United States should go into a war which you regarded as unjust and wrong, what would you do?" I had to answer him swiftly and I had to give him the only answer that a Christian minister could give and keep his self-respect. I said, "If the United States goes into a war which I think is unjust and wrong, I will go into my pulpit the next Sunday morning and in the name of God denounce that war and take the consequence." Surely, a man does not have to be a theoretical pacifist, which I am not, to see how indispensable that attitude is to a Christian. There is hardly anything more needed now in the international situation than a multitude of people who will sit in radical judgment on the actions of their governments, so that when the governments of the world begin to talk war they will know that surely they must face a mass of people rising up to say: War? Why war? We are no longer dumb beasts to be led to the slaughter; we no longer think that any state on earth is God Almighty. If, however, we are to have that attitude strong enough so that it will stand the strain of mob psychology and the fear of consequences, it must be founded deep, as was Jesus' attitude: one absolute loyalty to the will of God for all mankind. So far from hurting true patriotism, this attitude would be the making of patriotism. It would purge patriotism from all its peril, would exalt it, purify it, make of it a blessing, not a curse. But whatever be the effect upon patriotism, the Christian is committed by the Master to a prior loyalty; he is a citizen of the Kingdom of God in all the earth. An easy-going belief in inherent and inevitable progress, therefore, is positively perilous in the manifoldly complex social situation, from which only the most careful thinking and the most courageous living will ever rescue us. The Christian Church is indeed entrusted, in the message of Jesus, with the basic principles of life which the world needs, but the clarity of vision which sees their meaning and the courage of heart which will apply them are not easy to achieve. Some of us have felt that acutely these last few years; all of us should have learned that whatever progress is wrought out upon this planet will be sternly fought for and hardly won. Belief in the idea of progress does not mean that this earth is predestined to drift into Paradise like thistledown before an inevitable wind. III A third peril associated with the idea of progress is quite as widespread as the other two and in some ways more insidious. The idea is prevalent that progress involves the constant supersession of the old by the new so that we, who have appeared thus late in human history and are therefore the heirs "of all the ages, in the foremost files of time," may at once assume our superiority to the ancients. The modern man, living in a world supposedly progressing from early crude conditions toward perfection, has shifted the golden age from the past to the future, and in so doing has placed himself in much closer proximity to it than his ancestors were. The world is getting better--such is the common assumption which is naturally associated with the idea of progress. As one enthusiastic sponsor of this proposition puts it: "Go back ten years, and there was no airship; fifteen years, and there was no wireless telegraphy; twenty-five years, and there was no automobile; forty years, and there was no telephone, and no electric light; sixty years, and there was no photograph, and no sewing machine; seventy-five years, no telegraph; one hundred years, no railway and no steamship; one hundred and twenty-five years, no steam engine; two hundred years, no post-office; three hundred years, no newspaper; five hundred years, no printing press; one thousand years, no compass, and ships could not go out of sight of land; two thousand years, no writing paper, but parchments of skin and tablets of wax and clay. Go back far enough and there were no plows, no tools, no iron, no cloth; people ate acorns and roots and lived in caves and went naked or clothed themselves in the skins of wild beasts." [1] Such is the picture of human history upon this planet which occupies the modern mind, and one implication often drawn is that we have outgrown the ancients and that they might well learn from us and not we from them. Christians, however, center their allegiance around ideas and personalities which are, from the modern standpoint, very old indeed. The truths that were wrought out in the developing life and faith of the Hebrew-Christian people are still the regulative Christian truths, and the personality who crowned the whole development is still the Christians' Lord. They are challenged, however, to maintain this in a progressive world. Men do not think of harking back to ancient Palestine nineteen centuries ago for their business methods, their educational systems, their scientific opinions, or anything else in ordinary life whatever. Then why go back to ancient Palestine for the chief exemplar of the spiritual life? This is a familiar modern question which springs directly from popular interpretations of progress. "Dim tracts of time divide Those golden days from me; Thy voice comes strange o'er years of change; How can I follow Thee? "Comes faint and far Thy voice From vales of Galilee; Thy vision fades in ancient shades; How should we follow Thee?" [2] Behind this familiar mood lies one of the most significant changes that has ever passed over the human mind. The medieval age was tempted to look backward for its knowledge of everything. Philosophy was to be found in Aristotle, science in Pliny and his like. It was the ancients who were wise; it was the ancients who had understood nature and had known God. The farther back you went the nearer you came to the venerable and the authoritative. As, therefore, in every other realm folk looked back for knowledge, so it was most natural that they should look back for their religion, too. To find philosophy in Aristotle and to find spiritual life in Christ required not even the turning of the head. In all realms the age in its search for knowledge was facing backwards. It was a significant hour in the history of human thought when that attitude began to give way. The scandal caused by Alessandro Tassoni's attacks on Homer and Aristotle in the early seventeenth century resounded through Europe. He advanced the new and astonishing idea that, so far from having degenerated since ancient times, the race had advanced and that the moderns were better than their sires. This new idea prevailed as belief in progress grew. It met, however, with violent opposition, and the remnants of that old controversy are still to be found in volumes like George Hakewill's five hundred page folio published in 1627 on "the common errour touching Nature's perpetuall and universall decay." [3] But from the seventeenth century on the idea gained swift ascendency that the human race, like an individual, is growing up, that humanity is becoming wiser with the years, that we can know more than Aristotle and Pliny, that we should look, not back to the ancients, but rather to ourselves and to our offspring, for the real wisdom which maturity achieves. Once what was old seemed wise and established; what was new seemed extempore and insecure: now what is old seems outgrown; what is new seems probable and convincing. Such is the natural and prevalent attitude in a world where the idea of progress is in control. Nor can the applications of this idea to the realm of religion be evaded. If we would not turn back to Palestine nineteen centuries ago for anything else, why should we turn back to find there the Master of our spiritual life? In a word, our modern belief in progress, popularly interpreted, leads multitudes of people to listen with itching ears for every new thing, while they condescend to all that is old in religion, and in particular conclude that, while Jesus lived a wonderful life for his own day, that was a long time ago and surely we must be outgrowing him. That this attitude is critically perilous to the integrity of the Christian movement will at once be obvious to any one whose own spiritual experience is centered in Christ. From the beginning until now the faith of Christian people has been primarily directed, not to a set of abstract principles, nor to a set of creedal definitions, but to a Person. Christians have been people believing in Jesus Christ. This abiding element has put unity into Christian history. The stream of Christian thought and progress has never been twice the same, yet for all that it has been a continuous stream and not an aimless, sprawling flood, and this unity and consistency have existed for one reason chiefly: the influence of the personality of Jesus. Folk may have been Romanists or Protestants, ritualists or Quakers, reactionaries or progressives, but still they have believed in Jesus. His personality has been the sun around which even in their differences they have swung like planets in varying orbits. Take the personality of Jesus out of Christian history and what you have left is chaos. Moreover, it is the personality of Jesus that has been the source of Christianity's transforming influence on character. Ask whence has come that power over the spirits of men which we recognize as Christianity at its mightiest and best, and the origin must be sought, not primarily in our theologies or rubrics or churches, but in the character and spirit of Jesus. He himself is the central productive source of power in Christianity. We have come so to take this for granted that we do not half appreciate the wonder of it. This personality, who so has mastered men, was born sixty generations ago in a small village in an outlying Roman province, and until he was thirty years of age he lived and worked as a carpenter among his fellow townsfolk, attracting no wide consideration. Then for three years or less he poured out his life in courageous teaching and sacrificial service, amid the growing hatred and hostility of his countrymen, until he was put to death by crucifixion "because he stirred up the people." Anatole France, in one of his stories, represents Pilate in his later years as trying to remember the trial and death of Jesus and being barely able to recall it. That incident had been so much a part of the day's work in governing a province like Judea that it had all but escaped his recollection. Such a representation of the case is not improbable. It is easy so to tell the story of Jesus' life as to make his continued influence seem incredible. None would have supposed that nineteen centuries after his death, Lecky, the historian of European morals, would say, "The simple record of three short years of active life has done more to regenerate and to soften mankind than all the disquisitions of philosophers, and all the exhortations of moralists." [4] None would have thought that sixty generations after he was gone, Montefiori, a Jew, putting his finger on the source of Christianity's power, would light upon the phrase "For the sake of Jesus," and would cry: "Of what fine lives and deaths has not this motive been the spring and the sustainment!" [5] None would have thought that so long after Calvary seemed to end forever the power of Jesus, one of the race's greatest men, David Livingstone, engaged in one of the race's most courageous enterprises, breaking his way into the untraveled jungles of Africa, would sing as he went, for so his journal says he did, "Jesus, the very thought of Thee With sweetness fills my breast"? Take the personality of the Master out of Christian history and we have robbed it of its central moral power. Moreover, the personality of Jesus has always been the standard of reformation when Christianity has become recreant or laggard or corrupt. A man named John Wilkes started a political movement in England in the eighteenth century, and around him sprang up a party who called themselves Wilkites. These followers of Wilkes, however, went to extremes so wild and perilous that poor John Wilkes himself had to explain to everybody that, as for him, he was not a Wilkite. This lapse of a movement from the original intention of its founder is familiar in history and nowhere is it more clearly illustrated than in Christianity. The Master, watching Western Christendom today, with all our hatred, bitterness, war, would have to say, If this is Christianity, then I am not a Christian. The Master, wandering through our cathedrals with their masses, waxen images and votive gifts, or through our Protestant churches with their fine-spun speculations insisted on as necessary to belief if one is to be a child of grace, would have to say, If this is Christianity, then I am not a Christian. Indeed, just this sort of service the Master always has been rendering his movement; he is the perennial rebuke of all that is degenerate and false in Christianity. Whenever reform has come, whenever real Christianity has sprung up again through the false and superficial, the movement has been associated with somebody's rediscovery of Jesus Christ. Saint Francis of Assisi rediscovered him, and made a spot of spiritual beauty at the heart of the medieval age. John Wesley rediscovered him and his compassion for the outcast, and led the Church into a new day of evangelism and philanthropy. William Carey rediscovered him and his unbounded care for men, and blazed the trail for a new era of expansive Christianity. And if today many of us are deeply in earnest about the application of Christian principles to the social life of men, it is because we have rediscovered him and the spirit of his Good Samaritan. In an old myth, Antaeus, the child of Earth, could be overcome when he was lifted from contact with the ground but, whenever he touched again the earth from which he sprang, his old power came back once more. Such is Christianity's relation with Jesus Christ. If, therefore, the idea of progress involves the modern man's condescension to the Master as the outgrown seer of an ancient day, the idea of progress has given Christianity an incurable wound. Before we surrender to such a popular interpretation of the meaning of progress, we may well discriminate between two aspects of human life in one of which we plainly have progressed, but in the other of which progress is not so evident. In the Coliseum in ancient Rome centuries ago, a group of Christians waited in the arena to be devoured by the lions, and eighty thousand spectators watched their vigil. Those Christians were plain folk--"not many mighty, not many noble"--and every one of them could have escaped that brutal fate if he had been willing to burn a little incense to the Emperor. Turn now to ourselves, eighteen hundred years afterwards. We have had a long time to outgrow the character and fidelity of those first Christians; do we think that we have done so? As we imagine ourselves in their places, are we ready with any glibness to talk about progress in character? Those first Christians never had ridden in a trolley car; they never had seen a subway; they never had been to a moving picture show; they never had talked over a telephone. There are innumerable ways in which we have progressed far beyond them. But character, fidelity, loyalty to conscience and to God--are we sure of progress there? To hear some people talk, one would suppose that progress is simply a matter of chronology. That one man or generation comes in time after another is taken as sufficient evidence that the latter has of course superseded the earlier. Do we mean that because Tennyson came after Shelly he is therefore the greater poet? What has chronology to do with spiritual quality and creativeness, which always must rise from within, out of the abysmal depths of personality? Professor Gilbert Murray, thinking primarily in a realm outside religion altogether, chastises this cheap and superficial claim of advance in spiritual life: "As to Progress, it is no doubt a real fact. To many of us it is a truth that lies somewhere near the roots of our religion. But it is never a straight march forward; it is never a result that happens of its own accord. It is only a name for the mass of accumulated human effort, successful here, baffled there, misdirected and driven astray in a third region, but on the whole and in the main producing some cumulative result. I believe this difficulty about Progress, this fear that in studying the great teachers of the past we are in some sense wantonly sitting at the feet of savages, causes real trouble of mind to many keen students. The full answer to it would take us beyond the limits of this paper and beyond my own range of knowledge. But the main lines of the answer seem to me clear. There are in life two elements, one transitory and progressive, the other comparatively if not absolutely non-progressive and eternal, and the soul of man is chiefly concerned with the second. Try to compare our inventions, our material civilization, our stores of accumulated knowledge, with those of the age of Aeschylus or Aristotle or St. Francis, and the comparison is absurd. Our superiority is beyond question and beyond measure. But compare any chosen poet of our age with Aeschylus, any philosopher with Aristotle, any saintly preacher with St. Francis, and the result is totally different. I do not wish to argue that we have fallen below the standard of those past ages; but it is clear that we are not definitely above them. The things of the spirit depend on will, on effort, on aspiration, on the quality of the individual soul, and not on discoveries and material advances which can be accumulated and added up." [6] Let any Christian preacher test out this matter and discover for himself its truth. We are preachers of the Gospel in the twentieth century. St. Francis of Assisi was a preacher of the Gospel in the thirteenth century. We know many things which St. Francis and his generation never could have known but, when we step back through that outward change into the spirit of St. Francis himself, we must take the shoes from off our feet, for the place whereon we stand is holy ground. We may not talk in such an hour about progress in Christian character in terms of chronology, for a modern minister might well pray to touch the garment's hem of such a spirit as St. Francis had! When, then, one speaks of outgrowing Jesus, one would do well to get a better reason than simply the fact that he was born nineteen centuries ago. The truth is that humanity has been upon this planet hundreds of thousands of years, while our known history reaches back, and that very dimly, through only some four or five thousand. In that known time there has certainly been no biological development in man that any scientist has yet discerned. Even the brain of man in the ice age was apparently as large as ours. Moreover, within that period of history well known to us, we can see many ups and downs of spiritual life, mountain peaks of achievement in literature and art and religion, with deep valleys intervening, but we cannot be sure that the mountain peaks now are higher than they used to be. The art of the two centuries culminating about 1530 represents a glorious flowering of creative genius, but it was succeeded by over three centuries of descent to the abominations of ugliness which the late eighteenth century produced. We have climbed up a little since then, but not within distant reach of those lovers and makers of beauty from whose hearts and hands the Gothic cathedrals came. Progress in history has lain in the power of man to remember and so to accumulate for general use the discoveries, both material and ethical, of many individuals; it has lain in man's increasing information about the universe, in his increasing mastery over external nature, and in the growing integration of his social life; it has not lain in the production of creative personalities appearing in the course of history with ever greater sublimity of spirit and grasp of intellect. Where is there a mind on earth today like Plato's? Where is there a spirit today like Paul's? The past invites us still to look back for revelations in the realm of creative personality. Some things have been done in history, like the sculptures of Phidias, that never have been done so well since and that perhaps never will be done so well again. As for the Bible, we may well look back to that. There is no book to compare with it in the realm of religion. Most of the books we read are like the rainwater that fell last night, a superficial matter, soon running off. But the Bible is a whole sea--the accumulated spiritual gains of ages--and to know it and to love it, to go down beside it and dip into it, to feel its vast expanse, the currents that run through it, and the tides that lift it, is one of the choicest and most rewarding spiritual privileges that we enjoy. As for Jesus, it is difficult to see what this twentieth century can mean by supposing that it has outgrown him. It has outgrown countless elements in his generation and many forms of thought which he shared with his generation, but it never will outgrow his spirit, his faith in God, his principles of life: "Our Father who art in heaven, Hallowed by thy name;" "Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy strength, and with all thy mind; and thy neighbor as thyself;" "It is not the will of your Father who is in heaven, that one of these little ones should perish;" "By this shall all men know that ye are my disciples, if ye have love one to another;" "If any man would be first, he shall be last of all, and servant of all;" "All things therefore whatsoever ye would that men should do unto you, even so do ye also unto them;" "Love your enemies, and pray for them that persecute you;" "Thy will be done, as in heaven, so on earth." Take principles like these, set them afire in a flaming life the like of which has never come to earth, and we have in Jesus a revelation of the spiritual world which is not going to be outgrown. Still for the Christian he is Saviour and Lord, and across the centuries in his face shines the light of the knowledge of the glory of God. IV Progress, therefore, intelligently apprehended, does not involve that flippant irreverence for the past that so often is associated with it. It offers no encouragement to the chase after vagaries in which so many moderns indulge, as though all that is old were belated and all that is novel were true. The idea of progress has led more than one eager mind to think that the old religions were outgrown; that they were the belated leftovers of a bygone age and were not for modern minds; that a new religion fitted to our new needs alone would do. Suppose, however, that one should say: The English language is an archaic affair; it has grown like Topsy, by chance; it has carried along with it the forms of thinking of outgrown generations; it is not scientific; what we need is a new language built to order to meet our wants. In answer one must acknowledge that the English language is open to very serious criticism, that one can never tell from the way a word is spelled how it is going to be pronounced, nor from the way it is pronounced how it is going to be spelled. One must agree that the English language makes one phrase do duty for many different meanings. When two people quarrel, they make up; before the actor goes upon the stage, he makes up; the preacher goes into his study to make up his sermon; when we do wrong we try to make up for it; and the saucy lad in school behind his teacher's back makes up a face. The English language is fearfully and wonderfully made. But merely because the English language has such ungainly developments, we are not likely to surrender it and adopt instead a modern language made to order, like Esperanto. Say what one will about English, it is the speech in which our poets have sung and our prophets have prophesied and our seers have dreamed dreams. If any do not like it they may get a new one, but most of us will stay where we still can catch the accents of the master spirits who have spoken in our tongue. There are words in the English language that no Esperanto words ever can take the place of: home and honour and love and God, words that have been sung about and prayed over and fought for by our sires for centuries, and that come to us across the ages with accumulated meanings, like caskets full of jewels. Surely we are not going to give up the English language. Progress does not mean surrendering it, but developing it. We shall not give up Christianity. It has had ungainly developments; it does need reformation; many elements in it are pitiably belated; but, for all that, the profoundest need of the world is real Christianity, the kind of life the Master came to put into the hearts of men. Progress does not mean breaking away from it, but going deeper into it. Here, then, are the three perils which tempt the believer in progress: a silly underestimate of the tremendous force of human sin, which withstands all real advance; superficial reliance upon social palliatives to speed the convalescence of the world, when only radical cures will do; flippant irreverence toward the past, when, as a matter of fact, the light we have for the future shines upon us from behind. He who most believes in progress needs most to resist its temptations. [1] James H. Snowden: Is the World Growing Better? pp. 41-42. [2] Francis Turner Palgrave: Faith and Light in the Latter Days. [3] George Hakewill: An Apologie of the Power and Providence of God in the Government of the World, or An Examination and Censure of the Common Errour Touching Natures Perpetuall and Universall Decay. [4] W. E. H. Lecky: History of European Morals from Augustus to Charlemagne, Vol. II, p. 9. [5] C. G. Montefiore: Some Elements of the Religious Teaching of Jesus According to the Synoptic Gospels, p. 133. [6] Gilbert Murray: Tradition and Progress, Chapter I, Religio Grammatici, IV, pp. 19-20. LECTURE VI PROGRESS AND GOD I We may well begin our final lecture, on the interplay between the idea of progress and the idea of God, by noting that only faith in God can satisfy man's craving for spiritual stability amid change. The central element in the conception of a progressive world is that men's thoughts and lives have changed, are changing and will change, that nothing therefore is settled in the sense of being finally formulated, that creation has never said its last word on any subject or landed its last hammer blow on any task. Such an outlook on life, instead of being exhilarating, is to many disquieting in the extreme. In particular it is disquieting in religion, one of whose functions has always been to provide stability, to teach men amid the transient to see the eternal. If in a changing world religious thought changes too, if in that realm also new answers are given to old questions and new questions rise that never have been answered before, if forms of faith in which men once trusted are outgrown, man's unsettlement seems to be complete. The whole world then is like a huge kaleidoscope turning round and round and, as it turns, the manifold elements in human experience, even its religious doctrines and practices, arrange and rearrange themselves in endless permutations. How then in such a world can religion mean to us what it has meant to the saints who of old, amid a shaken world, have sung: "Change and decay in all around I see; O Thou, Who changest not, abide with me!" This fear of the unsettling effects of the idea of progress accounts for most of the resentment against it in the realm of theology, and for the desperate endeavours which perennially are made to congeal the Christian movement at some one stage and to call that stage final. Stability, however, can never be achieved by resort to such reactionary dogmatism. What one obtains by that method is not stability but stagnation, and the two, though often confused, are utterly different. Stagnation is like a pool, stationary, finished, and without progressive prospects. A river, however, has another kind of steadfastness altogether. It is not stationary; it flows; it is never twice the same and its enlarging prospects as it widens and deepens in its course are its glory. Nevertheless, the Hudson and the Mississippi and the Amazon are among the most stable and abiding features which nature knows. They will probably outlast many mountains. They will certainly outlast any pool. The spiritual stability which we may have in a progressive world is of this latter sort, if we believe in the living God. It is so much more inspiring than the stagnation of the dogmatist that one wonders how any one, seeing both, could choose the inferior article in which to repose his trust. Consider, for example, the development of the idea of God himself, the course of which through the Bible we briefly traced in a previous lecture. From Sinai to Calvary--was ever a record of progressive revelation more plain or more convincing? The development begins with Jehovah disclosed in a thunder-storm on a desert mountain, and it ends with Christ saying: "God is a Spirit: and they that worship him must worship in spirit and truth;" it begins with a war-god leading his partisans to victory and it ends with men saying, "God is love; and he that abideth in love abideth in God, and God abideth in him;" it begins with a provincial deity loving his tribe and hating its enemies and it ends with the God of the whole earth worshiped by "a great multitude, which no man could number, out of every nation and of all tribes and peoples and tongues;" it begins with a God who commands the slaying of the Amalekites, "both man and woman, infant and suckling," and it ends with a Father whose will it is that not "one of these little ones should perish;" it begins with God's people standing afar off from his lightnings and praying that he might not speak to them lest they die and it ends with men going into their inner chambers and, having shut the door, praying to their Father who is in secret. Here is no pool; here is a river, the streams whereof make glad the city of God. Consider as well the course of the idea of God after the close of the New Testament canon. The Biblical conception of God in terms of righteous and compassionate personal will went out into a world of thought where Greek metaphysics was largely in control. There God was conceived in terms of substance, as the ontological basis and ground of all existence--immutable, inscrutable, unqualified pure being. These two ideas, God as personal will, and God as metaphysical substance, never perfectly coalescing, flowed together. In minds like St. Augustine's one finds them both. God as pure being and God as gracious and righteous personal will--St. Augustine accepted both ideas but never harmonized them. Down through Christian history one can see these two conceptions complementing each other, each balancing the other's eccentricities. The Greek idea runs out toward pantheism in Spinoza and Hegel. The Biblical idea runs out toward deism in Duns Scotus and Calvin. In the eighteenth century an extreme form of deism held the field and God, as personal will, was conceived as the Creator, who in a dim and distant past had made all things. In the nineteenth century the thought of God swung back to terms of immanence, and God, who had been crowded out of his world, came flooding in as the abiding life of all of it. As one contemplates a line of development like this, he must be aware that, while change is there, it is not aimless, discontinuous, chaotic change. The riverbed in which this stream of thought flows is stable and secure; the whole development is controlled by man's abiding spiritual need of God and God's unceasing search for man. One feels about it as he might about man's varying, developing methods of telling the time of day. Men began by noting roughly the position of the sun or the length of shadows; they went on to make sun-dials, then water-clocks, then sand-glasses; then weight-driven clocks were blunderingly tried and, later, watches, used first as toys, so little were they to be relied upon. The story of man's telling of the time of day is a story of progressive change, but it does not lack stability. The sun and stars and the revolution of the earth abide. The changes in man's telling of the time have been simply the unfolding of an abiding relationship between man and his world. So the development of man's religious ideas from early, crude beginnings until now is not a process which one would wish to stop at any point in order to achieve infallible security. The movement is not haphazard and discontinuous change, like disparate particles in a kaleidoscope falling together in new but vitally unrelated ways. Upon the contrary, its course is a continuous path which can be traced, recovered in thought, conceived as a whole. We can see where our ideas came from, what now they are, and in what direction they probably will move. The stability is in the process itself, arising out of the abiding relationships of man with the eternal. Indeed, the endeavour to achieve stability by methods which alone can bring stagnation, the endeavor, that is, to hit upon dogmatic finality in opinion, is of all things in religion probably the most disastrous in its consequence. Until recent times when reform movements invaded Mohammedanism and higher criticism tackled the problem of the Koran, one could see this achievement of stagnation in Islam in all its inglorious success. The Koran was regarded as having been infallibly written, word for word, in heaven before ever it came to earth. The Koran therefore was a book of inerrant and changeless opinion. But the Koran enshrines the best theological and ethical ideas of Arabia at the time when it was written: God was an oriental monarch, ruling in heaven; utter submission to the fate which he decreed was the one law of human relationship with him; and on earth slavery and polygamy and conversion of unbelievers by force were recognized as right. The Koran was ahead of its day, but having been by a theory of inspiration petrified into artificial finality it became the enemy of all opinions which would pass beyond its own. When, now, one contrasts Mohammedanism with Christianity, one finds an important difference. For all our temptation, succumbed to by multitudes, to make the Bible a Koran, Christianity has had a progressive revelation. In the Bible one can find all the ideas and customs which Mohammedanism has approved and for which it now is hated: its oriental deity decreeing fates, its use of force to destroy unbelievers, its patriarchal polygamy, and its slave systems. All these things, from which we now send missionaries to convert Mohammedans, are in our Bible, but in the Bible they are not final. They are ever being superseded. The revelation is progressive. The idea of God grows from oriental kingship to compassionate fatherhood; the use of force gives way to the appeals of love; polygamy is displaced by monogamy; slavery never openly condemned, even when the New Testament closes, is being underminded [Transcriber's note: undermined?] by ideas which, like dynamite, in the end will blast to pieces its foundations. We are continually running upon passages like this: "It was said to them of old time, . . . but I say unto you;" "God, having of old time spoken unto the fathers in the prophets by divers portions and in divers manners, hath at the end of these days spoken unto us in his Son;" "The times of ignorance therefore God overlooked; but now he commandeth men that they should all everywhere repent;" and over the doorway out of the New Testament into the Christian centuries that followed is written this inscription: "The spirit of truth . . . shall guide you into all the truth." In a word, finality in the Koran is behind--it lies in the treasured concepts of 600 A. D.--but finality in the Bible is ahead. We are moving toward it. It is too great for us yet to apprehend. Our best thoughts are thrown out in its direction but they do not exhaust its meaning. "Our little systems have their day; They have their day and cease to be; They are but broken lights of thee, And thou, O Lord, art more than they." Such is the exultant outlook of a Christian believer on a progressive world. If, however, one is to have this exultant outlook, he must deeply believe in the living God and in the guidance of his Spirit. What irreligion means at this point is not fully understood by most unbelieving folk because most unbelievers do not think through to a conclusion the implications of their own skepticism. We may well be thankful even in the name of religion for a few people like Bertrand Russell. He is not only irreligious but he is intelligently irreligious, and, what is more, he possesses the courage to say frankly and fully what irreligion really means: "That Man is the product of causes which have no prevision of the end they were achieving; that his origin, his growth, his hopes and fears, his loves and his beliefs, are but the outcome of accidental collocations of atoms; that no fire, no heroism, no intensity of thought and feeling, can preserve an individual life beyond the grave; that all the labours of the ages, all the devotion, all the inspiration, all the noonday brightness of human genius, are destined to extinction in the vast death of the solar system, and that the whole temple of Man's achievement must inevitably be buried beneath the debris of a universe in ruins--all these things, if not quite beyond dispute, are yet so nearly certain, that no philosophy which rejects them can hope to stand. Only within the scaffolding of these truths, only on the firm foundation of unyielding despair, can the soul's habitation henceforth be safely built." [1] Such is the outlook on human life of a frank and thoroughgoing irreligion, and there is nothing exhilarating about it. All progress possible in such a setting is a good deal like a horse-race staged in a theatre, where the horses do indeed run furiously, but where we all know well that they are not getting anywhere. There is a moving floor beneath them, and it is only the shifting of the scenery that makes them seem to go. Is human history like that? Is progress an illusion? Is it all going to end as Bertrand Russell says? Those who believe in the living God are certain of the contrary, for stability amid change is the gift of a progressive, religious faith. II It must be evident, however, to any one acquainted with popular ideas of God that if in a progressive world we thus are to maintain a vital confidence in the spiritual nature of creative reality and so rejoice in the guidance of the Spirit amid change, we must win through in our thinking to a very much greater conception of God than that to which popular Christianity has been accustomed. Few passages in Scripture better deserve a preacher's attention than God's accusation against his people in the 50th Psalm: "Thou thoughtest that I was altogether such a one as thyself." The universal applicability of this charge is evident to any one who knows the history of man's religious thought. If in the beginning God did make man in his own image, man has been busy ever since making God in his image, and the deplorable consequences are everywhere to be seen. From idolaters, who bow down before wooden images of the divine in human form, to ourselves, praying to a magnified man throned somewhere in the skies, man has persistently run God into his own mold. To be sure, this tendency of man to think of God as altogether such a one as ourselves is nothing to be surprised at. Even when we deal with our human fellows, we read ourselves into our understandings of them. A contemporary observer tells us that whenever a portrait of Gladstone appeared in French papers he was made to look like a Frenchman, and that when he was represented in Japanese papers his countenance had an unmistakably Japanese cast. If this habitual tendency to read ourselves into other people is evident even when we deal with human personalities, whom we can know well, how can it be absent from man's thought of the eternal? A man needs only to go out on a starry night with the revelations of modern astronomy in his mind and to consider the one who made all this and whose power sustains it, to see how utterly beyond our adequate comprehension he must be. As men in old tales used to take diffused superhumans, the genii, and by magic word bring them down into a stoppered bottle where they could be held in manageable form, so man has taken the vastness of God and run it into a human symbol. This persistent anthropomorphism is revealed in our religious ceremonies. Within Christianity itself are systems of priestcraft where the individual believer has no glad, free access to his Father's presence, but where his approach must be mediated by a priestly ritual, his forgiveness assured by a priestly declaration, his salvation sealed by a priestly sacrament. This idea that God must be approached by stated ceremonies came directly from thinking of God in terms of a human monarch. No common man could walk carelessly into the presence of an old-time king. There were proprieties to be observed. There were courtiers who knew the proper approach to royalty, through whom the common folk would better send petitions up and from whom they would better look for favour. So God was pictured as a human monarch with his throne, his scepter, his ministering attendants. Here on earth the priests were those courtiers who knew the effectual way of reaching him, by whom we would best send up our prayers, through whom we would best look for our salvation. Nordau is not exaggerating when he says: "When we have studied the sacrificial rites, the incantations, prayers, hymns, and ceremonies of religion, we have as complete a picture of the relations between our ancestors and their chiefs as if we had seen them with our own eyes." [2] Our anthropomorphism, however, reaches its most dangerous form in our inward imaginations of God's character. How the pot has called the kettle black! Man has read his vanities into God, until he has supposed that singing anthems to God's praise might flatter him as it would flatter us. Man has read his cruelties into God, and what in moments of vindictiveness and wrath we would like to do our enemies we have supposed Eternal God would do to his. Man has read his religious partisanship into God; he who holds Orion and the Pleiades in his leash, the Almighty and Everlasting God, before whom in the beginning the morning stars sang together, has been conceived as though he were a Baptist or a Methodist, a Presbyterian or an Anglican. Man has read his racial pride into God; nations have thought themselves his chosen people above all his other children because they seemed so to themselves. The centuries are sick with a god made in man's image, and all the time the real God has been saying, "Thou thoughtest that I was altogether such a one as thyself." The unhappy prevalence of this mental idolatry is one of the chief causes for the loss of religious faith among the younger generation. They have grown up in our homes and churches with their imaginations dwelling on a God made in man's image, and now through education they have moved out into a universe so much too big for that little god of theirs either to have made in the first place or to handle now that they find it hard to believe in him. Astronomers tell us that there are a hundred million luminous stars in our sky, and dark stars in unknown multitudes; that these stars range from a million to ten million miles in diameter; that some of them are so vast that were they brought as close to us as our sun is they would fill the entire horizon; and that these systems are scattered through the stellar spaces at distances so incredible that, were some hardy discoverer to seek our planet in the midst of them, it would be like looking for a needle lost somewhere on the western prairies. The consequence is inevitable: a vast progressive universe plus an inadequate God means that in many minds faith in God goes to pieces. III One of the profoundest needs of the Church, therefore, in this new and growing world, is the achievement of such worthy ways of thinking about God and presenting him as will make the very idea of him a help to faith and not a stumbling-block to the faithful. In the attainment of that purpose we need for one thing to approach the thought of God from an angle which to popular Christianity is largely unfamiliar, although it is not unfamiliar in the historic tradition of the Church. Too exclusively have we clung to the mental categories and the resultant phraseology which have grown up around the idea of God as an individual like ourselves. The reasons for the prevalence of this individualized conception of deity are obvious. First, as we have seen, the growth of the idea of God in Hebrew-Christian thought moved out from a very clearly visualized figure on a mountain-top to those expanded and spiritualized forms which glorified the later stages of the Biblical development; and, second, every one of us in his personal religious experience and thought recapitulates the same process, starting as a child with God conceived in very human terms and moving out to expanded and sublimated forms of that childish conception. Whether, then, we consider the source of our idea of God in the Biblical tradition or in our own private experience, we see that it is rooted in and springs up out of a very human conception of him, and that our characteristic words about him, attitudes toward him, and imaginations of him, are associated with these childlike origins. Popular Christianity, therefore, approaches God with the regulative idea of a human individual in its mind, and, while popular Christianity would insist that God is much more than that, it still starts with that, and the enterprise of stretching the conception is only relatively successful. Even when it is successful the result must be a God who is achieved by stretching out a man. In this situation the only help for many is, for the time being, to leave this endeavour to approach God by way of an expanded and sublimated human individual and to approach God, instead, by way of the Creative Power from which this amazing universe and all that is within it have arisen. Man's deepest question concerns the nature of the Creative Power from which all things and persons have come. In creation are we dealing with the kind of power which in ordinary life we recognize as physical, or with the kind which we recognize as spiritual? With these two sorts of power we actually deal and, so far as we can see, the ultimate reality which has expressed itself in them must be akin to the one or to the other or to both. _He who is convinced that the Creative Power from which all things have come is spiritual believes in God_. I have seen that simple statement lift the burden of doubt from minds utterly perplexed and usher befogged spirits out into the liberty of the glory of the children of God. For they did not believe that the Creative Power was dynamic dirt, going it blind; they did believe that the Creative Power was akin to what we know as spirit, but so accustomed were they to the Church's narrower anthropomorphism that they did not suppose that this approach was a legitimate avenue for the soul's faith in God. Nevertheless, it is a legitimate avenue and in the history of the Church many are the souls that have traveled it. The basis for all mature conceptions of God lies here: that the Power from whom all life proceeds wells up in two forms. One is physical; we can see it, touch it, weigh it, analyze and measure it. The other is spiritual; it is character, conscience, intelligence, purpose, love; we cannot see it, nor touch it, nor weigh it, nor analyze it. We ourselves did not make either of these two expressions of life. They came up together out of the Creative Reality from which we came. When a man thinks of the Power from which all life proceeds, he must say at least this: that when it wells up in us it wells up in two forms and one of them is spirit. How, then, when we think of that Power, can we leave spirit out? At the heart of the eternal is the fountain of that spiritual life which in myself I know. This thought of God does not start, then, with a magnified man in the heavens; this thought of God starts with the universe itself vibrant with life, tingling with energy, where, when scientists try to analyze matter, they have to trace it back from molecules to atoms, from atoms to electrons, and from electrons to that vague spirituelle thing which they call a "strain in the ether," a universe where there is manifestly no such thing as dead matter, but where everything is alive. When one thinks of the Power that made this, that sustains this, that flows like blood through the veins of this, one cannot easily think that physicalness is enough to predicate concerning him. If the physical adequately could have revealed that Power, there never would have been anything but the physical to reveal him. The fact that spiritual life is here is evidence that it takes spiritual life fully to display the truth about creation's reality. As an old mystic put it: "God sleeps in the stone, he dreams in the animal, he wakes in man!" It was this approach to God which saved the best spiritual life of the nineteenth century. For in the eighteenth century Christianity came nearer to being driven out of business than ever in her history before. She had believed in a carpenter god who had made the world and occasionally tinkered with it in events which men called miracles. But new knowledge made that carpenter god impossible. Area after area where he had been supposed to operate was closed to him by the discovery of natural law until at last even comets were seen to be law-abiding and he was escorted clean to the edge of the universe and bowed out altogether. Nobody who has not read the contemporary literature of the eighteenth century can know what dryness of soul resulted. Man, however, cannot live without God. Our fathers had to have God back again. But if God were to come back again he could not return as an occasional tinkerer; he had to come as the life in all that lives, the indwelling presence throughout his creation, whose ways of working are the laws, so that he penetrates and informs them all. No absentee landlord could be welcomed back, but if God came as the resident soul of all creation, men could comprehend that. And he did come back that way. His return is the glory of the nineteenth century. In the best visions of the century's prophets that glory shines. MRS. BROWNING: "Earth's crammed with heaven, And every common bush afire with God: But only he who sees, takes off his shoes." TENNYSON: "Speak to Him, thou, for He hears, and Spirit with Spirit can meet-- Closer is He than breathing, and nearer than hands and feet." COLERIDGE: "Glory to Thee, Father of Earth and Heaven! All conscious presence of the Universe! Nature's vast ever-acting Energy!" WORDSWORTH: "a sense sublime Of something far more deeply interfused, Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, And the round ocean and the living air And the blue sky, and in the mind of man; A motion and a spirit, that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thoughts, And rolls through all things." CARLYLE: "Then sawest thou that this fair Universe, were it in the meanest province thereof, is in very deed the star-domed City of God; that through every star, through every grass-blade, and most through every Living Soul, the glory of a present God still beams. But Nature, which is the Time-vesture of God, and reveals Him to the wise, hides Him from the foolish." Moreover, this idea of God as the Creative Power conceived in spiritual terms need not lose any of the intimate meanings which have inhered in more personal thoughts of him and which are expressed in the Bible's names for him: Father, Mother, Bridegroom, Husband, Friend. There is indeed this danger in the approach which we have been describing, that we may conceive God as so dispersed everywhere that we cannot find him anywhere and that at last, so diffused, he will lose the practical value on account of which we want him. For we do desire a God who is like ourselves--enough like ourselves so that he can understand us and care for us and enter into our human problems. We do want a human side to God. A man who had seen in Henry Drummond the most beautiful exhibition of God's Spirit that he had ever experienced said that after Henry Drummond died he always prayed up to God by way of Drummond. We make our most vital approaches to God in that way and we always have, from the time we prayed to God through our fathers and mothers until now, when we find God in Christ. We want in God a personality that can answer ours, and we can have it without belittling in the least his greatness. I know a man who says that one of the turning points of his spiritual experience came on a day when for the first time it dawned on him that he never had seen his mother. Now, his mother was the major molding influence in his life. He could have said about her what Longfellow said in a letter to his mother, written when he was twenty-one. "For me," wrote Longfellow, "a line from my mother is more efficacious than all the homilies preached in Lent; and I find more incitement to virtue in merely looking at your handwriting than in a whole volume of ethics and moral discourses." So this man would have felt about the pervasive influence of his mother. Then it dawned on him one day that he never had seen her. To be sure, he had seen the bodily instrument by which she had been able somehow to express herself through look and word and gesture, but his mother herself, her thoughts, her consciousness, her love, her spirit, he never had seen and he never would see. She was the realest force in his life, but she was invisible. When they talked together they signalled to each other out of the unseen where they dwelt. They both were as invisible as God. Moreover, while his mother was only a human, personal spirit, there was a kind of omnipresence in her so far as he was concerned, and he loved her and she loved him everywhere, though he never had seen her and never could. If spiritual life even in its human form can take on such meanings, we need not think of God as an expanded individual in order to love him, be loved by him, and company with him as an unseen friend. Let a man once begin with God as the universal spiritual Presence and then go on to see the divine quality of that Presence revealed in Christ, and there is no limit to the deepening and heightening of his estimation of God's character, except the limits of his own moral imagination. IV With many minds the difficulty of achieving an idea of God adequate for our new universe will not be met by any such intellectual shift of emphasis as we have suggested. Not anthropomorphic theology so much as ecclesiasticism is the major burden on their thinking about deity. Two conceptions of the Church are in conflict to-day in modern Protestantism, and one of the most crucial problems of America's religious life in this next generation is the decision as to which of these two ideas of the Church shall triumph. We may call one the exclusive and the other the inclusive conception of the Church. The exclusive conception of the Church lies along lines like these: that we are the true Church; that we have the true doctrines and the true practices as no other Church possesses them; that we are constituted as a Church just because we have these uniquely true opinions and practices; that all we in the Church agree about these opinions and that when we joined the Church we gave allegiance to them; that nobody has any business to belong to our Church unless he agrees with us; that if there are people outside the Church who disagree, they ought to be kept outside and if there are people in the Church who come to disagree, they ought to be put outside. That is the exclusive idea of the Church, and there are many who need no further description of it for they were brought up in it and all their youthful religious life was surrounded by its rigid sectarianism. Over against this conception is the inclusive idea of the Church, which runs along lines like these: that the Christian Church ought to be the organizing center for all the Christian life of a community; that a Church is not based upon theological uniformity but upon devotion to the Lord Jesus, to the life with God and man for which he stood, and to the work which he gave us to do; that wherever there are people who have that spiritual devotion, who possess that love, who want more of it, who desire to work and worship with those of kindred Christian aspirations, they belong inside the family of the Christian Church. The inclusive idea of the Church looks out upon our American communities and sees there, with all their sin, spiritual life unexpressed and unorganized, good-will and aspiration and moral power unharnessed and going to waste, and it longs to cry so that the whole community can hear it. Come, all men of Christian good-will, let us work together for the Lord of all good life! That is the inclusive idea of the Church. It desires to be the point of incandescence where, regardless of denominationalism or theology, the Christian life of the community bursts into flame. As between these two conceptions there hardly can be any question that the first idea so far has prevailed. Our endlessly split and shivered Protestantism bears sufficient witness to the influence of the exclusive idea of the Church. The disastrous consequences of this in many realms are evident, and one result lies directly in our argument's path. An exclusive Church narrows the idea of God. Almost inevitably God comes to be conceived as the head of the exclusive Church, the origin of its uniquely true doctrine, the director of its uniquely correct practices, so that the activities of God outside the Church grow dim, and more and more he is conceived as operating through his favourite organization as nowhere else in all the universe. In particular the idea grows easily in the soil of an exclusive Church that God is not operative except in people who recognize him and that the world outside such conscious recognition is largely empty of his activity and barren of his grace. God tends, in such thinking, to become cooped up in the Church, among the people who consciously have acknowledged him. What wonder that multitudes of our youth, waking up to the facts about our vast and growing universe, conclude that it is too big to be managed by the tribal god of a Protestant sect! The achievement of a worthy idea of God involves, therefore, the ability to discover God in all life, outside the Church as well as within, and in people who do not believe in him nor recognize him as well as in those who do. Let us consider for a moment the principle which is here involved. Many forces and persons serve us when we do not recognize them and do not know the truth about them. This experience of being ministered to by persons whom we do not know goes back even to the maternal care that nourished us before we were born. No mother waits to be recognized before she serves her child. We are tempted to think of persons as ministering to us only when the service is consciously received and acknowledged but, as a matter of fact, service continually comes to us from sources we are unaware of and do not think about. "Unnumbered comforts to my soul Thy tender care bestowed, Before my infant heart conceived From whom those comforts flowed." This principle applies to mankind's relationship with the physical universe. Through many generations mankind utterly misconceived it. They thought the earth was flat, the heavens a little way above; yet, for all that, the sun warmed them and the rain refreshed them and the stars guided their wandering boats. The physical universe did not wait until men knew all the truth about it before being useful to men and at last, when the truth came and the glory of this vast and mobile cosmos dawned on mankind, men discovered the facts about forces which, though unknown and unacknowledged, long had served them. This same principle applies also to man's relationship with social institutions and social securities that have sustained us from our infancy. If a boy knows that there is a Constitution of the United States, he does not think about it. Then maturity comes and he begins vividly to understand the sacrifices which our forefathers underwent in building up the institutions that have nourished us. He recognizes forces and factors of which he had been unconscious but whose value, long unacknowledged, he now gratefully can estimate. This same principle also applies to our unconscious indebtedness to people who have helped us but whom we have not known. This is a far finer world because of souls who have been here through whom God has shined like the sun through eastern windows, but we can go on year after year absorbing unconsciously the influence of these spirits without ever knowing them. I lived for twelve years in a community to which in its early days a young minister had come, and where for forty years he stood as the central influence in the town's life. He brought it up in the nurture and admonition of the Lord. As was said of Joseph in Potiphar's prison, "Whatsoever they did there, he was the doer of it." The height of his mind, the unselfishness of his spirit, the liberality of his thought, made all the people gladly acclaim him as the foremost citizen of the town. There is a quality in the town's life yet which never would have been there had it not been for him. Sometimes yet his spirit must brood above that community which for forty years he cherished and must say to people whom he never knew, but who are being blessed by the benedictory influence of his life, what Jehovah said to Cyrus the Persian, "I girded thee, though thou hast not known me." So, from multitudinous sources services flow in upon us that we do not recognize. It should be impossible then to think that God never touches men until men welcome him. Some people seem to suppose that God ministers to men, saves them, transforms them, raises them up and liberates them only when they confessedly receive him. That cannot be true of the God of the New Testament. He is too magnanimous for that. Jesus says a man is unworthy of his discipleship when he serves only the friends who are responsive, that we must serve the hostile and ungrateful, too. Can it be that God is less good than Jesus said we ought to be? We in the churches have drawn our little lines too tight. We have been tempted to divide mankind into two classes, the white and the black: in the Church the white, the saved, who recognize God; outside, the black, the unsaved, the ungodly who do not recognize him. By that division we sometimes seem to imply that those outside the Church are outside the reach of God's transforming grace and power. We are tempted to look for God's activity chiefly, if not altogether, inside the organization that avows him. But that cannot be true. He comes in like the sun through every chink and crevice where he can find a way of entrance. He does not wait to be welcomed. He does not insist on being consciously recognized before he enters a man's life. Rather, through any door or window left unwittingly ajar where he may steal in, even though unobserved, to lift and liberate a life, there the God of the New Testament will come--"the light which lighteth every man coming into the world." Consider, for illustration, the many people in this generation who have given up active relationship with the Church and assured faith in God. They may even call themselves agnostics. Would it not be true to speak to them like this: You have not succeeded in getting rid of God. There is a flame in your heart that will not go out. You try to say there is no God and then you go out under the stars at night and you begin to wonder how such a vast, law-abiding universe could come by accident, as if a man were to throw a font of type on the floor and by chance it should arrange itself into a play of Shakespeare. Strange universe, without God! You try to say there is no God and you pick up a book: a life of Phillips Brooks or David Livingstone or Francis Xavier, and you begin to wonder that, amid these whirling stars and solar systems, a race of men should have emerged with spiritual life like that which we possess, with ideals that beckon us, conscience that warns us and remorse that punishes us! You cannot easily think that this long spiritual struggle and achievement of the race is an accident struck off unwittingly like sparks from falling stones in a material world without abiding meaning. Or you try to say there is no God, and then you are married and your first baby is born and there wells up in your heart that purest love that man can know, the feeling of a parent for a little child. And you cannot help wondering how a man can walk about the world with love like that in the center of his life, thinking that there is nothing to correspond with it in the reality from which his heart and his baby came. You try to say there is no God, and then you begin to grow old and the friends you love best on earth pass away, as Carlyle said his mother did, like "the last pale rim or sickle of the moon which had once been full, sinking in the dark seas." You cannot help wondering whether great souls can be so at the mercy of a few particles of matter that when these are disturbed the spirit is plunged into oblivion! You never really have gotten rid of God. There is a flame in the center of your heart which you cannot put out. If there were no God it would be easier to disbelieve in him than it is. You cannot get rid of him because the best in you is God in you. The flame is he and there in the center of your life, recognized or unrecognized, he is burning up as best he can. This principle of God's unrecognized presence applies to a special group of people that has been growing rapidly in the last few years: the men and women who give themselves with high spirit to human service in science or philanthropy but who never think of attributing their service or love of truth to religious motives. To this group belong many of our scientists. They give themselves no rest, seeking for truth which will help human need. In obscure and forgotten laboratories to-day they search for remedies for ancient, lamentable ills. They make it a point of professional honour not to take profit for themselves when they have succeeded, but to give freely to the world the knowledge they have achieved. The pulpit has often quarreled with the scientists. Let the pulpit honour them for their amazing outpouring of service to the world. To this group also belong many of our philanthropists, to whom sacrifice for the common weal has become the moral equivalent of war. Yet often these men and women, useful public servants of the generation as they are, do not know God. They are great spirits. Let us not pretend that they are not. They are making a deep and beneficent impress upon their own times, and our sons and our sons' sons will rise up to call them blessed; yet they do not know God. What are we to say of such men and women? You know what some people do say about them. They use them as arguments against religion. They say, See these fine men living without God. That is an utter fallacy. They are not living without God. They only think they are. They are the supreme examples of the work of the unrecognized God. One wishes that those men and women would recognize God. God can do much more through responsive than through unresponsive lives. But we may not say that they are living without God. There, in the center of their life, in the ideals they work for, in the service they render, in the love they lavish, in the mission that has mastered them, there _is_ God. Some time ago I wandered down Broadway, in the small hours of the morning, with one of the prominent citizens of the community. At the heart of his life is the passion to be of use. Because his character is stalwart and his ability great, the scope of his service is far wider than the capacity of most of us. Amid the hurrying crowds and the flashing lights of Broadway we talked together hour after hour about God and immortality. He said that he could not believe in God. He wistfully wished that he could. He was sure that it must add something beautiful to human life, but for himself he thought that there was no possibility except to live a high, clean, serviceable life until he should fall on sleep. All the way home that night I thought of other people whom I know. Here is a man who believes in God. He always has believed in God. He was brought up to believe in God and he has never felt with poignant sympathy enough the abysmal, immedicable woes of human-kind to have his faith disturbed. He never has had any doubts. The war passed over him and left him as it found him. The fiercest storm that ever raged over mankind did not touch the surface of his pool of sheltered faith. How could one help comparing him with my friend who could not believe? For he, in high emotion, had spoken of the miseries of men, of multitudes starving, of the horrors of war, of the poor whose lives are a long animal struggle to keep the body alive, of the woes that fall with such terrific incidence upon the vast, obscure, forgotten masses of our human-kind, and out of the very ardour of his sympathy had cried: "How can you believe that a good Father made a world like this?" Now, I believe in God with all my heart. But the God whom I believe in likes that man. Jesus, were he here on earth as once he was, would love him. I think Jesus would love him more than the other man who never had faced human misery with sympathy enough to feel his faith disturbed. This does not mean that we ought contentedly to see men ministered to by a God whom they do not recognize. It is a pity to be served by the Eternal Spirit of all grace and yet not know him. In Jean Webster's "Daddy Long Legs," Jerusha Abbott in the orphanage is helped by an unknown friend. Year after year the favours flow in from this friend whom she does not know. She blossoms out into girlhood and young womanhood and still she does not know him. One day she sees him and she does not recognize him. She has always thought of him as looking other than he does, and so even when she sees him she does not know him. Suppose that the story stopped there! It would be intolerable to have a story end so. To be served all one's life by a friend and then not to know him when he seeks recognition is tragedy. So it is tragedy when God is unrecognized, but behind that is a deeper tragedy still--people who believe in God but who have thoughts of him so narrowly ecclesiastical that they themselves do not perceive his presence, acknowledged or unacknowledged, in all the goodness and truth and beauty of the universe. Such an enlargement of the idea of God to meet the needs of this new world is one of the innermost demands of religion to-day. When a man believes in the living God as the Creative Power in this universe, whose character was revealed in Christ and who, recognized or unrecognized, reveals himself in every form of goodness, truth and beauty which life anywhere contains, he has achieved a God adequate for life. To such a man the modern progressive outlook upon the world becomes exhilarating; all real advance is a revelation of the purpose of this living God; and, far from being hostile to religion, our modern categories furnish the noblest mental formulae in which the religious spirit ever had opportunity to find expression. We who believe this have no business to be modest and apologetic about it, as though upon the defensive we shyly presented it to the suffrages of men. It is a gospel to proclaim. It does involve a new theology but, with multitudes of eager minds in our generation, the decision no longer lies between an old and a new theology, but between new theology and no theology. No longer can they phrase the deepest experiences of their souls with God in the outgrown categories of a static world. In all their other thinking they live in a world deeply permeated by ideas of progress, and to keep their religion in a separate compartment, uninfluenced by the best knowledge and hope of their day, is an enterprise which, whether it succeed or fail, means the death of vital faith. To take this modern, progressive world into one's mind and then to achieve an idea of God great enough to encompass it, until with the little gods gone and the great God come, life is full of the knowledge of him, as the waters cover the sea, that is alike the duty and the privilege of Christian leadership to-day. In a world which out of lowly beginnings has climbed so far and seems intended to go on to heights unimagined, God is our hope and in his name we will set up our banners. [1] Bertrand Russell: Philosophical Essays, II, The Free Man's Worship, pp. 60-61. [2] Max Nordau: The Interpretation of History, p. 217. 
34771	----	Page numbers enclosed by curly braces (example: {25}) have been incorporated to facilitate the use of the Table of Contents. * * * * * THE SCIENTIFIC BASIS OF NATIONAL PROGRESS, INCLUDING THAT OF MORALITY. G. GORE, L.L.D., F.R.S., _Author of "The Art of Scientific Discovery;" "The Principles and Practice of Electro-deposition;" "The Art of Electro-metallurgy;" &c._ [Illustration] NATIONS ADVANCE BY NEW KNOWLEDGE. WILLIAMS AND NORGATE, 14, HENRIETTA STREET, COVENT GARDEN, LONDON; AND 20, SOUTH FREDERICK STREET, EDINBURGH. 1882. * * * * * To the President (the Rev. N. Watson, F.R.S.), the Vice Presidents, the Council and Members of the Birmingham Philosophical Society, I dedicate the following small treatise, in appreciation of the fact, that although only a young Society, they have certified in a substantial manner the views persistently advocated by me respecting the National importance of Scientific Investigation, and have shown so intelligent an example of devotion to public welfare by establishing a Fund for the Endowment of original Scientific Research. GEORGE GORE. _The Institute of Scientific Research,_ _Birmingham._ * * * * * THE SCIENTIFIC BASIS OF NATIONAL PROGRESS. ------ CONTENTS. ------ PREFACE. CHAPTER I. PAGE THE SCIENTIFIC BASIS OF MATERIAL PROGRESS 1 CHAPTER II. THE SCIENTIFIC BASIS OF MENTAL AND MORAL PROGRESS 83 CHAPTER III. NEW TRUTH, AND ITS GENERAL RELATION TO HUMAN PROGRESS 157 CHAPTER IV. THE PROMOTION OF ORIGINAL SCIENTIFIC RESEARCH 170 * * * * * THE SCIENTIFIC BASIS OF NATIONAL PROGRESS. ------ NEW KNOWLEDGE IMPARTS NEW POWER. ------ PREFACE. As there exists at the present time in this country a considerable degree of uneasiness in the public mind respecting our ability to maintain our position in the race of progress, and as our future success as a nation depends largely upon science, it is desirable to call attention to the great public importance of _new_ scientific knowledge, and to the means of promoting its development. Although the illustrations given in this book of the importance of such knowledge to mankind, constitute but a small fraction of the number which might be adduced, they are sufficient to show that by the neglect of scientific investigation, we are sacrificing our welfare as a nation to an enormous extent. The greatest obstacle to the discovery of new knowledge in this country, lies in a wide spread ignorance of the dependence of human welfare upon scientific research. I propose therefore to show in a brief manner, that the essential starting-point of human progress, lies in scientific discovery; also that new truths are evolved by original research made in accordance with scientific methods; and to illustrate these statements by examples; also to point out how such research can be encouraged. The book is divided into four chapters, viz.: _1st._ The Scientific basis of Material progress: _2nd._ The Scientific basis of Mental and Moral progress: _3rd._ New truth and its relation to Human progress: and _4th._ The Promotion of original Scientific Research. As the object of the book is only to call attention to the vast importance of _new_ truth, as as a fundamental source of advance, and how to promote the discovery of it, the essay is written as briefly as possible, and is not offered in any sense as a complete exposition of the subject, especially the section relating to the Scientific basis of Morality. The leading idea of the Book is that present knowledge only enables us to maintain our present state, that national _progress_ is the result of _new_ ideas, and that the chief source of new ideas is original research.[1] That as _advance_ has its origin in _new_ knowledge; unless new discoveries are made, new inventions and improvements must sooner or later cease. Another prominent idea is, that truth is essentially the same in all divisions of knowledge, and that the mental powers and processes employed in detecting it are the same in all subjects. For reasons stated in the text, the influence of scientific discovery upon mental and moral progress are treated together. Notwithstanding the far greater importance of the mental and moral advantages of new truths, the book treats chiefly of the pecuniary and material gains to mankind; mainly because the latter are more easily understood and appreciated, the chapter however on "The Scientific Basis of Mental and Moral progress," indicates in a very brief and imperfect manner, the vast importance of new scientific knowledge to mankind, as a source of mental and moral advancement. The chief object of this book is to disseminate more correct ideas respecting the importance of _new_ positive knowledge, and the duties of society in relation to it; and a further object is to assist in maintaining Birmingham in the front rank of intellectual, social and moral advance, in accordance with its motto "Forward." * * * * * {1} CHAPTER I. ------ THE SCIENTIFIC BASIS OF MATERIAL PROGRESS. During the last one hundred years this nation has advanced with unexampled speed. More wealth has been accumulated by Englishmen since the commencement of the present century, than in all preceding time since the period of Julius Cæsar; one of the causes of this has been the discovery of new truths of science, and their subservience to useful purposes by means of invention. The great manufacturing success of this country has been largely due to those applications of science, which have enabled us to utilise our abundant stores of coal and iron-ore, in steam engines, machinery, and a multitude of mechanical, physical, and chemical processes; also to the discovery of electro-magnetism and its application in the electric-telegraph, etc. And had it not been for these and other adaptations of scientific knowledge, we should have competed in vain with the cheaper labour and longer days of toil of continental nations. Other great causes, such as our insular position, suitable climate, freedom, {2} geographical position, etc., etc. have, however, also contributed to the result. Commerce also in its turn has done vast things for mankind. The purely scientific knowledge we possess was discovered almost entirely by means of original research, and to only a small extent by persons engaged in industrial occupations. Probably not two per cent. of all the important discoveries in pure science were made in manufactories; the scientific experiments which are made in such establishments are usually of the nature of invention, not of discovery, and are not often published, because it is a usual object with men of business to retain as much as possible of the pecuniary benefit of their labours to themselves. Whilst it is the object of a business man to monopolise special knowledge; that of the scientific man is to diffuse it, in order that all mankind may be benefited and helped to improve. Discoveries in science are, however, occasionally made by practical men engaged in technical employments. The hydro-electric machine originated in this way, a man at Newcastle was attending to a steam boiler, and found that he received electric shocks when he touched the boiler. This circumstance was investigated by his employer, Mr. Armstrong, a scientific man, and led him to construct the hydro-electric machine. The accumulation of electricity in submarine telegraph cables was first observed at the Gutta-Percha Company's works {3} London. It was noticed on testing a cable by means of a voltaic battery (the cable being submerged in water) that discharges of electricity flowed from the cable after the battery was removed; this circumstance was investigated by Faraday, and led to improvements in submarine telegraphy. In each of these instances the same general method as that used by scientific discoverers was however employed, viz., new experiments were made (though not intentionally) by putting matter and its forces under new conditions, and new results were observed. Nearly all great modern scientific discoveries have been made by teachers of science and others, who spend a large portion of their lives in experimental investigation, searching for new truths, and not by persons who have hit upon them by accident. The greatest discoveries in physics and chemistry in modern times, were made chiefly by such men as Newton, Cavendish, Scheele, Priestley, Oersted, Volta, Davy and Faraday: all great workers in science. It is either by observing matter and its forces under new conditions or from a new aspect, that nearly all discoveries are made; thus Priestley placed some oxide of mercury in an inverted glass vessel, and heated it by means of the Sun's rays and a lens, and discovered Oxygen. This substance was nearly discovered by Eck de Sulsbach three hundred years before; he heated six pounds of an amalgam {4} of silver and mercury, and converted the latter metal into a red oxide like cinnabar, and he remarked, "a spirit is united with the metal, and what proves it is this, that this artificial cinnabar submitted to distillation, disengages that spirit." The "spirit" was evidently oxygen. Some discoveries are made by observing the phenomena of bodies placed under special conditions by those operations of nature over which we have little or no control. All our knowledge of Astronomy, and much of that of geology and physiology, was acquired in this way. Nearly all modern discoveries of importance in physics or chemistry require long and difficult investigations to be made in order to completely establish their truth. When Crookes discovered Thallium, he saw the first sign of its existence in a momentary flash of green light in a spectroscope, but he had to expend upon the subject several years of most difficult labour, and a considerable sum of money, in order to prove the correctness of his suspicion that he had discovered a new metal. M. Lecocq de Boisbaudran discovered the metal Gallium and Bunsen discovered Rubidium and Caesium in a similar manner. Discoveries in science, are usually made, not by trying to obtain some valuable commercial or technical result, but by making new, reliable, and systematic investigations. By investigating the chemical action of electricity upon saline bodies, {5} Sir Humphrey Davy isolated sodium and magnesium, which has led to the establishment at Patricroft near Manchester, of the manufactures of those metals. By the abstract researches of Hofmann and others upon Coal-tar, many new compounds were discovered, and the extremely profitable manufacture of the splendid coal-tar dyes was originated. Scientific discovery is the most valuable in its ultimate practical results when it is pursued from a love of truth as the ruling motive, and any attempt to make it more directly and quickly remunerative by trying to direct it to immediately practical objects, decreases the importance of its results, diminishes the spirit of inquiry, and sooner or later reduces it to the character of invention. The greatest practical realities of this age had their origin in a search after important truths entirely irrespective of what utilities they might lead to. I do not intend by these remarks to imply that any new trades or improvements in manufactures have been or can be effected without the labours of inventors and practical men, but that there should be a more judicious division of labour: one man to discover new truths, another to put them into the form of practical inventions, and the business man to work them; because it is proved by experience, that in nearly all cases these different kinds of labour require men of widely different habits of mind, and {6} that the faculties of discovery, invention, and practical working are very rarely united in one man. Scientific investigations however, made in a manufactory, for the purpose of ascertaining the various sources of loss of materials, the circumstances which affect the amount or quality of the product; or made with the object of substituting cheaper or more suitable materials, or for varying their proportions, or for many other kindred objects, have in many cases resulted in great benefit to the manufacturer, and have formed the basis of successful patents. Some of the large brewers, chemical manufacturers, candle companies, and many others, constantly employ scientific men in this way to examine their materials, processes and products, and keep them acquainted with the progress of discovery and invention in relation to their own particular trades. No art or manufacture is so perfect as to be exempt from the influence of discovery and invention, and no man can produce so perfect an article but that, by the aid of science, a better may be produced. Science and trade are mutually dependent, without the assistance of science, trade would be unable to supply our daily increasing wants, and without the pecuniary support of trade, science would languish and decay. "As long as arts and manufactures are left to be directed and improved by simple experience, their progress is extremely slow, but directly scientific knowledge is successfully applied to them, they {7} bound forward with astonishing speed." Look at the art of taking portraits; for hundreds of years it remained entirely in the hands of oil and water-colour painters with but little progress in rapidity of production, but directly science was applied to it in the form of photography, its advance in this respect became amazing. Fifty years ago photography was almost unknown, but immediately Messrs. Daguerre and Talbot, in 1844, made known their processes, the new art began to advance, and so rapid has been its progress, that at the present time many thousand persons are employed in its exercise, and millions of portraits have been taken with an accuracy and at a cost quite beyond the reach of the old method. Many persons hardly know the difference between science and art; a still greater number cannot readily distinguish between a concrete science and a pure one; and nearly all persons confound discovery with invention. A science may be conveniently defined as a collection of facts and general principles which are to be learned; an art as a collection of rules which are to be followed:--Art therefore is applied science; and every art also has a basis in science, whether that basis has been discovered or not. Scientific principles underlie not only manufacturing processes, but also sculpture, music, poetry and painting. Discoveries differ also from inventions: a scientific discovery is a newly found truth in science, which in the great majority of cases is not in the form of {8} applied knowledge. An invention is usually a combination and application to some desired purpose, of scientific truths which have been previously discovered. When Oersted first observed a magnetic needle move by means of a current of electricity, he made a scientific discovery; but when Wheatstone and Cooke applied Oersted's discovery in their telegraph from Paddington to Slough, they made an invention. The success of the electro-plating process was dependent upon knowledge previously discovered. Mr. Wright, a surgeon in Birmingham, was led to the invention of the use of cyanide of potassium in electro-plating and gilding, by reading in Scheele's "Chemical Essay" (p.p. 405 and 406), that "if after these calces" (_i.e._, the cyanides of gold and silver) "have been precipitated, a sufficient quantity of precipitating liquor be added, in order to redissolve them, the solution remains clear in the open air, and in this state the ærial acid" (_i.e._, carbonic acid of the air) "does not reprecipitate the metallic calx." Immediately a discovery is effected it is made public, and is afterwards incorporated in the ordinary text books of science, ready for the use of inventors; and in this way such books have become filled with valuable knowledge acquired by researches in past times. All this knowledge (which has cost millions of pounds and a vast amount of intellect and labour) has been given by its discoverers freely to the nation. Some idea of the number of scientific {9} researches which have been made since the year 1800, may be obtained from the fact, that a mere list of their titles, with the names of the authors, occupies eight large quarto volumes, of about one thousand pages each, compiled and published at a cost of about ten thousand pounds, by the British Government and the Royal Society. In discovery we search for new phenomena, their causes and relations; in invention we seek to produce new effects, or to produce known effects in an improved manner. The objects of the scientific discoverer are, new truth and greater accuracy; whereas those of the inventor, are increased usefulness and economy of results. The ancients classed inventors with the gods, because they considered them great benefactors to the human race. Discoverers may properly be viewed as priests and prophets of truth, because they both reveal new knowledge to mankind, and predict with certainty coming events. A man cannot usually invent an improvement unless he possesses scientific knowledge, and, for that knowledge he must in nearly all cases resort to a scientific book or teacher. The great practical value of new scientific knowledge is proved by the fact, that when scientific discoveries are published, there are numerous inventors and practical men, who immediately endeavour to apply them to useful purposes. Since the first application of coal-tar to the production of dyes, every discovery in that {10} branch of chemistry has been closely watched for a similar purpose. A complete account of the growth and development of scientific discoveries and inventions would form an extensive history, and would include numerous instances of experiments attended by results which, sooner or later, affected all mankind. Take that of phosphorus, for example. The first evidence of the existence of that substance was obtained by the Saracens in the eighth century. Achild Bechil distilled a powdered mixture of charcoal, clay, lime, and dried extract of urine, and obtained a substance which shone in the dark "like a good moon;" that substance was phosphorus. The discovery contained in the results of that little dirty and stinking experiment was the germ or seed of all the subsequent developments and applications of phosphorus. About the year 1669 Bechil's experiment was further developed by Brandt, a merchant of Hamburg, and the publication of the wonderful properties of the substance produced a great sensation in his fellow-citizens. "There was then cried nothing but triumph and victory among the chymists. Those good people erected already in their thoughts so many hospitals and poor-houses that no beggar should more molest any man in the streets, made great legacies, and pious causes, and what not else." "Besides, the other alchymists did encourage him yet more, and desisted not to make him believe how this was the same fiery ghost of {11} Moses that in the beginning moved upon the water, yea, his splendid shining face: the fiery pillar in the desert, that secret fire of the altar wherewith Moses burned the golden calf before he strewed it upon the fire and made it potable." The experiment of Brandt was repeated by Kunckel before the courts of Saxony and Brandenburg, although it was not a very delicate or agreeable exhibition, "because the anctuous and daubing oyliness was not yet accurately separated from it, and without doubt it was very stinking." Brandt's process was further developed by Boyle, and published in the Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society, in the year 1692-3; and phosphorus was afterwards obtained in larger quantity and in a purer state by Hanckwitz, a chemist in Southampton Street, Strand, and sold by him at three pounds sterling per ounce. Its price at present is less than three shillings per pound. Margraaf, Fourcroy, Vauquelin, and Dr. Slare also extended our knowledge of the substance; Gahn, in 1769, made the important discovery of phosphorus in bones, and Scheele immediately devised the process now in use by our manufacturers for extracting it from that substance. The commencement of the use of phosphorus for the purpose of getting a light occurred about the year 1803, but it was not until the year 1833 that the invention of phosphorus matches became commercially successful. The use of such matches is now universal, and it has {12} been estimated that the daily consumption of them in Great Britain alone amounts to two hundred and fifty millions, or more than eight matches per day for each individual in the kingdom. "There is nothing on the Earth so small that it may not produce great things." The most abstract and apparently trivial experiments in original research have in some cases led to inventions and results of national and even world-wide importance. The contractions of a frog's leg in the experiments of Galvani, and the movements of a magnetic needle in those of Oersted, have already led to the expenditure of hundreds of millions of pounds in laying telegraph wires all over the earth, and to an immense extension of international intercourse. But the original experiment of Oersted was not discovered without labour, it was only arrived at after many years of research. The saying that "all great things have had small beginnings," is true, not only of electric telegraphs, but also of the great trade of electro-plating, and of the magneto-electric machine which is now largely used instead of the voltaic battery. After Volta had made his small and apparently unimportant experiments on the electricity produced by metals and liquids, various persons tried the effect of that electricity upon metallic solutions. Brugnatelli, in 1805, found that two silver medals became gilded in a solution of gold by passing the electricity through them. Mr. Henry Bessemer, in 1834, coated various {13} lead ornaments with copper by using a solution of copper in a similar manner. And in 1836 Mr. De la Rue found that copies might be taken in copper of engraved copper-plates by the electro-depositing process. Faraday discovered magneto-electricity in the year 1831, by rotating a disc of copper between the poles of a magnet, and he has stated that the first successful result he obtained was so small that he could hardly detect it. This simple experiment was the origin of the magneto-electric machine, and many of these machines are now used for producing the electric light, and for depositing nickel, copper, silver, and gold, instead of by the voltaic battery. These, and other engines, thermic, magnetic, electric, &c, will probably, ere long, be constructed on as large a scale, and as many in number, as the present steam engine. The discovery in olden times of the attractive properties of a fragment of iron ore, was the basis of the invention of the mariner's compass, which greatly improved navigation, and led to nearly all the chief maritime discoveries which have since been made. The sciences of magnetism and geometry form the basis of the art of navigation, and have thus made our great foreign commerce possible. The discovery of magnetism enabled sailing vessels to venture freely out of sight of land, and to traverse the wide ocean with even greater safety than to sail near the shore. By its means Columbus crossed the Atlantic Ocean and discovered America. By its {14} means also, Vasco de Gama sailed round the Cape of Good Hope and discovered a new route to India; and in the year 1500, another Portuguese Captain, Cabral, was driven across the Atlantic, discovered Brazil, and was enabled by the aid of the magnet, to send back a ship to Lisbon with news of the discovery. By its assistance also Magellan discovered Patagonia and the South Pacific Ocean; and by the completion of that voyage the Earth was first circumnavigated and proved to be a globe. The geographical discoveries of the Portuguese, made by means of the magnet, produced great national results; they profoundly changed the balance of power and wealth among European nations, by changing the direction of navigation and of the great streams of commerce between Europe and the East. They gave a mortal blow to Italy and the cities of the Mediterranean, by transferring Eastern commerce to Spain and Portugal: and Egypt ceased to be the greatest route of commerce from Europe to India. A singular contract relating to geographical research was made in the fifteenth century, between King Alphonso, of Portugal, and Ferdinand Gomez, of Lisbon, by which the latter engaged to navigate a ship and explore the coast of Africa, and to discover not less than three hundred miles of coast every year, the measurement to be made from Sierra Leone. {15} Scientific discovery has in all ages been a most powerful agent of civilization and human progress. The discovery of the black liquid which a solution of nutgalls produces when mixed with green vitriol, led to the invention of writing ink; and a knowledge of the properties of ink and paper prepared the way for the invention of printing, by means of which truth and learning have spread all over the earth. The apparently insignificant property possessed by amber, of attracting feathers immediately after it has been rubbed, was known twenty-four hundred years ago, and afterwards led to the discovery of electricity. In later times, Dr. Franklin, by means of a kite, charged a bottle with lightning, examined it, and proved lightning and electricity to be identical. This knowledge, joined to the further discovery, that electricity would pass freely through metals, led to the modern invention of the lightning conductor, by means of which all our great buildings, ships, lighthouses, arsenals, and powder magazines are protected from lightning. "Coming events cast their shadows before them:" the discovery of the instant transmission of electricity along wires by Stephen Gray and Wheeler, about the year 1729, fore-shadowed the invention of the electric telegraph. About the year 1819, Oersted, a Danish philosopher, after fifteen years of study and experiment, to ascertain the relation of electricity to magnetism, discovered that if a freely suspended magnetic needle was supported parallel and near to {16} a wire, and an electric current then passed through the wire, the needle moved and placed itself at right angles to the current. This discovery, coupled with the previous one of the electric conductivity of metals, formed the indispensable basis of all our electric telegraphs. Original research is very productive of new industries and inventions. The discoveries made by Volta, Faraday, and many other investigators, have led to the process of electro-plating, the use of electric lights for lighthouses, and for ocean steamships, and the great system of telegraphs. Those of Davy, Wedgwood, and others, respecting the action of light upon salts of silver, have resulted in the modern processes of photography, which are now in use almost everywhere. The discovery of zinc, by Paracelsus, has been followed by the use of that metal in galvanic batteries, and the great use of "galvanized" iron for telegraph wires, for roofing, and many other purposes. The discovery of nickel, by Cronstedt, has led to the great modern use of that metal in electro-plating, and to that of German silver in the construction of electro-plated and other articles. The discovery of chlorine, by Scheele, formed the basis of nearly all our modern processes of bleaching cotton and other fabrics. The discovery of gun-cotton and nitro-glycerine has led to the use of those substances in blasting rocks and in warfare. The discovery of oxygen, by Priestley, has enabled us to understand and improve in a great number of {17} ways the numerous manufacturing, agricultural, and other processes in which that substance operates. Priestley made many experiments also on the absorption of gases by water, and proposed the resulting liquids as beverages; and those apparently trifling experiments have since expanded into the large manufactures of aërated waters. The discoveries of gutta-percha and india-rubber were indispensible to the great applications of those substances in telegraph cables, and in a multitude of useful articles. The discovery of chloroform and anæsthetics has led to their use for the purpose of alleviating human suffering. The discovery, by Sir Isaac Newton, of the decomposition of light by means of a prism, has led in recent times to the invention of the spectroscope; to the use of that instrument in the Bessemer steel process; to the discovery of a number of new metals, thallium, rubidium, cæsium, indium, and several others, and to the most wonderful discovery of the composition of the Sun and distant heavenly bodies. Even the invention of the steam-engine was partly a consequence of previous researches made by scientific discoverers. Watt, himself, stated in his pamphlet, entitled "A plain Story," that he could not have perfected his engine had not Dr. Black and others previously discovered what amount of heat was rendered latent by the conversion of water into steam. "Each mechanical advance in the steam-engine has been preceded by and the result of the {18} discovery of some physical law or property of steam." "The first step in the invention of the steam-engine was the experimental research and the discoveries of the properties of steam by Hooke, Boyle, and Papin."[2] Had not the steam-engine been developed, it is clear that railways, steamships, machinery, and all the other numerous uses to which that instrument is now applied, would have been almost unknown. The introduction of the steam-engine enabled abandoned Cornish mines to be relieved of water, and to be worked to much greater depths. The discoveries of nitric acid, hydrochloric acid, oil of vitriol, and washing soda, by the alchemists and early chemists in their researches, led to the erection of the numerous great manufactories of those substances which now exist in England and in other civilized countries. There is probably not an art, manufacture, or process, which is not largely due to scientific discovery, and if we trace them back to their source we nearly always find them originate in scientific research. So far has scientific discovery, and its practical applications to human benefit by invention, now progressed, that every one considers this to be, _par excellence_, the scientific age. And as discovery and invention continue to progress with accelerated speed, we are encouraged to hope, not only that scientific principles will ultimately be universally recognised as {19} the regulators of all technical industry, but also as a fundamental basis of morality.[3] "It is true that some processes of manufacture have not been consequences of abstract scientific discovery--that they originally resulted from alterations made in the rudest appliances, and that they have been directed and improved by the results of simple experience. For ages past we derived the benefit of scientific principles without a knowledge of their existence. We trod in the beaten paths of experience ignorant of the truth that we were acting in unison with fixed and certain laws. Numerous arts and processes were in extensive operation long before the principles involved in them were at all understood. The arts of enamelling and of iron smelting were known hundreds of years before we were acquainted with the principles of chemistry. In some rare instances also the recorded results of daily experience in practical matters, tabulated and studied, have ultimately led to the discovery of scientific laws; but all this is merely the making use of our ordinary experience for the advancement of knowledge, instead of making _special experiments_ for the purpose." Many of our processes and manufactures, those of glass and copper for example, are of such great antiquity, it is impossible to ascertain with certainty the special circumstances under which they originated; but after we have fully considered the ways in which {20} various modern trades and manufactures have first arisen, we shall come to the conclusion that all manufactures and improvements in manufacturing processes, must have been first produced by the same general means, viz., new observations, although the special circumstances connected with the origin of each were different. Let us consider German-silver and its manufacture. That substance is an alloy of copper, zinc, and nickel; it owes its peculiar whiteness or "silver-like" appearance to the latter metal, and cannot be made without it; it is certain, therefore, that by whatever means that metal or the alloy was discovered, the discovery was the origin of the German-silver manufacture, and was essential to all manufactures, processes, or appliances in which German-silver, nickel, or any of its compounds are used. Nickel was discovered by Cronstedt during the year 1751, and its compounds were chiefly investigated by English and foreign chemists. Cronstedt found it as a peculiar metal in the mineral called kupfernickel, whilst chemically examining the properties of that substance. The general method by which he discovered it was careful experiment, observation, and study of the properties of matter. It is stated that the Chinese and other nations made alloys of nickel long before nickel itself was known to be a distinct metal; they had found, by experiment, that when ores of copper and zinc were mixed with a particular kind of mineral and smelted, {21} a white alloy was obtained; but this also proves the general statement already made, that the German-silver manufacture was originated by means of new observations. It was by a more skilful, but similar mode of procedure that Cronstedt isolated the metal itself, and thus laid a definite basis of improvements in the manufacture of its alloys. No art is probably more antique, or remained longer exempt from the influence of science, than that of match making and obtaining a light. Many adult persons can remember the primitive and old-fashioned tinder-box, which had passed, with its flint and steel, from one generation to another without any material improvement. Phosphorus, it is true, was definitely discovered at least as early as the year 1669, but it was not applied to match making till about 1833. Since then the progress of invention has been so rapid that there are now numerous manufactories which produce many millions per day of phosphorus matches; for instance, those of M. Pollak, at Vienna, and of M. Fürth, in Bohemia, consume together more than 20 tons of phosphorus annually, and give employment to about 6,000 persons, and as one pound of phosphorus suffices for about one million German matches (or 600,000 English ones), those two makers alone produce the astonishing number of 44,800 millions of matches yearly. Judging by means of the experience already acquired, we cannot reasonably expect that {22} discoveries fraught with such momentous consequences as those of magnetism or of galvanism and electro-magnetism, will be made very often. The progress of scientific discovery is gradual; we have at present but mere glimpses of the new world of truth which is being revealed to us by means of research; we are only at the very commencement of a knowledge of the inherent properties of matter and its forces, and consequently the methods we employ to utilize them are extremely imperfect. Matter has a general property of subdividing and transmuting forces; if we apply one force to a substance or machine, it produces many effects, not only those we want, but those also we do not want; when we heat a piece of iron, the heat produces a number of changes, mechanical, electric, magnetic, and chemical, and it is partly by means of what is termed the "internal resistance" of bodies that these effects are produced, and we know but little of that property. The explosive action in a gas engine produces not only the mechanical force we desire, but also a quantity of heat we do not want, and at a cost of a portion of the gas. In a similar manner, in the steam-engine the largest portion of the heat of the coal is converted into forces which are lost; a large amount of it is uselessly expended in warming the machine itself and the surrounding atmosphere; much also is lost by friction. That "knowledge is power" is an old maxim, but that _new knowledge is new power_ is a new maxim {23} which scientific discovery has impressed upon us. By means of discoveries we have acquired new powers; by those of electricity we have acquired the ability of conversing with each other at unlimited distances, and by means of those in optics we are enabled to analyse the composition, and perceive some of the physical changes of the most distant heavenly bodies. As our ignorance is probably much greater than our knowledge, more inventions also, and extensions of human power, must ultimately result from discovering new qualities of bodies, than by applying to useful purposes their already known properties. Experience in science has already shown that it is by means of invention based upon _new_ discoveries that the greatest utilities are obtained, rather than by the exercise of invention upon knowledge acquired long ago. The information obtained by research in former times has been largely exhausted for the purposes of invention by modern inventors, and what we very greatly require now is _new_ knowledge. Experience in science also leads us to believe that the extent of possible discovery is as boundless as Nature, and that an immense amount of new knowledge may yet be discovered. Every discoverer of repute could supply a copious list of investigations yet to be made. An infinite number of questions in pure science remain to be decided by means of research. Is Electricity decomposible like radiant heat or light? {24} Are the "elementary substances" really compound bodies? Are they all compounds of Hydrogen? Are they all decomposed by very high temperatures, as compound substances are "disassociated" by less elevated temperatures? Under what conditions is Fluorine isolated? Do gases transmit heat by conduction? Under what circumstances is Light converted into Electricity? and into Magnetism? What is the actual size of an atom of Hydrogen? Does Light (without heat) expand bodies? What is the actual molecular arrangement of the atoms of Hydrogen at 60 Fahrenheit? What is the cause of the absence of metalloids in the Sun? What are the properties of Fluorine? What is the vapour density of Cæsium? Under what circumstances is heat wholly converted into mechanical power? &c., &c. All these discoveries when made, will probably, sooner or later, be productive of practical benefits to mankind. Nearly every manufacturer in this country is deriving, from scientific discoveries, advantages for which there has been little or no payment made to the discoverers. The makers of coal-tar-dyes, and dyers of wool and silk, are using Mitscherlich's discovery of nitro-benzine. Manufacturers of picric acid and "French purple" have enjoyed the fruits of the labours of Dr. Stenhouse. Makers of chlorate of potash and cyanide of potassium are profiting largely by the discoveries of Scheele, Gay-Lussac, and others. All the percussion cap makers {25} are indebted to Howard and Brugnatelli for fulminating silver. Railway-contractors, quarry-proprietors, and others, use nitro-glycerine discovered by Sobrero. Iron smelters are benefiting by the discovery of Bunsen, that 42 per cent. of the heat of the fuel was lost as combustible gases--these gases are now utilized. Telegraphists and electro-platers are also indebted to him for his voltaic battery. The producers of metallic magnesium owe the origin of their process to him as being the first to convert it into wire and make known its great light giving power. Multitudes of persons now use his well-known "Bunsen's burner" for heating, cooking, and other operations. The various telegraph companies, copper smelters, and makers of copper telegraph wire, are using Dr. Matthiessen's discovery of the influence of impurities on the electric conducting power of copper. Phosphorus-makers are reaping the reward of the labours of Gahn and Scheele. The makers of electro-plate and German silver are deriving profits from the labours of Faraday, who investigated electrolysis; of Gay Lussac, who discovered cyanogen; and of Cronstedt, who discovered nickel. Makers of Bessemer steel enjoy advantages derived from the spectrum discoveries of Kirchoff. Iron and copper smelters, metallurgists in general, dyers, calico printers, bleachers, brewers, makers of vinegar, red lead, varnishes, colours, soaps, green vitriol, phosphorus, oil-of-vitriol, and many others, are deriving benefit from the discoveries of Priestley and {26} Scheele. Physicians and their patients are receiving the reward of the labours of Soubeiran, Liebig, and Dumas, in the discovery of chloroform; of the researches of Fourcroy, Vauquelin, Pelletier, and others, in the discovery of quinine; and of many other chemists who discovered numerous remedial substances. By means of the discoveries of Oersted and others, embodied in the telegraph, manufacturers are enabled to anticipate the state of the markets and of the weather, and editors are enabled to obtain the earliest news. Suppose that Gay Lussac, in 1815, had not discovered cyanide of potassium, and that it had never been discovered, it is highly probable that the manufacturing returns of Birmingham and Sheffield would be much less in amount at the present time than they are, simply because there is no other known substance with which the electro-plating of base metals with gold and silver can be satisfactorily effected. Or suppose that sal-ammoniac, chloride of zinc, or other soldering agents had not been discovered, the extensive and so-called "galvanizing" process could not have been effected, because without those substances the iron articles immersed in the melted zinc would not have received an adhesive metallic coating. On the other hand, science has in various cases rendered obsolete some manufactures and superseded old customs, comforts and conveniences. We have ceased, or almost so, to use tinder-boxes, snuffers, {27} sulphur matches, rush-lights, tallow candles, sedan chairs, stage coaches, the ancient water-bucket and well, and even the comparatively modern pump; coal fires also are gradually being superseded by fires of gas, and articles formed of solid silver are now being replaced by those of electro-plate; canals have also to some extent been supplanted by railways. But in all these cases science has supplied us either with something better or more suited to our present wants. The great pecuniary benefits arising from the applications of science are generally reaped in the first instance by the great manufacturers, agriculturists, merchants, and capitalists. Countless fortunes have been made by means of processes and manufactures based upon scientific discovery. The pecuniary benefits of calico printing, bleaching, dyeing; of the great manufactures of cotton, iron, pottery, beer, sugar, glass, spirits, vinegar, gutta-percha, india-rubber, gun cotton, the numerous metals, machinery, electro-plate, washing soda, German silver, brass, phosphorus, manures, the common acids, numerous chemicals, and a multitude of other substances and articles, have been extremely great. More than eighteen hundred million pounds of sulphuric acid alone are manufactured in Europe yearly. The pecuniary advantages of the use of the electric telegraph and railways to merchants, the gains of capitalists by monies invested in railways, telegraphs, steam-ships, cotton-mills, gas-works, {28} iron shipbuilding, engineering, and other great applications of science, have been enormous. The annual gas rental of London alone amounts to more than two millions sterling; and even in Birmingham the produce of gas is more than twenty-five hundred millions of cubic feet yearly. The amount of capital expended in the construction of railways only in this country, has been estimated at more than seven hundred millions of pounds, and the total receipts upon British railways has reached forty-three millions per annum. In the year 1875 our railways carried 200 million tons of goods, and consumed ten million tons of coal; the Great Northern Railway alone consumes 5,000 tons of coal each week. In the year 1877 there existed in the entire world about 198,000 miles of railway, the whole having been constructed since the year 1825. In the year 1880 six hundred millions of journeys were made by passengers on British railways; and the stock of those railways included 13,174 locomotives; 369,694 waggons, 28,717 passenger carriages, and 22,712 other vehicles. The London and North-Western Railway Company alone possessed, in the year 1873, no less than 1,900 locomotive engines, each of a value of nearly two thousand pounds; 4,000 carriages and 36,000 waggons; and it has been estimated by competent authorities, that there are in the world 200,000 steam-engines, having a total power of twelve million horses, or 100 million men. The number of cotton spindles on the whole Earth is {29} estimated at about 71¼ millions. In the United States of America there are about five thousand telegraph stations, and 75,000 miles of line, which transmit yearly about 11,500,000 messages.--The telegrams of Great Britain number about one-fourth of a million per week. The world's telegrams during the year 1877 numbered nearly 130 millions; and the world's letters about 3,300 millions, or 9¼ millions each day. Even the little phosphorus match is being manufactured and consumed at a rate estimated at more than ten thousand millions daily. Much of the wealth of this country, resulting from science, has been very easily obtained by its possessors. That acquired by means of our coal has especially been obtained without commensurate effort. The amount of that substance raised in Great Britain during the year 1876 was 734 millions of tons. To draw upon a great stock of that mineral is like drawing money from a bank, because coal, unlike any other abundant substance (except wood and petroline), contains in itself an immense store of energy, which is evolved as heat during combustion, and may be utilized. Each piece of coal contains sufficient energy to lift its own weight twenty-three hundred miles, but it costs only a small proportion of that power to extract and raise it from the mine. I do not mean by these remarks to imply that the wealth accruing from this great store of power in coal is derived chiefly by the owners of coal mines. {30} This acquisition of wealth without commensurate sacrifice is not an unqualified advantage; it constitutes a debt to nature, which upon the great principle of causation, and of equivalency of action and reaction, must sooner or later be repaid. Judging from the infallibility of the action of those laws, and the signs of the times, this nation is now beginning to repay in the form of emigration of trade to other lands, and of relatively less rapid national advance, the debt incurred by undue pecuniary success. An excess of money or power obtained without equivalent effort, fails to properly develop the intelligence of its possessors, and nations have been hastened to ruin in this way. Our great success in getting money has attracted many from the pursuit of knowledge, and our love of knowledge has not increased as fast as our wealth. The wealth of the upper classes has, by decoying from study undisciplined young men at our old Universities, kept down the general standard of scientific instruction throughout the country, and, by leading to neglect of scientific research, is now retarding our progress in arts, manufactures, commerce, and civilization. The consequent relative poverty of the working classes is also producing similar effects by retarding education, and contributing towards the great deficiency of skilled labour, of which our inventors, manufacturers, and others so strongly complain in the working of their scientific processes. Had a just share of the great amount of money, gained by the application of science to useful {31} purposes, been applied to the payment and maintenance of scientific discoverers and inventors, as it should have been, the general standard of scientific education would have been higher, the poor would have had more employment and money, and the happiness and civilization of all would have been greater. In a usual way the greatest pecuniary benefits, arising from science, sooner or later go to enrich the possessors of land. The demand created for coal, iron, lime, building-stone, and all the metals, by the industrial applications of science, has greatly increased the value of land under which those substances lie. The value of cultivated land has been everywhere increased by the discoveries of agricultural chemistry. Land has also been required for railways in nearly all parts of the kingdom, and has thereby been considerably raised in value. Discoveries produce inventions, inventions give rise to processes and manufactures, the employment of workmen and others, and the erection of workshops and dwellings, and these have rapidly increased the value of building ground. In Lancashire the value of such ground has been greatly increased by the inventions of the steam-engine and machinery, the discovery of chlorine, and their application to cotton manufacture. In all the great manufacturing districts, and in all the chief centres of industry, a similar result has occurred. Wherever a railway has been constructed, the value of land has also increased in {32} consequence of the increased facilities of communication. All these great additions to the value of land are largely due to the unpaid labours of scientific discoverers, and it may be said that this nation has largely gained its wealth, and is still living in a great degree on the products of those labours. Those great additions to the value of land are also permanent, are continually increasing, and are largely independent of any exertions on the part of the owners. That many other influences, besides that of science, have contributed to the development of our manufacturing and commercial prosperity is also true, but it would be foreign to the subject of the present chapter to point them out. It is a fallacious argument to say that scientific discovery and increased value of land are only remotely connected together, a cause as certainly produces its effect, however many connections lie between them, provided the connections are certain--the number of links in a chain makes no difference in the transmission of motion from one end of it to the other. Great causes are frequently distant and wide-spread in their effects. Persons in general can easily understand that an acorn planted in the ground will in the course of time become an oak, because it is a palpable and visible effect; but they cannot so readily perceive that the benefits resulting from a knowledge of science ramify through all our manufacturing, artistic, and commercial occupations, our social and moral {33} relations, and our every-day life, not because the dependence of our welfare upon science is less real, but partly because the connection between the two is less understood. Not only has science benefited manufacturers, but also operatives, because the extension of science to manufacturing purposes has compelled them to make themselves acquainted with intellectual subjects. "Instead of remaining mere machines, mechanically performing the work set before them, they are obliged to exercise the faculties of observation and judgment in watching the results and directing the action of mechanical, physical, and chemical powers. Instead of following the blind path of experience, using unknown forces to accomplish some definite result, they pursue their labours with the aid of known and certain laws." It is true that in many cases artisans who have acquired a little knowledge of science have thereby been rendered conceited and unfit for their special employment, and this has made many manufacturers object to technical scientific education for their servants; but this would not be so much the case if scientific knowledge were more generally and equally diffused. Arguments are not unfrequently adduced to support the opinion that ignorance has its advantages; but, however great the advantages of ignorance may be, those of knowledge are greater. In consequence of the labours of scientific discoverers and inventors, the progress of science is {34} such that in a very few years a knowledge of it will be indispensible to all persons engaged in superintending or carrying out manufacturing operations, and in all arts, occupations and appointments in which man is dealing with matter. Science is fast penetrating into all our manufactures and occupations, and "those who are unscientific will have much less employment and will be left behind in the race of life." England also will be compelled, by the necessities of human progress and the advance of foreign intellect, to determine and recognize the proper value of scientific research as a basis of progress. National superiority can only be maintained by being first in the race, and not by buying inventions of other nations. The philosophy of matter is the foundation of all manufacturing arts and artistic processes; technical education, or the relation of science to manufactures, &c., can only be properly imparted upon the basis of a sufficient knowledge of theoretical science. Science tends to abbreviate mental and bodily labour. The use of our reason saves us the labour of using our senses, because it enables us to know that under certain conditions a certain effect must occur. The use of our reason and senses also saves us using our hands. The properties of a single substance are so numerous that if a workman was to thoroughly study the whole of them, he would become a scientific authority in the subjects of heat, light, electricity, {35} magnetism, and chemistry. A blacksmith who knew all the physical and chemical properties and relations of iron and steel would be quite a scientific philosopher. No man has more occasion to bless the introduction of the steam-engine, machinery, the galvanic battery, and science in general, than the working mechanic, because it has mitigated his physical toil by giving him the duty of simply directing the labour instead of actually performing it; whilst it has deprived him of one kind of employment it has provided him with something better. But a few years ago the operatives in the silver-plating trade had to lay the silver on the articles with their hands, with the aid of a soldering iron; now they have simply to set their batteries in action and watch the electricity doing it for them. In a similar manner the working engineer at his metal-turning lathe has merely to direct the action of his tools whilst the steam-engine performs the heavy labour of turning. There is not a man in this kingdom who has not derived some advantage, in one way or another, from scientific research. The advantages of gas light, electric light, rapid postal service and transmission of goods, railway travelling, steam-ships for navigation, cotton apparel, photography, cheap pottery, improved medicine and surgery, telegraphic forecasts of weather, Australian preserved meats, &c., &c., have been reaped more or less by everyone, even the very paupers. Not only has travelling been {36} considerably cheapened and immensely increased, but also rendered more safe:--in travelling by diligence in France the average number of persons injured was 1 to every 30,000 carried; and killed, 1 in every 335,000; but by railway, notwithstanding the average length of the journey has greatly increased, the former has been diminished to 1 in 580,000, and the latter to one in five millions; safety in travelling by sea has also been greatly increased by means of improved lighthouses. By the rapid transmission of messages by telegraphs and of commodities by steam-ships and railways, the horrors of famine have been largely diminished; the health of this nation has also been improved by greater variety of foods, and the increasing cost of meat has been restrained. It is well known that in periods of famine, the great loss of life has arisen, not from universal scarcity of food, but from the loss of time in ordering and conveying it. Whilst also the steam-engine has been the means of relieving hundreds of thousands of men from mere animal toil; it has, with the aid of the printing-press, supplied them with cheap daily intelligence. Science has also proved itself to be a great source of employment, as well as wealth. By developing new processes it has given employment to whole armies of workmen in numerous arts, manufactures, and occupations. Some of those employments necessitating scientific training. About 300,000 persons are employed on railways alone in Great {37} Britain, besides those who were engaged in their construction; and in the postal department alone of the telegraph service of this country more than fifteen thousand operatives are employed. Chemical works also find employment for twenty-six thousand, and gasworks for ten thousand work people. The telegraphs of the United States of America alone, provide employment for about 7,000 persons; and the railways of the world employ about 1,900,000 men. It may be objected that the extension of science in this country, instead of increasing employment for workmen has produced an opposite effect, by so increasing the production of goods by machinery, and by physical and chemical processes, that we have glutted the markets of the world in years gone by, and are now suffering the results of over-production. This is a very limited view of the case; over-production is only true of particular manufactures, and is a result of ill-directed commercial energy, to which manufacturing skill is only a servant. The objection also contains its own reply;--that it is certainly much greater to our advantage to have supplied other nations with manufactured commodities, than that other nations should have supplied us, as they would have done had they the manufacturing skill. At present, however, continental nations are gradually supplanting us in manufactures; and gradually supplying us with the goods which we {38} formerly supplied them, and our fear is that this is largely a result of our neglect of science. In many cases instead of superseding labour, science has changed its kind, or its mode of distribution;--in the case of steam-ships, instead of navigation being conducted entirely by nautical ability, it is partly effected by the skill of the engineer; conveyance of goods by road and canal has not been entirely supplanted, but partly supplemented by conveyance by railways. The diminution of labour which sometimes occurs in consequence of the progress of science is extremely small compared with its increase. The number of waggoners and horses now employed, merely to collect and deliver all the goods for railways, is actually much greater than the whole of those employed for conveying all the goods of the country before railways were constructed. It would be altogether a false argument to say that the practical benefits derived from the labour of scientific discoverers by the different classes of the community are uncertain or imaginary, because the discoveries and the practical benefits are not in all cases immediately connected. We know that the consumers of tea in this country derive benefit from the grower of that herb in China through the hands of a series of intervening agents, as certainly as if they received the tea direct from his hands. Cause and effect are inseparable, and the remote effect of a {39} series of connected causes is not less certain than the immediate ones. It is a remarkable fact, that of the multitude of rich manufacturers, merchants, capitalists, and land-owners in this country, who have derived such great pecuniary benefits from original scientific research, there is scarcely one who has ever given to a scientific society, institution, or investigator, a single thousand pounds for the aid of pure research in experimental physics or chemistry;[4] the nearest approach to exceptions are a very few wealthy persons who have devoted themselves personally to scientific discovery. Manufacturers have willingly reaped the advantages of the labours of unpaid discoverers, but have not adequately sowed the means of future progress. Many of those manufacturers and others would, however, willingly give money towards such an object if they understood the value and the necessity of scientific research. Whilst also many millions of pounds are annually expended in this country upon religious, philanthropic and other good objects, there is scarcely a scientific society or institution (with the exception of the Royal Society and the British Association) which expends even the small sum of five hundred pounds a year on pure experimental research in physics or {40} chemistry. In the Royal Institution of Great Britain, the average annual expenses relating to experimental research, including salaries to assistants for research in the laboratory, from the year 1867 to 1871, did not amount to two hundred and fifty pounds. On the other hand, the "total net receipts" of the British and Foreign Bible Society alone, amount to about £213,000 a year. These circumstances strongly indicate extreme ignorance of the value and necessity of new scientific knowledge, and an equally strong desire to aid any good object which is understood. The money given to charitable and religious objects is largely a result of the unpaid labours of scientific investigators in the manner already described. The fact that verifiable truth is seriously neglected, whilst millions of pounds are annually devoted in this country to the support of dogmas and doctrines, proves that the English nation is even now in a very imperfectly civilized state. Considering the multiplicity and variety of philanthropic institutions and bequests in this country, and the great effect original scientific research has in ameliorating the condition of mankind, and reducing the amount of human misery, it is surprising that no wealthy philanthropic individual has bequeathed funds for the endowment of an institution for pure research in physics or chemistry.[5] In {41} America, the Smithsonian Institution was founded at Washington by benevolent and patriotic persons,[6] "for the increase and diffusion of knowledge among men," and one of the objects of that institution is "to enlarge the existing stock of knowledge by the addition of new truths," and a portion of its plan is "to stimulate men of talent to make original researches by offering suitable rewards for memoirs containing new truths," and "to appropriate annually a portion of the income for particular researches." What is the reason that scientific research is not sufficiently encouraged in England? It is chiefly ignorance. There are very few good and important subjects, understood by the public, which are not in this country greatly assisted, nor many valuable public servants, whose labours are understood, who do not receive liberal payment and reward; and scientific research and discoverers therefore are neglected, not wilfully, nor because persons are unwilling to encourage good objects, but because scientific discovery and its great value to the nation are so little known. Scarcely a member of our legislature, or of our Universities, is fully acquainted with the national importance of scientific discovery,[7] and it {42} would probably be impossible to find a subject of such great magnitude so little understood. Comparatively few persons have clear ideas of the essential differences between scientific instruction and research. Scientific research can only be successfully pursued by employing the highest motive--viz., a love of truth in preference to all things; and this is a condition which very few persons really understand, and a principle which a still smaller number practise. Men in this country are so accustomed to be actuated by the less noble motive of immediate self-interest or of some apparent practical result, that they cannot perceive that in scientific investigation the most valuable results can only be obtained by employing the highest motive. However necessary and effective the motive of immediate self-interest or of apparent practical result may be in ordinary affairs of life, it will not enable a man to make many discoveries, because it leads him away from those which are possible to search for others which may or may not be possible. The beginning of discoveries are often so very small, that it requires acute senses and observation in order to perceive them; and if the mind is preoccupied with a desire to discover some particular practical object, new phenomena are overlooked. In discovery, man must follow where Nature leads. Another cause of want of encouragement of research, is the natural selfishness which exists, {43} though in very different degrees, in all men. Many wealthy persons wish things to remain as they are. Some manufacturers would not aid research unless they could monopolize its advantages. Students also generally prefer those subjects which are best rewarded, and do not sufficiently consider their intrinsic value. The love of truth for truth's sake alone is very weak in most men, and but few men make the greatest good their chief object in life. The extreme ignorance in this country of the value of scientific research, is also largely due to the narrowness of the "practical" character of the English mind; men cannot perceive the deep-seated and universal sources of their wealth, and they prefer those occupations which yield the most obviously remunerative results. It is also partly due to scientific investigators themselves not having pleaded their own cause; such men have been so absorbed in the more important occupation of discovery, that they have, probably more than any other class of persons, neglected to enforce the just claims of their own subject. It is, however, chiefly caused by the influence of misapplied wealth, operating through the old Universities and large public schools. The sons of the wealthy are most of them educated at those institutions, and according to evidence supplied by University authorities to Royal Commissioners, many persons send their sons to those places for other purposes than to acquire learning, and allow them too much money. The considerable wealth of {44} these young men supplies them with attractions which decoy them from industrious study, and the wishes of the parents and students have been largely acquiesced in by the tutors and college authorities. At our old Universities also, physical and chemical knowledge is very much less rewarded than some other subjects, though latterly a considerable improvement has been made in this respect, but even now there is not a University in the kingdom in which a knowledge in scientific research is necessary in order to obtain the highest scientific honour.[8] In these various ways physical and chemical science has been kept very low in our chief seats of learning; and scientific research is greatly neglected by the governing authorities. It is reasonable to suppose that Universities should be fountains of new theoretical scientific knowledge, as well as be the disseminators of it, and that they (especially the old ones with their rich endowments) would be certain to promote scientific research, as being especially a part of their functions; but such is not the case. Our old Universities have not established any professorships of original research; they make no payment for such labour, nor reimburse any expenditure incurred in such occupation, and afford but little facility for the prosecution of pure scientific inquiry. Further, they discourage scientific discovery by giving the greatest emoluments, and the {45} highest honours in science they have to bestow, to young men who have never made a single original research, or discovered a new fact in science. The money paid in the form of comparatively sinecure fellowships, or retiring pensions to young men in Oxford alone, "now amounts to about eighty or ninety thousand pounds a year." It may be objected that young men are not capable of doing original research, but as they do it in German Universities, they can also do it in England, if they are properly disciplined, and are not decoyed from industry by the possession or expectation of wealth. A man who has never made a scientific research is not the most worthy recipient of the highest scientific honours, and in Germany it would not be given to him; he is not properly disciplined in the detection of error or the discernment of truth in matters of science; he is deficient in accuracy of scientific judgment, and in the true spirit of scientific inquiry. It is unnecessary to speak of what has been done during the last few years at our old Universities and great public schools, in the erection of laboratories, and in other ways for the promotion of science, because it has been for the purposes of instruction, and not of original research. No amount of ordinary instruction in science will remedy the evils caused by want of original inquiry, because such instruction does not produce new knowledge, but only disseminates that already possessed. {46} Many persons in this country think that all scientific men are investigators, and that a portion of the funds of scientific institutions generally are expended upon investigation, but such is rarely the case. Many also consider that those scientific men who are applying new knowledge are discovering new truths. And nearly all persons look upon inventors as the only really practical scientific men, and upon discoverers as unpractical enthusiasts who spend their lives in pursuit of vague theories. But whilst the inventor is a great and useful agent of civilization, there is one behind him who is greater than he, viz., the man who provides him with the new knowledge upon which all his inventions must be based. The general aspect in which scientific research is viewed by many persons in this country, is that of a refined intellectual pursuit, which may be encouraged and honoured for the purpose of maintaining the tone of society. The question, however, is not whether this nation shall encourage research as a refined intellectual occupation, but whether it will contribute towards its own welfare by aiding scientific discovery. Many persons also look upon scientific research as a hobby or as unpractical, and upon discoverers as mere accumulators of knowledge, but this is simply in consequence of their ignorance of the subject; if discoveries were commercial commodities, the practical character of research would be within their {47} comprehension. A man who discovers knowledge for the use of invention is quite as practical a person as he who converts that knowledge into inventions fit for practical uses. The men who thus lead practical men must be practical themselves. Scientific discoverers may be considered the most practical men in existence, because their labours give rise to greater and more numerous practical results than those of any other persons. The discovery of a single substance, such as oil-of-vitriol, or washing-soda, has led to the formation of many valuable inventions, patented or otherwise, and to the establishment of thousands of manufactories. It is well known also that scientific discoverers are ardent lovers of truth, and are therefore very willing to communicate their knowledge for the good of mankind, and that manufacturers, men of business, and others, not unfrequently obtain from them and from their published researches, information of great value to themselves without even expecting to pay for it; forgetting that a scientific man may communicate in a passing remark, information which cost him years of labour to obtain. Some persons also think that science is changeable and uncertain--that the discoveries of one generation are disproved by those of another, because they occasionally see scientific theories altered and superseded. But the real truth of the case is that the changes in the aspect of science which we continually witness do not often result from _alterations_ in our {48} stock of positive knowledge, but from _additions_ made to it. Demonstrable truth is imperishable. It is true that many theories have been invented and entertained for a while in the minds of scientific men, and have then passed away, but we must remember that these are only the scaffolding of science, and no part of its real fabric. They consist of ideas which, whilst they assist us in understanding science, and in making discoveries, form no real part of our positive knowledge. Other persons seem to think that the laws of matter are different in the laboratory from what they are in the workshop; that the principles which regulate a scientific experiment are different from those which govern a large manufacturing process; but this is a wrong idea. The laws of matter are universal, substances have nearly the same properties in all places and in the hands of all men; water boils at the same temperature whether in the retort of a chemist, the saucepan of a kitchenmaid, or the pan of a soap-boiler; iron wire is as readily deprived of its rust in a chemist's acid bottle as in a wire-drawer's pickling tub; a piece of phosphorus will as readily ignite in the hands of a chemist as in those of a match maker; a galvanic battery yields the same quantity of electricity whether it be in the hands of an experimentalist or in those of a working electro-plater. It is true that many things which have appeared very promising in theory or in experiment, have {49} failed altogether in practice, but why is this? it is not that the principles of nature operated in the one case and did not operate in the other, but that we have imperfectly understood them, that from some unforeseen circumstances we have been unable to apply them; or that we have indolently abandoned them without sufficient or proper trial. In many cases we are unable to obtain the same conditions of success upon the large scale that we have upon the small one. In other cases a process fails because of its too great expense; many attempts have been made to supersede steam as a motive power by means of electro-magnetism, and engines driven by that force have been constructed of five or ten horse-power, but the cost of driving them has been found to be at least ten times the amount of that of the steam-engine of equal strength. And in other cases we fail because we attempt _at once_ to carry out upon a large scale that which has only been the subject of limited experiment, instead of enlarging the process by small degrees, and adapting the apparatus, the materials and the treatment, to the size of the operation. That also which appears very simple in the hands of an experimentalist, almost invariably becomes much more complex when carried into practice in a manufactory, simply because there is then a greater number of conditions to be fulfilled. Electro-plating a piece of steel with silver is to a chemist a very simple matter, because it is of no importance to him {50} whether the silver adheres firmly, is of good colour, or is deposited at a certain cost; but with a _manufacturer_ unless _all_ these conditions are fulfilled, the process is a failure. These matters, however, belong to invention and not to original discovery. We should not condemn theoretical science because we are not able, even with fair and persevering trial, to apply it to any useful purpose, but wait patiently until circumstances ripen for its application. Many inventions which are inapplicable in one state of knowledge become applicable by the progress of scientific research. The idea of an electric telegraph, attempted by Mr. Ronalds, in the year 1816, with the aid of frictional electricity, had to wait the development of the galvanic battery and the discovery of electro-magnetism before it could be successfully applied. Many manufacturers seem to think that because some of their operations are completely routine, and have been handed down to them by their predecessors in nearly their present state, they are not at all indebted to science; but there is no manufacture, especially among metals, which has not in some degree been aided by scientific discovery. In addition to the great benefits accruing from original research to all classes of society, our Governments have also derived immense advantages from the same source. The revenues have been greatly increased by the universal advantages conferred upon all kinds of industry and commerce by {51} scientific knowledge. The additional taxes upon increased incomes from agriculture, arts, manufactures, mines; increased value of land and rents; investments in railway, telegraph, steam-ship and other companies, have been extremely great. From the sale of patents alone, a surplus sum of nearly six hundred thousand pounds has already accumulated. Our Governments are also indebted to original research for the use of percussion-powder, gun-cotton, improvements in cannon, projectiles, rifles, armour-plated ships, the ocean telegraph, field telegraph, the telephone, rapid postal communication, the speedy transport of troops and war-material, and a multitude of other advantages. The value of science to Governments in the prevention of war by means of more ready correspondence through telegraph is incalculable. Mr. Sumner, of America, at the period when the Atlantic telegraph was first employed, stated that the use of that telegraph averted a probable rupture between Great Britain and America. There was a period when we did not possess such evidence of the great value of science; but that time has now passed away, and our governing men have had abundant proof of the national importance of scientific discovery, and of the essential dependence of the welfare of this country upon scientific research. Whilst vast sums of money are spent upon the applications of science in military and naval affairs, research itself is neglected; the superstructure is {52} attended to, but the foundations are left to decay. A very small proportion of the money which is expended upon military affairs would, if devoted to research, save a great deal of expense in warfare:-- "Were half the power, that fills the world with terror,-- Were half the wealth, bestowed on camps and courts, Given to redeem the human mind from error, There were no need of arsenals nor forts."--LONGFELLOW. Our Government has as yet made but little payment for the labour of pure research in experimental physics or chemistry; it has, however, given four thousand pounds a year for five years to be distributed by the Royal Society among scientific investigators, partly as personal payment. Income tax is deducted from these grants. Want of recognition of the value of science has been so general in this country, that it is quite pleasing to quote a somewhat different case from the _Illustrated London News_, January 4th, 1873, viz., that of the late Archibald Smith, L.L.D., F.R.S. That gentleman was an investigator in pure mathematical science, and devoted the latter part of his life to the _application_ of mathematics in the computation, reduction, and discussion of the deviation of the mariners' compass in wooden and in iron ships, and made practical deductions therefrom in the construction of those vessels. He published those practical applications of his scientific knowledge in the form of an Admiralty Manual, which was afterwards reprinted in various languages. Her Majesty's Government {53} subsequently "requested his acceptance of a gift of two thousand pounds, not as a reward, but as a mark of appreciation of the value of his researches, and of the influence they were exercising on the maritime interests of England and the world at large." The kind of labour rewarded in this case was not scientific discovery, but the practical application of previously existing scientific knowledge. The case of the late Dr. Stenhouse, F.R.S., is one of rather an opposite kind. That gentleman devoted his life throughout to pure investigations in organic chemistry, and published several of his researches in the Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society.[9] His discoveries are very numerous, and although not much applied to practical uses by himself, the result of his researches on Lichens, and the yellow gum of Botany Bay, have been applied extensively by other persons in the manufacture of "French purple" and picric acid, and will doubtless continue to be applied to valuable uses. He held the Government appointment of Assayer to the Royal Mint, London, an office for several years unprofitable to him, but of increasing remunerative value, and which would have been subsequently worth £1,200 a year; but after the decease of his colleague, Dr. Miller, in 1870, that office, which was then worth to him about £600 a year, was abolished by the Chancellor of the Exchequer, and he lost the {54} appointment, receiving, however, £500 as compensation. An application was therefore made to the Government, and a partial recompense to him was obtained, by Her Majesty granting him one hundred pounds a year "for eminence in chemical attainments, and on account of loss by suppression of office in the Mint." The only difference in these two instances, was, that in the second there was a very much greater amount of pure research and discovery, and a much smaller degree of applied knowledge. These instances illustrate the statement, that however great an amount of valuable knowledge in pure science a man may discover and publish, or however freely he may provide others with the materials of invention and wealth, if he never invents anything, nor applies his knowledge to useful purposes, he is usually less rewarded even than an inventor. "The more intrinsically valuable the labour, and the greater the degree of profound original thought required to direct it, the less is it usually appreciated by the governing men of a nation." Absorbed in exciting questions relating to political emergencies, and national matters requiring immediate attention, even men of great administrative ability fail to appreciate the less direct though more fundamental sources of a nation's happiness and wealth. In harmony with these instances also, we find that it is not the pure sciences, but the concrete and applied ones, such as meteorology, geology, natural history, &c., in the Meteorological Department, the {55} Geological Survey, the British and South Kensington Museums, the Geological Museum, &c., and the National Gallery of Art, which have received the greatest degree of support from our Governments. That discoverers are not treated by us as we treat other valuable members of the community is quite clear; either a physician, a judge, divine, lawyer, or railway superintendent of high ability, obtain from one to many thousand pounds a year, but a discoverer in pure physics or chemistry is, in scarcely any case, paid anything for his labour. That most eminent discoverer, Faraday, received for his scientific lectures at the Royal Institution of Great Britain, only £200 a year and apartments, during many years, and absolutely nothing for his great discoveries; and during the remainder of his life he only received a few hundred pounds per annum, including a pension of £300 pounds a year from Government. In contrast with this, the general manager of the Midland Railway has £4,000 a year. A General of our army receives £2,000, and a Field Marshal £4,000 a year (See "Whitaker's Almanack," 1873, pp. 121 and 138). A Head Master of either of the great public schools obtains from £3,000 a year upwards. An Archbishop of Canterbury receives £15,000 a year, besides a great amount of influence and power in the form of patronage to 183 livings, a palatial residence, and a seat in the House of Peers. A Bishop of London has £10,000, the patronage of 98 livings, and a seat in the House of Lords. I do not, {56} however, mean to imply that these large emoluments are not deserved. Whilst also there are nearly 13,000 church benefices in England (See the "Clergy List," also "Whitaker's Almanack," 1873, pp. 153 and 155, and "Walford's County Families," 1872, pp. 173 and 610), there is scarcely a single appointment entirely devoted to scientific discovery, nor a single professorship in original research in science. I leave my readers to judge to what extent these instances illustrate the statement that discoverers are not treated by us as we treat other valuable members of the community. Partly in consequence of the foregoing neglect, the proportion of persons wholly devoted to scientific research in this country probably does not much exceed one in one million of the population. It is scarcely credible that in a wealthy and civilized country, whilst the non-productive classes are protected in the enjoyment of titles and material wealth which in many cases they have not earned, the greatest scientific benefactors of the nation are constrained to live in straitened circumstances whilst working for the pecuniary and other advantages of those classes, and of manufacturers, capitalists, land-owners, and the nation in general. By these remarks it is not intended to imply that discoverers are intentionally neglected; but that the injustice they suffer is a disgrace to this country, and reflects discredit upon the governing classes, and especially upon those who reap the greatest advantage. {57} The men who are rewarded highly in this country are not always those who yield the greatest service to the nation, but frequently those who render the most immediate or most apparent benefit; to stop short at this cannot produce the greatest degree of success. The national services of a great discoverer are probably not equalled by those of any man. Who can estimate the value of the commercial, social, moral, political, and other great advantages to the world, of Oersted's discovery of the principle of electro-magnetism, which enabled the invention of the electric telegraph to be made? The men we reward the highest are not those who discover knowledge, but those who use or apply it; physicians, judges, bishops, lawyers, railway managers, military and naval officers, and head masters of schools, all of them gentlemen who render great services to the nation, by using, diffusing, and applying knowledge already possessed. It requires less rare ability to apply knowledge to new purposes by means of invention, than to discover it; it is still less difficult to diffuse it by means of tuition and lectures, because the labours of a teacher consist largely of a repitition of other men's discoveries and inventions; and to use scientific knowledge in the ordinary business of every-day life, requires a still more common degree of ability. A chief reason why ordinary business capacity is paid for whilst original research is not, is the fact that research is not considered a necessity; many {58} persons do not perceive its immense future value. Men perform those duties first which they feel they must: they are also willing to pay for the performance of those duties which press most urgently upon them, and defer all other kinds of labour that they consider will bear postponement. Most men act upon this rule, until they acquire a habit of sacrificing the future to the present, of neglecting more important matters in order to attend to less, and of living too much for money, without sufficient regard for the more valuable condition, viz., individual and national improvement. These circumstances also largely explain the fact that it requires more pressure to induce individuals or governing bodies to aid original research than to assist any other good object. Other chief reasons why persons in general cannot perceive the great practical value of new scientific truth are, because the perception of it requires a scientifically trained mind. The greatest truths are frequently the least obvious, and are therefore valued the least. It may be objected that research is not aided, because it sometimes takes a long time to acquire a practical shape and make it pay. We do not omit to plant an acorn because it requires many years to become an oak; we do not neglect to rear a child because he may not live to become a man; but we leave scientific discovery to take care of itself. The intense desire which exists in this country for "quick returns" has shewn itself in the much greater readiness to aid technical education than to promote {59} permanent progress by means of original research. But the discoveries made in such a place as the Royal Institution of Great Britain have had a vastly greater beneficial effect upon civilization than that of any technical institution which has ever existed. In a letter received by me from the Duke of Somerset, and which I have permission to publish, the true state of things in this country in relation to pure research is stated with remarkable accuracy and brevity:-- "The hindrances to scientific studies in this country are very many. The gentry are almost invariably educated by the clergy, and the clergy have seldom had time or opportunities for any scientific study. They usually take pupils or become tutors as soon as they have taken their degrees, and can only teach the Latin and Greek which they have themselves learned. The commercial classes value what they call practical science; this means some application of science for the purpose of making money. Competitive examinations may promote a superficial acquaintance with the elements of science, but are unfavourable to the development of scientific culture. The scientific associations tend to degrade science by exhibiting scientific men as candidates for applause from assemblies which seek amusement and startling results from lectures and experiments. The advancement of science, is therefore, left to comparatively few men, who are unregarded and unrewarded." {60} To remedy this state of things we require a general encouragement of pure scientific inquiry by the State and Universities. It is thought by some persons who have given special attention to the subject, that the State ought to encourage such research and science in general, by appointing a Minister of Science possessing scientific knowledge and good administrative ability; a Scientific Council to advise our Governments in all important matters relating to science; and by establishing State laboratories for pure scientific inquiry, with discoverers of repute in them wholly engaged in research in their respective subjects. There are also many new experiments, investigations, and explorations, which neither private individuals, nor even corporate bodies, such as the Royal Society, the British Association, Geographical Society, can effectually make, and which only a Government can carry out, such as Arctic expeditions, trigonometrical surveys, deep sea dredging operations, magnetic observations, determinations of longitude, meteorological and astronomical observations, researches on tides, observations of earthquakes, determinations of the height of mountains and the density of the crust of the earth, experiments on the best form of ships, geographical explorations, and many others. It is clear from the enormous advantages which this nation has already derived from scientific discovery in physics and chemistry, pursued with only {61} the aid of the very limited means of private persons, that had research in those subjects been sufficiently supported, the manufactures, arts, commerce, wealth, and civilization of this country would have been much greater than they are; emigration also of the industrious classes, disease, pauperism, crime, the evil effects of famine, etc., would have been much less. The amount of knowledge and riches obtainable by means of research and invention is practically unlimited, and it is astonishing that this immense source of industry and wealth in a nation should have been so neglected by our Governments. The practical value of new scientific knowledge is vastly greater than that of all our goldfields or even of our coal supply, because it would not only enable us to obtain from coal several times the amount of available heat and mechanical power we now secure, but also to apply to our wants the numerous other materials composing the crust of our globe and the contents of our oceans; also all terrestrial forces, the internal heat, the tidal energy and atmospheric currents, and the immense amount of power this Earth is continually receiving from the Sun. Whilst at present vast amounts of materials and energy remain unutilized, nearly all those terrestrial substances and forces might probably be rendered of service to us if we possessed sufficient knowledge. That scientific research is a far greater source of wealth and wellbeing than our stores of coal is easily proved. At present we obtain in our best {62} steam-engines only about one-seventh (or less) of the mechanical power producible by the combustion of the coal, the remainder being lost in various ways. And this occurs simply because we have not yet discovered a method of wholly converting heat into mechanical power. In some other instances we are able to convert one force wholly into another without loss, as for example: the chemical action of a voltaic cell into electricity; and by means of research we shall probably be enabled to effect a similar complete conversion of other powers into each other. The effect of converting heat wholly into mechanical power would be equal to increasing our stock of coals for that purpose to seven times its present amount. This instance is only one of the many thousand possible ways in which research may yet prove of value to mankind. It is true that a very large amount of original research in physics and chemistry has been done in this country; the contents of our scientific journals and of the publications of our various Learned Societies prove this. It is also true that the English nation has been pre-eminently active in applying scientific knowledge to practical uses by means of inventions, and has been generally the first in carrying out inventions on a large scale. We have been either the first, or nearly so, in developing steam-engines, railways, locomotives, rapid trains, gas works, flour mills, blast-furnaces, cotton machinery, cheap postage, light-houses, electro-plating, lucifer-matches, {63} electric-telegraphs, submarine electric cables, great engineering establishments, iron ship-building, and many other important enterprises. Three out of four of all the great ocean steamers, and three-fourths of all the locomotives of the world were constructed in this country.[10] By means of our enterprise and capital also, the first railways, telegraphs, gas works, cotton mills, modern water works, suspension bridges, water wheels, harbours, lighthouses, &c., &c., in nearly all parts of the world were constructed; and foreign nations have been inducted into the practical methods of working our great manufacturing and technical applications of science. By means of English enterprise and skill the cities of Aix-la-Chapelle, Altona, Amsterdam, Antwerp, Berlin, Bordeaux, Brussels, Cologne, Frankfort-on-Maine, Ghent, Haarlem, Hanover, Lille, Rotterdam, Stolberg, Toulouse, Vienna, and others were lighted with gas. We formed Water Companies or Waterworks in Amsterdam, Berlin, and other cities, and drained Naples. We utilized the falls of the Rhone at Bellegarde, and thus obtained 10,000 horse-power for the use of the French manufacturers. We also sent the first steam-boat to Coblentz in 1817, and the first to America. We laid the first Atlantic cables. And as a general truth, we have been foremost in invention, application and enterprise. {64} Recent International Exhibitions however, and the migration of various branches of our trade to the Continent and America, have shown that the degree of our relative superiority in manufacturing skill is diminishing. Other nations, especially the German and American, perceiving the dependence of invention upon research, and the enormous pecuniary and other advantages gained by us, by the application of scientific knowledge to manufacturing and other purposes, have within the last few years aroused themselves, and are now pursuing pure science much more energetically than ourselves. A few years ago the relative number of original researches made per annum in England, France, and Germany were in the proportion 127, 245, and 777. Many of those made in Germany were valuable ones, and were made by Students in order to obtain a degree. Other nations are rapidly gaining upon us in the application of science to industrial purposes, and have even surpassed us in the extent of some of their manufacturing and technical operations. Many persons who have visited Europe and America at intervals during the last twenty years have testified to this. The Vielle Montagne Zinc Company in Belgium employ 6,500 workmen, and produce annually 32,000 tons of zinc. The John Cockerill Company, engine-builders, Seraing, near Liege, employ nearly 8,000 men. Krupp, the great engineer at Essen, near Dusseldorf, employs about 10,000 workmen; his works at Essen alone cover 450 acres, and 1,000 tons {65} of coal are consumed in them daily. The Anzin Company (Valenciennes) "is the largest coal company in the world, producing no less than 1,200,000 tons per annum, and employs 8,000 hands." The Chatillon and Commentry Iron and Coal Company (France), produce annually from 300,000 to 350,000 tons of coal and coke, nearly 70,000 tons of iron and steel, and employ nearly 9,000 workmen. At the Creuzot Ironworks (France), "the mineral concessions cover an area of nearly six square miles, the coal-fields nearly twenty-five square miles, the building 296 acres. There are nearly forty-five miles of railway between various parts of the works, upon which are generally running sixteen locomotives. The galleries in the mines are more than twenty miles long." 10,000 persons are employed in the works and the annual amount of wages paid equals £400,000.[11] Our practice with regard to original science has been very different from the plan carried out in Germany. Within the last few years great laboratories have been erected in Berlin, Leipzig, Aix la Chapelle, Bonn, Carlsruhe, Stuttgardt, and other places, at the expense of the State, and special provision has been made in them for original scientific research. A glance at the frequently published list of scientific investigations made in different countries will shew us that the Germans have been making a far greater number of discoveries in science than ourselves. Sir R. B. C. Brodie, Professor of Chemistry at {66} Oxford, speaking of his experience when a student at Geissen, in Germany, states: "I say that the enthusiasm and earnestness of the young men in the laboratory was quite unparalleled in my experience at Oxford. The dilettante sort of way in which things go on there is very inferior indeed to the way the German students study. At Heidelberg, I have been told, there are about eighty professors, and amongst those professors are some of the most eminent men in Europe, so that they have a staff quite unsurpassed." The industry of the Germans in scientific research is quite remarkable, they are availing themselves of the great fountain of knowledge to a much greater extent than ourselves, and are already beginning to reap the reward. Within the last few years they have succeeded, by means of researches, in making alizarine, the colouring principle of madder. "England produces immense quantities of benzene, the greatest part of which goes to Germany, there to be converted into aniline dyes, a considerable quantity of which goes back to England. No other country is so far advanced in the manufacture of the coal-tar colours as Germany. The quantity of alizarine manufactured by the German makers far surpasses the English production." (See "Alizarine, Natural and Artificial," by F. Versmann, New York, 1873). Statements of this kind are frequently published, and made by our manufacturers and others, of the departure of branch after branch of our manufactures to the Continent, and of continually increasing importation of foreign-made articles. {67} Some persons, having become aware of the cosmopolitan nature of scientific research, have suggested that it is a matter of no importance to us as a nation whether we make researches or not, as foreigners would make them, and we could apply them. But no honourable man would, after reflection, seriously maintain such a proposition, because it implies a willingness to obtain from the labours of other persons, advantages without paying for them. It is partly this absence of a desire to pay for the labour of investigation, which is now damaging the manufacturing and commercial prosperity of this country. It is also certain that however much we may have hitherto succeeded commercially, without making payment for research, we should have succeeded much better had we properly assisted investigators in pure science. Our success has hitherto been obtained, not in consequence, but in spite of the disadvantageous circumstances under which discoverers have laboured. The commercial argument in favour of encouraging research, although the most effective with the great mass of persons, and therefore much dwelt upon in this chapter, is however quite a secondary one; the encouragement of truth for the sake of its own intrinsic worth, in preference to the material or extrinsic value of its results, should be the foundation of all aid to discovery. Justice, also, ought to come before all minor considerations, and no upright man would wish for a moment that anyone, and much less the greatest scientific intellects in the country, should work for his benefit without being remunerated. {68} It has been objected that Continental nations, the Germans in particular, have pirated our patents, infringed our designs, imitated our labels, used our names, and taken our improvements wholesale, and this may be true. But we still have had by far the largest portion of the reward of our greater energy and inventive skill; we have had the great advantage of being first in the markets of the world; and that advantage can only be retained by our being the first in the pursuit of original research, as we have so long been in the application of science to industrial arts, and not by purchasing foreign inventions, nor by accepting gifts of unrecompensed researches. Nations as well as individuals are apt to push to an extreme the means by which they have succeeded in gaining either riches or power. We have devoted ourselves relatively too much to the pursuit of money and too little to the pursuit of knowledge. The desire for wealth is in this country so great, that probably nothing but a loss of that wealth will ever make us properly encourage the pursuit of new knowledge. Whilst research is being neglected, manufacturers and others in all directions are asking for improvements in their machines and processes; employers of steam engines want to obtain more power from the coals; makers of washing soda wish to recover their lost sulphur; copper smelters, want to utilize the copper smoke; glass makers wish to prevent bad colour in their glass; iron puddlers want to economise heat; gas companies are desirous of diminishing the {69} leakage of gas; iron smelters wish to avoid the evil effects of impurities in the iron; manufacturers in general want to utilise their waste products and prevent their polluting our streams and atmosphere; and so on without end. And inventors are continually trying to supply these demands, by exercising their skill in every possible way, with the aid of scientific information contained in books; but after putting manufacturers and themselves to great expense, they very frequently fail, not always through want of inventive skill, but often through want of _new_ knowledge attainable only by means of pure research. Judging from the vast amount of inventive skill already expended upon the steam engine, and the small proportion of available mechanical power yet obtained from the coals consumed in it, it is highly probable that a machine for completely converting heat into mechanical force cannot be invented until more scientific knowledge is discovered. It must not be supposed from these remarks, that discoveries which will enable a man to make any particular invention, can be produced to order; that is only true to a very limited extent. Men are beggars of nature, and must not expect to be permitted to choose her gifts, or dictate what secrets shall be disclosed. We may however be certain that if we acquire a very much greater supply of new scientific knowledge, we shall then be able to perfect many good inventions, though not always of the kind we wish, or in the way we expect. The great sewage question {70} may perhaps be solved in quite an unexpected way, possibly by the discovery of some substance capable of precipitating ammonia and organic matter from their solutions. Nearly all our manufacturing processes are full of imperfections; thus the loss of gas by a single large provincial gas company, after that substance has left the works, amounts to nearly one hundred and fifty millions of cubic feet per annum, and to a value of about £18,000; and the soil of all our large cities and towns is permeated and rendered foetid by coal gas. And it has been stated by an eminent authority in such matters that we might save 500,000 tons of coal a year by economizing the waste heat of furnaces, by purifying the coal, coking it, etc. In a single chemical manufactory, out of about two thousand tons of hydrochloric acid used per annum, about eight hundred tons have been allowed to flow away as a polluting substance, because it was not possible to utilise it. The loss of material from a single large glass works equals fourteen hundred tons per annum, and a value of £8,000. Similar grave defects might be pointed out in nearly all our large manufactures, by those acquainted with the subject. Inventions are wanted for quickening the process of vinegar making, and diminishing the percentage of loss of the acid. For bleaching discoloured fats. For quickening the process of converting cast iron into malleable iron. To easily separate nitrogen from the oxygen of the atmosphere. To economically convert {71} the nitrogen of the air into valuable products, such as nitric acid and ammonia. To find uses for the immense quantities of minerals which abound all over the earth; to utilise wolfram and find applications for tungstic acid; to apply titanic acid to great industrial purposes; to produce aluminium on the large scale, as we now produce iron. To tan leather more quickly, and without detriment to its quality. To prevent the rusting of iron. To more perfectly prevent smoke. To collect and use the sulphuric acid of the salt cake consumed in the glass manufacture. To make window glass by means of common salt. To deodorise offensive substances. To find larger uses for phosphorus, sodium, magnesium, and common salt. To remove phosphorus and sulphur from iron ores, and sulphur from coal and coke. To obtain a good white alloy as a cheaper substitute for German silver. To convert white phosphorus into the red variety by a less dangerous process than the present one. To prevent the putrefaction of "peltries" in glue making. To obtain better and cheaper materials for colouring glass. To more perfectly prevent animal food from change. To obviate or prevent explosions in mines. To perfectly purify ordinary red lead for making flint glass. A cheaper process for converting common salt into washing soda; and so on without end. We also very badly require a method of recording our thoughts in readable forms upon paper, without the slow and laborious process of writing. An incalculable amount of brains and of intellect, especially of {72} the greatest thinkers, would be saved by such a discovery. The curative arts also are permeated with empiricism, and thousands of lives of persons of all classes of society, are annually lost in this country through want of a more perfect scientific basis of medicine, attainable only by means of experiment and observation. In this country, such great practical results have been obtained by means of invention, that many persons suppose a sufficiency of inventive skill will enable us to effect every possible scientific object, and are surprised that no one can invent a plan of utilising the entire heat of coals, or a mode of overcoming the sewage difficulty, or prevent the great leakage of coal gas, or arrest epidemics, or produce a steam engine which shall work without waste of power. The progress of invention however depends upon that of discovery, and these various inventions, etc., wanted by manufacturers and others probably cannot be perfected until suitable _new_ knowledge is found. Every new invention has its own appropriate discoveries, by means of which alone it can be perfected; it was not possible to perfect the idea of an electric telegraph before the discoveries of Volta and Oersted were made. According to scientific laws, out of everything proceeds everything, and out of nothing, nothing can come, even ideas are not created. An unlimited number of inventions cannot be made by means of a limited amount of scientific knowledge; and our present stock of such information applicable to {73} invention, is very insufficient. One great reason why only a small portion of patents are of practical value; and so many useless ones are taken out is, that in consequence of our so-called "practical" spirit, we overestimate the power of invention and under-value the discovery of new abstract truths; because also invention has done so much, we think it will continue to do so, but the latter depends upon a continued supply of discoveries. Nearly every manufacturer is aware by painful experience of the great and almost incessant variation that occurs in the quality and properties of the materials used in his trade, and the frequent risk of failure of his process. In the manufacture of iron, for example, the presence of much phosphorus, sulphur, or silicon in the ore is liable to be very detrimental to the quality of the iron produced from it; in the manufacture of glass, the least quantity of iron in the materials will seriously injure the colour of the product; in the selection of copper for telegraph wire, if it contains the least trace of arsenic, the wire will not conduct the electricity properly. The difficulties experienced in procuring suitable materials for a manufacturing process are in some cases very great; and when they are procured, additional difficulties arise from the inability of the manufacturer or his manager to analyse them. Every manufacturer is also aware that the difficulties encountered in manufactures are not limited to the substances employed, but extend to all the different {74} processes and stages of processes through which these substances have to pass, and to all the forces, tools, machinery, and appliances employed in those processes; in the manufacture of glass, for example, the greatest care has to be exercised in the making and gradual heating of the pots in which the glass is melted, the proportions of the materials, the construction of the furnaces, the management of the heat, and a whole host of minor conditions too numerous to mention, all of which must be attended to with the greatest care. In the manufacture of iron and steel, the smelting of copper, the refining of nickel, the preparation and baking of porcelain, and in many other trades, innumerable difficulties, all having their origin in the properties of matter and forces, continually beset the manufacturers. In some cases difficulties occur which perplex both the workman and the scientific man called in to his aid, and so far from an unscientific workman being able to overcome them, even with the aid of the scientific man, he is unable to do so. The hidden difficulties which beset a manufacturer are not unfrequently so inscrutable that the present state of knowledge in science fails to explain them. Who can tell why it is that wire-work of brass or German silver becomes gradually brittle by lapse of time? Or why varnish made in the open country has different properties from that made in a town? Or why silk dyed in Lyons should possess a finer colour than the same silk dyed by the same process in Coventry? {75} With our present extremely imperfect knowledge of Physical and Chemical science, we can perhaps hardly form an idea of the amount of knowledge yet to be discovered respecting the phenomena which manufactures present. One of the inevitable results of these difficulties in manufacturing processes and of deficiency of knowledge, is the production of a large amount of goods of an inferior quality; and useless goods, technically called "wasters," the cost of which has to be laid upon the saleable ones, and thus the price of the latter is enhanced to the consumer. For instance, flint glass discoloured by iron has sometimes to be sold at a loss for making common enamel; waste window glass has to be sold as "rockery" for ornamenting gardens, and defective articles of glass or metal have to be re-melted. In consequence of this want of new knowledge, manufacturers continue to suffer losses which might be avoided; high prices of useful articles are maintained; defects in their quality are not improved; preventable accidents still continue to happen; the health of workmen continues to suffer; many means of curing diseases remain unknown; medical practice remains full of empiricism, &c., &c. The great sewage question is apparently in this predicament; we are probably trying to solve it without first discovering the requisite knowledge; inventors, engineers, and consulting chemists have racked their brains, and have not been able to devise a satisfactory {76} remedy, and meanwhile the health of the entire population of this country is suffering. If we so neglect the fundamental means of ameliorating our condition we deserve to suffer. One would suppose that cholera, contagious diseases, colliery accidents, pollution of air and water, enormous waste of heat from fires, and a multitude of other evils which depend upon physical and chemical conditions, are of but little importance, that we should so neglect one of the most effectual means of preventing them; and it is perfectly clear that by neglecting to aid research, those who gain so much money and advantage from original science, and render no return, are unwittingly sacrificing national interests upon a large scale to personal benefit. The practice of some manufacturers using and deriving great profit from new knowledge evolved by research, without recompensing the discoverers, sometimes causes injury to the public welfare by preventing the publication of discoveries which have an immediate practical application. Experience of this kind has constrained me to postpone the publication of a method I have found of readily and quickly converting lumps of white phosphorus into the red variety in a state of powder without protracted heat or grinding. "What will be the next chapter of British enterprise and invention, and who and where the men to perform the chief part in it? As to the work to be done, there can be no doubt or mystery, for not a day passes {77} without loud complaints, indignant remonstrances, fatal oversights, sad mis-calculations, terrible shortcomings, social or material evils to be remedied if possible, whole masses of people, indeed whole classes to be succoured and lifted out of the slough, and enormous difficulties placed by nature in our way evidently that we may exercise our wit and our virtues in the attempt to overcome them. Here, from all these Isles, there arises a despairing cry from agriculture, as if it had really reached the end of its tether, and had found itself landed in utter helplessness and insolvency--a bad speculation altogether. Here are countless problems, and at the same time countless discoveries, which if they lead to nothing else, prove the inexhaustible nature of our dominion over the elements. Then, for the sea, with its terrible average of wreck and total loss running on without intermission and with but rare abatement, who shall say there is here no work for the discoverer and inventor who will give his heart and soul and mind to it?" It is indeed high time, that by means of discoveries which will enable us to predict with certainty the nature of coming seasons, we shall be better enabled to cope with adversities in agriculture; also, that the numerous wrecks, and the thousands of lives lost with them every year on our coasts, should be diminished. But these desirable results cannot be effected by invention based upon insufficient knowledge; invention must be preceded by general as well as special research, because the former often discloses important {78} truths which we cannot predict. Our present electric lights in light-houses and on large ocean steamers, had their origin, not in direct inventions or special researches for the purpose, but in abstract researches on apparently remote subjects. It is nothing less than a national crime that proper provision has not yet been made for investigating scientifically the causes of famine and pestilence, also physiology and pathology, and the discovery of the laws which regulate diseases and epidemics. What can be more painful to behold than a mother and father deprived of a whole family of five or six children in rapid succession by scarlatina or other contagious disease, and both the parents and medical men utterly unable to save them; and this is a common occurrence. Persons who are ignorant of science look with an abject feeling of helplessness upon great national calamities, and even upon private afflictions, such as a local epidemic, as if there was absolutely no remedy, whilst scientific men believe that by extension of knowledge, such evils might be largely avoided or prevented. Many persons however, actuated by the very kindest of motives, but insufficiently acquainted with the necessity, conditions, results, and advantages of experiments, unwittingly obstruct the discovery of new knowledge in physiology and pathology, by attempting to prevent experiments being made upon animals. We should not strain at a gnat and swallow a camel. Nearly every step in life involves a choice {79} between two alternatives, and this is the case with experiments upon living creatures, either such experiments must be made, or the wholesale slaughter of men and other animals, by pestilences, epidemics, small-pox, foot and mouth disease, &c., must continue. Many of the properties of living bodies, like those of dead ones, can only be ascertained by means of experiments, no other course is possible; and the knowledge so obtained enables us not only to prolong the lives but also to alleviate the sufferings of all kinds of living creatures. Nearly all our medical and surgical knowledge has been obtained by observation and study, either of the results of experiments made by ourselves, or by the course of nature for us; and the former is often attended by immeasurably less pain and expence than the latter. No one who has ever made in a proper manner new experiments, would venture to assert that valuable knowledge is not gained by them; and this statement is as correct of experiments in physiology as in all the other sciences. The total amount of pain inflicted upon animals by vivisection experiments in this country is infinitesimally small--because, firstly, the proportion of experimentalists in so-called "vivisection," does not amount to one person in one million of our inhabitants:--secondly, students cannot be induced to enter upon scientific research in physiology, because such labour is unrewarded, either by enabling them to obtain certificates, degrees, or money. Whatever pain also, {80} is inflicted in such experiments, is by men of the highest eminence in physiology, and therefore by the most competent persons. Experimental research is an occupation requiring an exceptional kind of ability and experience; and persons who have never made experiments, nor studied their relation to human welfare, are largely incompetent to determine when and how they should be made, the real effects of them, or the value of the knowledge they afford. To persons inexperienced in scientific research, many experiments appear useless, which have great practical value, either immediately or at a later period. Our greatest curse is ignorance; and knowledge, by enabling us to avoid the fatal effects of pestilences, and epidemics, is as necessary as food to mankind. The "Anti-vivisection" movement however is but one of the phases of the ever-existing conflict between the advancing and retarding sections of mankind. Greater sympathy with suffering accompanies greater civilization. The increased humanity of the present age over that of previous ones, is largely due to the discovery and extension of new scientific knowledge. Science, by showing more clearly to man his true position in nature and in relation to his fellow-men and other animals, has rendered more evident the concrete fact, that the happiness of each depends upon the happiness of all, and the happiness and welfare of all upon that of each individual. It has also operated in a more apparent, though less {81} important way, by inculcating better systems of hygiene, improved sanitary arrangements, &c, &c. It is not to the zeal of "anti-vivisectionists," but to the well-directed labours of experimental medical men, that mankind are indebted for the discovery and invention of nearly every known method of preventing and alleviating animal suffering and of prolonging human life. This statement is true of vaccination, the use of chloroform in general surgery, dentistry, and midwifery, of carbolic acid spray in surgical operations; the abolition of the practice of searing amputated limbs with a red-hot iron; and many other improvements. Ferrier's comparatively recent vivisection experiments have already enabled medical men to treat more successfully those formidable diseases, epilepsy and abcess of the brain. What this nation badly requires, is not less experimental research, but more. When famines result from insufficiency of Solar heat, instead of investigating the conditions of the Sun's surface to enable us to predict their occurrence and provide accordingly, we allow them to come upon us in our unprepared state and produce their fearful effects. When contagious disease overtakes us, what do we do? Instead of previously employing and paying scientific investigators to make experiments in physiological and chemical science, to enable us to combat it successfully, we vainly attempt to apply our present stock of chemical and physiological knowledge to ward off the difficulty. When high price of fuel intervenes, instead {82} of previously giving discoverers the means of finding new principles relating to heat, and to chemical, and electrical action, we ineffectually endeavour by means of invention, to economise fuel. These are the pottering, short-sighted, and ignorant ways in which "the great English nation" temporises with great evils, and permits national welfare to be sacrificed to private gain, instead of employing for the discovery of new knowledge some of that superfluous wealth which in many instances is a curse to its possessors. * * * * * {83} CHAPTER II. ------ THE SCIENTIFIC BASIS OF MENTAL AND MORAL PROGRESS.[12] It is not highly necessary after what has been already said in these pages, to adduce much evidence to show that scientific discoveries, either directly or through the medium of the inventions based upon them, have been a great cause of mental and moral progress. As however there are many persons who do not perceive the dependence of such progress, and especially of moral advance, upon science, a few of the chief relations of those subjects to each other may be pointed out. The dependence of mental progress upon science may be rendered manifest in several ways:--1st. By showing that new scientific knowledge is continually extending and modifying our views of existing things. 2nd. That inventions based upon scientific discoveries have aided and extended our mental powers:--3rd. That mental phenomena may be made the subject of experiment, observation, analysis, and {84} inference:--4th. That the criteria of truth, and the mental powers and processes employed for discovering and detecting truth, are the same in mental as in physical science, and, 5th. That mental action is subject to the great principles and laws of science. And moral progress may be proved to have a scientific basis:--1st. By shewing that moral actions are a class of mental actions, and therefore subject to the same fundamental laws and influences:--2nd. That the discovery of new scientific knowledge, and the use of inventions based upon it, often conduce to morality:--3rd. That moral phenomena may be made the subject of experiment, observation, analysis, and inference:--4th. That the criteria of truth, and the mental faculties and processes employed, in discovering truth, are the same in moral as in physical science:--5th. That the fundamental rules of morality are subject to the great principles of science:--6th. That moral improvement follows in the wake of scientific advance:--and 7th. By showing the moral influence of experimental research in imparting "the scientific spirit;" promoting a love of truth; dispelling ignorance and superstition; detecting error; imparting certainty and accuracy to our knowledge; inculcating obedience to law; producing uniformity of belief; aiding economy and cleanliness, promoting humanity, &c, &c. Each of these will be treated with extreme brevity. MENTAL PROGRESS. The chief object of this chapter is only to shew {85} that mental action is largely consistent with the great principles of science; not that in our present state of knowledge, mental phenomena can be entirely explained by them, or that mental actions involve nothing more than physical and chemical processes. That mental progress is advanced by scientific discovery is a common circumstance. Our ideas of facts, our knowledge of general principles, our views of man, of nature, and of the Universe; and even our modes of thought, have been gradually and profoundly changed by the new knowledge acquired by means of scientific research. This truth is capable of being most extensively illustrated by a multitude of facts in the whole of the sciences, and in the arts, manufactures, and other subjects dependent upon science. For example, in astronomy, great changes, produced by the results of scientific discovery have taken place in our ideas respecting the magnitude of Space and of the Heavenly bodies, the constitution, form, and motion of the Earth, the functions of the Sun and Moon, the distances of the Sun and fixed Stars, the nature of eclipses and comets; and a great many other matters. In terrestrial physics, the mental advances have been equally great in our ideas respecting the causes of tides and of winds, the pressure of the atmosphere, the existence and course of the Gulf Stream, the physical conditions of the Equator and Poles, the conditions upon which day and night, summer and winter depend, the depth of the ocean, the height of the atmosphere, the cause of rainbows, of {86} rain, hail, snow, mist and dew, of thunder and lightning, the composition of air, water, mineral, and organic substances, and other most numerous and varied phenomena. In the subjects of heat, light, electricity, magnetism, chemistry, vegetable and animal physiology, psychology and morality, and the more concrete subjects depending upon them, such as politics, trade, commerce, government, &c., our ideas have equally advanced, in consequence of scientific research; and to fully describe the mental progress resulting from discovery in nearly all branches of human knowledge would require a series of books to be written on the History of all the Sciences. Other causes also, which I need hardly mention, besides scientific discovery, have of course contributed to the mental progress of mankind. We arrive at true ideas, not only by the more certain and systematic process employed in scientific research, but largely also by the uncertain method of trusting to instinct and habit, by adopting dogmatic opinions, and by the semi-scientific plan of following empirical rules. Dogma and empiricism, in nearly all subjects, has rendered immense service to mankind. Contemporaneously with the progress produced by new knowledge, the mental condition of man has been maintained and prevented from receding, by the combined influence of hereditary mental proclivity, acquired habit, promulgation of dogmatic opinions and empirical rules, and by previously known verified truth. Religious {87} belief has thus been the forerunner of Science. Dogma and empiricism are indispensable agents of civilization; they cannot be dispensed with by the great mass of mankind, who have not the time at command, nor possess the other means, necessary for acquiring verified knowledge. They afford rough and ready guides and useful "rule of thumb" methods, though less certain and less accurate than those afforded by verified and definite science. That various inventions, based upon scientific discoveries, have greatly aided and extended our mental powers is quite certain. The discovery of the properties of a mixture of solution of nutgalls and green vitriol, has, through the invention of ink, exercised an immense influence in promoting the mental developement of mankind; and the discovery of the properties of esparto grass and other materials for making paper has contributed to this result. Every discovery also resulting in inventions which facilitated the transmission of intelligence has had a similar effect. Amongst these are magnetism, which, in the mariner's compass greatly assisted navigation and the conveyance of letters by sea; and the steam engine which facilitated the transmission of letters by land and by water; the electric telegraph, the telephone, and other contrivances for transmitting ideas, have also greatly promoted mental advance. The steam engine, by largely abolishing physical drudgery, gave time for study and mental and moral improvement. It has been said that "it is impossible to lay down a {88} railway without creating an improved intellectual influence. It is probable that Watt and Stephenson will eventually modify the opinions of mankind, almost as profoundly as Luther and Voltaire." Photography has exercised an immense intellectual influence of an improved kind, by making common to all mankind views of the beautiful scenery of all parts of our globe, and portraits of individuals of all nations and of all classes of society. Processes of printing from electrotype plates, pictures and letter-press, upon the paper wrappers used by grocers and other tradesmen, have also carried into the homes of millions of poor persons truthful ideas and an improved intellectual influence. The invention of steel pens, of which a thousand millions are made yearly in Birmingham alone, must also have considerably aided intellectual progress. The various calculating machines used by merchants, the copying presses, papyrographs, and the numerous inventions for copying and multiplying letters and circulars and for domestic printing, have saved intellectual toil, and promoted the diffusion of intelligence. These are only a few of the numerous ways in which inventions based upon scientific discoveries, have resulted in mental progress. Less perhaps has been done in the way of actual definite scientific experiments upon mental actions and processes than in almost any other department of science, and this is partly accounted for by the fact that the other sciences require to be largely advanced before we can use them to examine mental action, {89} and partly also because (as occasionally happens) the latter has been a neglected subject of research. During the past few years however, various experimental investigations have been made, especially by Donders in Holland, and Mosso in Turin, for the purpose of elucidating the physical conditions of mental action; and it has been found that instead of an act of thought being instantaneous, as was formerly believed, it requires a variable time.[13] Numerous desultory experiments made upon dreamers, and with drugs, alcohol, &c., upon persons in the waking state, also prove that mental phenomena are amenable to scientific research. F. Galton has even proposed experiments and methods for measuring the mental faculties of different persons.[14] The effects of exciting different parts of the brain of animals by means of electric currents, and the localization of the functions of the brain effected by the experiments of Ferrier, Hirtzig and others, also tend to throw further light upon mental phenomena. The fact alone that mental actions and conditions may be made the subject of experiment, and consequently of observation, comparison, analysis and inference, proves that they may be rendered sources of new facts and principles, and are therefore within the domain of science. As the dependence of mental phenomena upon physical conditions has been clearly demonstrated, an extensive reduction of them to scientific laws is only a question of time and labour. {90} The principles of nature and the modes of mental action are the same for all men. It necessarily follows from the essential nature of truth and the invariability of the chief methods of detecting it, that the criteria of truth in mental science, and the mental powers and processes by which truth is arrived at and detected in that science, are essentially the same as in the physiological, chemical, and physical ones. In each of these subjects, we first, either with or without the aid of experiment, make observations, record facts, compare them, and draw conclusions from our comparisons; we also group the facts, and the conclusions, in every possible way, and then draw other conclusions; we also analyse, combine, and permutate the various truths arrived at, and cross examine the evidence in every possible manner in order to extract from it the greatest amount of new knowledge. And in each case we employ as the criteria of truth, the test of consistency with the whole of the evidence bearing upon the case, and especially with the great principles of science. We determine what is true, chiefly by comparison with those principles, because they are the most firmly established true ones and the most universal. There is no royal road to truth, and no special mental faculty for detecting it in any subject; and it is in consequence of our mental faculties being so very finite that we have no easier way of arriving at truth. No dogmatic teaching can ever, except by accident, fully explain to man the true nature of mind; and {91} only in proportion as man becomes enlightened by extension of new scientific knowledge, especially in physiology, will he be able to view himself in a true aspect apart from his consciousness. Science penetrates deeper than metaphysical speculation, into the nature of mental action, chiefly because metaphysics deals only with old ideas, whilst science furnishes us with new experience and therefore with new conceptions and wider evidence. Fallacies are very prevalent, every subject of human study is liable to a very large class of errors arising from the extremely imperfect state of our knowledge, and in very few subjects is our ignorance as great as in that of mental and moral phenomena. Every different subject of study also, has, in consequence of its special peculiarities, its own peculiar class of fallacies, into which the student of it is likely to be led, unless he is previously guarded against them. In accordance with this truth, the study of man's nature, especially the mental and moral portions, is particularly liable to a class of errors arising from the circumstance, that the phenomena to be observed and the observing power are intimately connected together, each influencing and disturbing the other. The obstacles to our arriving at truth in the study of mental and moral actions, are greater and more frequent, the more nearly and intimately related the phenomena to be observed and contemplated, are to the observing and contemplating faculty, or rather to the contemplative action. When the two mental {92} actions are extremely intimate, as when attention is directed to the action of will (which is itself a conscious act of attention) undisturbed thought becomes very difficult; and when further, the contemplative faculty attempts to contemplate itself, as when consciousness attempts to observe consciousness, in order to define it, the attempt results in almost complete failure, probably because the two actions (observing and being observed) being opposite in kind, cannot coexist at the same time in the same structure. Knowledge of the exact nature of consciousness therefore, will probably only be arrived at by indirect means, when physiological and other knowledge is sufficiently advanced. Consciousness, when uncorrected by sufficient knowledge and inference, is a great source of error. That which we feel, we think exists whether it does or not, until the subject is correctly explained to us. The incessant and irresistible obtrusion of consciousness exercises dominion over every mind, even of our greatest thinkers, and causes disturbance and interruption in nearly every train of thought. It is largely the cause of some of our most general ideas and emotions and insensibly influences our views of man and nature. It produces true impressions as well as erroneous ones. It is a cause of the feeling that an occult spirit exists within us independent of our material structure. Combined with the almost equally persistent impression of the uniformity of nature, it largely produces the idea that the spirit within us, {93} will live and be active for ever. And by uniting with the frequent impressions of failure of our efforts and desire for more perfect enjoyment, it largely originates the idea of everlasting happiness. It is in accordance with modern scientific knowledge, to view the mind, not as a collection of distinct faculties, but rather as a single kind of power, like each of the physical forces, having several different modes of action; and as that which perceives, thinks, and wills. Its oneness is shewn by its inability to be simultaneously occupied by several diverse feelings, thoughts, or volitions, and by our incapacity to think of many varied ideas at once; the more ideas also or objects we attempt to perceive at once, the less we realize of each. In proportion as the mind is engaged upon one idea, so is it also unable to be occupied with another. Strong feelings exclude intellectual action. The mind can only execute several actions at a time, provided they have been rendered more or less automatic by habit, &c., but as all mental acts are in different degrees imperfectly automatic, and require more or less attention, and each individual mind is limited in its power, every such act withdraws a portion of attention from the more engrossing ideas. Power of mind and power of maintaining attention are nearly synonymous. The recognised fundamental elements of mind are Receptivity and Perception of impression: Retentiveness of impression: Perception of agreement (or similarity) of impression: and Perception of difference {94} of impression. All purely mental acts appear to be resolvable into these. Many persons still entertain the idea that mental actions are largely independent of the natural conditions to which physiological, chemical, and physical phenomena are subject. The unscientific mind is readily beguiled by easy schemes of mental action, or simple systems of mental and moral philosophy, unaware that great abstract truths often require deep thought to discover them, or even to perceive them when discovered and published. "A false notion, which is clear and precise, will always meet a greater number of adherents in the world than a true principle which is obscure." It is not until unscientific persons have become used to advanced scientific ideas and nomenclature, and knowledge as so far progressed as to enable thinking men to illustrate those ideas freely in familiar language, that great abstract truths are believed by the public. The ordinary and simple theory of the operations of the human mind is, that they often arise without any cause, and are frequently not obedient to ordinary influences, and this idea is still entertained and promulgated even by some of our most popular ministers of truth. It is therefore necessary in order to further prove that new scientific knowledge is really a basis of mental progress, to point out a few of the chief ways in which mental action essentially depends on scientific principles, and to adduce a few instances in which other substances than brain exhibit essentially similar phenomena. To {95} shew this however in a more satisfactory manner would require a large treatise to be written upon the subject. The human brain and mind are evidently subject to the ordinary laws of matter and energy. Receptivity and retentiveness of impression is not only a property of brain, but of all solid matter without exception. Moser's pictures, and Chinese mirrors, the impressions on each being reproducible by warm breath, are examples of this. And as these two properties are fundamental elements of mind, they must be present in and essential to, every mental action. All phenomena require time and all matter occupies space; thought and brain are no exception to this. Whilst all persons say "I must have time to think," many believe that thought is instantaneous. Time is a necessary condition of all thought, and therefore of all comparison, inference, imagination, and mental analysis; it takes time even to form an idea, or draw an inference from it, and the two cannot be formed simultaneously. Professor Donders, of Utrecht, has invented what he terms a Noëmatachograph for registering the amount of time occupied in mental processes, and by the aid of that instrument has ascertained that the time required by a man of middle age to perform a single act of simple thought is about one twenty-fifth part of a second. It has also been ascertained that the time required is longer in some persons than in others; and longer if the {96} subject of thought is one with which the thinker is not familiar. Mosso, by means of an instrument which he calls a Plethysmograph, has shewn, that during mental action, either in the waking state, or in dreaming, there is a greater amount of blood determined to the brain, and more during difficult than during easy mental action. These are instances of scientific research casting a light upon mental processes. Coexistence of matter and energy is another great truth which appears to be applicable to all nature; wherever there is matter, there is either active or stored up power; and as particular forms of energy are in some cases most exhibited by particular kinds of substance, (as magnetism by iron), so mind is associated with living brain. As also we never see the physical powers exhibited except by material substance, so have we never yet observed mental action in a space devoid of material. The most perfect vacuum yet produced contains many millions of particles of substance in each cubic inch. Of all the countless number of scientific phenomena observed since men have been able to reliably investigate, not one has afforded us conclusive evidence of mental action entirely independent of these conditions. In accordance also with the usual truth in science, that complicated action requires complex structures; mind, being the most intricate action, is manifested by the most complicated body. Mind, like each of the physical forces may be {97} viewed as a mode of energy; it is essentially dynamic; activity or change, within or without us, appears to be the original source of all our mental impressions, and the cause of their re-excitement in an act of memory. A man's mind, being continually excited by circumstances, must be active whether he will or no, and if it does not possess sufficient truthful ideas entirely to occupy it, it must be more or less occupied with erroneous ones. "We can neither feel, nor know, without a transition or change of state--and every cognition, must be viewed as in relation to some other feeling, or cognition," (Bain. Mental and Moral Science, p. 83); _i.e._ the mental effect of impressions upon us depends upon our immediately previous mental state; consciousness and perception appear to be based upon cerebral change or activity; after strong excitement of consciousness an increased amount of acid products is found in the secretions. "It is a general law of the mental constitution, more or less recognised by inquirers into the human mind, that change of impression is essential to consciousness in every form," (Bain. Emotions and Will, 3rd edi. p. 550). A sufficient degree also of such change is a necessary condition of conscious perception; it is the stronger or more rapid only of mental changes that excite our consciousness. We perceive nearly all things by means of a difference of impression which they make upon us; by contrast. That which makes no such difference of impression, such as the great uniformities of time and {98} space, makes no immediate impression upon us. We only know of the existence of those uniformities by inference from our perceptions of sequences or of relative difference. Although the Earth moves at the rate of 62,000 miles an hour in its orbit, consciousness does not perceive it. If also there was no error, we should be less immediately able to discern truth, without pain we should lose much of the enjoyment of pleasure. Without the contrast of imperfection we could not directly appreciate perfection. This principle of "relativity," or of change of impression, operates both in the phenomena of dead and living matter and in those of mind; the selenium in a photophone is kept in a state of motion or activity, not by a beam of uniform light, but only by one which changes; electrical action is excited by a relative difference of friction, of temperature, of chemical action, &c.; chemical action also often results from a relative difference of property of two bodies. That the most inscrutable phenomenon of mind, viz., consciousness, is largely dependent upon relative physical and chemical conditions, is proved by the powerful influence which alcohol, chloroform, opium, haschish, and other substances, have in exciting or depressing it. These facts prove that excitement of consciousness or mental action depends upon precisely the same general condition, viz.: change of impression, as the excitement of some of the physical forces; and that mind possesses a similar property to the physical forces of being changed by inequality of impression. {99} Whilst copious evidence is available to shew that the mind is excitable by physical causes, no more conclusive proof exists that a mental impression arises without a natural cause, than that a physical one, such as a photographic impression, arises in that way. Abundant evidence of non-creation of ideas out of nothing might be adduced; even imagination and invention are subject to this limit, because an unlimited number of new conceptions cannot be formed from a limited number of previous ideas. The dependence of the mind (like any other mode of energy) upon physical conditions, is further proved by the fact that the mental and moral states of a man are largely governed by sensation; if the latter is unhealthy it makes the mind so, and it makes some difference what the part of the body is in which the sensation exists; most commonly it is the viscera. The mind is also intimately dependent upon the physical condition of the brain, and is largely affected by the quantity and quality of the blood in that organ. The most fundamental principle which pervades every one of the sciences, and agrees with the actions of every natural form of energy without exception, including mind, is, that of consistency or non-contradiction. No machine or scientific apparatus of any kind can perform two contradictory acts at the same time. It is both a physiological and psychological fact, that we cannot experience two contradictory sensations, nor perceive two contradictory ideas at the {100} same instant. We can neither feel, perceive, nor observe, one thing, whilst we are feeling, perceiving, or observing, one of a contradictory nature; nor can we perform any two contradictory acts of comparison, inference, imagination, or volition, simultaneously. As also two mental actions are often not exactly alike, or entirely harmonious, they must so far as they are really contradictory, be mutually exclusive; and one of them must partly prevent the other, the strongest one prevailing, and this general truth is commonly though not explicitly, recognised in the maxim, that to do anything well, we must do only one thing at a time. In accordance with the universal truth, that contradictions cannot co-exist, it is well-known that one disease frequently expels another from our frame, and the action of counter-irritants is based upon the same principle. The fortitude of martyrs may probably be explained by this power of one set of ideas and feelings to exclude another, and the facts of mental physiology afford plenty of other examples. It is probably because we cannot simultaneously perform two contradictory actions, that we cannot contemplate consciousness, or think of an idea and at the same time think of that act of thought. In accordance with this, even Newton, and other great geniuses, have been unable to accurately describe the mental processes by means of which they arrived at their most difficult results. In consequence also of this, we cannot define consciousness, and are often {101} unable to directly observe or analyse our mental actions, especially those of a very abstruse or complex kind. Much of the knowledge of the operations of our mind, we are therefore obliged to obtain by indirect means; by analogies, and inferences from the phenomena of nature, &c., and in this way our knowledge of mental action largely depends upon our acquaintance with physical and chemical science, and can only advance as it advances. To clearly understand one subject we are often obliged to study several others. Ignorance of science in general, and of cerebral physiology in particular, is the chief obstacle to our acquiring a more accurate knowledge of mind. Next to consistency, the great principle of causation constitutes the most essential part of all natural truth, and to deny the operation of this principle in particular cases of mental action, simply because we, with our very finite powers, cannot in the extremely imperfect state of our knowledge, yet fully explain some of the most difficult, complex, transient, and ever-changing phenomena of will and consciousness, is contrary to the most weighty evidence. "The Will" is a conscious mental effort to effect an object, the idea of which is already in the mind, and being a mental "effort" it absorbs the mind and thereby incapacitates it at the moment from observing its own action. If any phenomenon (such as mental action) is essentially dependent upon another, it must be connected {102} with it in a never-failing or indissoluble manner, so that when the one occurs the other is always present, otherwise it would not be essentially dependent. The only known connections of this kind are those causation and continuity of phenomena, according to which every phenomenon has a cause, and all phenomena are indissolubly connected in endless series. The evidence of the truth of these principles is so vast, that even all mankind thinking through all ages, and after having made an almost infinite number of definite experiments and observations, have never yet met with a single well verified instance of their failure; and we are therefore justified in inferring that they are universal. There are however instances in the physical and chemical sciences, as well as in mental action, where the dependence of phenomena upon those principles is not very apparent, and has not yet been sufficiently proved, but it is probably in consequence of our imperfect knowledge and limited faculties, that we are unable as yet to fully trace such dependence. The history of science, abundantly proves that we should not assume that a phenomenon arises without a natural cause, simply for the reason that it is very difficult to trace its origin, but wait patiently for more knowledge respecting it. It is unphilosophic and contrary to reason to attribute to occult agencies, effects which may be explicable by ordinary causes, or to refuse to believe in more abstruse causes where the assumption of simple ones is contradicted by some of the evidence. {103} The principle of causation forms the basis of many minor ones, such as selection, evolution, differentiation, &c. Plurality of causes also is a very common circumstance in all the sciences, and especially in concrete phenomena, and in the complex ones of animal life; the arrival of a ship for example at a distant port, is a result of many conditions. Similarly with most of our mental actions, they are compounds of feeling and intellect, and produced by many causes, such as hereditary tendency, acquired habit, internal and external mental excitants, dogmatic belief, knowledge of empirical rules, and occasionally of verified principles. Several of these causes also frequently conspire to produce a single idea or decision. Various general principles of lesser magnitude arise from the combined action of two or more of the greater ones, and these also appear to operate in mental actions as well as in physical ones. Thus by the combined influence of causation and of the principle that every phenomenon occupies time, "effects often lag behind their causes;" and in some cases during a long period. The greatest heat of summer for example usually occurs several weeks after mid-summer. The mental effects of early mistakes are often not fully experienced until old age. The decline of a nation also follows a long time behind the period of action of the chief causes which produce it. Although effects are indissolubly connected with their causes, they frequently do not occur in an active form until a long period after them. In such cases {104} they are stored up in what is termed a potential or latent state, ready for liberation at a future occasion, when the suitable conditions are present; the storage of chemical power in gunpowder, of solar heat in coal, and its subsequent liberation in our fires, are suitable examples. The principle of deferred activity and storing up of power, occurs also in vital and mental phenomena; potential heat is stored up in our food, and is afterwards evolved by oxidation in our tissues. Muscular power is stored up during sleep, ready to be evolved during labour. The storage also of cerebral impressions, and cerebral energy, ready to call forth ideas, and thereby powerful emotions, by the exciting action of memory, may also be viewed as an instance of similar kind belonging to mental phenomena. A new and striking instance of the storage of energy has been shewn in Faure's improved form of secondary voltaic battery, in which the most powerful voltaic current may be (at least practically) stored up (in a box containing lead plates immersed in dilute sulphuric acid) and conveyed to a distance with little loss, and then liberated. Exciting causes operate very extensively in mental actions as well as in physical ones, a mere look or word from an eloquent speaker will excite the passions and liberate the muscular power of a multitude. Every part of the human body, especially the muscles and nerve centres, is a store-house of power always ready to be set free by the slightest suitable causes; this is strongly illustrated in the irrepressible activity {105} of children, and in the excitable passions of young men and women. The more immediate cause of this power is the oxidation of assimilated food; and the source of power in the food is the heat of the Sun stored up in the plants and animals they have eaten. The subsequent liberation of power under the influence, often of very slight causes, long after the original cause has ceased to act, has led us to conclude erroneously that causes are not always proportional to effects. Proportionality of effect to cause appears to be universal; it probably operates in mental as well as in physical actions, our faith in education as a means of intelligence is based upon this; the more complete the education of a particular individual, the greater usually is his degree of intelligence. Proportionality of cause to effect is apparently disobeyed not only in physical but also in mental phenomena. Throughout the whole realm of nature, minute circumstances often act as exciting, deflecting, and guiding causes, and contribute to the production of apparently disproportionate effects. Thus a spark will discharge the largest cannon; a touch determine the most distant electric signal; a word or look, excite the strongest emotions; the little change of position of a railway point will direct a train either to distant North or South; the minute change of contact of the telegraph switch, will determine the signal to places wide asunder; one false idea also at a critical moment will often lead a man or woman to ruin; and in all these classes of cases, {106} whilst trifling causes _appear_ to produce great effects; the real causes are the stored up latent powers set free or directed. It is astonishing how small a circumstance will excite an idea, and deflect the entire current of our thoughts; and it is equally surprising what great physical and chemical effects are often started by most minute exciting or deflecting conditions; the explosion of seven tons of dynamite at Hell-gate, near New York, by the pressure of a child's finger closing an electric circuit is a suitable example. Every phenomenon therefore whether physical or mental, is probably connected in an indissoluble manner with some preceding phenomenon, either immediately in point of time, or remotely through some static condition, usually that of stored up power. In this sense the great principle of continuity of phenomena appears to be universal, and the present state of the Universe is said to implicitly or potentially contain all the future states of the Universe. Mind also in this way, like each of the physical forces, often acts as a link in an endless chain of causes and effects, and is connected with non-mental phenomena in accordance with the great principles of science. Science has demonstrated what has been termed the "Convertibility of Forces," or, that when one form of energy disappears, another form (or forms) of energy, and in precisely equivalent amount, is produced in its stead, either in a latent or active state. The equivalent quantities of the various forms of {107} energy have also been discovered by actual experiment and measurement. A pound weight falling through 772 feet gives forth as much energy as would (in the form of heat) raise the temperature of one pound of water one Fahrenheit degree. We know that so much mechanical power is equal also to so much electric current, chemical action, &c., and a large amount of evidence exists to show that these transformations of energy occur in all the organs of living creatures, and in obedience to the law of their equivalents. How far mental power is a "mode of energy" transformable, and obedient to the laws of equivalence, are interesting questions for future research. The mechanical principle of action and reaction is another which can be traced in mental as well as in physical phenomena. Mental excitement is often succeeded by mental depression, "after pleasure follows pain." The power of mental self-guidance and self-education is largely dependent upon the two well known scientific principles of latent energy, and action and reaction. We are able to liberate energy, not only in cases where it will influence inanimate matter but also ourselves. The principle of self-guidance is not restricted to living creatures, nor is self-regulation limited to mental power. The principle of self-regulation operates in clocks, watches, musical boxes, the governors of steam engines, water regulators, gas regulators, &c., &c., and upon an immense scale in the movements of the heavenly {108} bodies. With the electric locomotive, the greater the load it has to draw, or the steeper the incline it has to ascend, the more strongly does it exert its strength, up to the full limits of its power. Neither in physical nor in mental actions can a body or force usually act directly upon itself to change its state whether of activity or rest. In both classes of cases however we meet with plenty of instances where, a body by an almost imperceptible expenditure of energy on its own part either alters some surrounding conditions, or excites a powerful liberation of energy in another body which then reacts upon it to change its state. In this way the action of clock-work in the self-exploding apparatus of a torpedo liberates at a particular moment a spring, and causes an explosion which destroys the apparatus. Similarly, whilst a man, in many cases, is unable to _directly_ alter his mental state, to increase or diminish his mental activity, to cause sleep, &c., he is able _indirectly_ to change his mental condition by drinking stimulants or by adopting means of self-education; and to induce sleep by means of opium, suitable exercise, &c. The principles of indestructibility or conservation of matter and energy, flow from the preceding ones, and are exhibited in mental actions as well as in physical ones. Whilst the universal experience of mankind has not yet afforded us a single well verified instance of actual creation or destruction of matter or energy, it has supplied us with plenty of examples of apparent destruction and creation of each of them. {109} But scientific knowledge corrects the uncertain testimony of consciousness; whilst we see coal burn and be apparently destroyed, science proves to us that the elements composing it remain undiminished. We observe also that the heat of the fire dissipates and is apparently lost for ever; but science again proves that it is either stored up in the latent state, ready to be again liberated at a future time, or else converted into other forms of energy. A given atom of matter or a portion of energy, therefore, to the best of our knowledge, continues and persists for ever. As we cannot either create or destroy matter so also can we not create or annihilate energy, and this truth probably holds good with regard to mental as well as to physical and chemical power. Great changes of state in bodies (as in the combustion of wood &c.) have led us to erroneously think that the substances are destroyed; and great apparent differences of property, such as those of diamond and charcoal, have led us similarly to conclude that they are entirely distinct and independent of each other when they are not. As the cerebrum of man is composed of matter, and during excitement, its parts are active, we might confidently predict that its particles obey the First law of Motion, viz.: that a body in a state of rest or motion will continue in that state of rest or motion until some cause arise to prevent it. So it has been found that the action of the vital and mental forces have a degree of persistence, like the physical ones. It has been experimentally found that portions of {110} living bone transplanted to fleshy parts of animals where there was no bone, continued to grow for a time by a life of their own, and increased by formation of additional bone, like a crystal grows in its medium; but after a time they diminished and disappeared. In a similar manner we are all of us aware of the persistency of ideas, even in opposition to the will, after the cause of them has been removed. Sometimes we cannot retain an idea because of the persistence of others; and at other times we cannot get rid of one, for a similar reason. Our mental habits also have often very great persistence. The principle of heredity may be viewed as a result of the First law of Motion, and appears as Persistency of state, either of structure, form, or mode of action. It appears both in inanimate bodies, living structures, and in mental phenomena; in the latter, as hereditary mental peculiarities. The principle of Persistency of structure and Heredity of form and property, during repeated or even continual dissolution and aggregation of a material substance, is more or less manifest nearly throughout the whole of nature. In the formation of crystals it is clearly seen; each crystallizable substance will only grow into its own shape or shapes; each particle of common salt, during an endless series of successive solutions and aggregations into the solid state, always forms a more or less perfect cube; that of silica a hexagon; and so on throughout the entire series of thousands of different crystalline bodies. As each {111} form of crystal only produces crystals of like form and property (or at most in certain cases a limited number of modified forms, as in the instance of calcic carbonate, &c.) so also each seed, both of animals and vegetables, only produces its own particular essential shape and collection of functions. The same principle shews itself in the transmission of particular types of disease, and of eccentricities of organization, from one generation to another of animals. Peculiar malformations of body and characteristics of mind often persist in families from generation to generation. This persistency or heredity of structure and of property is not limited to solid bodies, but exists also in liquids: "The effect of vaccine virus upon the liquid blood, in producing a permanent and organic change in its constitution and character, which continues to exercise a protective influence against small-pox, in the great mass of cases, through a long life, during which time the blood must have undergone, many thousands, if not millions of changes and modifications." (F. Winslow. "Obscure diseases of Brain and Mind," page 432). The same persistency of structure and property of structure, has even been detected in vapours; the vapour of red iodide of mercury for example, deposits only crystals of red iodide, whilst that of the yellow deposits only yellow (see Gmelin's Handbook of Chemistry, vol. 1, p. 100.) We often appear to mentally select when we only yield to causes acting upon us, _i.e._, to the strongest influence or motive. That "self-preservation is the {112} first law of nature," is not only true of living creatures, but largely also of dead substances. Inanimate as well as animate matter, appears to usually select what is good for itself. Apparent selection, which is manifested in the phenomena of instinct, is exhibited not only by brain, but by all material substances. Acids appear to select bases, North magnetism rejects North and prefers South magnetism. Also if a piece of zinc is put into a mixed solution of the nitrates of silver, magnesium, calcium, strontium, barium, lithium, sodium, potassium, and rubidium, it will select the silver only with which to form a "metallic tree," and reject all the other metals. Everything which aggregates or grows to a definite shape, appears to select its material; if a crystal of a particular salt is placed in a mixture of saturated solutions of different salts, it will only select and assimilate to itself suitable material, either particles of the same composition as itself, or those which are isomorphous with it, _i.e._ belonging to the same crystalline system. In living bodies also, the same principle operates; Living tissues, whether of animals or vegetables, usually select from their nutrient fluids, and assimilate, particles only of those kinds of matter which are suitable for their structure; in this way, a bone assimilates lime and phosphoric acid from the multitude of different substances conveyed to it by the blood. And in all these cases, the selecting material appears to act as if it possessed the powers of instinct, perception, comparison, judgment, and {113} volition. The act of self-repair is clearly connected with this, and is not limited to living structures; Sir David Brewster observed that if a portion of the surface of a perfect crystal of alum is very slightly abraded by dissolving a film from it, and the crystal be then immersed during a very brief period in a saturated solution of alum, the abraded portion repairs itself. The subjects of "malformation of crystals," and "diseases of crystals" have been scientifically investigated. The power of selection (or rather of apparent selection) is no doubt a result of the combined action of causation and of the inherent properties of bodies, and depends, like consciousness, upon difference of impression, the strongest suitable influence determining. If apparent selection can thus be performed by inanimate matter, we should not, except for a very sufficient reason, assume the existence in living creatures, of a special occult power to perform the same function. In the selection of ideas also the intellect acts according to the purely scientific method. We frequently appear to mentally adapt ourselves to particular circumstances when we are really determined by causes; and this apparent adaptation is also seen in ordinary physical and chemical phenomena. The course of a river for instance, adapts itself to the configuration of the country through which it flows, and if it cannot pass wholly by one channel, as in seasons of flood, or on occasions of accidental obstruction, it travels through several; and a similar result {114} occurs with the flow of the blood when an artery is tied or becomes obstructed. A plant when growing in a dark recess, bends itself towards the light as if it preferred light; and its roots adapt themselves to the forms of existing obstacles. A decapitated frog jumps away from a source of irritation, as if he still possessed sensation, volition, and choice. A man seeking his way through a crowd avoids the course in which the throng is densest. The human mind also, chooses as it were, the easiest way of solving a problem, and usually adapts itself to altered circumstances. The principle of evolution also operates both in physical and mental actions, and is a result of that of causation. Complexity of structure and function is evolved out of simplicity of composition and property by plurality of causes and conditions. For instance, many complex forms of crystals of ice are produced from water. Calcspar crystallizes in more than one hundred varieties of form, (all derived from an obtuse rhombohedron) under the influence of a number of slightly different conditions of temperature, impurities in the solution, &c. The most complex bodies are evolved out of the simplest, the bodily frame of man himself (and that of other animals) is constructed of less than twenty of the elementary substances. The same simple substances are capable of yielding very different and more complex bodies under different conditions; thousands of different chemical compounds are composed of hydrogen, oxygen, and carbon only. In the development of {115} living forms from ova, the ultimate form produced does not exist in the germ, any more than a crystal exists in its solution, but is a natural consequence of the forces acting in and upon the germ, like the cubical form of a crystal of common salt is a result of the forces acting in its constituents under the conditions of its environment, especially those of pressure and temperature. The extent to, and manner in which, the force and principle operate, depend upon the material substance, and its conditions internal and external. It is a common circumstance, both in physical, mental, and moral subjects, for the apparent to be the very opposite of the real. This general truth has been repeatedly illustrated in an incidental manner in this book, and need not be much further elucidated. Phenomena are none the less real, however, because they are not readily manifest; our earth is as much tied to the sun by the invisible power of gravity, as if it was attached to it by visible material chains. Mistaking the apparent for the real, largely explains the persistency of certain beliefs, and why it is that persons unacquainted with science, cling to self-deception, and resist some of the most firmly established truths. The more evident but untrue explanation is believed, whilst the less apparent but true one is rejected. It is the chief cause of the belief that "the will is a supernatural power." To a scientific man however, apparent contradictions are not unfrequently a sign of truth; too accurate results sometimes {116} indicate that they have been artificially made to appear correct. Sympathetic action or propagation of similar influence by immediate impulse, is a property of all the natural forms of energy, as well as of mind. Similar actions are propagated thus in all kinds of dead substances, as well as in the living brain. Matter is sympathetic to sound in the phenomena of singing-flames, and a vibrating string responds to a particular note in obedience to well-known laws. Iodide of nitrogen may be caused to explode by the influence of a particular note from a fiddle. In the phenomena of light, with a spectroscope, a luminous gas is sympathetic with, and emits and absorbs, only particular kinds of luminous rays. In chemical action also, combustion excites combustion, ferment excites ferment, infection communicates infection, and the similar chemical change is transmitted from molecule to molecule. Mental excitement and disease in one person, often excite similar phenomena in another, as is seen in "religious revivals," and well-known epidemics, such as the "dancing mania," "preaching epidemics," the "leaping ague," the "mewing contagion," etc., etc., (See "Epidemics of the Middle Ages," by Hecker; Sydenham Society publications; also Carpenter's Mental Physiology, p. 312.) Like excites like in the actions of each of the forces of nature; both in physical, chemical, and mental action, the kind of impulse transmitted is similar, unless conditions exist which transmute it. Dynamite, {117} started into combustion by a flame, burns slowly away; but when started by a detonating substance, detonates violently. Guthrie has also discovered that if a melted cryohydrate (_e. g._ a chilled saturated aqueous solution of a solid salt) is cooled to a certain greater extent, it will not solidify--nothing separates out, although the solution is four or five degrees below its proper solidifying point. If a little crystal of ice be then thrown into it, nothing separates but ice, which comes to the surface. If we throw in a little anhydrous salt, nothing but the anhydrous salt separates out, and that sinks to the bottom. But if we throw into it a crystal of a previous crop of cryohydrate, then nothing but the cryohydrate separates. In this case also, like evidently excites like only, in obedience to physical laws. (Addresses, Science Conferences; South Kensington Museum, 1876; Vol. 2, p. 108). Even two clocks, when hung near each other, against a board or surface which readily transmits vibrations, have been known to exhibit, by synchronous action, an apparent sympathy, which changed their rate of going. Periodical phenomena, also, brought about by definite causes, occur in mental, as well as in physical phenomena. In the former we have the phenomena of sleep, and in the latter, definite causes produce summer and winter, day and night, the tides, cycles of solar spots, maxima and minima of magnetic intensity, etc., etc. Conversely to the manifestation of the principles of {118} inanimate matter by living bodies and in mental action, so have modern inventions demonstrated the possibility of the performance by inanimate substances and apparatuses, of the functions, not only of our bodily organs, (as of locomotion by the steam engine,) but also of our senses and intellect, and in some cases, to a degree far surpassing unaided human power. Apparatus, sensitive to sound, have been constructed, as in the microphone and singing-flames; others capable of reproducing articulate speech, as in the phonograph, telephone, etc.; others again sensitive to light, as in the production of visible images by photography, and reproducing them at a distance through wires by means of the photophone; the power of indicating or foretelling future events has also been embodied in instruments called "tide predictors," and that of evolving inferences has been shewn in Jevon's "Logical machine." The various facts mentioned in this chapter prove that mind agrees with the various forms of physical energy in many essential points, and obeys many of the same laws or principles. Examine whatever general phenomena of the mind we may, we can always detect some apparent or real connection of them with the great principles of inorganic nature; and in order to prove the dependence of them upon the great principles of science it is not necessary to show that all such actions are subject to those principles. Until the whole is explained however, there will always remain mysterious phenomena to cavil about. {119} MORAL PROGRESS. At the present time few competent persons have largely investigated the fundamental relations of morality to Physical Science, consequently moral actions are usually considered not to have a scientific basis, and the doctrine is still extensively taught that some moral phenomena are essentially supernatural. As new scientific knowledge has increased, belief in witchcraft, sorcery, demonology, exorcism, evil influences and omens, unseen spirits, a God of evil, supernatural and occult powers, supernatural sources of strange diseases, evil presages from comets and eclipses, fetishism, worship of images and of the Sun, a belief that the Earth is the chief body in the Universe, that man is the "Lord of Creation," &c, &c. have largely passed away, and beliefs more consistent with facts and with true inferences drawn from them, have taken their place. Belief in the supernatural nature of the human will however is still largely retained. A writer on morality, says--"In every genuine volition we have a phenomenon not law-determined, law-regulated, and law-explained."[15] A popular expositor of religion says--"The phenomena of the human soul are essentially different from the phenomena with which the student of science is most familiar, and must be investigated on other principles and by other methods." "The voluntary activity of man lies beyond the limits of science." "Every language man has ever spoken--no matter how {120} perfect or how rude--the literature of the ancient and the modern world, the indestructible instincts of the human soul, the testimony of consciousness, unite to affirm that the human will is independent of natural law." "The will is a supernatural power." "I myself am not under the dominion of natural law;" "my moral life is essentially a supernatural thing." "As soon as you approach the intellectual and moral life of man, you enter a region in which you have to do with a new order of facts." &c.[16] Morality, the subject of duty, or of right and wrong-doing in conscious creatures, is usually considered to relate only to those actions over which a man has or might have had control, and which it was his duty either to perform or avoid, and not to those which are entirely beyond his influence, it is therefore essentially dependent upon the power of selection or choosing. As then all moral actions require voluntary choice between right and wrong, and every act of choice is a mental one of comparison of two or more things, all moral actions are mental ones. We cannot compare things which have not made any mental impression upon us. We know further, and the evidence already given proves, that mental actions are intimately dependent upon the principles of nature operating within and around us. If then all acts of morality (or immorality) are mental ones, and if all mental actions are intimately dependent upon the great principles of nature; then all acts of morality {121} are dependent upon those principles. Morality also cannot be properly understood without a knowledge of various sciences, especially biology, because it relates to human creatures, all of whom are morally affected by the various forces and substances belonging to the physical and chemical sciences. Having shown that moral actions are mental ones, and adduced evidence to prove that mental actions are largely subject to scientific principles;--it follows as a necessary consequence, that moral actions also largely obey those principles, and I need not repeat that evidence. The extension of scientific knowledge conduces in a very general way to moral progress, by diffusing the "scientific spirit," increasing our love of truth, facilitating the attainment of greater certainty and accuracy, enabling us to more perfectly avoid error, reducing our ignorance, dispelling superstition, inculcating obedience to law, diminishing difference of opinion and thereby lessening strife, conducing to humility, to greater economy of means, to increased cleanliness, &c, &c. Scientific research also, by disclosing to man his true position in nature, enables him to act in harmony therewith, and thus increase his morality and general happiness. Knowledge is as free as the air, once diffused it becomes impressed upon the brains of men and cannot be easily destroyed or restrained; and the greatest moral effects of science are cosmopolitan ones. Inventions based upon new scientific truths are gradually {122} breaking down the barriers between the various nations of the Earth, and infusing common interests amongst all mankind. Nothing is uniting the sympathies of different nations, increasing the friendly feelings between them, and diminishing the probability of war, more than the increasing facilities of communication brought about in a great measure by the developments of science and art; more particularly by ocean steam navigation, rapid postal communication and the telegraph, (see p. 51). At the present time there are about six Atlantic telegraph cables in use, and an almost daily service of passenger steam ships across that ocean. The use of inventions based upon scientific discovery has aided moral progress in various ways. All inventions are made with the object of supplying some real or supposed want, and nearly everything which supplies a common want, conduces to contentment and happiness and the general progress of mankind. No one can possibly measure or estimate the advantage of the inventions of writing and printing, in helping men to avoid quarrels, to settle differences of opinion, to sympathise with suffering, to give advice: &c. Similar moral functions are also performed by the electric telegraph, and a few specimens of some of the messages sent through the wire would clearly illustrate this fact. Great moral progress has also resulted from cheap daily intelligence, collected largely with the aid of the telegraph; and of cheap books produced by means of the steam engine. It is estimated that 250 millions {123} of copies of newspapers are yearly published in Great Britain. The Bible and Religious Tract Societies could hardly have existed had not the properties of the ingredients of ink been discovered. The present multiplicity of testaments, prayer-books, hymn-books, &c., has also been rendered possible by the invention of printing. As darkness is favourable to crime, so the invention of gaslight has conduced to morality. The numerous sources of intellectual and moral enjoyment, developed by inventions based upon scientific discovery, have attracted mankind from more sensual and less moral amusements, and the invention of the piano-forte has operated largely in a similar manner. In many respects, the poor man of to-day can command social comforts, conveniences, and pleasures, which an emperor could not in former times. Who can estimate the amount of beneficial moral influences of an indirect kind obtained by means of modern science? The relief from pain by chloroform and other new medicines, the diminution of domestic toil by the sewing machine; the increased health and pleasure obtained by access to the country and seaside by means of railways; the diminution of anxiety resulting from more speedy conveyance of letters, and especially of messages by telegraphs, the increased pleasure of life resulting from being surrounded by objects of beauty multiplied cheaply by means of scientific processes, such as photography? The human mind cannot greatly resist impression, the various effects of scientific research necessarily {124} produce an influence upon it. Whilst great deep-seated truths make a powerful impression on the minds of philosophers, the great practical effects of science in inventions, &c., profoundly impress the mass of mankind. One of the chief influences of the discovery of important scientific truths and of their practical application in some wonderful way, such as in the telescope and microscope, phosphorus matches, photography, electro-plating, the electric light, the spectroscope, microphone, telephone, &c., is to produce a profound and wide-spread impression of the existence of a great and mysterious influence, which produces (or enables us to produce) such striking effects. Whilst also the novelty of the practical effects of new scientific truths in inventions, astonish persons in general; the definiteness of scientific phenomena, and the certainty with which they may be reproduced convince all competent persons who examine them, that they are rigidly subject to definite laws. In this way the antique belief that natural phenomena are produced by supernatural agencies, is gradually being abandoned, and the more moral conviction of the omnipresence and universality of law has been largely established in its stead. Every new scientific fact and invention thus becomes a new proof of the universality of law. Belief in the supernatural has diminished in proportion as scientific knowledge has advanced; instead of natural phenomena being erroneously ascribed to demons, spirits, supernatural {125} powers, and occult causes, they have been proved to be results of natural powers, acting in accordance with known principles. Assertions which have been made, that "the will is a supernatural power, independent of natural law" &c., are not supported by evidence at all equal in cogency to that in proof of the statement, that our mental and moral powers as a whole act in accordance with the great principles of science. That moral phenomena, like those of the physical sciences, are capable of being made the subject of experiment, observation, comparison, analysis, and inference, is very manifest. Every case of bribery may be viewed as an experiment in morality. The very common case where an employer tests the honesty of a servant by some contrivance, is also a trial of a similar kind. The dependence of the moral powers upon scientific conditions, is clearly seen in the influences of intoxicating drinks. A mere natural substance could not possibly overcome the influence of a power which exists entirely independent of it; _i.e._, a "supernatural" one. Even the greatest believer in the "supernatural" power of the human will, deplores the serious injury which the abuse of alcoholic liquors produces upon mankind, rendering the will powerless, and debasing the moral sentiments. The effects of opium, haschisch, &c., are other examples. A vast number of experiments remain to be made of the effects of drugs and organic compounds, both solid, liquid and gaseous, upon moral actions; {126} which will probably prove a still greater degree of dependence of those actions upon purely physical and chemical conditions. The "order of facts" in the subject of morality requires precisely similar mental treatment to those to which scientific investigation has been already applied with such great success, and which include all phenomena admitting of observation, comparison, analysis and inference; and not only those in which we are able, but also those in which we are not able to produce by means of experiment, the phenomena to be observed, such as those of astronomy and geology. Different subjects also are experimental in different degrees, physical science is more experimental, physiology is more observational; morality is partly experimental, and therefore capable of reduction to scientific system by means of our intellectual powers. In consequence of the essential nature of truth being the same in all subjects, and of the fundamental processes of mental action in the determination of truth being also alike in all, the essential modes of arriving at and detecting moral truth are the same as those employed in research in the physical sciences. We possess therefore no special faculty, call it "conscience," or what we may, by which we are enabled to infallibly arrive at truth in moral questions. What is right and good, and what is wrong and evil, are determined by precisely the same general means as what is true; our much vaunted consciousness alone does not infallibly tell us; reason alone, {127} acting upon the evidence, is the final arbiter in any doubtful or disputed case. The truth of moral questions must be examined and tested by precisely the same mental faculties and processes as those employed in physical science, viz:--by the faculties of perception, observation, comparison, and inference, acting upon the whole of the evidence; and by the processes of observing facts, comparing them, inferring conclusions; by analysing and cross-examining the evidence in every possible way, and extracting from it the largest amount of consistent knowledge. Although we cannot detect moral truth by any other than intellectual processes, we may however arrive at correct moral conduct in two ways, viz:--either blindly or intelligently. We arrive at it blindly or automatically by the process of trusting to our inherited and acquire tendencies and dogmatic beliefs; and intelligently by the conscious use of our knowledge and intellectual powers; and each of these methods has its advantages. The former process being an empirical one, is very uncertain and cannot be employed for the judicial detection of truth, or the certain discrimination of it from error, it has however to be trusted to in all cases where we are deficient in knowledge, or have not time for investigation. Truthful ideas and correct conduct also, which at first require the exercise of considerable intellect and much self-discipline, in order to arrive at them, become by habit so completely converted into acquired tendencies as to be automatic. It is not improbable {128} that many of our truthful ideas and correct tendencies were originally arrived at by intellectual processes; and have become incorporated into our mental and physical structure by habit, education, and inheritance. The scientific basis of morality is further shewn and essentially proved by the fact that the fundamental rules of morality are dependent upon scientific principles. According to Dr. Clarke, the two fundamental "rules of righteousness" which regulate our moral conduct are, first, that we should do unto another what we would, under like circumstances, have him do unto us; and second, that we should constantly endeavour to promote to the utmost of our power, the welfare and happiness of all men (to the latter might well be added, the welfare of all sentient creatures). The first of these rules is essentially dependent upon the scientific principle of causation, viz:--that the same cause, acting under the same circumstances, always produces the same effect, if what we did for another person under like circumstances might produce a different effect to what it would when done for ourself, the rule could not be depended upon and would be of no use. The second also agrees with the great principles of science, for the more we obey those principles, the more do we really "promote the happiness and welfare of all men." The first of these rules however in the form usually stated, is incomplete, because it does not provide for the circumstance, that many persons desire to have done unto themselves, not that which {129} is most right, and really most for their welfare and that of mankind in general, but that which would most please them. The desire of immediate pleasure or consolation is greater than the love of truth in nearly all men, and this is connected with another fact, viz:--that persons unacquainted with the great principles of science, have not the advantage of the moral sustaining power of those principles, and are compelled in circumstances of trial to seek extraneous mental relief. The desire to do right is not the primary source of morality; there must be a cause for that desire, and this fact also shews that moral phenomena are dependent upon the scientific principle of causation. We can also much better understand a subject, especially a complex one like that of morals, when we can co ordinate its facts in a scientific manner, by referring them to some general principle which governs or includes them. Referring moral actions to a verified scientific principle, is more satisfactory than referring them to a less definite source such as "conscience"; the "testimony of consciousness"; or "the indestructible instincts of the human soul," because a principle affords a more consistent explanation than a dogmatic idea. The fact also that the discoveries of science usually precede the developments of the moral advantages of science to mankind, is in harmony with the general truth that effects follow their causes, and with the conclusion that moral rules and moral progress have a scientific basis. {130} In a general way, the influence of science upon moral progress is connected with what has been termed, "the scientific spirit." This characteristic consists mainly of an intense love of truth, a desire to acquire new knowledge, to arrive at certainty and accuracy; also an obedience to law in general, and a consequent philosophic resignation to inevitable ills. Science inculcates these qualities, and it is well known that scientific discoverers have usually been highly moral persons, truthful, accurate, law abiding, patient, persevering, temperate, &c. On the other hand, the most lawless persons are usually those who are most ignorant of the great laws which govern their actions, who over-estimate human power and ability, and are impelled by ill-regulated enthusiasm or feeling. Belief in and obedience to law, being a fundamental moral quality, is in its turn the source of other moral qualities of less importance; for instance, it tends to produce calmness, resignation, contentment, patience, submission to the inevitable, &c. No man can be highly moral who disobeys the great principles of nature. We may however obey those laws either intelligently, by acquiring a scientific knowledge of them; empirically, by obeying rules framed in accordance with them; or blindly, by obeying dogmas which happen to agree with them. Those who do not understand laws cannot of course intelligently obey them, and those who most disobey them, consist nearly wholly of those who do not understand them. {131} Superstition, ignorance of natural law, and a belief in occult powers, encourages lawlessness, injures the moral sentiments, and is often attended by bigotry, associated with strife, schism, and sectarian dispute. Probably the greatest influence which scientific discovery has had upon the moral progress of mankind, has been by inculcating an intelligent love of truth on account of its own intrinsic goodness; in this respect it stands pre-eminent. Love of truth is a fundamental virtue because it is the basis of many smaller ones. It is more virtuous, also, to pursue truth on account of its own intrinsic and unqualified goodness in all respects, than for any narrow extrinsic quality, such as the personal pleasure or utility it may afford, or on account of any personal gain or loss, reward or punishment, which may result from pursuing or neglecting it. In the present imperfect state of civilization however, the great bulk of mankind unavoidably employ less noble, as well as the noblest motives, as a means of improvement. Most men can only be moved to do right by means of inferior motives, one of the most effectual of which in a commercial nation is "small investments, large profits, and quick returns;" an expectation of great reward in return for small self-sacrifice. The discovery and dissemination of verified scientific knowledge is a purer kind of occupation than the promulgation of any kind of dogma, because the statements of verified science are usually capable of demonstration, whilst those of doctrine, being often {132} contradictory, may, or may not be true; mere affirmation also, when not based upon proof, is often dangerous to morality. In dogmatic subjects a man may tell untruths with impunity, because no one can disprove or convict him; but in demonstrable ones, a man dare not utter falsehoods, because others will prove his statements to be erroneous. It is demonstration rather than doctrine that is of divine origin. A man also who practises scientific research is largely compelled to adopt the most truthful views of nature, in order to enable him to make discoveries. Real science is largely independent of opinion or faith. Whether we believe or not that a piece of clean iron immersed in a mixture of oil of vitriol and water, evolves hydrogen gas, the fact itself remains unaltered. It is a great and glorious circumstance for mankind, that human progress depends essentially upon a knowledge of new verified truth. As verified experimental knowledge can only come from the great source of all that is good, to doubt the value of new demonstrable truth, is practical atheism. Those also who systematically investigate sources of verifiable truth, are much more likely to ultimately arrive at the fountain of all truth, than those who employ unsystematic methods, or prefer unproved beliefs to verified knowledge. Another of the most powerful ways in which scientific discovery has promoted moral progress has been an indirect one, viz., by diminishing ignorance. Deficiency of knowledge is the parent of a vast {133} amount of evil and failure. "There is no instance on record of an active ignorant man, who, having good intentions, and supreme power to enforce them, has not done far more evil than good." (Buckle, "History of Civilization," vol. 1, p. 167). Ignorance largely precludes happiness, and intelligence is an indispensable condition of the highest morality. There are plenty of difficult positions in life in which the desire to do right is not alone sufficient, we must intelligently know what is the right course to pursue. We are all of us ignorant in different degrees, and must be content in many matters to walk by faith until we can walk by sight, and to act according to rule and precept until we have discovered general principles to guide us:--blind dogmatic morality and "rule of thumb" method is vastly better than none, and has rendered great services to mankind. Whether comforting doctrines are true or not, the great bulk of mankind prefer them because they afford immediate relief; and whether they be erroneous or truthful, men will be benefited by them and continue to believe in them, until their minds are sufficiently advanced to receive a knowledge of verified principles. Rules of morality however, when presented to us with a basis of demonstrable truth, come with a degree of divine authority, and possess greater claim to our observance, than the same rules presented to us as empirical or dogmatic statements only. In proportion to our ignorance the more we dislike to be apprised of our defects and the more inclined are {134} we to continue uninformed; because the less intelligent we are the less are we able to perceive the evil effects of our blindness or the advantages of knowledge. As also the present state of civilization is very imperfect, and unsolved problems exist in all directions, ignorance and all its evil consequences are extremely prevalent. It causes the great mass of mankind to neglect better objects for the sake of money. It indirectly constrains lawyers to neglect moral evidence. It induces medical men to withhold truth from ignorant patients. It causes ministers of religion to prefer doctrine to demonstration. It would therefore be comparatively easy to compose lists of our moral deficiencies, and of improvements urgently needed in morality, far more extensive than the very incomplete ones of our material shortcomings already given (see pp. 68 to 78). To enumerate however the imperfections in the moral conduct of mankind, the frauds in trades, the undue advantage taken of the defenceless, the deceit and empiricism in professions, the professional trading on human weakness, the cruelty of field sports, the hollow motives of social, political, and religious life, the propagating as infallible truth, doctrines which may be fallacious, is not the object of this Chapter; but rather to make clear the fact, that the extension of the domain of verified truth by means of scientific research is highly conducive to moral progress. The extension of new scientific knowledge is influencing morality and gradually reducing the selfishness {135} of mankind, by proving that there exist no royal roads to happiness, and that the greatest amount of individual and national success can only be secured by a genuine pursuit of truth, as an individual and cosmopolitan duty. Increased knowledge is gradually proving to mankind that the purest happiness is to be obtained by intelligent and virtuous conduct. By shewing Man the unreasonable character of some of his fears and hopes, and substituting for them a greater variety and extent of intellectual pleasures, science is slowly making him more satisfied with his lot on this Earth. Meanwhile the great mass of mankind are still pursuing the ever retreating phantom of an easy way to happiness; the great laws of nature however cannot be evaded, the avoidance of evil and the attainment of good can only be secured by obeying all the great laws which govern our nature. Progress in morality is largely dependent upon the diffusion of belief in the universality of scientific laws. When men understand those laws, know that their action is irresistible, and that they have no alternative but to obey them or suffer, they acquire a habit of obeying them. Universality of law in moral actions is often considered to be incompatible with the existence of freedom of the will in selecting ideas, and choosing courses of conduct; but we are free or not, according to circumstances, both to think and to act. All things are free to be active or not, in accordance with their properties and surrounding conditions, but not in {136} contradiction to them; and the human will is no exception to this statement. The "will" is only free within certain limits; it cannot act in opposition to its strongest motives or causes of action. We believe ourselves to be much more free than we are, because we often do not know the causes which determine us, and we frequently fail to detect those influences, because we cannot think, and at the same time clearly observe our act of thought and its motives. Freedom of the will does not enable us to set aside laws: entire freedom from law in any instance is probably only apparent. This limited degree of freedom of the will indicates the dependence of volition upon scientific laws, because a supernatural power, being entirely independent of natural law, could not be limited by it. To affirm without proof that the human will is a "supernatural power" is to implicitly deny the universality and constancy of natural laws. New knowledge developed by Science, imparts to us liberty, but not license; and, so far from diminishing the freedom of the will, increases it by showing us what conditions we must fulfil and obey in order to effect our objects. We acquire power by being first obedient; and this is in accordance with the principles and facts of science; we must obey nature before we can make nature obey us; the elementary bodies, also, usually acquire the free state, latent power, and the ability to evolve heat and electric energy, only by being first subjected in their crude state to a process of reduction and purification. {137} Few circumstances connected with the discovery of new truths of science, have had a greater moral effect, than the very high degree of certainty of such truths. The moral result of this is a corresponding degree of confidence in the statements of science. Trustworthiness is a great moral quality. Uncertainty is a continual hindrance to action and enjoyment; and many persons are driven to believe in error, and hence to commit sin, rather than remain in suspense. Contradictions of doctrine, and the consequent uncertainty of belief, in any subject, are fertile sources of strife. Science consists, not merely of opinions and words, but also of the tangible realities which those opinions and words represent, the forces, substances and phenomena of the material Universe. Some persons however fancy that the results of science are as uncertain as those of the undemonstrable subjects with which they are familiar. Another way in which science has contributed to moral progress, has been by requiring greater accuracy in nearly all human actions, and thereby diffusing greater exactitude of language and of conduct, which has spread itself throughout all civilised society. Previous to the use of watches and clocks, persons were no doubt much less exact in fulfilling their appointments; the establishment also in our chief towns, of electric time-keepers regulated from Greenwich Observatory, is increasing exactitude in our large communities. Since the introduction of railways, millions of persons have been compelled to be more {138} exact in their movements, by the risk they incur of missing their train. Numerous inventions and processes based upon scientific discoveries could not be worked at all unless men possessed habits of greater accuracy than formerly. Workmen now require higher moral and intellectual education, and their duties require more intelligence and involve greater responsibility. Science diminishes error, and the avoidance of error is a large step towards the attainment of truth. There is no tyranny equal to that of false ideas. Error often produces immoral acts, and every act of immorality is a mental error. "The ignorant justice-loving man, enamoured of the right, is blinded by the speciousness of wrong." "Inaccuracy of thought is the cause not only of the errors we meet with in the sciences, but also of the majority of the offences which are committed in civil life,--of unjust quarrels, unfounded law suits, rash counsel, and ill-arranged undertakings. There are few of those which have not their origin in some error, and in some fault of judgment, so that there is no defect which it more concerns us to correct."[17] Our senses and consciousness are often great deceivers, and unless corrected by sufficient knowledge, are frequently as great a source of error in moral questions as in mental ones.[18] Their incessant influence is a cause of selfishness, and of the fallacious tendency existing in nearly every man, to exaggerate the importance of himself and of everything relating to him. {139} It has led man to consider himself "the Lord of Creation";--to believe that his volitions are not subject to natural laws &c.:--and has given rise to the comparatively narrow-minded idea "the study of mankind is man." The fact that consciousness frequently misleads men of energetic temperament who feel their energy, indicates its connection with a physical basis. Consciousness is also an essential condition of what we term evil. If we define evil as that which produces pain or discomfort in sentient creatures, then evil is that influence only which unpleasantly affects consciousness. And if we admit this, then all evil is relative, and there is no absolute evil; because, if there were no sentient creatures, there would be no evil. It is manifest also, that if the existence of evil is dependent upon that of sentient creatures, and if the existence of such creatures depends upon physical conditions, and upon the operations of the great principles of science, then the existence of evil must itself depend to that extent upon those conditions and principles. What we term Evil, is caused, not only by the actions of man, but also on a large scale by the operation of the simplest forces of matter, in earth-quakes, storms, volcanic outbursts, droughts and famines, pestilences, etc. Evil (as well as good) may therefore be viewed as a result, to some extent, of the operation of the laws of the Universe; and here again we are compelled to recognise a scientific basis of morality. {140} That the same causes, acting under different conditions, produce different and even opposite effects, is a well-known scientific truth. The same heat of summer which causes our foods to decay, promotes the growth of plants in the soil; the same cold of winter which increases the pain of bronchial affections, and cuts short the lives of aged and infirm persons, acts as a stimulant and a source of pleasure to the young and healthy. We need not therefore be surprised, that the same physical conditions and principles of nature, act as causes or conditions both of what we term evil and what we term good. If, also the theory of relativity in physical and mental action is true, that change of impression is a necessary cause or condition of consciousness, and that previous experience of pain increases the perception of pleasure, we possess in that theory, as one of the general ideas of science, a partial basis of morality. All these remarks tend to shew, that in order to obtain a truly scientific view of the nature of man, and of man's position and duties in the Universe, we must avoid the errors caused by uncorrected consciousness. Another great moral effect of the continual discovery of new truth in science, is the gradual production and diffusion of uniformity of belief, first amongst scientific men, and then amongst the mass of mankind. This uniformity of belief is a necessary result of the invariability of fact and law; it does not extend to scientific opinions, hypotheses or theories, because they are not necessarily facts, and may be {141} erroneous. A knowledge of science tends to remove differences of opinion between man and man, because it enables every honest examiner to obtain essentially similar results. Scientific research will gradually disclose what is true and what is untrue in doctrine and empirical rules; and what is true will be retained. A universal religion or a scientific philosophy which is composed of contradictory creeds cannot be wholly true. Science is gradually superseding unreasonable beliefs, and inaugurating a true universal gospel in which all men will eventually think alike in fundamental matters. The continued discovery of new truth must of necessity sooner or later lead mankind to the source of all truth and to universal satisfaction and happiness. It has been frequently stated that science is antagonistic to religion; it is evident however that as science is so conducive to morality, it cannot be opposed to true religion, but only to false or unfounded beliefs. Nothing shews more plainly a weakness of moral confidence and a deficiency of faith in an over-ruling power, than a fear that the pursuit of scientific truth will lead to results injurious to mankind. What we most need to fear is, not that our most cherished doctrinal beliefs may be proved to be mistakes, but that we through deficiency of knowledge may be led to do wrong. There are plenty of questions, especially in matters of theory and doctrine in concrete subjects, which science cannot directly and absolutely decide either one way or the other, but respecting which, by the {142} aid of new knowledge and of inference based upon it, science gradually accumulates so large a preponderence of evidence as conclusively settles them to the conviction of every unprejudiced and reasonable person. Many of the most deeply interesting questions in mental science and morality are of this kind; and will probably be settled in this manner. It is well-known also to scientific men that the indirect conclusions of the intellect and reasoning power are often more certain than the direct evidence of the senses and consciousness; we are more certain for instance that the Earth is a sphere than that it is a plane, although the former conclusion is arrived at largely by inference, whilst the latter is the direct testimony of uneducated consciousness. Whilst our senses and consciousness inform us that the Earth is a fixed body, inference proves to us that it is rushing through space at an immense velocity. Sense and consciousness are not intellect, although they are often treated as such. Their functions are to perceive and observe, to act as witnesses, to supply evidence to the judgment, and not to usurp the reasoning power. Even the universal consciousness of all mankind is insufficient to overthrow the final decisions of the intellect, or to decide what is true or false, because the senses and consciousness cannot compare or infer. As it is the force and repitition, and not the truthfulness of mental impressions, which largely determines belief, we are capable of believing error as well as truth, and we believe much that is erroneous until the {143} corrections of the intellect are applied to the evidence of the senses and feelings. The correctness or otherwise of our present beliefs will be tested in the future as others have been in the past, and the new experiences requisite for the purpose will probably be obtained by means of original research. It is a great mistake to suppose that the warrantable inferences deduced from scientific knowledge will not sooner or later profoundly influence questions relating to the highest hopes and aspirations of the human race, such as the independent existence and immortality of the human soul; that of a personal Ruler of the Universe; freedom of the will; the origin of evil; future reward and punishment; &c. By extension of knowledge a scientific system of morality will be formed. The great principles which govern the phenomena of all bodies are gradually being discovered, and when found we deductively apply them to ourselves, and thus arrive at a knowledge of our true position in nature, our duties, our proper course of conduct, &c. Science also by disclosing to us the true relations of matter to mind in the human brain, will probably not only make known to us the true limits of our mental powers and of the knowable, but also help to solve the problems of the relations of the Universe and of Man to an intelligent Creator. It will decide such questions, largely by shewing us whether or not the ideas we entertain respecting them are consistent with the more extensive knowledge evolved by research. A part of the data from which we may {144} safely predict that science will in the future exercise so great a moral influence over mankind, is the fact that its chief principles are fundamental guides and regulators of human action. Probably nothing has a greater effect in making a man humble and reverent than a thorough knowledge of science. By the inventions of the telescope, microscope, spectroscope, telegraph, microphone, telephone, &c., the extremely finite extent of all our faculties has been abundantly demonstrated. Whilst the wonders of the telescope have developed an intelligent sentiment of reverence, by revealing to us a portion of the vast amount of the Universe of matter and energy, those of the microscope have strengthened that sentiment by affording us an insight into the almost endless complexity of minute creatures, substances and actions. Whilst also these and other scientific instruments and appliances have proved the excessively limited extent of our senses; the inscrutable character and immense number and variety of problems of nature yet unsolved, equally demonstrate the extreme feebleness of our mental powers. To obtain an accurate acquaintance with science also, and especially to discover new scientific truths, it is absolutely necessary to set aside human pride, and approach the subject like a little child; no other course is possible. A knowledge of geology and astronomy also makes a man humble and reverent. The fact that this globe must have existed myriads of years; and is always moving at the immense velocity of more than 62,000 {145} miles an hour in its orbit, is sufficient to convince any unprejudiced person of his own transient physical existence and his comparative physical feebleness and insignificance. Hitherto, man has largely been accustomed, through the influence of uncorrected impressions and other causes, to view all nature as having been expressly provided for him, but science informs us that whilst this Earth is suitable for his abode, and Nature ministers to his necessities and pleasures, it is only on condition that he first obeys the great laws of matter and energy, and adapts himself to their requirements. The operation of those laws often ruthlessly destroys thousands of men by pestilence, famine, drought, and other great calamities, and man can do nothing which is incompatible with them without suffering a penalty. Science shews that man is but one out of at least 320,000 different species of animals; it also discloses the fact that the entire human population of this globe constitute only about one 50,575,785 millionth part of the Earth, and proves to us that the Earth itself is but a speck in the Universe, one out of at least 75 millions of worlds; and that not only is it merely a planet revolving round the Sun, but that the Sun is only one of a multitude of Suns, and is itself, with all its planets, revolving round a still more distant centre in space. There is scarcely a faculty man possesses, which is not immeasurably limited in comparison with the powers and capabilities of inanimate nature. His physical energy, when compared with that of the {146} momentum of this Earth, is so exceedingly small that it can hardly be conveyed to our minds by means of figures; even the steam engine, excessively wasteful as it is of power, far surpasses him in strength. The duration of his existence is to that of the world he inhabits, as nothing to infinity. His power and speed of locomotion are also very limited; the globe to which he is fixed by gravity, moves in one hour through a distance greater than he could walk in twenty years. Practically, by circumstances, he is almost rooted like a vegetable to the locality where he exists; comparatively few men have walked even a hundred miles from their homes, or have been conveyed round this little globe by the aid of all our improved means of transport. A balloon can ascend in the air, but a man cannot; without the aid of that apparatus he is absolutely fixed to the surface of the Earth, and with the assistance of all the appliances of science, he cannot yet ascend even ten miles into the atmosphere, nor dive more than a few fathoms into the sea. His senses are equally contracted; his perceptions of touch and sound are far less delicate than that of the microphone; a photographic surface will detect vibrations of light which he cannot at all perceive, and record images more quickly than his brain; and for the detection of magnetism and the chemical rays of light he possesses no sense whatever:--electrometers and galvanometers can detect thousands of times smaller quantities of electricity than he can perceive:--whilst a bolometer renders manifest a one {147} hundred-thousandth of a Centigrade degree change of temperature, he can hardly detect a difference of an entire degree; and whilst carbon and platinum may be heated to whiteness without material change, a rise or fall of about five Fahrenheit degrees in his temperature endangers his life. His mental and intellectual powers are as limited as his senses; he can hardly reckon without making an error even a single million, nor can he conceive an adequate idea of a billion; a million miles or a millionth of an inch are each quite beyond his immediate perception; an extremely minute circumstance also is capable of disturbing and entirely diverting his train of thought. He cannot create or destroy even a particle of dust, nor form out of nothing a single idea. The velocity of transmission of his nervous power, and the speed of his execution of will, are also extremely slow in comparison with that of an electric current in a copper wire. Every person is aware that he can only very slowly receive and understand a new idea. His mental advance is as tardy as his locomotion, a sixth part of his life is spent in acquiring the merest rudiments of universal knowledge. Whilst his reasoning power, when applied to actual and truthfully stated experience, is truly "the great guide" of his life, it only renders explicit what was already contained in that experience; for when he draws an inference, he usually only states in one form of words, what he has already implicitly included in the propositions; and if the inference contains more than this it is {148} unwarranted. His mental helplessness in the absence of knowledge, is equal to his physical incapacity in the absence of light. Nearly every problem of nature also is so complex, and affected by so many conditions, that his reasoning power only enables him to advance a very minute step at a time in the discovery of new knowledge; he is then obliged to halt, and have recourse to new experiences obtained either by means of experiment and observation, or by the latter alone. Man's moral actions are largely the effect of circumstances; his thoughts and actions are probably the whole of them limited by law. He is never free from the influence of causation. His mental and moral freedom are limited by the epoch in which he lives, by the customs of his nation, by the individuals by whom he is immediately surrounded, by the alcoholic stimulants of which he partakes, and by his own physical and mental constitution, his degree of intelligence, &c., &c. Whether he is willing or not, he is incessantly compelled to receive sensuous and mental impressions, and be influenced by an almost infinite number and variety of agencies acting upon him both from within and without:--To be mentally and physically active, and perform all the bodily functions and acts necessary to his existence:--To live on this globe in presence of all its phenomena, and be carried through space at an immense velocity:--To undergo through a long series of generations a progressive existence and development of civilization, &c., &c. {149} He is more subject to the laws of the Universe than those laws are subject to him; and he can only exercise his will successfully and become their master by first obeying them. Under the influence of the light and heat of the Sun, the entire population of this planet (about fifteen hundred millions) are renewed out of the crust of the Earth every few years, by breathing the air, drinking the water, feeding upon plants which take their constituents from the Earth, water and air; or by eating animals which have lived upon plants; and if that heat and light, or that supply of food and air, were to cease, all those human beings would die, and all the moral phenomena of man on this globe would terminate. Whilst man cannot exist without the support of inanimate nature and the operation of its laws, inanimate nature and its laws can exist without him. That also which is naturally ordained by Creative power to be dependent, cannot be essentially more important than that upon which it depends for its existence. The essential importance of man in relation to the Universe, exists only in his own imagination. These facts shew that the principles of science, and the physical and chemical properties of substances, lie at the very basis of man's existence and activity and it would therefore be incorrect to say that the physical system of the Universe is unimportant in comparison with the moral phenomena of mankind. That science conduces to humanity by preventing {150} and alleviating animal suffering has been already alluded to (p. 80-81). True humanity consists not in the abolition of experiments upon living creatures, but in the judicious employment of them. Instead of barbarously treating our suffering fellow creatures by indolently and ignorantly allowing causes of disease and pain to continually occur and take their course, it urgently enforces upon us the duty of extending our knowledge of physiology by means of new experiments, observations and study. It would be untruthful to say that experiments purposely made upon men and other animals do not yield new and valuable information;--Pharmacopoeias and Materia-Medicæs are full of descriptions of the properties of curative agents discovered by these and other scientific methods. Amongst the lesser virtues which have been greatly promoted by means of scientific research is that of cleanliness. The origin of soap was the discovery of the detergent properties of a boiled mixture of fat and alkali. The numerous inventions which have cheapened the most important soap-producing material, viz., washing soda, and those which have cheapened oil of vitriol, the chief substance consumed in making washing-soda, have all contributed to the cleanliness of mankind; and it has been stated that the degree of civilization of a nation might be ascertained by the amounts consumed of those substances. Even the minor virtue of economy has been greatly promoted by the results of scientific research. New {151} scientific truth has through inventions taught us how to obtain greater effects with less expenditure of space, of time, of materials, and forces. It has enabled us to effect our objects quicker and with a diminution of waste. In the sugar manufacture for example, by means of the centrifugal machine, the sugar is deprived as perfectly of molasses in three minutes, as it was previously in three days, and the necessary manufacturing apparatus has been so much reduced in magnitude as not to require more than one half the space. The process of bleaching linen, which formerly required weeks, has by the discovery of chlorine been reduced to hours. Journeys which at one time occupied weeks now only require days. Messages are now transmitted in hours which formerly required months. Multitudes of instances might be adduced of the diminished cost of the comforts and conveniences of life, resulting in consequence of discovery of new scientific knowledge. Ultramarine for example, which at one time cost from ten to twenty pounds an ounce, has by means of chemical research been reduced in price to a few pence per pound; phosphorus, which formerly cost several guineas an ounce, now costs only as many pence. Numerous substances which were formerly thrown away, destroyed, or neglected, are now utilized. Coal tar and gas-water, which were at one time waste products in the making of gas, and which when thrown away were the causes of costly litigation to gas-companies, by polluting streams and wells, &c., {152} are now sources of very large income to those companies. Those substances yield great quantities of salts of ammonia, the beautiful aniline dyes, paraffin, benzene, napthaline, alizarine, and other valuable products. Glycerine also, which formerly was a most offensive waste product in soap-making, is now purified and used, to an extent of twenty millions of pounds annually, for a great number of purposes; as an emollient for the skin; as a source of nitro-glycerine and dynamite, used in blasting rocks, in warfare, &c. The immense beds of native sulphide of iron also, notably those of Tharsis and Rio Tinto in Spain, and of many other places, are now utilized, literally in millions of tons, for the production of sulphur, copper, oxide of iron, &c. A long list of instances of this class might be adduced if it were necessary, some of them of very great importance.[19] The promotion of morality by enabling us to detect crime, is one of the smaller influences of scientific research, and may be referred to as a set-off against the bad uses sometimes made of scientific knowledge. The telegraph is very commonly employed to assist in tracking and capturing criminals. Photography is also largely used in our gaols as a means of recognising offenders. Knowledge of science conduces also to self-discipline and self-mastery, it tends to bridle our vicious passions by making known to us the penalties which must be paid for their indulgence; it limits our self-will by shewing us that we must respect and obey the {153} laws of nature whether we are willing or not, no man can improperly manipulate dangerous substances or forces with impunity; it moderates our bigotry by exhibiting to us the great uncertainty of unproved opinions; it restrains undue credulity in men's assertions, by shewing us their frequent fallacy; it gives us confidence in the laws of nature, by proving to us their uniformity; it withdraws us from self-deception by compelling us to accept the truths of nature as they exist ready made for us, whether they harmonise with our preconceived ideas or not; men cannot argue with nature, as they can with their fellow-men, but must submit to the influence of verified truth. It supplies us with principles instead of empirical "rule of thumb" methods as guides of morality. Whilst it liberates us from the terror of irrational fears, it cautions us against entertaining unreasonable hopes. It substitutes for ignorant wonder and awe, an intelligent appreciation of created things; and when fully developed it will probably satisfy all the reasonable instincts and desires of men. Whilst law, medicine and divinity, direct man's attention almost exclusively to matters concerning himself, and thus tend to limit his sphere of perception and knowledge, and unconsciously impress him with the idea that all other existences are less important than himself, science not only enlightens him respecting all the departments of his own nature, but extends his mental vision in all directions by exciting his mind to observe and reflect upon all other bodies {154} and actions throughout the Universe. Whilst also music, painting, sculpture, poetry and the drama, afford excitement and pleasure to his senses, feelings and sentiments, and are largely personal; science not only constitutes the basis of those arts, but shews the relations of them to Man and to the external Universe, and thus more largely cultivates the intellect and corrects and refines the senses, feelings and sentiments. New scientific knowledge affords advantages to all classes of men; to the minister of religion, by supplying him with new illustrations of Creative power, in the greatness, smallness, and vast variety of nature; to the physician, by explaining to him more perfectly the structure and phenomena of the human body, and by providing him with new remedies; to the statesman and politician, by making known to him the great and increasing relations of science to national progress, by its influence upon wages, capital, the employment of workmen, the art of war, the means of communication with foreign countries, &c.; to the philanthropist, as an endless source of employment for poor persons, by the development of new discoveries, inventions, and improvements in arts and manufactories; to the military man, by affording him new engines and materials for warfare and defence; to the inventor, by supplying him with new discoveries upon which to found inventions; to the merchant and man of trade, by the influence of new products and processes upon the prices of his commodities; to the manufacturer, as a means of improving his materials, {155} apparatus, and processes; and to the investor of money, by assisting him to judge what new technical schemes are likely to succeed. As the domain of rational enjoyment afforded by means of science gradually enlarges, that derivable from less intellectual sources will probably be modified; indeed this change is already progressing, and is manifested in the alterations occurring in theological views, and in the extensive adoption of scientific entertainments by religious bodies. The recognition of science by professors of religion is also shewn by the already extensive use of railways on Sundays as a means of conveyance to churches and chapels; also by the publication by the Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge, of Manuals of Electricity, Astronomy, Botany, Chemistry, Crystallography, Geology, Physiology, Zoology, Matter and Motion, the Spectroscope, &c. Having shewn some of the chief modes in which new scientific truth is a basis of mental and moral progress, it is not necessary to say much respecting the evil uses sometimes made of science, because every good thing is liable to be abused by ignorant or ill-intentioned persons. The abuses of scientific knowledge do not arise from the true spirit of research, viz., a desire for new knowledge on account of its intrinsic goodness and value to man, but from an absence of that sentiment. The Bremerhaven explosion, the assassination of the Czar, the uses of photography to forge letters of credit, and of the {156} telegraph in swindling operations, the employment of electro-gilding and silvering in coining base money, &c., &c., are all attributable to motives other than a love of science. All the facts mentioned in this chapter, and the various points of essential similarity between physical, physiological, and mental phenomena, justify the conclusion that both moral and other mental actions, like physical and chemical ones, are obedient to the great principles of science. And from the evidence here adduced and alluded to, it is certain that those principles influence human progress, not only in a few conspicuous direct ways, but in a multitude of varied, deep-seated, and indirect ones. If the statements made in this Chapter are true, that the innate properties of matter really are motive powers of the human organism, and the principles of science are regulators of mental and moral action; that Man is a feeble epitome of the principles and powers of inorganic matter; that the laws of Nature operate in utter disregard of his erroneous beliefs; that nearly all man's sins and sufferings are traceable to his ignorance and limited powers; that in proportion to his ignorance of science so is he unable to foresee the more remote consequences of his thoughts and acts; and if new knowledge does correct erroneous beliefs and purify human thought and action, it behoves teachers of morality to make themselves adequately acquainted with the principles and newest developments of science. * * * * * {157} CHAPTER III. ------ NEW TRUTH, AND ITS GENERAL RELATION TO HUMAN PROGRESS. The great source of the success of applying science to trade, and of the beneficent effect of science upon human welfare in general, is simply the influence of demonstrable truth. We know that if we have once discovered all the principles, laws, and conditions of some scientific phenomenon, or of some improved process or result in a manufacture, the reproduction of exactly the same conditions will hereafter enable us to invariably produce the same result. In this respect science differs from dogma, the truth or falsity of which cannot be demonstrated; it also differs from empiricism, because when empirically working a process we are ignorant of the principles or laws which are operating, whilst with a scientific knowledge we understand those laws, and can direct them to our particular purposes. In the process of electro-plating for example, we understand the laws of the phenomena, and can direct them so as to obtain silver of a hard or soft quality, brittle or tough, crystalline silver, &c., according to our wish; but if we had only an empirical knowledge of the subject we could not thus vary the process. {158} The highest test of truth is verified prediction; if we calculate beforehand that an eclipse of the Sun will occur at a certain hour and minute, and that eclipse occurs accurately at the predicted moment, we may rest assured that our knowledge upon that point is true and complete. If we say that a piece of clean iron, immersed in a solution of blue vitriol, will become covered with a layer of metallic copper, and we find upon trial that this result invariably occurs when we fulfil those conditions, we may be certain that our knowledge of this phenomenon and its conditions is also of a definite and certain character. Similarly, when we become able to predict with certainty the conditions of the Sun's surface, we shall probably also be able to predict severe winters, famines, &c., and therefore be prepared to suggest precautions to be taken against them. Even now the new truth necessary for this purpose is beginning to be evolved by means of scientific research.[20] Amongst the great axioms and principles of science, possessing great certainty, and which enable us to predict, are, _1st._ the general truth known as the Principle of Causation, that every effect has a cause; that the same cause, acting under the same conditions, always produces the same effect; and that causation acts through all time and all space:--_2nd._ the great truth, that every phenomenon requires time; and every substance occupies space:--_3rd._ the Principles of Conservation and Persistency of Matter {159} and Energy; that out of nothing, nothing comes; and out of everything, everything proceeds; that all the future states of the Universe are implicitly contained in and will be evolved out of the present state of the Universe; that we have no experience and possess no verified knowledge either of creation or annihilation of Matter or Energy; that we cannot absolutely create or destroy even an idea;[21] and that Matter and Energy appear to be eternal:--_4th._ the Principle of Convertibility and Equivalency of the different forms of Energy, according to which the various forces known as mechanical power, heat, light, electricity, magnetism, chemical action, &c., being modes of motion, are convertible into each other in equivalent quantities and without addition or loss. These and other great principles constitute the basis of physical and chemical science, by obeying which, we have been enabled to evolve all the wonderful practical realities of science of the present day.[22] To these great principles may be added the more concrete truth called the "Law of Progress," the essential idea of which is time, a time-rate; which regulates the speed of increase of civilization, and is evidently connected with the great truth that every phenomenon occupies time. The Principle of Gravitation, demonstrated by Newton, explains a vast number of facts relating to the motions of the Heavenly bodies:--the {160} Undulatory Theory of Light, largely developed by the labours of Fresnel, renders equally clear and systematic an almost endless number and variety of optical phenomena; Oersted's law of Electro-magnetism similarly explains and renders consistent a multitude of facts respecting the movements of magnets and electric conductors, which would otherwise be confusing to remember and impossible to satisfactorily explain. And the great mental value of these comprehensive ideas to mankind, consists largely in relieving the memory and diminishing mental confusion, by co-ordinating a large number of different facts and apparently inconsistent phenomena by means of a general conception which embraces the whole of them. Thus a knowledge of the Principle of Gravitation informs us that both the ascent of a balloon in the air, and the descent of a stone in water, are alike due to the same force of gravity; and that of Chemical Affinity proves to us that the apparently unlike phenomena of slow rusting of iron and vivid combustion of phosphorus are essentially alike and due to the same cause. All bodies, whether living or dead, and all forms of energy, appear to be absolutely subject to the great laws of Causation, Progress, Conservation, &c., no one can escape them; the man who transgresses the Law of Progress by being too much in advance of his epoch, is punished as certainly as he who lags behind it; all must advance together, and at approximately the prescribed rates. {161} The real source of all that is good in new scientific knowledge arises from its verified and verifiable character, its high degree of certainty, and its capacity of withstanding all the tests which can be applied to it. By the term "scientific knowledge" in this case I mean that only that which has been verified, and I purposely exclude all matters of hypothesis, mere opinion or belief. Scientific research is the chief basis of national progress, not only because it is continually disclosing new truths to us, but also because the truths it reveals are frequently of the most definite kind. As the term "verified truth" may appear vague, the questions may well be asked, what is truth? And how may we best detect it? And especially what is new truth? and how may it best be recognised? Truth may be conveniently defined as universal consistency; or that which perfectly conforms to facts, and agrees with the widest experience, when tested by means of all our intellectual powers, the reasoning faculty in particular. The usual modern criterion of it, is consistency with the fundamental axioms of logic, and with all the great principles of nature as established by means of scientific research, such as the universality of causation, the continuity of phenomena, the indestructibility of matter and energy, the convertibility and equivalency of forces, &c. All truth whatever is one in character by possessing the inseparable attribute of complete consistency. The truthfulness of scientific knowledge is proved by its agreement with universal experience and with the {162} fundamental logical axioms:--a thing either is or is not:--a thing cannot both be and not be:--a thing must either be or not be:--things equal to the same are equal to each other; &c. It is chiefly by means of knowledge of these axioms and of the above principles of science, and of their varied and numerous modes of operation and application, that the man of science "explains" the multitudinous phenomena of nature, predicts future events, and is enabled to discover new truths and develope new inventions in the arts. Unlike other persons; when he sees a new effect, or hears of a new phenomenon, he at once refers it to these principles, in order to test its correctness or to explain it. With regard to the detection of truth, that is often a difficult and complex process. There exists no royal or easy method; usually it can only be recognised by means of laborious and critical examination of the whole of the evidence obtainable in the case; and even then we are often obliged to be satisfied with only an approximation, or it may be with even a mere probability. Frequently also the truthfulness or otherwise of a statement cannot be decided in any degree in consequence of the absence of suitable or sufficient evidence, and for that we may have to wait for ages. We are now waiting for evidence necessary to decide many questions respecting the human mind. With regard to the question, what is new truth?; that also is a difficult one to solve. The forms in which different truths appear are so various, and those {163} also in which even the same truth may shew itself are so diverse, that it is often impossible to discriminate new truth from old ideas clothed in a new form of words. The newness of an idea is entirely a question of evidence, and to determine it, usually requires a complete knowledge of all the circumstances affecting the particular case. New truth appears to be usually derived from new physical or mental experiences of phenomena external to our perceiving faculty; either by observing matter or its forces under new conditions or from a new aspect; and the knowledge comes to us either through the avenues of our feelings and senses, or by means of direct observations, by comparison of such impressions, or by inferences drawn from them. From the results of such mental operations, additional new truths are evolved by the more complex process of analysis, combination and permutation of ideas. New truths are also evolved from old ones by each of these latter methods; but sooner or later the implicit contents of our stock of old knowledge becomes exhausted when used for such a purpose, and we are then obliged to seek new experience. As new truths may be acquired in the more direct manner, by acquisition of new experience; and less directly, by mental operations upon old ideas, other subjects of less fundamental and more concrete nature than the simple sciences, such as sociology, &c., are also sources of progress, when treated in these ways. {164} Of all subjects, the simple sciences of physics and chemistry, are at the present time, apparently making the most rapid advance, and the chief reasons for this probably are, _1st._ they treat of facts and principles which can be verified, and _2nd._ because the more complex sciences, together with the arts and manufactures based upon them, can only improve in proportion as they are developed. All the essentially human subjects, such as sociology, politics, morality, religious worship, &c., are in this position, and are probably results partly of the operation of the great principles of nature acting through the body and mind of man. The chief method of discovering new truth is that of observation, experiment, and study, and further mental treatment of the results. The most systematic methods also of evolving new truths are those employed by scientific men in making discoveries, and when any person arrives at a new idea, he usually (either consciously or unconsciously) employs them. The acquisition of new knowledge must of necessity precede its diffusion. Immediately a new truth, especially an important one, is discovered, its influence begins to permeate the existing mass of knowledge in various directions, causing us to view many of our old ideas in a new aspect; giving rise also by comparison and inference, and by processes of combination, permutation and analysis of ideas, to a multitude of other new truths, usually less important ones, which themselves also affect previous knowledge in similar ways, {165} and by analogous treatment give rise to additional new conceptions. But although we evolve truthful new conceptions from previous ones by these purely mental methods, there is a limit to the number capable of being evolved from a limited stock of ideas, because the number of combinations and permutations of such a stock, though usually large, are themselves limited. The number however is large in proportion to the degree of essential importance of the ideas, and is greatest when we employ those of the fundamental principles of nature, already referred to; for instance a greater number of new ideas have been evolved by means of appropriate mental processes from the law of gravitation and from that of electro-magnetism than from any minor truth in science. Persons therefore who are the least familiar with great demonstrable principles are usually the least able to conceive new truthful ideas of intrinsic importance, or to draw new verifiable inferences of much theoretical value. Every inventor and student knows that he continually requires new materials of thought, and if he does not obtain them, an obstacle, like a wall of adamant, rises before his mind in all directions, and prevents his forming new ideas. That also which is true of each individual is true of the collection of individuals, mankind; if new truths are not obtained, the thoughts of men flow in circles, and mental progress ceases. The mental characteristics of sequestered communities in remote isolated districts, are examples of this {166} fact. The influence of printing, railways, telegraphs, postal communication and other scientific developments, in aiding mental progress, afford other illustrations. A multitude of facts of this kind, and many others, leads us to the conclusion that each new idea requires a cause to produce it, and that human knowledge is subject to the great law of causation; also that the creation of an idea out of nothing would be a miracle, a phenomenon without a cause. Our present knowledge was not created by us, but was originated by previous knowledge and experience, including of course inherited impressions. Even in what is termed the "noblest effort of the mind," an act of reasoning or inference, we do not create an idea, but only render explicit in a new form of words, ideas already implicitly contained in the words of the propositions employed, as may easily be rendered manifest by mechanical means in Jevons's "Logical Machine;" a proper inference never contains more than its data. In the so-called "creation" of ideas by the imagination also, the new ideas are evolved from old ones, and rendered explicit by mental processes of analysis, combination, permutation, &c. Our scientific inventions also, being mental conceptions, an unlimited number of them cannot be made by means of a limited stock of old knowledge. It was in consequence of this limit, viz., the impossibility of actually creating ideas out of nothing, that human knowledge was not more advanced by metaphysical speculations until science with its experiments and {167} observations came to its assistance. These various facts prove the statement made in the Preface of this book, that present knowledge only enables mankind to maintain its present state. Not only the mental, but also the physical advance of mankind is essentially dependent upon the discovery of new truths. Men's physical actions are determined not alone by their inherited and acquired tendencies and the influence of external nature upon them, but also by their ideas; as a man thinks, so also to a large extent does he act. Nations who do not adopt new ideas do not either mentally or physically advance, but change only so far as their immediate surroundings change; the Chinese are a remarkable example of this; even the tendencies which men inherit, were largely produced in their ancestors by the influence of ideas. The great fact of the essential dependence of human progress upon new knowledge, is a truth, the importance of which to man cannot be over-estimated, and is one which statesmen, ministers of religion, and philanthropists should seriously study. Much of the apparent advance of this nation however is not real. The great bulk of our newly published knowledge, even that which is scientific, and considered by the public to be new, consists, not of new truths, but of old ones dressed in new forms of expression:-- "The tale repeated o'er and o'er, With change of place and change of name. Disguised, transformed, and yet the same We've heard a hundred times before."--_Longfellow._ {168} It falls to the lot of but comparatively few men to discover or evolve important new truths. The great majority of learned men also, have through all historic time been occupied, and are still, not in evolving new ideas, but in re-expressing old ones in different forms of words; the literary spirit, is in civilised nations, almost universal. In ordinary writings it is a rare circumstance to meet with an important and really new idea; it is usually in books written by men who are acquainted or imbued with the great principles and truths of science, that the newest demonstrable ideas are most frequently found. The difference between evolving new ideas, and re-expressing and permutating old ones; largely characterises the dissimilarity of the scientific and the literary and theological minds. All however are necessary to the welfare of mankind, the former to advance and the other to maintain the condition of man. If all were not necessary they would probably not exist. There are two great artificial divisions of scientific knowledge also, upon the development of which national progress largely depends, viz., knowledge of inanimate matter and knowledge of man; the latter we have largely cultivated but the former we have greatly neglected:--and even our study of man has been largely one-sided and literary. It is far less important to know what is man, than to know what are the great principles which underlie the actions of all living creatures, and in obedience to which man is compelled to work out his destiny in the Universe and the infinite future. {169} It is evident from this, that much of the mental activity around us is not progress, but rather a process of maintaining present state, a prevention of decline, a continually going round and round in conventional varied step, a kind of intellectual mill. Under these circumstances it is not the original discoverer, but he who in this occupation, can best express old ideas, in the most varied forms and choicest language, who is most generally considered to be the greatest intellectual chief. Although originality even in literature and art is very imperfectly encouraged in this country, both art and literature are much more readily understood and appreciated than scientific research, and treated as if they were more important. Whilst most persons can understand and appreciate the gift of a work of art to a public art collection, few can understand or properly value the discovery and gift of a new scientific truth of far greater intrinsic value to the public stock of knowledge; the treatment received by Priestley and other discoverers in comparison with that of local donors, sufficiently illustrates this. Even publishers of lucrative newspapers prefer to give prizes and pay liberally for sensational tales, than to pay for articles on the public advantages of new scientific knowledge. * * * * * {170} CHAPTER IV. ------ THE PROMOTION OF SCIENTIFIC RESEARCH. Nearly the whole of the most distinguished mathematicians, physicists, chemists, biologists, and physiologists of Great Britain, also the Earl of Derby, the Marquis of Salisbury, Sir Stafford Northcote and many other eminent men, have given evidence before the Royal Commissioners on "Scientific Instruction and the Advancement of Science"[23] to the following effect:--_1st._ That the promotion of original scientific research is neglected in this country. _2nd._ That such research is encouraged more by the State in Germany than here. And _3rd_. That much greater encouragement of it by our Government, by the Universities and the Public, is highly necessary to our commercial prosperity. They have also stated in evidence their opinions as to the best ways in which they consider it may be assisted. The additional fact that all the greatest scientific men who have ever existed have pursued research, and sacrificed much for it, is a practical proof that they also approved of its encouragement. That research should be promoted is further the opinion of many men learned in politics, literature, art, and science. The views expressed in numerous letters on the subject, received by me from Members {171} of the Privy Council, and of both Houses of Parliament, and from other eminent persons, confirm this. It has also been adopted as a chief part of the programme of the "Association for the Organization of Academical Study."[24] "M. de Candolle, Corresponding Member of the Academy of Science, Paris, is a strong advocate for the encouragement of a class of sinecurists like the non-working Fellows of our Colleges, who should have leisure to investigate and not be pestered by the petty mechanical work of continued teaching and examining." "The modern ideas of democracy are adverse to places to which definite work is not attached, and from which definite results do not flow. This principle is a wise one for the mass of mankind; but is utterly misplaced when applied to those who have the zeal for investigation, and who work best when left quite alone." The correctness of the principle of promoting research is also recognised by our Governments in their yearly grants of money to the Royal Society, and to the Royal Irish Academy[25] to aid research, also by the Council of the Chemical Society, which has established a fund for the same purpose; and by the British Association in their annual grants for the promotion of scientific enquiry. The Fishmonger's Company also presented to Mr. W. R. Parker, F.R.S., the sum of £50, followed by an annual gift of £20 for {172} the three years, to assist him in bearing the expenses of his researches on the skulls of vertebrate animals. And the British Pharmaceutical Conference voted the sum of £80 from the Bell and Hills fund, during the period of three years, in aid of research in connection with pharmaceutical science. A small fund for the purpose of research exists also at the Royal Institution. Fellowships also with a similar object have been founded at the Victoria University. Dr. Priestley also was aided in his researches by contributions from a small circle of friends. In recognition of the same principle, nearly all of the most eminent scientific men on the Continent have been assisted by their respective Governments. The total amount of aid to research in this country is however very small, and to one acquainted with the great commercial and other any valuable results of such labour, it is simply astounding that we have not systematically organized a powerful means of promoting discovery. A few scientific persons however still continue to oppose aid to research; quite recently, scientific investigators have been spoken of as a class of "men amusing themselves without any result whatever."[26] That idea however abundantly refuted in the foregoing pages. It has also been remarked[27] that "practically, endowment of research comes to the creation of positions where there is payment without corresponding labour." "In England above all countries in the world, there will always be plenty of {173} amateurs ready and willing to assist in research, and it is notorious that in England, almost without exception, all the great advances in science have been made by such amateurs. Therefore I do not think it at all desirable that the British tax-payer should be required to put his hand in his pocket to provide salaries for gentlemen who might be working rightly or wrongly. He could not control them, and while there are such a body of amateurs in the country, I think the researches may be very well left to them." The first of these statements is not correct; the endowment of research does not amount to "payment without corresponding labour." Scientific discoverers have always been distinguished as a body of men intensely devoted to their labours, and willing to perform much work for small payment. Most of the great advances in science also in England, have been made not by "amateurs," but by men of great experience, such as Newton, Herschel, Priestley, Davy, Faraday, Graham, and many others. Endowment of research is not desired for wealthy amateurs, but for investigators of proved ability and small pecuniary means and who require assistance. Such men, although not infallible, are the least likely to "work wrongly," and much less likely to do so than amateurs. Many scientific investigators also of repute, object to give their services wholly to a wealthy nation, because they cannot afford to do so, and because it is only just that the nation should make them some pecuniary return for their skill and labour. The great evils {174} in this country requiring new knowledge to remedy them[28] also prove that there are not "plenty of amateurs ready and willing to assist in research here," or that "the researches may be very well left to them." Whilst some investigators have had abundant means to carry on research, and have excelled in that occupation, many of the most eminent have been persons of limited circumstances; and their insufficient pecuniary means has often restricted their degree of success. The argument also that insufficiency of means stimulates research, is only employed by persons who are not making investigations under such a condition. The President of the Royal Society, Dr. Spottiswoode, in his recent address[29] also remarked:--"The question has been raised whether it be wise, even in the interests of science, to encourage any one not yet of independent income, to interrupt the main business of his life. It is too often assumed that a profession or a business may be worked at half speed, or may be laid down and taken up again, whenever we like. But this is not so, and a profession temporarily, or even partially laid aside, may prove irrecoverable, and the temptation to diverge from the dull and laborious path of business may prove to have been a snare." Each of these remarks appears to be made upon the assumption that it is still a doubtful question whether persons qualified for research should be encouraged or not to abandon occupations they reluctantly follow, and for which they are less fitted, in order to become scientific {175} discoverers. As it is a fact that the welfare of this country is suffering through deficiency of encouragement of research, it is certainly desirable to encourage, by every proper means, qualified persons to occupy themselves in such labour. Some of the greatest discoveries have been made by men "not yet of independent income," for instance, those made by Scheele, Priestley, Dalton, Faraday, W. Herschel, and many others. The late Astronomer Royal, also,[30] who has made many researches, and was a scientific official paid by the State, says:--"I think that successful researches have in nearly every instance originated with private persons, or with persons whose positions were so nearly private that the investigators acted under private influence, without incurring the danger attending connection with the State. Certainly I do not consider a Government is justified in endeavouring to force, at public expense, investigations of undefined character, and, at best, of doubtful utility; and I think it probable that any such attempt will lead to consequences disreputable to science. The very utmost, in my opinion, to which the State should be expected to contribute, is exhibited in the large grants intrusted to the Royal Society. The world, I think, is not unanimous in believing that they have been useful." He then enumerates what he considers "the proper foundations of claims upon the State," which he illustrates, and substantially includes in and {176} limits by, the kinds of scientific research done under his direction at the Royal Observatory. He further adds--"The Royal Observatory was founded expressly for a definite utilitarian purpose (the promotion of navigation) necessarily connected with the highest science. And this utilitarian purpose has been steadily kept in view for two centuries, and is now followed with greater vigour than ever before. To its original plan have also been added--but still in the utilitarian sense--the publication of time, the broader observation of terrestrial magnetism, and local meteorology." His views therefore appear to be, that State aid to research should be limited to utilitarian objects; and that it is with propriety given to his own department, which is connected with the State. It has however been abundantly proved that nearly all the great scientific utilities of every-day life, had their origin in the pursuit, not of utilities, but of pure truth, and that immediate usefulness is neither the most successful nor the highest motive in scientific research, nor should research be limited by so narrow a condition. The investigations also made by the aid of Government Grants possess the usual degree of definiteness and of utility of such labours, and it cannot be reasonably expected that the world would be unanimous respecting any measure, especially respecting a subject so little understood by the public as the Endowment of Research. If investigators were to limit their researches to utilities, or what appeared to be such, scarcely any {177} essentially new experiments or new discoveries of importance would be made. No attempts would be made to discover essentially novel facts, nor would many trials be made to test fundamental abstract questions which affect the very basis of scientific knowledge. The principles of electro-magnetism, of magneto-electric action, and of the magnetic rotation of polarized light, were each discovered by means of perfectly novel experiments, in which immediate utility was not the motive. It is worthy of notice that of the very small proportion of scientific investigators who disapprove of State aid to Research, nearly every one already possesses sufficient pecuniary means to carry on investigations, and therefore cannot adequately appreciate the position and necessities of investigators having only small incomes. In some cases also the objections to aid investigators come from scientific men who have attempted to make discoveries but have not succeeded. Dr. Robinson of Armagh, a well-known investigator, has very properly pointed out[31] what has been done in this country towards giving assistance to those engaged in the pursuit of science, and mentions the Observatories maintained by the Universities and by the Nation. He says also that if anything more were to be done in increasing the amount of grants of money to assist scientific work, he thinks "it might be best applied in establishing in the great commercial {178} centres of the realm, physical and chemical laboratories such as that which the Duke of Devonshire has established at Cambridge, provided with the most refined apparatus, and accessible to all who are considered privileged by a competent tribunal." He also says "when there is found a man so far surpassing his fellows in any department of science that he may be expected to do work beyond their power, he ought to be made independent of any other pursuit, so that none of his time and energy may be lost, such a case is exceptional, and when it occurs it should be exceptionally provided for." Original research will for a long time to come, be opposed by a large section of the non-scientific public:--by the numerous persons whose source of income depends upon the ignorance of their fellow-men:--by those who are deficient of faith in demonstrable truth, and fear that their most cherished beliefs are endangered by it:--and by many of those who are insufficiently acquainted with it to perceive its great value to mankind. With regard to the fears of many objectors that the Endowment of Research would lead to jobbery and abuses, and thus retard the progress of discovery instead of promoting it; it is evident that such a risk is an inseparable concomitant of every remunerated office and is not peculiar to that of research, and must therefore be accepted as unavoidable and be provided against in the usual ways. It does not however appear probable that the risk in this respect is at all greater {179} than that already existing and provided against in many other appointments. Many persons, not clearly perceiving the difference between pure research and other scientific occupations, suppose that because science is encouraged in various ways in this country; and because sums of money are occasionally given to scientific institutions, and some scientific men are evidently receiving good incomes, that discoverers are remunerated, but this is a great mistake; there is probably not a scientific man in the kingdom who is wholly employed in such work in abstract physics or chemistry, and paid for his entire skill, time, and labour. Wherever payment is made for scientific labour, it is nearly always for that performed with a view to some immediate practical application. Inventors and expositors are remunerated, but discoverers are not. At the present time in this country scientific men are paid for teaching, lecturing, writing popular scientific articles, compiling scientific books, editing scientific journals, making chemical analyses and experiments for manufacturers, companies, and others, for practical purposes, or to obtain evidence for legal cases, giving evidence on scientific subjects in courts of law, with consultations and advice to manufacturers and others, superintending scientific commercial undertakings, &c. Some also unfortunately obtain an income and cheap publicity by the empirical contrivance of selling to tradesmen, their scientific opinions in the form of testimonials which are extensively {180} advertised at the cost of the purchasers. But not one of these occupations constitutes pure research, or is an immediate source of new discoveries. Payment is made for all kinds of scientific labour which will immediately benefit individuals or corporations, but very little for pure investigation, and nearly every inducement exists to attract men of science from pursuing such labour. It might be supposed that investigators would patent or sell their discoveries; but discoveries in pure science cannot usually be patented or sold, because they have not been converted by invention into commercial commodities. New scientific truth is utterly unsaleable; no one will purchase it. Whilst the real or intrinsic value of it is great, its extrinsic value is small and is the sum of money it will sell for in the market. No one would have purchased Oersted's great discovery of electro-magnetism. It would also be less to public advantage if investigators were to neglect discovering new knowledge in order to apply that knowledge to practical uses. It requires a different training of mental power to discover new truths, than to utilize them by means of invention, teaching or lecturing; and men who can invent and instruct are far more numerous than those who are able to discover. Discoveries are also generally much more valuable than inventions, because a single discovery (that of gutta percha for example) not unfrequently forms the basis of many inventions. Discoverers not unfrequently meet with new facts {181} which they perceive might be applied to valuable technical uses, but they hesitate to patent them because the process of invention, taking out a patent, seeking a manufacturer to work it, and protecting their patent from piracy, would occupy a large portion of their time, and take them away from research. Sir D. Brewster got no money by patenting his kaleidoscope because the patent was instantly pirated in all directions. Some persons have suggested that scientific men should keep their discoveries secret, but this would usually be a greater disadvantage to the investigator even than publishing them, and no one would then derive any benefit; discoveries also, being often capable of numerous applications, and not being in a saleable shape, cannot usually be monopolised by any one. New scientific knowledge is like a powerful light, it cannot be hidden. Discoveries are eminently national knowledge, and research should therefore be national employment. Other persons suppose that investigators should be satisfied with the fame of their discoveries, and not require any payment; but this is a most unfair supposition, because no man can live without means, and every useful person deserves to be paid for his labour. Ought the late Duke of Wellington to have been satisfied with the fame alone of his exploits, without being paid any salary? Ought a Bishop to be content with the renown of his eloquence, without receiving any payment for his services? Genius alone is {182} appropriately rewarded by fame, but time, unusual skill, labour and expenditure, should be repaid by money. It has been suggested that an investigator, if he is a man of practical ability, is very often put into an office, the duties of which he can efficiently discharge, and yet have leisure for original research, as in the case of the late Dr. Graham, the eminent Master of the Mint,[32] our Astronomers Royal, &c., and thus obtain his reward. But this is a very imperfect plan, because research is very difficult, and to be carried out effectually, requires the whole of a man's time and attention; the investigator would also be taken from more important work to do that which is of less value to the nation, and which might be performed by a more suitable person; appointments also of the kind referred to are much too few in number. Such a plan as this, of relegating important national work to odd hours spared from official duties, is a makeshift, and quite unworthy of this nation. Entire occupation in research, combined with efficient publication of the results, is the only satisfactory plan of procedure. Probably one of the most satisfactory ways of rewarding scientific discoverers and serving national interests at the same time, would be to create salaried professorships of original research, and appoint discoverers of repute to fill them. The time is near at hand when this nation will be compelled by the injurious consequences arising from its neglect of scientific research, to acquire a {183} knowledge of the relations of science to national existence and welfare, and to adopt some means of encouraging discovery. The greatest difficulty, probably, which has to be overcome, is not so much how to obtain funds for the purpose, as how to employ them successfully, and especially how to prevent their getting into the hands of unsuitable persons. But, as methods have been found of remunerating all other classes of persons, ways may be devised of remunerating scientific investigators. It is only because the case is novel that it seems difficult; it is probably no more intrinsically difficult to establish a professorship of research than to found an ecclesiastical benefice. The great difficulty of determining from what source discoverers should be paid for their labours, arises from the fact that all classes of the community share in the benefit. It is evident they should in some measure be paid from a source towards which all classes either directly or indirectly contribute, and therefore from some public fund. The persons who first use scientific knowledge are the compilers of scientific books, and teachers of science; but these only disseminate the knowledge, and do not derive from it any great pecuniary advantage, they are only the agents for supplying the knowledge to others. The persons who first convert such knowledge into valuable commercial commodities are inventors and manufacturers who have received scientific education or advice; but those who derive the greatest pecuniary benefit from it, and who should therefore either {184} directly or indirectly pay in the largest degree for it, are the great manufacturers, capitalists, and landowners. Whilst the question is being settled as to what class of persons shall primarily bear the expense of research, discoverers themselves are suffering great injustice, and our manufactures and commerce are passing into the hands of foreign nations. What the amount of loss and disadvantage suffered by this nation, through want of encouragement of scientific enquiry is, cannot be estimated, but it is certainly enormous. Had even a very moderate amount of payment been made for such labour, and the expenses out of pocket paid in full, the amount of research performed would have been greatly increased. Under present circumstances, many promising young men, fitted to become good investigators, have been driven out of science altogether. I have found by long experience and persistent enquiry, that there are many young men distributed over this country, who are very desirous of engaging in scientific research, and likely to make good investigators, but are entirely prevented by the non-remunerative character of the labour, every one wishes to know "what will it lead to"? Even amongst our most able discoverers, scarcely one who has not possessed private means has continued research beyond the middle age of life, because such labour enables no provision to be made for old age; and all those who have left have devoted themselves to less important but more lucrative occupations. Most of these gentlemen have been {185} obliged to abandon research at a period of life when their faculties were in the most perfect state for continuing it. Where one young beginner in science meets with the fortunate circumstance of a helping hand, as Scheele did in Bergmann, and Faraday in Davy, many are crushed out. The want of encouragement to scientific discovery in this country is so very great that extremely few men are able to struggle through it, and this is one reason why we have had so few discoveries. Some persons have argued that the very difficulties and discouragements offered are an advantage to science by producing only men of the very highest eminence in discovery; but it is manifest that however great the amount of ability may be that is developed by discouragement, that amount would probably be still greater by judicious assistance. Moreover, progress in the developement of the national scientific intellect is not so much to be reckoned by the few great successes which have occurred in spite of all obstacles, but rather by the much more numerous ones which would have resulted from proper encouragement. The advocates of such an argument can have no idea of the heart-sickening feeling of long deferred hope experienced by the young beginner in science; or the disgust gradually engendered in his mind at the injustice of other men taking all the profits of his labours and leaving him without means of support; or they would never adduce it. In this country the success of the few {186} eminent men of science has resulted from the accidental combination of a few more or less fortuitous circumstances, and their own great natural determination, and not from legitimate and just support. How many investigators we have lost from the above causes it is impossible to tell. The encouragement also of unusual ability should not be left to accident. As scientific research has proved itself to be of such great value to this nation, the question naturally arises, how can it best be promoted? A number of plans have been proposed. Amongst these may be mentioned. _1st._ By founding State Laboratories, in which discoverers of established repute, supplied with every aid and appliance, should be wholly engaged in research in their respective subjects, and be paid by the State. _2nd._ By founding colleges or Professorships of original research in each of the Universities, and appointing professors similarly. _3rd._ By founding provincial colleges or Professorships of research, the funds being raised locally by means of subscriptions, donations, and endowments, with or without State assistance. _4th._ By State or Local aid, in the form of additional salary, to Professors in colleges, to enable them to pursue research. _5th._ By an extension of the present Government grants distributed by the Royal Society. _6th._ By making it a condition at each of our Universities that every student entering for a degree in science, should previously make an original research. _7th._ By the formation by learned societies, of Endowment of {187} Research Funds, and making grants of money therefrom to recognised investigators. _8th._ By aid to local scientific investigators by Municipal bodies out of the rates. And _9th._ The support of Institutes of Scientific Research by private munificence. Aid to research, in Germany, has been chiefly been made by the State, by affording means to the Professors in the Universities; in America, more by munificence of wealthy individuals; and in this country, chiefly in the form of Government grants of money to investigators. The greatest difficulty to be surmounted in carrying out any of these schemes, is the very general ignorance in this country of the value and necessity of research; and this can only be overcome by scientific men themselves performing their duty of enlightening the public on the subject. _1st._ _By founding State Laboratories._ One of the first duties of a Government is to protect its subjects in the enjoyment of their property; but as no law reserves to discoverers the fruits of their ability, it is clearly a duty of the State to protect them in other ways. It is believed to be a duty of the State to provide and pay for pure scientific research, for the following reasons:--because research is eminently national work; because the results of such labour are indispensable to national welfare and progress, and are of immense value to the nation, and especially to the Government; because nearly the whole pecuniary benefit of it goes to the nation, and scarcely any to the discoverer; because research is not sufficiently {188} provided for by means of voluntary effort, nor can its benefits be restricted to a locality; and because there appears to be scarcely any other way (except by application of University revenues) in which discoverers can be satisfactorily recompenced for their labour. Also "Government should for its own sake honour the men who do honour and service to the country." (Faraday.) The founding of State laboratories for original research was proposed and advocated by the late Lieutenant-Colonel Strange, F.R.S., in communications read before the British Association, and in evidence given before the Royal Commissioners.[33] As the erection and maintenance of State laboratories would require a large sum of money, and as all classes of the community would share in the benefit, it is reasonable to suggest that the money should come from some source towards which all classes of the community, either directly or indirectly contribute, and therefore from some national fund. In national improvements, expense is quite a secondary consideration; the funds however for providing State laboratories already exist; the sum of nearly £600,000 has accumulated in the form of fees received by Government for the granting of patents for inventions; and as the discoveries made by scientific men form the materials by means of which those inventions were made, the money thus accumulated may be justly claimed by scientific discoverers as a suitable {189} source from which their labours should be remunerated by the State. Strong arguments might be adduced both against and in favour of the application of this money for the purpose. Inventors are a great wealth-producing class of the community; they are at present very highly taxed, and receive but little advantage in return; to tax them without giving them equivalent advantages, strikes very near to the root of commercial prosperity, by diminishing improvements in arts and manufactures. If an inventor is poor and his patent is valuable, he is also frequently harassed out of it by litigation. Inventors are usually poor, and but little able to pay taxes on patents at all; their pecuniary position in this country is not greatly better than that of discoverers; they are largely at the mercy of manufacturers and capitalists; and the injustice to which they are sometimes subjected is notorious and disgraceful. On the other hand, the fund already exists; inventors also receive an equivalent from investigators, discovery is the indispensable basis of nearly all invention; patented inventions are formed by means of the knowledge obtained by pure scientific research. The poverty of a man does not justify his taking the fruits of the labours of another man without paying for them. If also the patent fees were thus applied, the cost of research would then be paid for by all classes of the community, somewhat in proportion to the benefit derived, because the cost of patents in general ultimately falls upon the public at {190} large, in the shape of an increased price put upon the commodity, in order to pay the cost of the patent, like the grower of wheat is paid by the consumers of bread, through the medium of the baker, the miller, and corn merchant. Whilst the benefits derived from the labours of discoverers, flows chiefly in the form of money into the hands of wealthy manufacturers, and finally gets locked up in the possession of capitalists and landowners, it is hardly to be expected that the Government will be in possession of funds necessary to promote research unless some such plan as this is adopted. Should the wealthy and governing classes however become sufficiently acquainted with the value of research, and of the essential and permanent dependence of their material prosperity upon it, there will then be some hope that they will be willing to contribute in a more direct manner their just share towards paying the expenses. There is, however, but little prospect of this whilst the influence of wealth so depresses the scientific education of those classes at the Universities. The fundamental object in founding State laboratories should be to keep a staff of the most competent men wholly engaged in original research in pure science, and a secondary object might be to train assistants to become investigators. Such laboratories would doubtless be located in London, and be on a scale of magnitude creditable to science and the nation. They might very suitably include {191} departments for the simpler pure sciences and even for biology. It is manifest that the arguments which support the proposition for professorships of original research in those sciences apply in a greater or less degree to other sciences; and it has been stated that "there is no ground upon which the scheme can be limited to the subject of natural philosophy." In reference to this remark, (which, like most objections, contains some truth), it must be remembered that there is a natural order of dependence of the sciences upon each other, in which order also they are being evolved. It is a general truth that the physical sciences of light and heat are based upon mechanical conditions of the particles of matter; that the science of chemistry is founded upon physics; that biological phenomena are dependent upon physical and chemical conditions; that psychological subjects are based upon biology; and that biological science cannot progress excepting in proportion to the advance of the sciences on which it is based. In addition to this general order of precedence of evolution in point of time, the various sciences are so mutually related that all must advance together, the simple ones taking the lead, and the concrete and more complex sciences, with their attendant arts, following behind. As this natural order of dependence and development of the sciences is a great fact of nature, over which we have little or no control, and as a scheme for the simultaneous establishment of professorships of research in all the sciences, simple, complex, and {192} concrete, would probably be too great an undertaking, the most proper course would be to commence with the simpler ones, such as those of mathematics, mechanics, physics, and chemistry, and perhaps biology. If it be argued that it would be unadvisable to commence with the simple and purely experimental sciences, it would be still more unadvisable to commence with the concrete subjects of "natural history, medicine, civil history, law, and theology," or with the arts which also depend upon science. The number of investigators in such an institution would not be large, because few of high repute could be obtained, many of our ablest ones abandon research for remunerative pursuits. In order to make the plan succeed, the conditions of the appointments should be such as to limit the election to the most competent persons. In the selection of such gentlemen, the verdict of opinion of scientific men generally, upon the published researches of the candidates, would have previously determined who were qualified for the office. Any man who had published reliable papers in the Transactions of the Royal Society, might very properly be considered a fit candidate, and the selection and appointment might be made by the Government, with the advice of the Council of the Royal Society. Probably there exists no class of persons upon whom the country might more rely for industry in office than eminent investigators, because they have pursued truth for its good effects alone. Men who had {193} previously exercised the degree of self-sacrifice necessary to make a number of long and difficult experimental researches, with only very limited pecuniary means, must necessarily be possessed of great enthusiasm in their calling, and would therefore be extremely unlikely persons to become idle by being supplied with a sufficiency only of means to carry on their labours. Further, such men might at present obtain a much larger income than they would receive in such a post, by abandoning research and devoting themselves to the various profitable engagements which are open to every man of scientific ability who is willing to devote himself to applied science. The actual work of research is much too arduous and difficult to permit such an office to become an object of desire to a place-seeking or idle person. But in order to exclude with certainty those who might devote themselves to research solely or primarily for the purpose of subsequently obtaining a well paid appointment, (as persons sometimes devote themselves to learning, with the object of getting an "idle Fellowship,") and to ensure in all cases a reasonable continuance of industry, it would be necessary, that whilst the salaries paid should be sufficient to render the professors free from care, if expended with a reasonable degree of economy, they should not be so large as to conduce to idleness. The professors should undertake not to engage in any other remunerative employment, and provision should be made, that in case a professor persistently failed to make, complete, or publish his {194} researches, or devoted less than the stipulated amount of time to such labour in the Institution, without reasonable cause, he should be removed. Many persons fancy that "it must be very nice to be always making experiments," and that they "should be delighted with such an occupation" if they "could only spare the time." But such an idea is only another illustration of the general ignorance of the subject, and it is only expressed by those who have never made a laborious and difficult research. Pure research is by far the most difficult of all scientific occupations, and this is another chief reason why discoverers are few, and why they will probably remain so. To succeed in research, a man must set aside all human pride, and approach the subject with perfect humility; and this is not an easy task, men cannot so readily abandon preconceived and cherished notions. Many researches are moreover extremely dangerous. Thilorier was killed by the explosion of a vessel of liquefied carbonic anhydride; Dulong lost an eye and finger, and Sir Humphrey Davy was wounded by an explosion of chloride of nitrogen. Faraday was near being blinded by an experiment with oxygen. Nicklès of Nancy, and Louyet of Brussels, lost their lives, and two other chemists were seriously injured in health by exposure to the excessively dangerous fumes of hydrofluoric acid. Bunsen lost the sight of an eye and was nearly poisoned by an explosion whilst analysing cyanide of cacodyl.[34] Hennel was killed by an {195} explosion of fulminate of silver, and Chapman by one of nitrate of methyl; and nearly every chemical investigator could tell of some narrow escape of life in his own experience. Any one who wishes to know whether it is "very nice to be always making experiments" should attempt the isolation of fluorine, the chemical examination of some offensive substance, or the determination of some difficult physical, or chemical problem. That a professorship of original research would "involve substantial work" does not admit of doubt, and therefore "there would be some security that it would be worthily bestowed." It would not become an "ornamental sinecure," in which "there is pay but no work," unless, by assigning to it too large a stipend, inducement was held out to that numerous class of persons whose love of money is stronger than their love of truth, to seek the office; to say the utmost, it could hardly become so largely a sinecure as many offices now held by ecclesiastics. Jobbery and abuse of patronage would be still further prevented by making the duties sufficiently heavy. The appointment, and remuneration by salary, of professor of research, would not lessen the independence of scientific men if the office was not placed under the superintendence of active and interfering officials ignorant of science. Although the professors might not be highly paid, the appointment would increase their independence because it would be one of the most honourable to which scientific men could {196} attain, and because they would thereby be put into a sphere in which they could exercise their talents to the fullest extent, and render the greatest service and honour to the nation. If also the salaries offered were not too great, those persons only would become candidates who at present have insufficient means to defray the considerable cost of experiments. It would be necessary to appoint only persons who would undertake to devote their time solely to the discovery of new facts and principles in science, and the determination of purely scientific questions, and not to the making of inventions; because discovery is of far greater national value than invention; and because inventions would immediately on their publication be seized, modified, and patented by individuals for their own personal benefit. Discoveries, on the other hand, would require a large additional amount of labour expended upon them by inventors before they could be converted into saleable commodities. Each professor should be allowed perfect freedom to choose his own special subjects of research in the sciences he had been accustomed to study, because each investigator is usually the best judge of what researches are the most likely to yield him important results. No discoverer of repute would be very likely to trespass on another man's sphere of research, because he would usually have an abundance of good subjects of his own; and every honourable man would purposely avoid doing so; and we find this practically to be the case at the present time. Separate sets of {197} rooms would be necessary for each investigator in order to keep the researches private and distinct. The whole of the new knowledge obtained by research should be treated as national property, and all of it worthy of publication should be made known without the least reserve, it would also be desirable to publish the results at reasonable intervals of time. The publication might take place, as at present, in the journals of the learned Societies, or in the leading scientific magazines, and the value of the work would be largely guaranteed by such a mode of publication. The professors should also engage not to sell, patent, or prematurely disclose any of the knowledge obtained. By electing to such offices only discoverers of repute, the nation might reasonably depend for the results upon the known ability and industry of the men. That the results obtained would, many of them, be highly valuable, does not admit of doubt, because long experience has uniformly proved it; but no discoverer can tell beforehand what results he will obtain, otherwise research would hardly be needed. An objection has been made that no one can tell how long it will be after a discovery is made before the nation will derive the chief benefit. The length of time which elapses between the publication of discoveries and their practical fruits is very variable. Usually benefit commences at once and gradually widens; directly discoveries are published they begin to be used by compilers of scientific books, and by teachers and lecturers in science, and are thus diffused {198} amongst the public in general, and begin to produce beneficial effects. Inventors, manufacturers, medical men, and others, also begin to apply them to their respective purposes. In some cases striking applications are immediately made of them, and public attention is thus directed to the useful result; but in many cases the beneficial effects are small, numerous, and indirect, and it is difficult to trace and describe them. The objection also is deficient in force, because expenditure in any other occupation, and receipt of the profit upon it, are rarely simultaneous. Many of the wisest reforms in this country have been a long time in producing their results. We must therefore be content, as in all ordinary cases of investment, with the conviction that the expenditure will be profitable, and we must wait patiently for the certain harvest. In research, as in many other human enterprises, a man who will not move until he is absolutely certain that what he intends to do will at at once succeed, must sit still and perish. Suggestions have also been made to appoint a Government Committee, or Council, whose function should be to value scientific discoveries, and make corresponding amounts of reward to the discoverers. But this appears to be a less feasible plan, because no man can, at the period of discovery, determine what amount of practical result a discovery will ultimately produce. Who could have foretold with certainty at the date of Oersted's discovery of electro-magnetism, that this discovery would result in {199} the expenditure of hundreds of millions of pounds upon telegraphs alone?[35] Objections have been made to definite payment for labour in research, on the ground of indefiniteness of the results, and the impossibility of measuring their value. Can we expect to buy new scientific knowledge at so much a pound, or to retail discovery by the pint? The work of discoverers is as definite as that of many other persons who are paid. Who can measure the value of the cure of souls, of the duties of a judge, or of those of a field-marshal? Instead of paying for the labour of research in a definite way, we have adopted unsatisfactory makeshifts. Exceptional gifts, and semi-charitable pensions, have been with difficulty obtained in a few cases for scientific men; most often for those who applied scientific knowledge to practical uses than for those who discovered that knowledge. In this country, neither lawyers, medical men, military persons, nor clergymen are paid definitely by results, but by time and labour, in accordance with the reputation of the man, and there is no sufficient reason why investigators should not be similarly remunerated. The differences in the cases are only ones of degree. The time has arrived when this great evil should be made known and remedied, and men of science should press upon our Government, as a matter of justice to themselves, and necessary for the nation's welfare, that the accumulated fees from patents should be applied to the establishment of a Scientific {200} department of the State, the erection of State laboratories, and the payment of discoverers for the national work of research. _2nd._ _Professorships of Research at the Universities._ Most of the remarks already made respecting the appointment and maintenance of professors of research in State laboratories, would apply equally to those proposed in connection with the Universities. Amongst the reasons which may be adduced in favour of the establishment of such professorships the following may be selected. Because the advancement of learning is peculiarly the function of a University, and one of the chief objects for which such institutions were founded. The word University implies a seat of universal knowledge, and it is reasonable to assume that Universities should act as fountains of new theoretical knowledge, as well as perform the function of diffusing it; such an addition would also raise their intellectual position, and make them much more respected, both at home and abroad. With regard to such professorships, the "Association for the Organization of Academical Study," consisting of a number of learned men belonging to the Universities, the Royal Society, and other learned bodies, adopted the following resolutions:-- "That the chief end to be kept in view in any redistribution of the revenues of Oxford and Cambridge is the adequate maintenance of Mature Study and Scientific Research, as well for their own sake as with the view of bringing the higher education within the {201} reach of all who are desirous of profiting by it." "That to have a class of men whose lives are devoted to research is a national object." "That it is desirable, in the interest of national progress and education, that Professorships and special institutions shall be founded in the Universities for the promotion of Scientific Research." "That the present mode of awarding Fellowships as prizes, has been unsuccessful as a means of promoting Mature Study and Original Research, and that it is therefore desirable that it should be discontinued." With regard to the funds necessary:--It has been estimated that the money paid in the form of sinecure fellowships or retiring pensions, to young men in Oxford alone now amounts to about £80,000 or £90,000 a year; and it has been suggested that this money be applied to the purpose. These funds were originally intended for promoting knowledge, but vested interests prevent their being used for discovering new truths. The chief object of such professorships would be the same as that in the proposed State laboratories, viz.--to keep a staff of the most competent men wholly engaged upon research in pure science. The professors of physical and chemical research might be selected in accordance with the suggestions already made, and be appointed by the Senate or other governing body, with the advice of the Council of the Royal Society. All the precautions which have been already suggested under the head of "State laboratories," would {202} have to be taken in order to exclude unsuitable persons, and to secure industry in the professors. The remarks also, already made respecting the limitation of the duties of the professors to research in pure science, the exclusion of invention, the publication of results, the class of sciences with which a commencement might best be made, etc., apply equally in this case. I do not however mean by these remarks to suggest the disendowment of research in the more complex or concrete subjects, in order to make a commencement with the simpler sciences. The existence within the Universities of offices in which the faculties of scientific men might be developed to their fullest extent, would induce those engaged in the work of scientific instruction in those institutions to devote more time to research, in order that they might improve their scientific talents, and in their turn become fitted to occupy such posts. It has been suggested that discoverers should teach as well as investigate; but this would be an imperfect plan, and would largely convert the position of a professor into that of one at an ordinary college. Every person who has had much experience in experimental investigation also knows, that to carry it out effectually, requires the whole of his time and attention. If, therefore, teaching or lecturing constitutes a part of the duties, a portion of the professor's time must be taken from the more important occupation of research, and the fundamental object of the institution will be frustrated. Research evolves new knowledge; {203} teaching simply distributes it. The labours of a scientific teacher or lecturer consist essentially of a continued series of repetitions of other men's discoveries. For each single man who can discover, there exist many who can teach. With teaching in addition to research, all the usual educational machinery, lecture theatres and apparatus, diagrams, audiences, pupils, registration of students, receipt of fees, examinations, marking of papers, valuing of answers, attending annual meetings, etc., would be brought into requisition, and the result would probably be, as it is at present, the duties of teaching would, in nearly all cases, swallow up the time, and prevent the freedom from interruption necessary for successful research Under present circumstances, it is the testimony of nearly every teacher and lecturer in science, that he "has no time for research." If teaching is also carried on, the Research laboratories will compete with educational institutions, established and carried on by private enterprize, and place them at a disadvantage, and thus discourage voluntary effort in the diffusion of science; but by limiting the functions of the professors entirely to pure research, there will be no competition with any private interests, because no persons gain a livelihood entirely by means of such occupation. That the practice of teaching is however of very great use in preparing the mind of a scientific man for research is quite certain, because it compels him to study all parts of his subject, and whilst doing so, many questions for investigation occur to his mind. {204} Many of our most eminent discoverers have also been teachers. But teaching is not a necessary condition of success in research, nor even a necessary preparation for it; the examples of various able discoverers prove this. In some cases discoverers have devoted themselves to teaching, only after having attained high repute in research; in others they have not been teachers at all. Original research itself usually suggests plenty of new subjects of investigation, without the additional ones suggested by teaching. In order that self improvement in a man of science might never stagnate, there should exist a continuous and complete series of steps of preferment, by which the merest beginners in scientific knowledge, might be enabled to attain to the highest scientific position; and finally become wholly occupied in that kind of labour by which their scientific faculties would be developed to their fullest extent, but this last step is wanting. By the proposed plan however a student would become a teacher; the teacher develope into a professor; and a professor might employ for a period a portion of his time in research, and thus become qualified for entire devotion to original investigation and discovery. After a scientific teacher has acquired a thorough knowledge of his subjects, and a high position in his profession, his occupation becomes to him a species of intellectual routine, in which he is continually going through the same courses of lectures and examinations over and over again, and his personal improvement stagnates. But if there was remuneration for research, {205} or there existed some post or employment, to which those who had acquired the ability to investigate might be appointed, there would be an inducement to continued intellectual improvement, and a sphere in which the most valuable faculties of scientific men might be developed for national benefit to their fullest extent. _3rd._ _Provincial Colleges of Research._--The success of this plan would depend essentially upon the diffusion of a knowledge of the importance of scientific research amongst the richer classes. There are at present a very few wealthy persons in this country who perceive to some extent the value of such research, and the dependence of their wealth upon it, who would be willing to contribute to a fund for the purpose; and there are many more who would assist if the importance of the subject was properly explained to them. The chief argument in favour of provincial colleges of research is, that it is a duty of wealthy persons to aid research, because they have derived, and are continually deriving great benefits from it, for which they make no payment. The ways in which some of those benefits have been derived have been already briefly stated. As the large manufacturers and capitalists are generally the persons who derive great pecuniary benefit from the progress of science, it might be reasonably urged that they should contribute freely towards its advancement. Such an institution might be located in each of the {206} largest centres of industry. The objects of the institution; the branches of science to be investigated in it; the number of professors, the mode of selecting them, and of excluding unsuitable candidates for the office; the means by which industry might be secured and jobbery prevented; the exclusion of invention, and of teaching and lecturing; the publication of results, removal of professors, etc., have already been treated of under the head of "State laboratories." The chief difficulties to be overcome in this, as in all other plans of aiding research, are to find a sufficient number of influential persons acquainted with the subject to practically carry out the plan; to secure investigators of high ability; and to prevent the offices being filled by incompetent persons. _4th._ _Aid to Professors of Science in Colleges._--Another way by which research might be promoted, would be by giving assistance in the form of a definite amount of additional salary, for the purpose of pure research, to professors and teachers in colleges and institutions; the money being supplied by the State or from the funds of the Institution. In carrying out this plan, it would be necessary to assist only those persons who had already published a good research, and thus proved their ability; and who would engage to devote a definite portion of their time to the labour as a part of their duty. The selection of suitable men might be made with the advice of the Council of the Royal Society. {207} The additional salary should be entirely in the form of remuneration for labour, time, and materials, etc., expended upon research in pure science, and not in effecting inventions. The knowledge obtained should be treated as public property, and be published in the usual manner, and the investigator should not be permitted to sell or patent it. It would be necessary to provide that in case the investigator failed to make or publish a reasonable amount of good research, the additional salary should cease. Publication in the journals of the Royal Society, or in a leading scientific magazine, might be considered a sufficient proof of the satisfactory quality of the labour. It is very desirable that all the higher teachers and professors of science in our educational institution should devote a portion of their time to original research. It would make their lectures more reliable, because research yields experience in the detection of error; whilst there is usually only one way of succeeding in making an experiment, there are always many ways of failing, and in the directions given in books, the latter are usually omitted. It would also induce the students to take a greater interest in the subject, and feel more respect for the teacher. The special excellence of the German system of teaching consists in the union of teaching and original research. This plan of aiding research would induce some of our teachers of science who have not yet made researches, to attempt such labour, it would also develope a superior class of scientific teachers generally; and produce a supply of candidates for professorships of research. {208} A great obstacle to the carrying out of this plan lies in the fact that in consequence of the ignorance of the value of original research by the founders of such Institutions, no definite provision usually exists in the Trust deeds to authorise the Trustees to devote any of the funds to such a purpose. _5th._ _Extension of the Government Grant System._--During a number of years the British Government has entrusted to the Royal Society the annual sum of £1,000 for the purpose of aiding science; and that sum has been given in varying portions to different investigators who have applied for grants in aid of their expenses in making investigations. Although the total amount to be disbursed annually was not large, very few persons, qualified to make good researches, usually applied for its assistance, and it was difficult to dispose of the whole. The chief causes of this difficulty were:--a grant from the fund was an unprofitable gift to accept, because it was only sufficient to partly pay the expenses out of pocket for chemicals and apparatus, and allowed nothing for the skill, time, or labour, nor for payments made to assistants. Further, "By order of the Council, all instruments, apparatus, and drawings, made or obtained by aid of the Government Grants, shall, after serving the purpose for which they were procured, and in the absence of any specific understanding to the contrary, be delivered into the custody of the Royal Society." By far the greater part of the expense of an investigation in physics or chemistry is the exceedingly large {209} amount of time it occupies. Many necessary preliminary experiments have to be made, which yield either negative, unsuccessful, or incomplete results, and make the undertaking expensive. A good investigation in chemistry also not unfrequently costs the investigator a sovereign a day if he is wholly employed upon it. In some cases, for each £100 received as a grant, at least a £1,000, was directly and indirectly expended. Any person therefore who undertook a research became a loser, and aid from the Government Grant fund did not entirely cover his loss. Only scientific men who had other sources of income were able to avail themselves of the grants. The existence of the grants also was not widely known. The advantages of the plan were, it diminished the loss to the investigator, and the fact of being allotted a sum from the fund was considered highly creditable to the recipient. In consequence largely of the evidence collected from eminent men of science from all parts of Great Britain, and the recommendations based upon it, by the Royal Commission for the Advancement of Science, the Grant system has been extended; our Government recently placed an additional amount of £4,000 a year, for five years, to be distributed in sums at the recommendation of the Royal Society to suitable applicants, and the five years have now elapsed. This extension of the Grant system has been an {210} improvement. It has resulted both in a large increase in the number of applicants and of researches; and has shown that there exists in this country a large amount of scientific ability in need of encouragement. The amounts granted were increased in magnitude so as to cover in some cases payments made to assistants and the entire outlay made for experiments, also a small payment for a portion of the time occupied in actual research. The plan of awarding the grants has been for work proposed by the applicants to be done, and not for that already performed. How far a retrospective method might be worthy of trial, is difficult to decide. It has been objected to it that the claims of scientific investigators for researches already made, would be so great and so convincing that it would be impossible to resist them, and the funds required to satisfy those claims would be so large as to render the plan quite impracticable; if however the retrospective period was limited to a short time, a year for example, the difficulty would be lessened. There would still however remain the great difficulty of valuing the results. This might probably be overcome by regulating the money payment according to the time, labour, pecuniary expenditure, and scientific status of the particular investigator, and leaving genius to be rewarded by the fame and honour of the results. No system of aid however can place scientific investigation in a satisfactory position in this country, which does not include certain remuneration for time, {211} money and labour expended; and no sound argument can be adduced why investigators should not be adequately recompenced. The genius alone of a discoverer should be rewarded by fame, and his time, labour, and expenditure, in accordance with his professional reputation, be repaid by money, as in all other intellectual occupations. The same amount of time and labour expended in any ordinary profession, requiring an equal, or even less amount of preparatory education and experience, and less rare ability, would yield an income of several thousand pounds a year. Although the lives of a few eminent discoverers have proved that it has been possible for them to do a considerable amount of research under the conditions which have existed, that is no reason why they should not be remunerated. Previous success in research has been due to the unusually great perseverance, industry, and self-denial of the men, and but little to any pecuniary encouragement received. The fewness of such men, supports this view of the case. The plan of aiding research by grants which include no certain payment for time or labour, is quite incommensurate with the importance of the subject and entirely unworthy of the reputation of a great nation. _6th._ _Students pursuing Research at the Universities._ In the German Universities each student is required to make an original research before he can obtain a degree in Science, and the plan has worked successfully; also in the Victoria University, Manchester, {212} several Fellowships have recently been established for the encouragement of students in original investigation. If this plan could be carried out in our old Universities it would produce most valuable results, because the governing, wealthy, and influential classes of this nation are chiefly educated at those institutions, and they would then acquire habits of more accurate scientific thought, and some knowledge of the nature and importance of scientific research, and of the essential dependence of national welfare upon it. But a great and probably insuperable obstacle exists to the carrying out of such a plan, viz., the wealth possessed by the parents of students. An original research cannot be made without considerable industry, and the greatest opponent of industry, especially with young men, is the possession or expectation of wealth. According to college tutors at our old Universities, there is no large class of industrious students at those institutions. The greatest cause of the idleness of the students is parental neglect and the habits of wealthy society. Many parents allow their sons too much money, and over-look too readily their idleness and frivolity; the young men also know their parents are rich, and act accordingly. Many persons send their sons to those places chiefly to form aristocratic acquaintances, and for other purposes than those of educational discipline and learning. The college authorities have also largely acquiesced in the wishes of the parents and students. And in this way {213} scientific research has been almost entirely excluded from our old Universities. If the present tutors and governing bodies of those Institutions cannot induce students generally to be industrious, by what means can it be expected that these young men can be persuaded to exercise the still greater degree of industry and intelligence requisite to prosecute research, whilst they are decoyed from it by the attractions of wealth? In Germany the conditions are very different, the students in the Universities of that country have much less money at their disposal. Nearly the whole of the educational courses also at the Grammar schools and other educational institutions in this country, are formed upon the plan of sending all the superior scholars to our Universities, and thus the defective state of scientific training at the Universities operates through our whole scholastic system, and depresses the entire scientific instruction of the nation. It is evident that in this way the undue wealth of this country largely retards national progress. _7th._ _Local Endowment of Research Funds._ In addition to the foregoing means, local efforts might be made to encourage research in each great centre of industry; through the medium of the local scientific societies. Nearly as early as the year 1660, Cowley in a treatise, proposed a Philosophical Society to be established near London, with liberal salaries to learned men to make experiments; but he could not get the money raised. A plan of this kind is in operation in Birmingham and carried out by the {214} Council of the Birmingham Philosophical Society in accordance with the following:-- "SCHEME FOR ESTABLISHING AND ADMINISTERING A FUND FOR THE ENDOWMENT OF RESEARCH IN BIRMINGHAM." "The Council are of opinion that this Society would be omitting a principal means of the advancement of Science--the end for which all such associations exist--if it neglected the question of the Endowment of Research. To maintain a successful investigator in his labours, even though no results of immediate or obvious utility can be shown to spring out of them, is of interest to the community at large. Indeed, it is just because the practical usefulness of such work is not immediate or obvious that it becomes necessary to give it special support, for otherwise it would have its own market value, and endowment would be superfluous. But the proper and effectual administration of an Endowment Fund is perceived to be so beset with difficulty, as often to deter even those who recognise the principle from advocating it in practice. Most of the dangers usually foreseen would, however, as a rule be avoided, simply by the distribution of such funds from local centres, under such a scheme as is now proposed. The Council, are therefore, anxious to establish a Fund, in connection at once with the Society and the Town, for the direct Endowment of Scientific Research."[36] {215} _8th._ _Local Laboratories of Research._ Another plan would be for local scientific societies to raise money by soliciting subscriptions and donations for the support of local laboratories; a prospectus of the following kind being issued:-- PROPOSAL TO FOUND A LABORATORY OF PURE SCIENTIFIC RESEARCH IN ----. "As the manufacturers, merchants, capitalists, land-owners, and the public generally, of this town and district, have derived and are still deriving great pecuniary and other benefits from the discovery of new knowledge by means of pure research in the sciences of Physics and Chemistry; and as in consequence of the great neglect of such research in this country, and the increased cultivation of it in other lands, our commerce is suffering, and a great many evils in manufacturing and other operations, in sanitary and many other matters dependant upon physical and chemical conditions, remain unremedied; it is proposed to found a Local Laboratory of original research in those sciences, with every suitable appliance in it; and to employ one or more investigators of repute, with assistants, who shall be wholly engaged in such labour in their respective sciences." As it is largely the custom in this country to effect great objects by means of individual liberality and corporate enterprise, instead of trusting to State assistance, it is not improbable that when the great importance of scientific research and its claims {216} to encouragement have become more generally known, that aid which has hitherto been with-held from it will be rendered by private generosity; and local institutions, wholly for the purpose of original scientific research will be established and supported by public-spirited wealthy persons. An institution of this kind upon a small scale, and called "The Institute of Scientific Research" has already been established in Birmingham, (see Note p. 40). By founding local institutions of this kind there exist opportunities for wealthy persons to do great good to mankind, and acquire renown as philanthropists by the action. And _9th_. In consequence of the great benefit derived from scientific research by the inhabitants of each locality, it has become a duty of each large community to promote it, and local Town Councils might with advantage and perfect justice to the public, devote a portion of municipal funds to the purpose of aiding local scientific research. To this plan it may be objected, that as the results of research are cosmopolitan, diffusing themselves everywhere, and this diffusion cannot be prevented; the benefits arising from research cannot be restricted even to a large community. In reply to this:--As knowledge and its advantages are cosmopolitan, the duty of promoting research must be equally extensive. There is also a real return received by the public for expenditure of money in research, in the free liberty to use all new knowledge developed everywhere by such labour, and although the money expended by a {217} community upon particular researches or upon an individual investigator, does not directly produce an immediate return; practically an immediate and direct benefit is received by that community, because new scientific knowledge for the use of teachers and popular lecturers, and new inventions based upon it, of local value to that society, continually become public. Every civilized community has also received beforehand such benefits to an enormous extent; and each investigator may reasonably claim public support on the ground that he contributes to the general stock of new knowledge. Some persons however, who have not fully considered the subject, wish to receive not only the advantages accruing from the common stock of knowledge, but also to reserve to themselves the entire benefit arising from their own special contributions. Experience alone will prove which of the foregoing schemes is the most suitable in this country, or in particular cases. At present the plan largest in operation is the system of Government Grants, next in magnitude are the other funds distributed by the Royal Society, the British Association, the Chemical Society, the Royal Institution, the Birmingham Philosophical Society, and those provided by the munificence of private individuals. It is greatly to be hoped that the liberal spirit of private individuals will yet further remove the great blot which lies upon the reputation of the wealthy manufacturers, capitalists, and land-owners, who have derived such great profits from {218} scientific research and have scarcely aided it at all in return. It is also to be desired that the Corporations of manufacturing towns will recognise the value of original scientific enquiry to their fellow townsmen, and will undertake the responsibility of voting money from municipal funds to promote it. * * * * * Notes [1] See p.p. 165 to 167. [2] Essays and Addresses, Owen's College, 1874, pp. 172-182. [3] See Chapter 2, Section B. [4] In the year 1870, a gentleman of the name of Davis bequeathed £2,000 to the Royal Institution, London, to aid original scientific research. [5] As a notable exception to the above statement:--"Scientific research has now an Institute of its own in Birmingham, without being indebted to the public funds. A fund has already been collected for carrying on the work. The building is called 'The Institute of Scientific Research.'" See _Nature_, January 7th, 1881, p. 366; the _Athenæum_, February 5th, 1881, p. 204; the _English Mechanic_, p. 537, February 11th, 1881. [6] Professor Bache left 50,000 dollars, and Smithson bequeathed 541,000 dollars to this Institution. [7] Respecting the Members of our Houses of Legislature, a former Postmaster-General remarked to me, that a dose of scientific research would be too much for them. [8] The Victoria University has recently become a partial exception to this statement. [9] See "Royal Society Catalogue of Scientific Papers," vol. 5, pp. 719 and 890; and vol. 8, p. 1,010. [10] See _Nature_, April 24th and May 1st, 1873, pp. 485 and 13; also _Work and Wages_, by Brassey, pp. 170 and 178. [11] NOTE.--See "Work and Wages," by Brassey, p.p. 15-131 and 132; also the "Laboratory," vol. 1, p.p. 313-316, 378 and 380. [12] NOTE.--The whole of this chapter, especially the Moral Section, is capable of great amplification and much more copious illustration. [13] NOTE.--See also p. 95. [14] NOTE.--Athenæum, Aug. 3, 1877. p. 242. [15] "Wish and Will," by L. Turner, M.A. [16] "The Mutual Relations of Physical Science and Religious Faith." [17] Port Royal Logic, Discourse 1. [18] See p. 91-92. [19] See "Waste Products and Undeveloped Substances," by P. W. Simmonds. [20] See "Barometer Cycles," by Balfour Stewart, F.R.S.--_Nature_, Jan. 13, 1881, p. 237. [21] See p. 165, et seq. [22] It would I consider be an improvement in our educational arrangements, if a Professorial chair, solely devoted to teaching those laws and principles, existed in each Scientific College. [23] See vols. 1 (1872) 2 (1874) of the Reports of that Commission. [24] See pages 100 and 101. [25] "_Nature_," April 3rd, 1873. p. 431. [26] Sir Edmund Beckett, "_English Mechanic_", 1881, No. 830, p. 560. [27] The Earl of Craufurd, "_English Mechanic_," 1881, No. 830, p. 560. [28] See page 68, et seq. p. 134. [29] See "_Nature_," Dec. 2nd, 1880, p. 112. [30] "_English Mechanic_," 1881, No. 831, pp. 586, 587. [31] "_English Mechanic_," August 17th, 1881, p. 83. [32] The Mastership of the Mint is no longer given to scientific men. [33] See Reports of Royal Commission on Scientific Instruction and Advancement of Science, Vol 2, pp. 75-92. [34] See "_Nature_" No. 600, p. 597, April 28th, 1881. [35] A fleet of thirty ships, varying in size from 500 to 5000 tons each, is employed in laying and repairing telegraph cables, and 25 millions of pounds have already been invested in submarine cable enterprises. [36] See "_Nature_," vol. XXII, page 203. * * * * * Changes made against printed original. Page 11. "our knowledge of the substance": 'knowwledge' in original. Page 24. "Nearly every manufacturer": 'ever' in original. Page 32. "Persons in general can easily understand": 'ean easily' in original. Page 39. "wealthy persons who have devoted themselves": 'themselver' in original. Page 62. "also all terrestrial forces": 'terrestial' in original. Page 81. "better systems of hygiene": 'hygeine' in original. Page 114. "course in which the throng is densest": 'the' repeated across line break in original. Ibid. "thousands of different chemical compounds": 'compouuds' in original. Page 116. "emits and absorbs": 'aborbs' in original. Page 119. "In every genuine volition": 'volitition' in original. Page 126. "purely physical and chemical conditions.": 'physicial' in original. Page 127. "the judicial detection of truth": 'judical' in original. Ibid. "completely converted into acquired tendencies": 'completly ... tendences' in original. Page 134. "the present state of civilization": 'civilzation' in original. Ibid. "to withhold truth from ignorant patients": 'withold' in original. Ibid. "lists of our moral deficiencies": 'deficiences' in original. Page 135. "there exist no royal roads to happiness": 'their exist' in original. Page 151. "a diminution of waste": 'dimunition' in original. Page 152. "twenty millions of pounds annually": 'anually' in original. Ibid. "Photography is also largely used in our gaols": 'in our goals' in original. Page 158. "acting under the same conditions": 'conitions' in original. Ibid. "every phenomenon requires time": 'requiries' in original. Page 182. "to be carried out effectually": 'effectualy' in original. Page 184. "been driven out of science altogether": 'althogether' in original. Page 186. "more or less fortuitous circumstances": 'fortuitious' in original. Page 189. "their labours should be remunerated by the State.": 'remuerated' in original. Page 199. "should not be similarly remunerated": 'similarily' in original. Page 203. "consist essentially of a continued series of repetitions": 'esssentially' in original. Page 217. "of local value to that society": 'of' repeated across line break in original. 
27948	----	+------------------------------------------------------------+ | Transcriber's Note | | | | Obvious typographical errors have been corrected in | | this text. For a complete list, please see the bottom of | | this document. | | Text printed using the Greek alphabet in the original book | | is shown as follows: [Greek: logos] | +------------------------------------------------------------+ PROGRESS AND HISTORY _ESSAYS ARRANGED AND EDITED_ BY F. S. MARVIN LATE SENIOR SCHOLAR OF ST. JOHN'S COLLEGE, OXFORD AUTHOR OF 'THE LIVING PAST' EDITOR OF 'THE UNITY OF WESTERN CIVILIZATION' 'Tanta patet rerum series et omne futurum Nititur in lucem.' LUCAN. _THIRD IMPRESSION_ HUMPHREY MILFORD OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS LONDON EDINBURGH GLASGOW NEW YORK TORONTO MELBOURNE CAPE TOWN BOMBAY 1919 PRINTED IN ENGLAND AT THE OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS PREFACE This volume is a sequel to _The Unity of Western Civilization_ published last year and arose in the same way, from a course of lectures given at the Woodbrooke Settlement, Birmingham. The former book attempted to describe some of the permanent unifying factors which hold our Western civilization together in spite of such catastrophic divisions as the present war. This book attempts to show these forces in growth. The former aimed rather at a statical, the present at a dynamical view of the same problem. Both are historical in spirit. It is hoped that these courses may serve as an introduction to a series of cognate studies, of which clearly both the supply and the scope are infinite, for under the general conception of 'Progress in Unity' all great human topics might be embraced. One subject has been suggested for early treatment which would have especial interest at the present time, viz. 'Recent Progress in European Thought'. We are by the war brought more closely than before into contact with other nations of Europe who are pursuing with inevitable differences the same main lines of evolution. To indicate these in general, with stress on the factor of betterment, is the aim of the present volume. F.S.M. CONTENTS PAGE I. THE IDEA OF PROGRESS 7 By F. S. MARVIN. II. PROGRESS IN PREHISTORIC TIMES 27 By R. R. MARETT, Reader in Social Anthropology, Oxford. III. PROGRESS AND HELLENISM 48 By F. MELIAN STAWELL, late Lecturer at Newnham College, Cambridge. IV. PROGRESS IN THE MIDDLE AGES 72 By the Rev. A. J. CARLYLE, Tutor and Lecturer at University College, Oxford. V. PROGRESS IN RELIGION 96 By BARON FRIEDRICH VON HÜGEL. VI. MORAL PROGRESS 134 By L. P. JACKS, Principal of Manchester New College, Oxford. VII. GOVERNMENT 151 By A. E. ZIMMERN, late Fellow of New College, Oxford. VIII. INDUSTRY 189 By A. E. ZIMMERN. IX. ART 224 By A. CLUTTON BROCK. X. SCIENCE 248 By F. S. MARVIN. XI. PHILOSOPHY 273 By J. A. SMITH, Waynflete Professor of Mental and Moral Philosophy, Oxford. XII. PROGRESS AS AN IDEAL OF ACTION 295 By J. A. SMITH. I THE IDEA OF PROGRESS F. S. MARVIN The editor of these essays was busy in the autumn of last year collating the opinions attached by different people to the word 'progress'. One Sunday afternoon he happened to be walking with two friends in Oxford, one a professor of philosophy, the other a lady. The professor of philosophy declared that to him human progress must always mean primarily the increase of knowledge; the editor urged the increase of power as its most characteristic feature, but the lady added at once that to her progress had always meant, and could only mean, increase in our appreciation of the humanity of others. The first two thoughts, harmonized and directed by the third, may be taken to cover the whole field, and this volume to be merely a commentary upon them. What we have to consider is, when and how this idea of progress, as a general thing affecting mankind as a whole, first appeared in the world, how far it has been realized in history, and how far it gives us any guidance and hope for the future. In the midst of a catastrophe which appears at first sight to be a deadly blow to the ideal, such an inquiry has a special interest and may have some permanent value. Words are the thought of ages crystallized, or rather embodied with a constantly growing soul. The word 'Progress', like the word 'Humanity', is one of the most significant. It is a Latin word, not used in its current abstract sense until after the Roman incorporation of the Mediterranean world. It contains Greek thought summed up and applied by Roman minds. Many of the earlier Greek thinkers, Xenophanes and Empedocles as well as Plato and Aristotle, had thought and spoken of a steady process in things, including man himself, from lower to higher forms; but the first writer who expounds the notion with sufficient breadth of view and sufficiently accurate and concrete observation to provide a preliminary sketch, was the great Roman poet who attributed all the best that was in him to the Greeks and yet has given us a highly original picture of the upward tendency of the world and of human society upon it. He, too, so far as one can discover, was the first to use the word 'progress' in the sense of our inquiry. The passage in Lucretius at the end of his fifth book on the Nature of Things is so true and brilliant and anticipates so many points in later thought that it is worth quoting at some length, and the poet's close relation with Cicero, the typical Greco-Roman thinker, gives his ideas the more weight as an historical document. He begins by describing a struggle for existence in which the less well-adapted creatures died off, those who wanted either the power to protect themselves or the means of adapting themselves to the purposes of man. In this stage, however, man was a hardier creature than he afterwards became. He lived like the beasts of the field and was ignorant of tillage or fire or clothes or houses. He had no laws or government or marriage, and though he did not fear the dark, he feared the real danger of fiercer beasts. Men often died a miserable death, but not in multitudes on a single day as they do now by battle or shipwreck. The next stage sees huts and skins and fire which softened their bodies, and marriage and the ties of family which softened their tempers. And tribes began to make treaties of alliance with other tribes. Speech arose from the need which all creatures feel to exercise their natural powers, just as the calf will butt before his horns protrude. Men began to apply different sounds to denote different things, just as brute beasts will do to express different passions, as any one must have noticed in the cases of dogs and horses and birds. No one man set out to invent speech. Fire was first learnt from lightning and the friction of trees, and cooking from the softening and ripening of things by the sun. Then men of genius invented improved methods of life, the building of cities and private property in lands and cattle. But gold gave power to the wealthy and destroyed the sense of contentment in simple happiness. It must always be so whenever men allow themselves to become the slaves of things which should be their dependants and instruments. They began to believe in and worship gods, because they saw in dreams shapes of preterhuman strength and beauty and deemed them immortal; and as they noted the changes of the seasons and all the wonders of the heavens, they placed their gods there and feared them when they spoke in the thunder. Metals were discovered through the burning of the woods, which caused the ores to run. Copper and brass came first and were rated above gold and silver. And then the metals took the place of hands, nails, teeth, and clubs, which had been men's earliest arms and tools. Weaving followed the discovery of the use of iron. Sowing, planting, and grafting were learnt from nature herself, and gradually the cultivation of the soil was carried farther and farther up the hills. Men learnt to sing from the birds, and to blow on pipes from the whistling of the zephyr through the reeds: and those simple tunes gave as much rustic jollity as our more elaborate tunes do now. Then, in a summary passage at the end, Lucretius enumerates all the chief discoveries which men have made in the age-long process--ships, agriculture, walled cities, laws, roads, clothes, songs, pictures, statues, and all the pleasures of life--and adds, 'these things practice and the experience of the unresting mind have taught mankind gradually as they have progressed from point to point'.[1] It is the first definition and use of the word in literature. If we accept it as a typical presentation of the Greco-Roman view, seen by a man of exceptional genius and insight at the climax of the period, there are two or three points which must arrest our attention. Lucretius is thinking mainly of progress in the arts, and especially of the arts as they affect man's happiness. There is no mention of increase in knowledge or in love. As in the famous parallel passage in Sophocles' _Antigone_, it is man's strength and skill which most impressed the poet, and his skill especially as exhibited in the arts. Compared with what we shall see as typical utterances of later times, it is an external view of the subject. The absence of love as an element of progress carries with it the absence of the idea of humanity. There is no conception here, nor anywhere in classical thought before the Stoics, of a world-wide Being which has contributed to the advance and should share fully in its fruits. Still less do we find any hint of the possibilities of an infinite progress. The moral, on the contrary, is that we should limit our desires, banish disturbing thoughts, and settle down to a quiet and sensible enjoyment of the good things that advancing skill has provided for us. It is, of course, true that thoughts can be found in individual writers, especially in Plato and Aristotle, which would largely modify this view. Yet it can hardly be questioned that Lucretius here represents the prevalent tone of thoughtful men of his day. They had begun to realize the fact of human progress, but envisaged it, as was natural in a first view, mainly on the external side, and, above all, had no conception of its infinite possibilities. When we turn to typical utterances of the next great age in history the contrast is striking. Catholic doctrine had absorbed much that was congenial to it from the Stoics, from Plato and Aristotle, but it added a thing that was new in the world, a passionate love and an overpowering desire for personal moral improvement. This is so clear in the greatest figures of the Middle Ages, men such as St. Bernard and St. Francis, and it is so unlike anything that we know in the world before, that we are justified in treating it as characteristic of the age. To some of us, indeed, it will appear as the most important element in the general notion of progress which we are tracing. It so appeared to Comte.[2] Of numberless passages that might be quoted from fathers and doctors of the Church, a few words from Nicholas of Cusa must suffice. He was a divine of the early fifteenth century, true to the faith, but anxious to improve the discipline of the Church. To him progress took an entirely spiritual form. 'To be able to understand more and more without end is the type of eternal wisdom.... Let a man desire to understand better what he does understand and to love more what he does love and the whole world will not satisfy him.' Here is a point of view so different from the last that we find some difficulty in fitting it into the same scheme of things. Yet both are essential elements in Western civilization; both have been developed by the operations of similar forces in the world civilized and incorporated by Greece and Rome. The Catholic divine looks entirely inward for his idea of progress, and his conception contains elements of real and permanent validity, of which our present notions are full. His eyes are turned towards the future and there is no limit to his vision. And though the progress contemplated is within the soul of the individual believer, it rests on the two fundamental principles of knowledge and love which are both essentially social. The believer may isolate himself from the world to develop his higher nature, but the knowledge and the love which he carries with him into his solitude are themselves fruits of that intercourse with his fellows from which an exclusive religious ideal temporarily cuts him off. Nor must we forget that Catholic doctrine and discipline, though aiming at this perfection of the individual rather than of the race, was embodied in an organization which carried farther than the Roman Empire the idea of a united civilization and furnished to many thinkers, Bossuet as well as Dante, a first sketch of the progress of mankind. But it is clear that this construction was provisional only, either on the side of personal belief and practice, or of ecclesiastical organization; provisional, that is, if we are looking for real unity in the mind of mankind. For we need a doctrine, a scheme of knowledge, into which all that we discover about the world and our own nature may find its place; we need principles of action which will guide us in attaining a state of society more congruent with our knowledge of the possibilities of the world and human nature, more thoroughly inspired by human love, love of man for man as a being living his span of life here and now, under conditions which call for a concentration of skill and effort to realize the best. The breaking of the old Catholic synthesis, narrow but admirable within its limits, took place at what we call the Renascence and Reformation; the linking up of a new one is the task of our own and many later generations. Let it not be thought that such a change involves the destruction of any vital element in the idea of progress already achieved; if true and vital, every element must survive. But it does involve an acceptance of the fact that progress, or humanity, or the evolution of the divine within us--however we prefer to phrase it--is a larger thing than any one organization or any one set of carefully harmonized doctrines. The truth, and the organ in which we enshrine it, must grow with the human minds who are collectively producing it. The new unity is itself progress. It must give us confidence in facing such a prospect to observe that at each remove from the first appearance of the idea of progress in the world man's use of the word has carried more meaning and, though sometimes quieter in tone, as in recent times, is better grounded in the facts of life and history. Such an advance in our conceptions took place after the Renascence. At the beginning of the seventeenth century, when the art and science of the ancient world had been recovered, the word and the idea of progress started on a fresh course of unexampled vigour. The lines were closer to those of the pre-Christian than of the Catholic world, but it would be by no means true to call them pagan. When Bacon and Descartes begin to sound the modern note of progress, they think primarily of an advance in the arts and sciences, but there is a spiritual and human side to their ideal which could not be really paralleled in classical thought. The Spirit of Man is now invoked, and this, not in the sense of an élite, the builders of the Greek State or the rulers of the Roman Empire, but of mankind as a whole. This is Christian, or perhaps we should say, Stoical-Christian. Thus Descartes tells us that he looks to science to furnish us ultimately with an art which will make us 'masters and possessors of nature ... and this not solely for the pleasure of enjoying with ease the good things of the world, but principally for the preservation and improvement of human health which is both the foundation of all other goods and the means of strengthening the spirit itself' ('Discours de la Méthode'). It is significant that the two words Progress and Humanity come into use in their modern sense side by side. The latter is the basis and the ideal of the former. But the new thing which had come into the world at this point, and gives a fresh impulse and content to the idea of progress, is the development of science. The Greeks had founded it and, as we shall see in a later chapter, it was the recovery of the Greek thread which gave the moderns their clue. But no one before the sixteenth century, before the marvels revealed by Galileo's telescope and knit up by Newton's synthetic genius, could have conceived the visions of human regeneration by science which light up the pioneers of the seventeenth century and are the gospel of the eighteenth. We turn to the eighteenth century, and primarily to the school of thinkers called 'philosophes' in France, for the fullest and most enthusiastic statement of progress as a gospel. It is, of course, European, as all the greatest advances of thought have been; and German thinkers, as well as English, stand with the French in the vanguard. Kant and Herder, from different points of view, thought it out perhaps more thoroughly than any one else at that time; but the French believed in it as a nation and were willing to stake their lives and souls on the belief. Thus Turgot, before the Revolution, declared that 'the total mass of the human race marches continually though sometimes slowly towards an ever-increasing perfection'. And Condorcet, in the midst of the Revolution, while himself under its ban, painted a picture 'of the human race, freed from its chains, and marching with a firm tread on the road of truth and virtue and happiness'. Here is the gospel in its purest and simplest form, and when we are inclined to think that the crimes and the partial failure of the Revolution discredit its principles, it is well to remember that the man who believed in them most systematically, expounded his belief with perfect calmness and confidence as he lay under sentence of death from a revolutionary tribunal. If this enthusiasm is madness, we might all well wish to be possessed. The true line of criticism is different. At the Revolution, as before at the Renascence, the leaders of the new movement could not see all their debt to the past. Like the Renascence, they idealized certain features in classical antiquity, but they had not yet gained the notion of historical continuity; above all, they did not realize the value of the religious development of the Middle Ages. It was left for the nineteenth century and for us, its successors, to attempt the supreme task of seeing things steadily and seeing them whole. For in spite of the capital contributions of the Renascence to progress and the idea of progress, especially by its scientific constructions, it is undeniable that a bias was then given to the course of Western civilization from which it has suffered ever since, and which it is now our urgent duty to correct. Two aspects of this may be specified. The old international unity which Rome had achieved, at least superficially, in the Mediterranean world, and which the Catholic Church had extended and deepened, was broken up in favour of a system of sovereign and independent states controlling religion and influencing education on lines calculated to strengthen the national forces and the national forces alone. They even believed that, at any rate in trade and commerce, the interests of these independent states were rather rival than co-operative. The Revolution struck the note of human association clearly enough, but we have not yet learnt to set all our other tunes in accord with it. Another, and perhaps even more fundamental, weakness of the Renascence tradition was the stress it laid on the material, mechanical, external side of progress. On the one hand, the spiritual side of life tended to be identified with that system of thought and discipline which had been so rudely disrupted. On the other hand, the new advance in science brought quickly after it a corresponding growth of wealth and mechanical inventions and material comforts. The spirit of man was for the time impeded and half suffocated by its own productions. The present war seems to many of us the supreme struggle of our better nature to gain the mastery over these obstructions, and freedom for its proper growth. Now if this analysis be anywhere near the truth, it is clear that our task for the future is one of synthesis on the lines of social progress. Knowledge, power, wealth, increase of skill, increase of health, we have them all in growing measure, and Mr. Clutton Brock will tell us in his chapter in this volume that we may be able by an exercise of will to achieve even a new renascence in art. But we certainly do not yet possess these things fairly distributed or in harmony of mind. The connexion therefore between progress as we now envisage it, and unity, both in ourselves and in society at large, becomes apparent. At each of the previous great moments in the history of the West development has been secured by emphasis on one side of our nature at the expense of the rest. Visions of mankind in common progress have flashed on individual thinkers, a Roman Emperor, a Catholic Schoolman, a Revolutionary prophet. But the thing achieved has been one-sided, and the needed correction has been given by another movement more one-sided still. The greatest hope of the present day lies in the fact that in all branches of life, in government as well as in philosophy, in science as in social reform, in religion and in international politics, men are now striving with determination to bind the threads together. There is no necessary opposition between the rival forces which have so often led to conflict. In all our controversies harmony can be reached and has often been reached by the application of patience, knowledge, and goodwill. And goodwill implies here the readiness to submit the particular issue to the arbitration of the general good. The international question has been so fully canvassed in these days that it would be superfluous to discuss it here. The moral is obvious, and abundant cases throughout the world illustrate the truth that well-organized nationalities contain in themselves nothing contrary to the ideal of international peace.[3] Nor is the still more persistent and universal opposition of capital and labour really less amenable to reconciliation, because in this case also the two factors in the problem are equally necessary to social progress, and we shall not enter on the various practical solutions--co-operation, co-partnership, partial state-socialism, &c.--which have been proposed for a problem which no one believes to be insoluble. The conflict in our own souls between the things of matter and sense and the life of the spirit, is more closely germane to the present argument, because ultimately this has to be resolved, if not in every mind yet in the dominant mind of Europe, before the more practical questions can be generally settled. Harmony here is at the root of a sound idea of progress. When the concluding chapters of this volume are reached it will be seen how fully the recent developments both in science and philosophy corroborate the line which is here suggested for the reconciliation of conflicts and the establishment of a stronger and more coherent notion of what we may rightly pursue as progress. For both in science and still more in philosophy attention is being more and more closely concentrated on the meaning of life itself, which science approaches by way of its physical concomitants, and philosophy from the point of view of consciousness. And while science has been analysing the characteristics of a living organism, philosophy finds in our consciousness just that element of community with others which an organic conception of progress demands. The only progress of which we can be certain, the philosopher tells us, is progress in our own consciousness, which becomes constantly fuller, more knowing, and more social, as time unfolds. This, he tells us, must endure, though the storms of passion and nature may fall upon us. On such a firm basis we would all gladly build our faith. No unity can be perfect except that which we achieve in our own souls, and no progress can be relied on except that which we can know within, and can develop from, our own consciousness and our own powers. But we cannot rest in this. We are bound to look outside our own consciousness for some objective correspondence to that progress which our own nature craves; and history supplies this evidence. It is from history that we derive the first idea and the accumulating proofs of the reality of progress. Lucretius's first sketch is really his summary of social history up to that point. The Catholic thinker had a wider scope. He was able to see that the whole course of Greco-Roman civilization was, from his point of view, a preparation for the Church which had the care of the spiritual life of man while on earth. And in the next stage, that in which we now live, we see all the interests of life taken back again into the completeness of human progress, and can trace that complete being, labouring slowly but unmistakably to a higher state, outside us in the world, as well as within our own consciousness, which is ready to expand if we will give it range. On such lines we may sketch the historical aspect of progress on which the personal is based; and it is of the utmost importance to keep the two aspects before us concurrently, because reliance on the growing fullness of the individual life to the neglect of the social evolution is likely to empty that life itself of its true content, to leave the self-centred visionary absorbed in the contemplation of some ideal perfection within himself, while the world outside him from which he ultimately derives his notions, is toiling and suffering from the want of those very elements which he is best able to supply. The succeeding chapters of this book will, it is hoped, supply some evidence of the concrete reality of progress, as well as of the tendency to greater coherence and purity in the ideal itself. It would have been easy to accumulate evidence; some sides of life are hardly touched on at all. The collective and the intellectual sides are fully dealt with both in this and in the volume on _The Unity of Western Civilization_. But if we make our survey over a sufficient space, coming down especially to our own days, our conclusion as to the advance made in the physical and moral well-being of mankind, will be hardly less emphatic. Our average lives are longer and continue to lengthen, and they are unquestionably spent with far less physical suffering than was generally the case at any previous period. We are bound to give full weight to this, however much we rightly deplore the deadening effect of monotonous and mechanical toil on so large a part of the population. And even for these the opportunities for a free and improving life are amazingly enlarged. We groan and chafe at what remains to be done because of the unexampled size of the modern industrial populations with which we have to deal. But we know in some points very definitely what we want, and we are now all persuaded with John Stuart Mill that the remedy is in our own hands, 'that all the great sources of human suffering are in a great degree, many of them entirely, conquerable by human care and effort.' This conviction is perhaps the greatest step of all that we have gained. In morality some pertinent and necessary questions are raised in Chap. VI, but the general progress would be doubted by very few who have had the opportunity of comparing the evidence as to any previous state of morals, say in the Middle Ages or in the Elizabethan age--the crown of the Renascence in England--with that of the present day. The capital advance in morality, which by itself would be sufficient to justify our thesis, is the increase in the consciousness and the obligation of the 'common weal', that conception of which Government, increasingly better organized, is the most striking practical realization. It has its drawback in the spread of what we feel as a debasing 'vulgarity', but the general balance is overwhelmingly on the side of good. And in all such discussions we are apt to allow far too little weight to the change which the New World, and especially the United States, has brought about. In matters of personal prosperity and a high general standard of intellectual and moral competence, what has been achieved there would outweigh a good deal of our Old World defects when we come to drawing up a world's balance-sheet. It will be seen therefore that we dismiss altogether any doctrine of an 'illusion of progress' as a necessary decoy to progressive action. Progress is a fact as well as an ideal, and the ideal, though it springs from an objective reality, will always be in advance of it. So it is with all man's activities when he comes to man's estate. In science he has always an ideal of a more perfect knowledge before him though he becomes scientific by experience. In art he is always striving to idealize fresh things, though he first becomes an artist from the pure spontaneous pleasure of expressing what is in him. The deliberate projection of the ideal into the future, seeing how far it will take us and whether we are journeying in the right direction, is a late stage. As to progress, the largest general ideal which can affect man's action, it is only recently that mankind as a whole has been brought to grips with the conception, also enlarged to the full. He was standing, somewhat bewildered, somewhat dazzled, before it, when the war, like an eclipse of the sun, came suddenly and darkened the view. But an eclipse has been found an invaluable time for studying some of the problems of the sun's nature and of light itself. One of the most acute critics of the mid-Victorian prophets of progress, Dr. John Grote, did very well in disentangling the ideal element which is inherent in every sound doctrine of progress as a guide to conduct. He took the theory of a continuous inevitable progress in human affairs, and showed how this by itself might lead to a weakening of the will, on which alone in his view progress in the proper sense depends. He took the mechanical theory of utilitarianism and subjected it to a similar analysis. We cannot evaluate progress as an increase in a sum-total of happiness. This is incapable of calculation, and if we aim directly at it, we are likely to lose the higher things on which it depends, and which are capable of being made the objects of that direct striving which is essential to progress. Dr. Grote's analysis has long since passed into current philosophical teaching, but he will always be well worth reading for his fresh and vigorous reasoning and for the way in which he builds up his own position without denying the solid contributions of those whom he criticizes. Complete truth in the matter seems to us to involve a larger share for the historical element than Dr. Grote explicitly allows. We grant fully the paramount necessity for an ideal of progress and for constantly revising, purifying, and strengthening it. But in its formation we should trace more than he does to the collective forces of mankind as expressed in history. These have given us the ideal and will carry us on towards it by a force which is greater than, and in one sense independent of, any individual will. This is the cardinal truth of sociology, and is obvious if we consider how in matters of everyday experience we are all compelled by some social force not ourselves, as for instance in actions tending to maintain the family or in a national crisis such, as the war. This general will is not, of course, independent of all the wills concerned, but it acts more or less as an outside compelling force in the case of every one. Moreover our selves are composite as well as wholes, and parts of us are active in forming the general will, parts acquiesce and parts are overborne. Thus it is clear that a general tendency to progress in the human race may be well established--as we hold it to be--and yet go on in ways capable of infinite variation and at very various speed. We are all, let us suppose, being carried onward by one mighty and irresistible stream. We may combine our strength and skill and make the best use of the surrounding forces. This is working and steering to the chosen goal. Or we may rest on our oars and let the stream take us where it will. This is drifting, and we shall certainly be carried on somewhere; but we may be badly bruised or even shipwrecked in the process, and in any case we shall have contributed nothing to the advance. Some few may even waste their strength in trying to work backwards against the stream. We seem to have reached the point in history when for the first time we are really conscious of our position, and the problem is now a possible and an urgent one to mark the goal clearly and unitedly and bend our common efforts to attaining it. If this be so, the work of synthesis may be thought to have a higher practical value for the moment than the analysis which has prevailed in European thought for the last forty or fifty years. In the earlier part of the nineteenth century the great formative ideas which had been gathering volume and enthusiasm during the revolutionary period, took shape in complete systems of religious and philosophic truth--Kant, Hegel, Spencer, Comte. They have been followed by a period of criticism which has left none of them whole, but on the other hand has produced a mass of contradictions and specialisms highly confusing and even hopeless to the public mind and veiling the more important and profound agreements which have been growing all the time beneath. There are now abundant signs of a reaction towards unity and construction of a broad and solid kind. In no respect is such a knitting up more desirable than in this idea of progress itself. Are we to say that there is no such thing as all-round continuous progress, but only progress in definite branches of thought and activity, progress in science or in particular arts, social progress, physical progress, progress in popular education and the like, but that any two or more branches only coincide occasionally and by accident, and that when working at one we can and should have no thought of working at them all? This is no doubt a prevalent view and we may hope that some things said in this book may modify it. Another school of critical thinkers, approaching the question from the point of view of the ultimate object of action, asks what is the one thing for which all others are to be pursued as means? Is increase of knowledge the absolute good or increase of happiness? Or if it is increase of love, is it quite indifferent what we love? A few words on this may fitly conclude this chapter. The task of mankind, and of every one of us so far as he is able to enter into it, is to bring together these various aspects of human excellence, to see them as parts of one ideal and labour to approach it. This approach is progress, and if you say 'progress of what, and to what end', the answer can only be, the progress of humanity, and the end further progress. Some of the writers in this book will indicate the point at which in their view this progress is in contact with the infinite, with something not given in history; but, whatever our view of the transcendental problem may be, it is of the utmost importance for all of us to realize that we have given to us in the actual process of time, in concrete history, a development of humanity, a growth from a lower to a higher state of being, which may be most perfectly realized in the individual consciousness, fully awake and fully socialized, but is also clearly traceable in the doings of the human race as a whole. Such is in fact the uniting thread of these essays, and when we proceed to the converse of this truth and apply this ideal which we have shown to be the course of realization, as a governing motive in our lives, it is even more imperative to strive constantly to keep the whole together, and not to regard either knowledge or power or beauty or even love as an ultimate and supreme thing to which all other ends are merely means. The end is a more perfect man, developed by the perfecting of all mankind. Such a conception embraces all the separate aspects of our nature each in its place, and each from its own angle supreme. Love and knowledge inseparable and fundamental, freedom and happiness essential conditions of healthy growth, personality developed with the development of the greater personality in which we all live and grow. This greater personality is at its highest immeasurably above us, and has no assignable limits in time or in capacity to know, to love, or to enjoy. We cannot fix its origin at any known point in the birth of planets, nor does the cooling of our sun nor of all the suns seem to put any limit in our imagination to the continuous unfolding of life like our own. While thus practically infinite, the ideal of human nature is revealed to us concretely in countless types of goodness and truth and beauty which we may know and love and imitate. To all it is open to study the lineaments of this ideal in the records and figures of the past; to most it is revealed in some fellow beings known in life. From these, the human spirits which embody the strivings, the hopes, the conquered failings of the past, we may form our better selves and build the humanity of the future. There is a famous and magnificent passage in Dante's _Purgatorio_ which Catholic commentators interpret in sacramental terms but we may well apply in a wider sense to the progress of the human spirit towards the ideal. It occurs at that crucial point where the ascending poet leaves the circles of sad repentance to reach the higher regions of growing light. 'And when we came there, to the first step, it was of white marble, so polished that I could see myself just as I am. 'And the second was coloured dark, a rugged stone, cracked lengthwise and across. And the third piled above it was flaming porphyry, red like the blood from a vein. 'Above this one was the angel of God, sitting on the threshold, bright as a diamond. 'Up the three steps my master led me with goodwill and then he said, "Beg humbly that he unlock the door."'[4] Like this, the path man has to tread is not an easy progress. But he is rising all the time and he rises on steps of his own past. He sees reflected in them the image of himself, and he sees too the deep faults in his nature, and the rough surface of his path through time. The last step, tinged by his own blood, gives access to a higher dwelling, firm and bright and leading higher still. But it is open only after a long ascent, and to the human spirit that has worked faithfully, with love for his comrades and leaders, and reverence for the laws which bind both the world and him. BOOKS FOR REFERENCE John Grote, _Examination of Utilitarian Philosophy_. Kant, _Principles of Politics_ (translated by Hastie and published by Clark) contains his smaller works on Universal History, Perpetual Peace, and the Principle of Progress. See also the _Essay on Herder_. Comte's _Positive Polity_, vols. i. and ii, passim. FOOTNOTES: [1] 'usus et impigrae simul experientia mentis paulatim docuit pedetemtim progredientes.' [2] Comte, _Positive Polity_, ii 116. [3] See Delisle Burns, _Morality of Nations_, and _The Unity of Western Civilization_, passim. [4] _Purgatorio_, ix. 94-108. II PROGRESS IN PREHISTORIC TIMES R. R. MARETT If I am unable to deliver this lecture in person, it will be because I have to attend in Jersey to the excavation of a cave once occupied by men of the Glacial Epoch. Now these men knew how to keep a good fire burning within their primitive shelter; their skill in the chase provided them with a well-assorted larder; their fine strong teeth were such as to make short work of their meals; lastly, they were clever artisans and one may even say artists in flint and greenstone, not only having the intelligence to make an economic use of the material at their disposal, but likewise having enough sense of form to endow their implements with more than a touch of symmetry and beauty. All this we know from what they have left behind them; and the rest is silence. And now let us imagine ourselves possessed of one of those time-machines of which Mr. H. G. Wells is the inventor. Transported by such means to the Europe of that distant past, could we undertake to beat the record of those cave-men? Clearly, all will depend on how many of us, and how much of the apparatus of civilization, our time-machine is able to accommodate. If it were simply to drop a pair of us, naked and presumably ashamed, into the midst of the rigours of the great Ice Age, the chances surely are that the unfortunate immigrants must perish within a week. Adam could hardly manage to kindle a fire without the help of matches. Eve would be no less sorely troubled to make clothes without the help of a needle. On the other hand, if the time-machine were as capacious as Noah's Ark, the venture would undoubtedly succeed, presenting no greater difficulty than, let us say, the planting of a settlement in Labrador or on the Yukon. Given numbers, specialized labour, tools, weapons, books, domesticated animals and plants, and so forth, the civilized community would do more than hold its own with the prehistoric cave-man, devoid of all such aids to life. Indeed, it is tolerably certain that, willingly or unwillingly, our colonists would soon drive the ancient type of man clean out of existence. On the face of it, then, it would seem that we, as compared with men of Glacial times, have decidedly 'progressed'. But it is not so easy to say off-hand in what precisely such progress consists. Are we happier? As well ask whether the wild wolf or the tame dog is the happier animal. The truth would seem to be that wolf and dog alike can be thoroughly happy each in its own way; whereas each would be as thoroughly miserable, if forced to live the life of the other. In one of his most brilliant passages Andrew Lang, after contrasting the mental condition of one of our most distant ancestors with yours or mine, by no means to our disadvantage, concludes with these words: 'And after all he was probably as happy as we are; it is not saying much.'[5] But, if not happier, are we nobler? If I may venture to speak as a philosopher, I should reply, confidently, 'Yes.' It comes to this, that we have and enjoy more soul. On the intellectual side, we see farther afield. On the moral side, our sympathies are correspondingly wider. Imaginatively, and even to no small extent practically, we are in touch with myriads of men, present and past. We participate in a world-soul; and by so doing are advanced in the scale of spiritual worth and dignity as members of the human race. Yet this common soul of mankind we know largely and even chiefly as something divided against itself. Not only do human ideals contradict each other; but the ideal in any and all of its forms is contradicted by the actual. So it is the discontent of the human world-soul that is mainly borne in upon him who shares in it most fully. A possibility of completed good may glimmer at the far end of the quest; but the quest itself is experienced as a bitter striving. Bitter though it may be, however, it is likewise ennobling. Here, then, I find the philosophic, that is, the ultimate and truest, touchstone of human progress, namely, in the capacity for that ennobling form of experience whereby we become conscious co-workers and co-helpers in an age-long, world-wide striving after the good. But to-day I come before you, not primarily as a philosopher, but rather as an anthropologist, a student of prehistoric man. I must therefore define progress, not in the philosophic or ultimate way, but simply as may serve the strictly limited aims of my special science. As an anthropologist, I want a workable definition--one that will set me working and keep me working on promising lines. I do not ask ultimate truth of my anthropological definition. For my science deals with but a single aspect of reality; and the other aspects of the real must likewise be considered on their merits before a final account can be rendered of it. Now anthropology is just the scientific history of man; and I suppose that there could be a history of man that did without the idea of human progress altogether. Progress means, in some sense, change for the better. But, strictly, history as such deals with fact; and is not concerned with questions of better or worse--in a word, with value. Hence, it must always be somewhat arbitrary on the part of an historian to identify change in a given direction with a gain or increase in value. Nevertheless, the anthropologist may do so, if he be prepared to take the risk. He sees that human life has on the whole grown more complex. He cannot be sure that it will continue to grow more complex. Much less has he a right to lay it down for certain that it ought to grow more complex. But so long as he realizes that he is thereby committing himself by implication to a prophetic and purposive interpretation of the facts, he need not hesitate to style this growth of complexity progress so far as man is concerned. For if he is an anthropologist, he is also a man, and cannot afford to take a wholly external and impartial view of the process whereby the very growth of his science is itself explained. Anthropologists though we be, we run with the other runners in the race of life, and cannot be indifferent to the prize to be won. Progress, then, according to the anthropologist, is defined as increase in complexity, with the tacit assumption that this somehow implies betterment, though it is left with the philosopher to justify such an assumption finally and fully. Whereas in most cases man would seem to have succeeded in the struggle for existence by growing more complex, though in some cases survival has been secured by way of simplification, anthropology concentrates its attention on the former set of cases as the more interesting and instructive even from a theoretical point of view. Let biology by all means dispense with the notion of progress, and consider man along with the other forms of life as subject to mere process. But anthropology, though in a way it is a branch of biology, has a right to a special point of view. For it employs special methods involving the use of a self-knowledge that in respect to the other forms of life is inevitably wanting. Anthropology, in short, like charity, begins at home. Because we know in ourselves the will to progress, we go on to seek for evidences of progress in the history of mankind. Nor need we cease to think of progress as something to be willed, something that concerns the inner man, even though for scientific purposes we undertake to recognize it by some external sign, as, for instance, by the sign of an increasing complexity, that is, such differentiation as likewise involves greater cohesion. All history, and more especially the history of early man, must deal primarily with externals. Thence it infers the inner life; and thereby it controls the tendency known as 'the psychologist's fallacy', namely, that of reading one's own mind into that of another man without making due allowance for differences of innate capacity and of acquired outlook. In what follows, then, let us, as anthropologists, be content to judge human progress in prehistoric times primarily by its external and objective manifestations; yet let us at no point in our inquiries forget that these ancient men, some of whom are our actual ancestors, were not only flesh of our flesh, but likewise spirit of our spirit. * * * * * A rapid sketch such as this must take for granted on the part of the audience some general acquaintance with that succession of prehistoric epochs which modern research has definitely established. Pre-history, as distinguished from proto-history, may, in reference to Europe as a whole, be made coextensive with the Stone Age. This divides into the Old Stone Age and the New. The Old Stone Age, or Palaeolithic Period, yields three well-marked subdivisions, termed Early, Middle, and Late. The New Stone Age, or Neolithic Period, includes two sub-periods, the Earlier or Transitional, and the Later or Typical. Thus our historical survey will fall naturally into five chapters. There are reasons, however, why it will be more convenient to move over the whole ground twice. The material on which our judgements must be founded is not all of one kind. Anthropology is the joint work of two departments, which are known as Physical Anthropology and Cultural Anthropology respectively. The former, we may say, deals with man as an organism, the latter with him as an organizer. Here, then, are very different standpoints. For, in a broad way of speaking, nature controls man through his physical organization, whereas through his cultural organization man controls nature. From each of these standpoints in turn, then, let us inquire how far prehistoric man can be shown to have progressed. First, did the breed improve during the long course of the Stone Age in Europe? Secondly, did the arts of life advance, so that by their aid man might establish himself more firmly in his kingdom? Did the breed improve during prehistoric times? I have said that, broadly speaking, nature controls man as regards his physical endowment. Now in theory one must admit that it might be otherwise. If Eugenics were to mature on its purely scientific side, there is no reason why the legislator of the future should not try to make a practical application of its principles; and the chances are that, of many experiments, some would prove successful. But that conscious breeding was practised in prehistoric times is out of the question. The men of those days were one and all what we are ourselves--nature's mongrels, now broken up into varieties by casual isolation, and now by no less casual intermixture recompounded in a host of relatively unstable forms. Whatever progress, therefore, may have occurred in this respect has been unconscious. Man cannot take the credit for it, except in so far as it is indirectly due to that increase and spread of the race which have been promoted by his achievements in the way of culture. The barest outline of the facts must suffice. For the Early Pleistocene, apart from the Java fossil, _Pithecanthropus erectus_, a veritable 'missing link', whom we may here disregard as falling altogether outside our world of Europe, there are only two individuals that can with certainty be referred to this distant period. These are the Piltdown and the Heidelberg specimens. The former consists of a fragmentary brain-case, thick-boned and narrow-fronted, but typically human in its general characters, and of the greater part of a lower jaw, which, as regards both its own elongated and curiously flanged structure, and that of the teeth it contained, including an enormous pointed canine, is conversely more appropriate to an ape-like being than to a man. The latter consists only of a lower jaw, of which the teeth, even the canines, are altogether human, whereas the jaw itself is hardly less simian than that of the Sussex skull. If we add the Java example to the list of very primitive forms, it is remarkable to note how, though differing widely from each other, all alike converge on the ape. Nevertheless, even in Pithecanthropus, the brute is passing into the man. We note the erect attitude, to be inferred from his thigh-bone, and the considerably enlarged, though even so hardly human, brain. The Piltdown individual, on the other hand, has crossed the Rubicon. He has a brain-capacity entitling him to rank as a man and an Englishman. Such a brain, too, implies a cunning hand, which doubtless helped him greatly to procure his food, even if his massive jaw enabled him to dispose of the food in question without recourse to the adventitious aids of knife and fork. For the matter of that, if our knowledge made it possible to correlate these rare finds of bones more exactly with the innumerable flint implements ascribable to this period (and, indeed, not without analogies among the spoil from the Piltdown gravels), it might turn out that even the equivalent of knife and fork was not wanting to the Early Pleistocene supper-party, or, at any rate, that the human hand was already advanced from the status of labourer to the more dignified position of superintendent of the tool. The Middle Pleistocene Epoch belongs to the men of the Neanderthal type. Some thirty specimens, a few of them more or less complete, have come down to us, and we can form a pretty clear notion of the physical appearance of the race. Speaking generally, we may say that it marks a stage of progress as compared with the Piltdown type; though, if the jaw, heavy and relatively chinless as it is, has become less simian, the protruding brow-ridge lends a monstrous look to the face, while the forehead is markedly receding--a feature which turns out, however, to be not incompatible with a weight of brain closely approaching our own average. Whether this type has disappeared altogether from the earth, or survives in certain much modified descendants, is an open question. The fact remains that during the last throes of the Glacial Epoch this rough-hewn kind of man apparently had Northern Europe as his exclusive province; and it is by no means evident what _Homo Sapiens_, the supposed highly superior counterpart and rival of _Homo Neanderthalensis_, was doing with himself in the meantime. Moreover, not only in respect of space does the population of that frozen world show remarkable homogeneity; but also in respect of time must we allow it an undisputed sway extending over thousands of years, during which the race bred true. The rate of progress, whether reckoned in physical terms or otherwise, is so slow as to be almost imperceptible. A type suffices for an age. Whereas in the life-history of an individual there is rapid development during youth, and after maturity a steadying down, it is the other way about in the life-history of the race. Man, so to speak, was born old and accommodated to a jog-trot. We moderns are the juveniles, and it is left for us to go the pace. Yet Late Pleistocene Period introduces us to more diversity in the way of human types. Only one race, however, that named after the rock-shelter of Crô-Magnon in the Dordogne, is represented by a fair number of specimens, namely, about a dozen. At this point we come suddenly and without previous warning on as pretty a kind of man as ever walked this earth. In his leading characters he is remarkably uniform. Six feet high and long-legged, he likewise possessed a head well stocked with brains and a face that, if rather broad and short, was furnished by way of compensation with a long and narrow nose. If the present world can show nothing quite like him, it at least cannot produce anything more shapely in the way of the 'human form divine'. Apart from the Crô-Magnons, the remains of an old woman and a youth found at the lowest level of the Grotte des Enfants at Mentone are usually held to belong to a distinct stock known as the Grimaldi. The physical characters of the pair are regarded as negroid, verging on the Pygmy; but if we could study an adult male of the same stock, it might possibly turn out not to be so very divergent from the Crô-Magnon. Again, a single specimen does duty for the so-called Chancelade race. The skeleton is of comparatively low stature, and is deemed to show close affinities to the type of the modern Eskimo. Without being unduly sceptical, one may once more wonder if the Crô-Magnon stock may not have produced this somewhat aberrant form. Even on such a theory, however--and it is hardly orthodox--diversity of physical structure would seem to be on the increase. On the other hand, there are reasons of considerable cogency for referring to the end of this period skeletons of what Huxley termed the 'River-bed type', the peculiarity of which consists in the fact that they are more or less indistinguishable from the later Neolithic men and indeed from any of those slight-built, shortish, long-headed folk who form the majority in the crowded cities of to-day. Some authorities would ascribe a far greater antiquity to this type, but, I venture to think, on the strength of doubtful evidence. The notorious Galley Hill skeleton, for instance, found more or less intact in an Early Pleistocene bed in which the truly contemporary animals are represented by the merest battered remnants, to my mind reeks of modernity. Be these things as they may, however, when we come to Neolithic times a race of similar physical characters has Europe to itself, though it would seem to display minor variations in a way that suggests that the reign of the mongrel has at length begun. And here we may close our enumeration of the earliest known branches of our family tree, since the coming of the broad-heads pertains to the history of the Bronze Age, and hence falls outside the scope of the present survey. Now what is the bearing of these somewhat scanty data on the question of progress? It is not easy to extract from them more than the general impression that, as time went on, the breed made persistent headway as regards both the complexity of its organization and the profusion of its forms. After all, we must not expect too much from this department of the subject. For one thing, beyond the limits of North-western Europe the record is almost blank; and yet we can scarcely hope to discover the central breeding-place of man in what is, geographically, little more than a blind alley. In the next place, Physical Anthropology, not only in respect to human palaeontology, but in general, is as barren of explanations as it is fertile in detailed observations. The systematic study of heredity as it bears on the history of the human organism has hardly begun. Hence, it would not befit one who is no expert in relation to such matters to anticipate the verdict of a science that needs only public encouragement in order to come into its own. Suffice it to suggest here that nature as she presides over organic evolution, that is, the unfolding of the germinal powers, may be conceived as a kindly but slow-going and cautious liberator. One by one new powers, hitherto latent, are set free as an appropriate field of exercise is afforded them by the environment. At first divergency is rarely tolerated. A given type is extremely uniform. On the other hand, when divergency is permitted, it counts for a great deal. The wider variations occur nearest the beginning, each for a long time breeding true to itself. Later on, such uncompromising plurality gives way to a more diffused multiplicity begotten of intermixture. Mongrelization has set in. Not but what there may spring up many true-breeding varieties among the mongrels; and these, given suitable conditions, will be allowed to constitute lesser types possessed of fairly uniform characters. Such at least is in barest outline the picture presented by the known facts concerning the physical evolution of man, if one observe it from outside without attempting to explore the hidden causes of the process. Some day, when these causes are better understood, man may take a hand in the game, and become, in regard to the infinite possibilities still sleeping in the transmitted germ, a self-liberator. Nature is but a figurative expression for the chances of life, and the wise man faces no more chances than he needs must. Scientific breeding is no mere application of the multiplication table to a system of items. We must make resolutely for the types that seem healthy and capable, suppressing the defectives in a no less thorough, if decidedly more considerate, way than nature has been left to do in the past. Here, then, along physical lines is one possible path of human progress, none the less real because hitherto pursued, not by the aid of eyes that can look and choose, but merely in response to painful proddings at the tail-end. Our remaining task is to take stock of that improvement in the arts of life whereby man has come gradually to master an environment that formerly mastered him. For the Early Palaeolithic Period our evidence in respect of its variety, if not of its gross quantity, is wofully disappointing. Not to speak of man's first and rudest experiments in the utilization of stone, which are doubtless scattered about the world in goodly numbers if only we could recognize them clearly for what they are, the Chellean industry by its wide distribution leads one to suppose that mankind in those far-off days was only capable of one idea at a time--a time, too, that lasted a whole age. Yet the succeeding Acheulean style of workmanship in flint testifies to the occurrence of progress in one of its typical forms, namely, in the form of what may be termed 'intensive' progress. The other typical form I might call 'intrusive' progress, as happens when a stimulating influence is introduced from without. Now it may be that the Acheulean culture came into being as a result of contact between an immigrant stock and a previous population practising the Chellean method of stone-work. We are at present far too ill-informed to rule out such a guess. But, on the face of it, the greater refinement of the Acheulean handiwork looks as if it had been literally hammered out by steadfastly following up the Chellean pattern into its further possibilities. Explain it as we will, this evolution of the so-called _coup-de-poing_ affords almost the sole proof that the human world of that remote epoch was moving at all. If we could see their work in wood, we might discern a more diversified skill or we might not. As it is, we can but conclude in the light of our very imperfect knowledge that in mind no less than in body mankind of Early Palaeolithic times displayed a fixity of type almost amounting to that of one of the other animal species. During Middle Palaeolithic times the Mousterian culture rules without a rival. The cave-period has begun; and, thanks to the preservation of sundry dwelling-places together with a goodly assortment of their less perishable contents, we can frame a fairly adequate notion of the home-life of Neanderthal man. I have already alluded to my excavations in Jersey, and need not enter into fuller details here. But I should like to put on record the opinion borne in upon me by such first-hand experience as I have had that cultural advance in Mousterian days was almost as portentously slow as ever it had been before. The human deposits in the Jersey cave are in some places about ten feet thick, and the fact that they fall into two strata separated by a sterile layer that appears to consist of the dust of centuries points to a very long process of accumulation. Yet though there is one kind of elephant occurring amid the bone refuse at the bottom of the bed, and another and, it would seem, later kind at the top, one and the same type of flint instrument is found at every level alike; and the only development one can detect is a certain gain in elegance as regards the Mousterian 'point', the reigning substitute for the former _coup-de-poing_. Once more there is intensive progress only, so far at least as most of the Jersey evidence goes. One _coup-de-poing_, however, and that hardly Acheulean in conception but exactly what a hand accustomed to the fashioning of the Mousterian 'point' would be likely to make by way of an imitation of the once fashionable pattern, lay at lowest floor-level; as if to remind one that during periods of transition the old is likely to survive by the side of the new, and may even survive in it as a modifying element. As a matter of fact, the _coup-de-poing_ is frequent in the earliest Mousterian sites; so that we cannot but ask ourselves how it came to be in the end superseded. Whether the Mousterians were of a different race from the Acheuleans is not known. Certain it is, on the other hand, that the industry that makes its first appearance in their train represents a labour-saving device. The Mousterian had learned how to break up his flint-nodule into flakes, which simply needed to be trimmed on one face to yield a cutting edge. The Acheulean had been content to attain this result more laboriously by pecking a pebble on both faces until what remained was sharp enough for his purpose. Here, then, we are confronted with that supreme condition of progress, the inventor's happy thought. One of those big-brained Neanderthal men, we may suppose, had genius; nature, the liberator, having released some latent power in the racial constitution. Given such a culture-hero, the common herd was capable of carrying on more or less mechanically for an aeon or so. And so it must ever be. The world had better make the most of its geniuses; for they amount to no more than perhaps a single one in a million. Anyway, Neanderthal man never produced a second genius, so far as we can tell; and that is why, perhaps, his peculiar type of brow-ridge no longer adorns the children of men. Before we leave the Mousterians, another side of their culture deserves brief mention. Not only did they provide their dead with rude graves, but they likewise furnished them with implements and food for use in a future life. Herein surely we may perceive the dawn of what I do not hesitate to term religion. A distinguished scholar and poet did indeed once ask me whether the Mousterians, when they performed these rites, did not merely show themselves unable to grasp the fact that the dead are dead. But I presume that my friend was jesting. A sympathy stronger than death, overriding its grisly terror, and converting it into the vehicle of a larger hope--that is the work of soul; and to develop soul is progress. A religious animal is no brute, but a real man with the seed of genuine progress in him. If Neanderthal man belonged to another species, as the experts mostly declare and I very humbly beg leave to doubt, we must even so allow that God made him also after his own image, brow-ridges and all. The presence of soul in man is even more manifest when we pass on to the Late Palaeolithic peoples. They are cave-dwellers; they live by the chase; in a word, they are savages still. But they exhibit a taste and a talent for the fine arts of drawing and carving that, as it were, enlarge human existence by a new dimension. Again a fresh power has been released, and one in which many would seem to have participated; for good artists are as plentiful during this epoch as ever they were in ancient Athens or mediaeval Florence. They must have married-in somewhat closely, one would think, for this special aptitude to have blossomed forth so luxuriantly. I cannot here dwell at length on the triumphs of Aurignacian and Magdalenian artistry. Indeed, what I have seen with my own eyes on the walls of certain French caves is almost too wonderful to be described. The simplicity of the style does not in the least detract from the fullness of the charm. On the contrary, one is tempted to doubt whether the criterion of complexity applies here--whether, in fact, progress has any meaning in relation to fine art--since, whether attained by simple or by complex means, beauty is always beauty, and cannot further be perfected. Shall we say, then, with Plato that beauty was revealed to man from the first in its absolute nature, so that the human soul might be encouraged to seek for the real in its complementary forms of truth and goodness, such as are less immediately manifest? For the rest, the soul of these transcendently endowed savages was in other respects more imperfectly illuminated; as may be gathered from the fact that they carved and drew partly from the love of their art, but partly also, and, perhaps, even primarily, for luck. It seems that these delineations of the animals on which they lived were intended to help them towards good hunting. Such is certainly the object of a like custom on the part of the Australian aborigines; there being this difference, however, that the art of the latter considered as art is wholly inferior. Now we know enough about the soul of the Australian native, thanks largely to the penetrating interpretations of Sir Baldwin Spencer, to greet and honour in him the potential lord of the universe, the harbinger of the scientific control of nature. It is more than half the battle to have willed the victory; and the picture-charm as a piece of moral apparatus is therefore worthy of our deepest respect. The chariot of progress, of which the will of man is the driver, is drawn by two steeds, namely, Imagination and Reason harnessed together. Of the pair, Reason is the more sluggish, though serviceable enough for the heavy work. Imagination, full of fire as it is, must always set the pace. So the soul of the Late Palaeolithic hunter, having already in imagination controlled the useful portion of the animal world, was more than half-way on the road to its domestication. But in so far as he mistook the will for the accomplished deed, he was not getting the value out of his second horse; or, to drop metaphor, the scientific reason as yet lay dormant in his soul. But his dream was to come true presently. The Neolithic Period marks the first appearance of the 'cibi-cultural' peoples. The food-seekers have become food-raisers. But the change did not come all at once. The earlier Neolithic culture is at best transitional. There may even have been one of those set-backs in culture which we are apt to ignore when we are narrating the proud tale of human advance. Europe had now finally escaped from the last ravages of an Arctic climate; but there was cruel demolition to make good, and in the meantime there would seem, as regards man, to have been little doing. Life among the kitchen-middens of Denmark was sordid; and the Azilians who pushed up from Spain as far as Scotland did not exactly step into a paradise ready-made. Somewhere, however, in the far south-east a higher culture was brewing. By steps that have not yet been accurately traced legions of herdsmen and farmer-folk overspread our world, either absorbing or driving before them the roving hunters of the older dispensation. We term this, the earliest of true civilizations, 'neolithic', as if it mattered in the least whether your stone implement be chipped or polished to an edge. The real source of increased power and prosperity lay in the domestication of food-animals and food-plants. The man certainly had genius and pluck into the bargain who first trusted himself to the back of an unbroken horse. It needed hardly less genius to discover that it is no use singing charms over the seed-bearing grass in order to make it grow, unless some of the seed is saved to be sowed in due season. Society possibly brained the inventor--such is the way of the crowd; but, as it duly pocketed the invention, we have perhaps no special cause to complain. By way of appreciating the conditions prevailing in the Later Neolithic Age, let us consider in turn the Lake-dwellers of Switzerland and the Dolmen-builders of our Western coast-lands. I was privileged to assist, on the shore of the Lake of Neuchâtel, in the excavation of a site where one Neolithic village of pile-dwellings had evidently been destroyed by fire, and at some later date, just falling within the Stone Age, had been replaced by another. Here we had lighted on a crucial instance of the march of cultural progress. The very piles testified to it, those of the older settlement being ill-assorted and slight, whereas the later structure was regularly built and heavily timbered. It was clear, too, that the first set of inhabitants had lived narrow lives. All their worldly goods were derived from strictly local sources. On the other hand, their successors wore shells from the Mediterranean and amber beads from the Baltic among their numerous decorations; while for their flint they actually went as far afield as Grand Pressigny in West-Central France, the mines of which provided the butter-like nodules that represented the _ne plus ultra_ of Neolithic luxury. Commerce must have been decidedly flourishing in those days. No longer was it a case of the so-called 'silent trade', which the furtive savage prosecutes with fear and trembling, placing, let us say, a lump of venison on a rock in the stream dividing his haunts from those of his dangerous neighbours, and stealing back later on to see if the red ochre for which he pines has been deposited in return on the primitive counter. The Neolithic trader, on the other side, must have pushed the science of barter to the uttermost limits short of the invention of a circulating medium, if indeed some crude form of currency was not already in vogue. When we turn to the Dolmen-builders, and contemplate their hoary sanctuaries, we are back among the problems raised by the philosophic conception of progress as an advance in soul-power. Is any religion better than none? Does it make for soul-power to be preoccupied with the cult of the dead? Does the imagination, which in alliance with the scientific reason achieves such conquests over nature, give way at times to morbid aberration, causing the chill and foggy loom of an after-life to obscure the honest face of the day? I can only say for myself that the deepening of the human consciousnesses due to the effort to close with the mystery of evil and death, and to extort therefrom a message of hope and comfort, seems to me to have been worth the achievement at almost any cost of crimes and follies perpetrated by the way. I do not think that progress in religion is progress towards its ultimate abolition. Rather, religion, if regarded in the light of its earlier history, must be treated as the parent source of all the more spiritual activities of man; and on these his material activities must depend. Else the machine will surely grind the man to death; and his body will finally stop the wheels that his soul originally set in motion. The panorama is over. It has not been easy, at the rate of about a millennium to a minute, to present a coherent account of the prehistoric record, which at best is like a jig-saw puzzle that has lost most of the pieces needed to reconstitute the design. But, even on this hasty showing, it looks as if the progressive nature of man were beyond question. There is manifest gain in complexity of organization, both physical and cultural; and only less manifest, in the sense that the inwardness of the process cannot make appeal to the eye, is the corresponding gain in realized power of soul. In short, the men of the Stone Age assuredly bore their full share in the work of race-improvement; and the only point on which there may seem to be doubt is whether we of the age of metal are as ready and able to bear our share. But let us be optimistic about ourselves. As long as we do not allow our material achievements to blind us to the need of an education that keeps the spiritual well to the fore, then progress is assured so far as it depends on culture. Yet if we could likewise breed for spirituality, humanity's chances, I believe, would be bettered by as much again or more. But how is this to be done? Science must somehow find out. To leave it to nature is treason to the mind. Man may be an ass on the whole, but nature is even more of an ass, especially when it stands for human nature minus its saving grace of imaginative, will-directed intelligence. So let us hope that one day people will marry intelligently, and that the best marriages will be the richest in offspring. I believe that the spiritual is not born of the sickly; and at any rate should be prepared to make trial of such a working principle in my New Republic. So much for the practical corollaries suggested by our flying visit to Prehistoric Europe. But, even if any detailed lessons to be drawn from such fragmentary facts have to be received with caution, you need not hesitate to pursue this branch of study for its own sake as part of the general training of the mind. Accustom yourselves to a long perspective. Cultivate the eagle's faculty of spacious vision. It is only thus that one can get the values right--see right and wrong, truth and error, beauty and ugliness in their broad and cumulative effects. Analytic studies, as they are termed, involving the exploration of the meaning of received ideas, must come first in any scheme of genuine education. We must learn to affirm before we can go on to learn how to criticize. But historical studies are a necessary sequel. Other people's received ideas turn out in the light of history to have sometimes worked well, and sometimes not so well; and we are thereupon led to revise our own opinions accordingly. Now the history of man has hitherto stood almost exclusively for the history of European civilization. Being so limited, it loses most of its value as an instrument of criticism. For how can a single phase of culture criticize itself? How can it step out of the scales and assess its own weight? Anthropology, however, will never acquiesce in this parochial view of the province of history. History worthy of the name must deal with man universal. So I would have you all become anthropologists. Let your survey of human progress be age-long and world-wide. You come of a large family and an ancient one. Learn to be proud of it, and then you will seek likewise to be worthy of it. BOOKS FOR REFERENCE W. J. Sollas, _Ancient Hunters and their Modern Representatives_, 2nd edition, 1915. E. A. Parkyn, _Introduction to the study of Prehistoric Art_. R. R. Marett, _Anthropology_ (Home University Library). J. L. Myres, _Dawn of History_ (Home University). FOOTNOTES: [5] Presidential Address to the International Folk-Lore Congress, 1891, p. 9. III PROGRESS AND HELLENISM F. MELIAN STAWELL To speak the truth about national characteristics it is often necessary to speak in paradoxes, for of all unities on earth nothing contains so many contradictions as a nation. So it is here: it may be said quite truly that the Greeks had at once the most profound conceptions about Progress and no faith in it: that they were at once the most hopeful and the most despairing of peoples. Let me try to explain. When we speak of a faith in Progress, whatever else we mean, we must mean, I take it, that there is a real advance in human welfare throughout time from the Past to the Future, that 'the best is yet to be', and that the good wine is kept to the last. But if we are to have a philosophy underlying that faith we must be able to say something more. What, in the first place, do we mean by 'a real advance'? Or by 'human welfare'? Progress, yes, but progress towards what? What is the standard? And if we cannot indicate a standard, what right have we to say that one life is any better than another? The life of the scientific man any better than the life of the South Sea Islander--content if only he has enough bananas to eat? Or than the life of a triumphant conqueror, a Zenghis Khan or a Tamberlaine--exultant if he has enough human heads before him? Or, indeed, any of these rather than the blank of Nirvana or the life of a vegetable? Our first need, then, is the need of a standard for good over and above the conflicting opinions of men, and some idea as to what that standard implies. And the next question is, why we should hold that any of this good is going to be realized in human life at all? If it is, there must be some connexion of cause and effect between goodness and human existence. What is the nature of that connexion? Finally, why should we hope that this goodness is realized more and more fully as time goes on? The Greeks faced these questions, as they faced so many, with extraordinary daring and penetration and with an intimate mixture of sadness and hope. They themselves, of all nations known to us in history, had made the greatest progress in the shortest space of time. A long course of preparation, it is true, underlay that marvellous growth. The classical Greeks,--and when I speak of Hellenism I mean the flower of classical Greek culture,--the classical Greeks entered into the labours of the island peoples, who, whether kindred to them or not, had built up from neolithic times a great civilization, the major part of which they could, and did, assimilate. They found the soil already worked. None the less it is to their own original genius that we owe those great discoveries of the spirit which, to quote a recent writer, 'created a new world of science and art, established an ideal of the sane mind in the sane body and the perfect man in the perfect society, cut out a new line of progress between anarchy and despotism, and made moral ends supreme over national in the State.'[6] But these practical achievements of theirs have been already summed up by Professor J. A. Smith in his lecture[7] at this school last year, and it is to that lecture that I would refer you. I will take it as a basis and proceed for my own purposes to discuss the Greek conceptions about progress. Those conceptions were complex, and, speaking roughly, we may say this: if belief in real progress implies belief in three things, namely, (1) an absolute standard apprehended, however dimly, by man, (2) a causal connexion between existence and perfection, and (3) a persistent advance through time, then the Greeks held to the first two and doubted, or even denied, the third. Their two great thinkers, Plato and Aristotle, worked out systems based on the conviction that there really was an absolute standard of perfection, that man could really apprehend something of this perfection, and that the effort towards it was essential to the very existence of the world, part of the stuff, as it were, that made the universe. These systems have had an effect not to be exaggerated on the whole movement of thought since their day. Moreover, many of their fundamental conceptions are being revived in modern science and metaphysics. And the convictions that underlie them are calculated, one would say, to lead at once to a buoyant faith in progress. But with Plato, and Aristotle, and the Greeks generally, they did not so lead. The Greeks could not feel sure that this effort towards perfection, though it is part of existence, is strong enough to deliver man in this world from the web of evil in which also he is involved, nor even that he makes any approach on the whole towards the loosening of the toils. The spectre of world-destruction, as Whitman says of Carlyle, was always before them. And I wish to ask later on if we may not surmise definite reasons in their own history for this recurring note of discouragement. But let us first look at the positive side, and first in Plato. Plato came to his system by several lines of thought, and to understand it we ought to take account of all. 1. In the first place no thinker, I suppose, ever felt more keenly than he felt the desire for an absolute standard of truth, especially in matters of right and wrong, if only to decide between the disputes of men. And, in Greece men disputed so boldly and so incessantly that there was no possibility of forgetting the clash of opinion in any 'dogmatic slumber'. Thus Plato is always asking, like Robert Browning in 'Rabbi Ben Ezra',-- Now, who shall arbitrate? Ten men love what I hate, Shun what I follow, slight what I receive; Ten who in ears and eyes Match me: we all surmise, They this thing, and I that; whom shall my soul believe? In one of his very earliest dialogues, the 'Euthyphro', Plato puts the question almost in so many words. What is it, he asks (7 A-E), that men quarrel over most passionately when they dispute? Is it not over the great questions of justice and injustice, of beauty, goodness, and the like? They do not quarrel thus over a question of physical size, simply because they can settle such a dispute by reference to an unquestioned standard, a standard measure, let us say. If there is no corresponding standard for right and wrong, if each man is really the judge and the measure for himself, then there is no sense, Plato feels, in claiming that one man is wiser than another in conduct, or indeed any man wiser than a dog-faced baboon (_Theaet._ 161 C-E). 2. Again, Plato feels most poignantly the inadequacy of all the goodness and beauty we have ever actually seen in this world of space and time, compared with the ideal we have of them in their perfection. How can we have this sense of deficiency, he asks, unless somehow we apprehend something supreme, over and above all the approaches to it that have as yet appeared? (_Phaedo_, 74 E). This vision of an absolute perfection, as yet unrealized on earth, so dominates all his thinking, and has such peculiar features of its own, that even familiar quotations must be quoted here. You will find an exquisite translation of a typical passage in our Poet Laureate's Anthology, _The Spirit of Man_ (No. 37). Specially to be noted here is the stress on the unchanging character of this eternal perfection and the suggestion that it cannot be fully realized in the world. At the same time, Plato is equally sure that it is only through the study of this world that our apprehension of that perfection is awakened at all:-- 'He who has thus been instructed in the science of Love, and has been led to see beautiful things in their due order and rank, when he comes toward the end of his discipline, will suddenly catch sight of a wondrous thing, beautiful with the absolute Beauty ... he will see a Beauty eternal, not growing or decaying, not waxing or waning, nor will it be fair here and foul there ... as if fair to some and foul to others ... but Beauty absolute, separate, simple, and everlasting; which lending of its virtue to all beautiful things that we see born to decay, itself suffers neither increase nor diminution, nor any other change' (_Symp._ 211). All beautiful things remind man, Plato tells us in his mythological fashion, of this perfect Beauty, because we had seen it once before in another life, before our souls were born into this world, 'that blissful sight and spectacle' (_Phaedrus_, 250 B) when we followed Zeus in his winged car and all the company of the gods, and went out into the realm beyond the sky, a realm 'of which no mortal poet has ever sung or ever will sing worthily'. 3. But, beside this passion for the ideal, Plato was intensely interested in our knowledge of the actual world of appearances around us. And one of the prime questions with which he was then concerned was the question, what we mean when we talk about the nature or character of the things we see, a plant, say, or an animal, or a man. We must mean something definite, otherwise we could not recognize, for example, that a plant _is_ a plant through all its varieties and all the different stages of its growth. Plato's answer was, that in all natural things there is a definite principle that copies, as it were, a definite Type or Form, and this Type he calls an Idea. Thus in some sense it is this Type, this Idea, this Form, that brings the particular thing into being. 4. But it was not enough for Plato to say that every natural thing had in some sense a certain type for its basis, unless he could believe that this type was good, and that all the types were harmonious with each other. He could only be satisfied with the world, in short, if he could feel that it came about through a movement towards perfection. He makes his Socrates say that in asking about 'the causes of things, what it is that makes each thing come into being', it was not enough for him if he could only see that the thing was there because something had put it there: he also wanted to see that it was good for it to be there. Socrates tells us that what he needed he thought he had found in a book by Anaxagoras, which announced 'that Mind was the disposer and cause of all' because, 'I said to myself, If this be so--if Mind is the orderer, it will have all in order, and put every single thing in the place that is best for it'.[8] It is the same feeling as that which underlies the words of Genesis about the Creation, 'And God saw that it was good'. And there is no doubt that such a view of the world would be supremely satisfying if we could count it true. There may be considerable intellectual satisfaction, no doubt, in merely solving a puzzle as to how things come about, but it is as nothing compared to the joy there would be in contemplating their goodness. 5. But is it true? Can we possibly say so in view of the hideous imperfection round us? The writers of Genesis spoke of a Fall. Plato, in his own way, speaks of a Fall himself. He never gives up the belief in an Absolute Perfection, a system of Perfect Types somehow--he does not say exactly how--influencing the structure of things in this world. But he holds that on earth this perfection is always thwarted by a medium which prevents its full manifestation. This medium is the medium of Space and Time, and therefore the medium of history--and therefore history is always and inevitably a record of failure. 'While we are in the body,' Plato writes, 'and while the soul is contaminated with its evils, our desire will never be thoroughly satisfied.'[9] 'The body is a tomb,' he writes elsewhere, quoting a current phrase. This is sad enough: yet if we put against it Plato's vision of what Man might be, we get as inspiring words as ever were written: 'We have spoken of Man', he says at the end of the _Republic_, 'as he appears to us now, but now he looks as Glaucus looked after he had been cast into the sea, and his original nature was scarcely to be discerned, for his limbs were broken and crushed and defaced by the waters, and strange things had grown round him, shells and seaweed and stones, so that he was more like a beast than a man. That is how the soul looks to us now encompassed by all her evils. It is elsewhere, my friend, that we ought to look.' Where? asks Plato's friend, and Plato answers, 'We should look to her love of wisdom and realize what she clings to, what company she desires, for she is akin to the Divine and Immortal and Eternal, and we should understand what she would become if she followed after it, with all her strength, and were lifted by that effort out of the sea where she now lies.... Then we should understand her real nature.' (_Republic_, 611.) Somewhere, Plato believes, this true nature of man may be realized. The Principle of Good is something active, not a dead helpless thing, with no effect on the rest of the universe (_Sophist_, 248, 249); it is a living power, which desires that everything everywhere should be as glorious as possible (_Tim._ 29 D). There is no envy, Plato says, in the Divine, that grudging spirit has no part in the heavenly company. Only it is not on earth that the glory can be realized. It is towards the life after death that Plato's real hopes are directed. None the less, and this is important, this world does not cease to be significant for him. He does not turn aside,--as some souls, intoxicated with the Divine, have done,--from this world altogether. Because he holds that man can only advance by struggling to make this world better. Man's ordinary life may be like the life in a cave, as he says in his famous myth, but the true philosopher who has once risen out of the cave must go back into it again and teach the prisoners there what the universe really is (_Republic_, Book vi, _fin._; vii, _init._). The very passage that I quoted about man's real nature comes at the end of the _Republic_. Now the _Republic_ is a Utopia, and no one writes a Utopia unless he believes that the effort to reach it is of prime importance to man and helps him to advance. Only, for Plato, the advance is not marked in the successive stages of history, as the modern faith in progress asserts. The life on earth, for Plato, is like a school through which men pass and in which they may learn and grow, but the school itself does not go on growing. It is not that he does not envisage change in history, but what he seems to hope for at the best is nothing more hopeful than recurring cycles of better and worse. He tells a fable, in his dialogue 'The Statesman', of how at one time the world is set spinning in the right direction by God and then all goes well, and again how God ceases to control it, and then it gradually forgets the divine teaching and slips from good to bad and from bad to worse, until at last God takes pity on it once more to save it from utter destruction (_Polit._ 269 ff.). No doubt in this idea of cycles Plato is influenced by the popular thought of his time: this feeling that there had been a lost Golden Age in the past was deeply rooted in Greek mythology. We get it long before Plato, in Hesiod, and there are similar touches in Homer, and once men believe that they have sunk from glory, there is always the dread that if ever they recover it they will lose it again. And with Plato this dread is reinforced by his sense of something incurable in the world, the thwarting influence of spatial and temporal matter (_Theaet._ 176 A). It is strange that, though he is always thinking of the individual soul as learning through experience in its passage from one life to another, Plato does not seem to have the idea of mankind learning by the lessons of history, of knowledge being handed down from one age to another, and growing in the process. That is one of the most inspiring ideas in modern thought: a German writer has spoken of history as the long Odyssey of the human spirit, the common mind of Man coming at last through its wanderings to find out what it really wants, and where its true home lies. And here, significantly enough, we find we are brought back in our modern way to something very like Plato's own conception of an eternal unchanging Reality. There are endless problems in the whole conception of the Eternal that I am quite unable even to attempt; but this much at least seems clear to me, that the whole idea of mankind learning by the experience of History, implies something of permanent value running through that experience. The very thought of continued progress implies that man can look back at the successive stages of the Past and say of each: In that lay values which I, to-day and always, can recognize as good, although I believe we have more good now. Seeley speaks in a noble passage of how religion might conceive a progressive revelation which was, in a sense, the same through all its stages, and yet was a growing thing:--'each new revelation asserts its own superiority to those which went before,' but the superiority is 'not of one thing to another thing--but of the developed thing to the undeveloped'. 'It is thus', he writes, 'that the ages should behave to one another.' This is the true 'understanding and concert with time'.[10] And though Plato does not live in the thought of historic progress, yet such a conception of progress which recognizes at different stages different expressions, more or less adequate, of one eternal value, such a way of thinking is entirely Platonic. When we look back at history in this mood we think not only of grasping the right principles for the Future, but of rejoicing in the definite achievements of the Past, and we feel this most poignantly, I think, of the achievements won by the spirit of Beauty. Great works of Art we are accustomed actually to call immortal, and we mean by this not merely that we think they will always be famous, but that there is something in them that makes it impossible for them ever to be superseded. In themselves they are inexhaustible: if they cease to interest us, it is our fault and not theirs. We may want more, we do want more, where they came from, but we never want to lose them, any more than we could bear to lose our old friends, though we may desire to make new ones. Of all the divine Ideas, said Plato, Beauty is the one that shows itself most plainly in the world of sense and speaks to us most plainly of the eternal realities. This, however, is perhaps trenching on the subject of Progress in Art, and I should like to return to the general Greek conception of the tendency in all nature towards the Good, the perfect realization of perfect types. Plato does not expressly insist that this tendency is of the nature of effort, though I think that is involved in his view. But Aristotle does. Following Plato in essentials, he makes bold to say outright that every natural thing in its own way longs for the divine and desires to share in the divine life, so far as it can.[11] Every such thing in this world of space and time has to cope with difficulties and is imperfect, but everything struggles towards the good. That good is in the life of God, a thinking life, an activity of thought, existing in some sense beyond this imperfect world; and this life is so supremely desirable that it makes everything else struggle to reach it. It moves the whole world, Aristotle says, in a famous passage, because it is loved. It is the world's desire.[12] Now this idea of effort--or of something analogous to effort--constituting the inner nature of every natural thing reappears, with pregnant consequences, in modern thought, though seldom with these vast theological consequences. The idea of an upward effort through nature lies at the base of our most hopeful theories of evolution, and forms the true support of our modern faith in progress. Broadly speaking, our evolutionists are now divided into two schools: the adherents of the one believe that variations are purely accidental, and may occur in any direction whatsoever, the useful ones being preserved only because they happen to be useful for the life of the species, while the adherents of the other--the school that I would call the school of hope--believe that accident, even with natural selection to aid it, is utterly inadequate to account for the ordered beauty and harmony that we do see in natural things. They admit, as Plato and Aristotle admit, imperfection and difficulty in the world, but they insist on a movement towards value: in short, they conceive an order emerging that is brought about, to quote a modern writer, both in nature and in society, by 'a principle of movement and progress conflicting with a principle of inertia.'[13] Aristotle, in words that are strikingly modern, raises the very question at issue here.[14] He asks whether we can suppose that nature does not aim at the good at all, but that variations arise by chance and are preserved just because they are useful, and he scouts the idea that chance could do more, as Zeller says, than 'bring about isolated and abnormal results'. He chooses instead the conception of purpose and effort, and this in spite of the difficulties in conceiving a purpose and an effort that are not definitely conscious. The sort of thing that is in Aristotle's mind when he speaks of nature aiming at the good, comes out in a passage by Edward Carpenter in his little book _The Art of Creation_. Carpenter plunges boldly and compares the principle that makes a tree grow and propagate its kind with the impulse that makes a man express himself. Man, he says, has a Will and Purpose, a Character, which, do what you will, tends to push outwards towards expression. You put George Fox in prison, you flog and persecute him, but the moment he has a chance he goes and preaches just the same as before.... But take a Tree and you notice exactly the same thing. A dominant Idea informs the life of the Tree; persisting, it forms the tree. You may snip the leaves as much as you like to a certain pattern, but they will only grow in their own shape. Finally, you may cut the tree down root and branch and burn it, but, if there is left a single seed, within that seed ... lurks the formative ideal, which under proper conditions will again spring into life and expression.[15] Aristotle would have endorsed almost every word of this. In his pithy way, speaking of the distinction between natural and artificial objects, he says himself that if you planted a wooden bed and the wood could still grow, it would grow up, not a bed, but a tree.[16] He would not have gone so far as to talk about the _Will_ of a tree, but he would have admitted that what made the tree grow was the same sort of thing as Will. And in one respect he goes farther than Edward Carpenter does. For he considers that not only growth but even the movement of natural things through space is somehow an expression of a tendency towards the good and the divine, a tendency which, when consciousness supervenes, we can call effort, an activity, even though, at its best, only an imperfect activity. He looks up at the splendour of the circling stars and asks if it is possible that so glorious an order can be anything but a manifestation of something akin to the divine. Here indeed he is speaking of movements made by existences he reckoned among the highest in the world, for he thought the stars were living beings higher than man. But he recognized a rudimentary form of such activity even in what we now call inanimate matter. Here we come to a leading conception of Aristotle's, and one most important for our purpose: the conception of a hierarchy of natural existences, all of them with some value, less or more. When Aristotle is truest to himself, he will tell us not to be afraid of studying the meanest forms of natural existence, because in everything there is something marvellous and divine. He quotes with much satisfaction the story of Heracleitus, who welcomed his friends into the bakehouse with the saying that 'there were gods in the bakehouse too'.[17] Thus, at the lowest end of the scale, we have what we call inanimate matter, which Aristotle thinks of much as we do, namely, as something occupying space, the different parts of it being endowed with different powers of movement, and with different properties, such as warmth or coldness, wetness or dryness. A natural thing, he says, is a thing that has a principle of activity in itself, something that makes it act in a definite way, whenever it is not interfered with by anything else.[18] Aristotle speaks, for example, of fire having a natural tendency to mount up, much as we might speak of solids having a natural tendency to gravitate towards one another. Go back as far as we like, and, Aristotle thinks, we still find certain primitive differences which constitute what we call the primitive elements. This, I imagine, is much the point of view of modern science. And these primitive elements in Aristotle's view influence each other, unite with each other, or change into each other. As a rule, however, they exhibit no new powers. But given a happy concurrence of qualities, say a certain union of heat and cold, and a new power does become manifest: the power of life. Thus, in a sense, Aristotle does envisage the spontaneous generation of life; and he knows, roughly, what he means by life. The living thing can go through far more changes than the non-living, while yet remaining recognizably the same thing. For example, it shows in itself a greater advance to richness and also a decline, it uses other things to foster this advance, and it sends out fresh things, like itself, but independent of itself: in short, it grows, decays, feeds itself, and propagates its kind.[19] As I understand Aristotle, for him there is not an entire and absolute difference between ordinary matter and living things, and yet there is a real difference, and one not to be explained away, for there is a new manifestation of active energy. And if we consider life of more value than mere motion, then we are right in saying there is a higher energy. The quality of growth is a quality which could not be deduced from the quality of warmth or from the quality of mere movement in space, and yet all three qualities are alike in this, that they are all manifestations of an energy which is somehow inherent in things, and not merely imposed on them from without. The manifestations of life are started, in a sense, by the different movements, 'mechanical', if you like to call them so, in the rudimentary forms of matter, the elements meeting each other in space. The process of life could not have begun without such movements. But neither could it have begun if the elements, just as they appear, had been all there was. There had to be latent, that is, the possibility of a different and higher mode of action. This higher mode of action Aristotle calls a higher Form, a higher Idea. And I think it is true to him to say that he believes the lower Forms, the lower Ideas, do their most perfect work when they bring about the conditions under which the higher ones can operate. For when he speaks of that concurrence of elements that conditions life he speaks of the 'warmth and cold' as 'having mastered the matter'.[20] In any case he conceives a whole series of higher and lower Forms, the higher coming nearer and nearer to that full and glorious activity which he conceives to be the life of God. Above the power of the thing to grow as a plant grows appears the power of sensation as it is present in animals, and above that again the power, first seen in man, of living the life of thought, perceiving what is beautiful and true in the 'forms', the characters, of all the things around him, and with this that further power of setting consciously before himself what he really wants to be and to do, the power of moral action strictly so-called. Throughout this series, in every higher stage the lower is present as a kind of basis. In the man who thinks there is active not only the power of thought, but also the power of sensation, the faculty of growth, and the physical properties of the body. It would seem that Aristotle has only to take one step, and he would be a thoroughgoing evolutionist. He has only to say that the different stages are successive in time, the lower regularly preceding the higher. But this step he hesitates to take. He often comes very near it. He speaks of nature passing gradually from inanimate things through living things to living animals. He speaks of what is first in itself, first inherently, 'prior' in the logical sense because it is the goal and the completion of the thing, as appearing later in time. For instance, he believes that man can only find his real happiness and develop his real nature in the State, but the State appears later in time than the primitive associations of the household and the family.[21] What came earlier in history were barbarous communities such as those of the Cyclopes, where 'each man laid down the law for his wife and children and obeyed no other law'. But Aristotle does not go on from this belief to the belief in a universal upward process throughout all history. The developed State, it is true, may always have been preceded by a lower form, but that lower form may itself have been preceded by a higher. Aristotle, in short, is haunted, like Plato, by the idea of cycles, alternations, decline and progress, progress and decline. He feels this both in the life of States and in the whole life of the world. He speaks of the same discoveries being made over and over again, an infinite number of times, in the history of civilization. And his words recall the sad passage in Plato's _Laws_ (676) referring to the numberless nations and states, ten thousand times ten thousand, that had risen and fallen all over the world, passing from worse to better and from better to worse. Similarly Aristotle will speak of degraded animal forms, and sometimes write as though the animal world could sink back into the vegetable altogether. Admitting, however, something like progress within the different cycles, we must ask a little more about the kind of progress which Aristotle would have desired. (I take Aristotle again as a typical Greek.) Man at his best, he clearly holds, in trying to realize his true nature should aim at a happiness which involves a harmony of all his faculties, a harmony inspired and led by the highest faculty of all, the Reason which rejoices in the contemplation of what is at once true and good and beautiful. Now in this aim, we must ask, does a man need other men and other creatures, and in what sense does he need them? Here, I think, we come on two inconsistent tendencies in Aristotle's thought, connected with two different ways of regarding the hierarchy of existences. We say that one existence is higher than another. Does this mean that what we call the lower are only so many blundering attempts to reach the higher? That every creature, for example, which is not a thinking man is, on the whole, a mistake? Aristotle often does speak like that. Woman, he says in one passage, is only a mutilated male.[22] The principle which ought to develop into the active power of thought could not, he explains, in women master the recalcitrant element which is always thwarting perfection, and thus woman is man _manqué_. On these lines of thought it is easy to slip into looking on all other forms of existence as merely valuable in so far as they serve the direct purposes of men, and indeed only of a few men, those namely who are able to think as philosophers. This is the kind of view according to which, as the satirist suggests, cork-trees only grow in order to make corks for champagne-bottles, and the inferior races of mankind only exist to furnish slaves for the higher. And Aristotle does, on occasion, lend himself to such a view: he justifies a slavery in which, as he says, some men are to be treated merely as living tools. And yet on his own principles every man ought to aim at realizing his own end, and not merely the ends of others. But there is a widely different view, also present in Aristotle, and truer to the essence of his thought. It is a view instinct with that reverence for all existence of which I spoke at first, and it holds that all the different natural types, high or low, could all be united in one harmony, like an ordered army, as Aristotle himself would say, in which the divine spirit was present even as the spirit of a general is present in his men. The greatest thing in man, Aristotle thinks, is the godlike power of apprehending the different characters of all the things around him, and this of itself suggests the belief that all these characters have a value of their own, unique and indispensable, each aiming at a distinct aspect of the Divine, each, if it fulfilled its inner nature, finding, as Plato might have said, the place where it was best for it to be. Again, it is clear from Aristotle's whole treatment of the State, that when he wrote his famous phrase, 'Man is by nature a political animal', he meant that man, as we should say, is essentially social. It is part of man's goal to live with others; it is not merely a means to the goal. His highest happiness lies in the contemplation of the good, and the good, Aristotle says, can be contemplated far better in others than in ourselves. This is a profound saying, and from this thought springs the deep significance of friendship in Aristotle's system. The crown of the civic life he takes to be the community of friends who recognize the good in each other, and enjoy each other through this. The wider this community, then, we must surely say, the better. For Aristotle then, man's perfection ought to mean the perfection of every individual, and progress, so far as he conceives it, involve progress towards this end. This should lead on to belief in the supreme importance of the individual soul, and to Kant's great principle that we should always treat each man as an end in himself. Thus, if we concentrate on the hopeful elements in Plato and Aristotle, we may fairly say, I think, that we can see outlined in their philosophies something like the following belief: every natural thing in this world, and every natural creature, so far as it is good,--and all are more or less good,--tends to express some distinct aspect of a perfect harmony: we human beings are the first on earth to be definitely conscious of such a tendency, the first to be able definitely to direct it to its true goal, and our business in life is therefore threefold: to make actual our own function in this harmony, to help other creatures to actualize theirs, and to contemplate every such manifestation, in men or in things, with reverence and rejoicing. The harmony, if complete, would be a manifestation of a divine reality, and thus the love of God, the love of our neighbour, the love of nature, self-development, political life, scientific study, poetic contemplation, and philosophic speculation, would all unite in one comprehensive and glorious task. This, surely, is hopeful enough. But the Greek hope faltered and sank. Could this harmony ever be realized? Would not the thwarting element in the world always drag it down again and again, and drag some men down always, so that after all progress was impossible, and for some men should not even be attempted? As a matter of fact, Plato and Aristotle do limit their exhortations to a narrow circle of cultured Greeks, and even with them they doubt of success. Now this despondency came partly, I think, through the very sensitiveness of the Hellenic nature. The spectacle of the ever-baffled struggle in Nature and Man they felt at times almost intolerable. Aristotle saw that this perpetual failure in the heart of glorious good made the very essence of tragedy. The tragic hero is the man of innate nobleness who yet has some one defect that lays him open to ruin. Man is set in a world full of difficulties, a world much of which is dark and strange to him: his action and those of others have results which he did not, and in his ignorance could not, foresee; he is not strong enough for his great task. All the Greek poets have this deep sadness. Homer has it, in and through his intense feeling for the beauty and energy of life. There has never been such war-poetry as Homer's, and yet there has never been any which felt more poignantly the senselessness in war. 'And I must come here', Achilles says to his noble enemy at the close, 'to torture you and your children.' In the next place, the sadness of the world could not be lightened for the Greeks by the vision that the modern theory of evolution has opened up to us of the long advance in the history of life on the planet. Even their knowledge of history in the strict sense was scanty, and it is only a long view of history that is likely to be comforting. What history they did know could bring them little comfort. In the first place it showed them a series of great civilizations, rising and falling, and those that had fallen seemed at least as good as those that followed them. A Greek like Plato knew of the Homeric civilization, simpler indeed, but fresher and purer than his own. And he believed, what we now know to be the fact, that even before the Homeric there had been a wonderful island-culture, what we call the Minoan, flourishing before the Homeric. 'There had been kings before Agamemnon.' And behind Minos and Agamemnon lay the great, and by that time the ossifying, kingdom of Egypt, compared to which the Greeks were, and felt themselves to be, but children. Plato had seen, finally, the degeneration of the Persian Empire--once so magnificent and mighty. This fact of recurrent decay is one of the heaviest that the human spirit can shoulder. Any theory of progress must come to terms with it, for Progress through history is certainly not an uninterrupted ascent; a spiral is the better image. And the weight must lie most heavily on a generation which feels its own self to be in peril of decay. Now Plato and Aristotle lived at such a period. Greece had gone through the bitter experiences of the Peloponnesian War, and the shadow of it lay on them, as on its historian Thucydides. In that fratricidal conflict Greece tore herself to pieces. It was a struggle between the two leaders of the then civilized world, and it has a terrible likeness to the struggle that is going on now. From its devastating influence Greece never recovered. Historians still dispute, and always will, as to the exact proportion of praise and blame between the two. But Thucydides himself, a true-hearted Athenian, brings out the tyrannical side in the Athenian temper. Not indeed towards her own people, but towards all who were not of her own immediate stock. Because Athens thought herself the fairest city in the world, as indeed she was, because she thought herself menaced by Sparta, and menaced she was, she allowed herself to tyrannize and lightly took up the burden of war between brethren. There are few passages in history more stately than the Funeral Oration of Pericles in which he calls Athens the School of Hellas, but even in it there is a certain deadly coldness of heart. And few things are more terrible than the coarsening of temper which Thucydides depicts as the war goes on and Pericles is succeeded by his caricature Cleon, the man who means to prosecute the war vigorously, and by vigour means ruthlessness. Nor was there ever a sterner indictment of aggression than that given in the dialogue between the spokesmen of Melos, the little island that desired to stand out of the conflict, and the Athenian representatives who were determined to force her into their policy. And after that dialogue comes, in Thucydides' great drama, the fall of Athens. The city recovered in some measure from her fall, but only to face another disaster. If she sinned in the Peloponnesian War through the spirit of aggression, she sinned in the struggle with Macedon through slackness and cowardice. In the one struggle she lost comradeship; in the other she lost liberty. And with the loss of the two she lost buoyancy. In a deeper sense than Pericles used the phrase, 'the springtime went out of her year'. Ultimately, perhaps, we cannot explain why this should be so. Other nations have had as disheartening experiences and yet risen above them. Some of the most inspired prophecies in the Hebrew writings came after the tiny state of Judaea had been torn in pieces by the insensate conflict between North and South, and after the whole people had been swept into captivity. But whatever the ultimate reason, Athens did not recover. We must not end, however, on a note of despair. Far from it. The work of Aristotle and Plato and of the Greeks generally, was cramped for lack of sympathy and lack of hope, and, strangely enough, it was after they had passed and their glory with them that sympathy grew in the world, and after sympathy grew, hope returned. For it is exactly in those failing years, when the Hellenic gave way to the Hellenistic, that men first grasped, and grasped so firmly that it could hardly be lost again, one of the fundamental principles on which the whole fabric of our later civilization has rested, or ought to rest, the great principle of personal equality, the claim of every individual to transcendent value, irrespective of race and creed and endowment. The conquering rule of Alexander, whatever else it did, broke down the barriers of the little city-states and made men of different races feel themselves members of mankind. There rose among the Stoics the conviction that all men do belong together and are all made for each other. And with the advent of Christianity came the belief that every man, however mean and unworthy, can receive a power that will make him all he ought to be. The highest is within his reach. There is no reason now why the glorious life that Hellenism conceived for a few should not lie open to all men. Finally, we might say, and truly, that the vast political organization built up by Rome gave us Europeans, once and for all, the vision of a united Europe. That dream has never left it. Even to-day, here and now, in spite of our disasters, our blunders, and our crimes, let us not forget it, that dream which is 'not all a dream', the dream of once again constructing a system in which we might, all of us, all nations and all men and women, make progress together in the common task. BOOKS FOR REFERENCE G. L. Dickinson, _The Greek View of Life_. Zeller, _Aristotle and the Earlier Peripatetics_. Edited by Evelyn Abbott, _Hellenica_. Bury, _History of Greece_. Davies and Vaughan, _Plato's Republic_. Welldon, _Aristotle's Politics_. Peters, _Aristotle's Ethics_. Bridges, _The Spirit of Man_. FOOTNOTES: [6] G. H. Perris, _History of War and Peace_, p. 54. [7] 'The Unity of Western Civilization,' c. III. [8] _The Spirit of Man_, 40; _Phaedo_, 96. [9] _The Spirit of Man_, 16; _Phaedo_, 66. [10] _Natural Religion_, part ii, c. 5. [11] _De An._ ii. 4, 415, p. 35. [12] _The Spirit of Man_, 39; Aristotle, _Met._ 10. [13] T. W. Rolleston, _Parallel Paths_. [14] _Phys._ ii. 8, 198 16-34. [15] Pp. 28-9. [16] _Phys._ ii, c. I. [17] _De Part. An._, Bk. i, c. 5. [18] _Phys._ ii. I, _init._ [19] _De Anima_, _init._ [20] _Meteor_, iv. 1. 378. See Zeller's _Aristotle_, vol. i, _fin._ [21] _Polit._ 1253 a; _Eth._ 1162 a. [22] _Gen. An._ ii. 3. 737. IV PROGRESS IN THE MIDDLE AGES A. J. CARLYLE There still survives, not indeed among students of history, but among some literary persons, the notion that the civilization of the Middle Ages was fixed and unprogressive; that the conditions of these centuries were wholly different from those of the ancient world and of modern time; that there was little continuity with the ancient world, and little connexion with the characteristic aspects of progress in the modern world. The truth is very different. It may be doubted whether at any other time, except perhaps in those two marvellous centuries of the flower of Greek civilization, there has been a more rapid development of the most important elements of civilization than in the period from the end of the tenth to the end of the thirteenth centuries. While it is true that much was lost in the ruin of the ancient world, much also survived, and there was a real continuity of civilization; indeed some of the greatest conceptions of the later centuries of the ancient world are exactly those upon which mediaeval civilization was built. And again, it was in the Middle Ages that the foundations were laid upon which the most characteristic institutions of the modern world have grown. Indeed this notion that the civilization of the Middle Ages was fixed and unprogressive is a mere literary superstition, and its origin is to be found in the ignorance and perversity of the men of the Renaissance; and hardly less, it must be added, in the foolishness of many of the conceptions of the Romantic revival. There are, indeed, excuses for these mistakes and confusions. The Renaissance represents, among other things, a great and necessary movement of revolt against a religious and intellectual civilization which had once been living and moving, but had tended from the latter years of the thirteenth century to grow stiff and rigid. It was probably a real misfortune that the great thinkers and scholars of the thirteenth century, like Alexander of Hales and Thomas Aquinas, had embarked upon what was a premature attempt at the systematization of all knowledge; they made the same mistake as the Encyclopaedists of the eighteenth century or Herbert Spencer in the nineteenth, but with more disastrous results. For this work unhappily encouraged the mediaeval Church in its most fatal mistake, its tendency to suspect and oppose the apprehensions of new aspects of truth. The men of the Renaissance had to break the forms under which the schoolmen had thought to express all truth, they had to carry forward the great enterprise and adventure of the discovery of truth, and they had to do this in the teeth of a violent resistance on the part of those who thought themselves the representatives of the mediaeval civilization. There are, therefore, excuses for them in their contempt for the intellectual life of the past; but there is no real excuse for them in their contempt for mediaeval art and literature. When they turned their back upon the immediate past, and endeavoured pedantically to reproduce the ancient world, they were guilty of an outrageous ignorance and stupidity, a stupidity which is expressed in that unhappy phrase of Pope, the 'Gothic night'. Happily neither the great artists of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries nor the great poets of England and Spain were much affected by the classical pedantry of which unhappily Petrarch was the begetter. It is this foolishness of the Renaissance which is the best excuse for the foolishness of the Romantic revival; the new classical movement had in such a degree interrupted the continuity of European art that it was very difficult for men in the eighteenth century to recover the past, and we must make allowance for the often ludicrous terms and forms of the new mediaevalism. Indeed it is a strange and often absurd art--the half-serious, half-parodying imitations of Thomson and Walpole and Wieland, this ludicrous caricature Gothic of Strawberry Hill and All Souls, the notion of Gothic architecture as a mass of crockets, battlements, crypts, and dungeons--and all in ruins. Indeed, the Romantic conception of the Middle Ages was often as absurd as that of the Renaissance, and if we are to get at the truth, if we are to make any serious attempt to understand the Middle Ages, we must clear our minds of two superstitions; the one, which we derive from the Renaissance, that mediaeval civilization was sterile, ignorant, and content to be ignorant; the other, which survives from the Romantic movement, that it was essentially religious, chivalrous and adventurous, that men spent their time in saying their prayers, making reverent love to their ladies, or carving the heads of the infidel. What I should desire to do is to persuade you that the more you study the Middle Ages the more you will see that these men and women were really very much like ourselves, ignorant, no doubt, of much which is to us really or superficially important, gifted on the other hand with some qualities which for the time we seem to have in a large measure lost, but substantially very like ourselves, neither very much better nor very much worse. Let me illustrate this by considering for a moment the figure which to us is typical of the Middle Ages. What was the mediaeval knight? We think of him as a courteous, chivalrous person of a romantic and adventurous temper, whose business it was to fight for his lady or in the service of religion against the infidel. In reality he was usually a small landowner, who held his land on condition of military service to some lord; the title 'knight' means in its Latin form (_miles_), simply a soldier, in its Germanic form a servant, and distinguishes him from the older type of landowner who held his land in absolute ownership and free of all service except of a national kind. In virtue of his holding a certain amount of land he had to present himself for military service on those occasions and for those periods for which he could be legally summoned. But even this description implies a wholly wrong emphasis, for he was not primarily a soldier, but a small landowner and cultivator, very much what we should call a squireen. He was normally much more concerned about his crops, his cattle and pigs, than about his lord's affairs and his lord's quarrels. He was ignorant, often rather brutal, and turbulent, very ready for a quarrel with his neighbour, but with no taste for national wars, and the prolonged absence from his home which they might involve, unless indeed there was a reasonable prospect of plunder. Indeed, he was a very matter-of-fact person, with very little sense of romance, and little taste for adventure unless there was something to be got out of it. We must dismiss from our minds the pretty superstitions of romance from Chaucer and Spenser to the time of the Romantic revival, and we must understand that the people of the Middle Ages were very much like ourselves; the times were rougher, more disorderly, there was much less security, but on the whole the character of human life was not very different. What was it, then, that happened with the end of the ancient world? Well, the civilization of the Roman Empire was overthrown by our barbarous ancestors, the old order, and tranquillity, and comfort disappeared, and the world fell back into discomfort and turbulence, and disorder; the roads fell into disrepair and were not mended, the drains were neglected, and the towns dwindled and shrank. We must remember, however, that this great civilization was dying out, was failing by some internal weakness, and that the barbarians only hastened the process. Much of the achievement of Greece and Rome was lost, much both material and intellectual, but not all, and the new civilization which began rapidly to grow up on the ruins of the old was in many respects continuous with it. In order, however, that we may understand this we must remember that the form of civilization with which the Middle Ages were continuous was the Graeco-Roman civilization of the later Empire, and not the great Hellenic civilization itself. What the Middle Ages knew was primarily that which the Christian Fathers like St. Augustine and St. Gregory the Great, St. Basil and St. Gregory of Nazianzus learned at their schools and universities. Some of these Fathers were educated at the great universities, like Athens, others at comparatively humble provincial institutions; some of them were men of powerful intellect, while others were more commonplace. What they learned was the general intellectual system of the late Empire, and what they learned they handed on to the Middle Ages; but it was not the great intellectual culture of Greece. We have still too strong an inclination to think of the ancient world as one and homogeneous; we have not yet sufficiently apprehended the great changes both in the form and in the temper of that world. And yet the varieties, the changes, are very diverse, the outlook, the artistic methods of the Homeric poetry are very different from the emotional and intellectual modernity of Euripides. The philosophy of Plato and Aristotle is very different from that of the Stoics and Neoplatonists. In that picturesque but perhaps not very felicitous phrase which Mr. Murray has borrowed from Mr. Cornford, there was a 'failure of nerve' which separates the earlier from the later stages of the moral and intellectual culture of the ancient world. However this may be, and we shall have more to say about this presently, the civilization of the Middle Ages was made up on the one hand of elements drawn from the later Empire, and on the other of characteristics and principles which seem to have belonged to the Barbarian races themselves. With the end of the sixth century the ancient world had passed away and the mediaeval world had begun, and we have to consider the nature and movement of the new order, or rather we have to consider some of its elements, and their development, especially during the period from the end of the tenth century to the end of the thirteenth, during which it reached its highest level. We have to pass over the great attempt of the ninth century, for we can only deal with a small part of a large subject, and we shall only deal with a few aspects of it, and chiefly with the development of the spiritual conception of life which we call religion, with the reconstruction of the political order of society, with the beginning of a new intellectual life and the pursuit of truth, and with the development under new forms of the passion for beauty. * * * * * I have been compelled to warn you against the romantic superstition that the Middle Ages were specifically religious, and yet it is quite true that the first aspect of mediaeval life which compels our attention is exactly the development of the sense of the significance of the spiritual quality of life. This was the first great task of the men of the Middle Ages, and this was in a real sense their achievement; but not as contradicting the characteristic developments of the Hellenic civilization, but rather as completing and fulfilling it. It is indeed a singular superstition that the Hellenic world was lacking in spiritual insight, but I need only refer you to Miss Stawell's lecture, as serving to show you how great and how real this was. It really was not a mistake when an honest but rather stupid man like Justin Martyr, and the more acute and penetrating minds of the Alexandrian Fathers like Clement and Origen, thought that they heard the authentic accents of the 'Word' of God in the great philosophers of Greece, and especially in Plato. The apprehension of the spiritual element in human experience was not wanting in Hellenic civilization, but it needed a further development and especially in relation to those new apprehensions of personality and individuality, whose appearance we can trace both in the post-Aristotelian philosophy, and in the later Hebrew prophets and poets, which Christianity found in the world, and to which in its conception of the human in the Divine, and the Divine in the human, it gave a new force and breath. It is easy for us to smile at what may well be the over-rhetorical phrases of Seneca when he speaks of the self-sufficingness ([Greek: autarkeia]) of the wise man, or when he says that the wise man is, but for his mortality, like God himself; and yet these rhetorical phrases are, after all, the forms of an apprehension which has changed and is changing the world. And, it must be remembered that to understand the full significance of these phrases, we must bear in mind that the men of the Graeco-Roman civilization had put aside once and for all the 'natural' distinction between the 'Greek' and the 'Barbarian', had recognized that men were equal and alike, not different and unequal, that all men were possessed of reason, and all were capable of virtue,[23] or, in the Christian terms, all men are the children of God and capable of communion with Him. It is this new apprehension of life for which the Middle Ages found a new form in the great organization of the Church, and it is this which justifies our sense of the great and permanent significance of the tremendous conflict of the Papacy and the Empire. It is true that at times some of the representatives of the Church seem to have fallen into the mistake of aiming at a tyranny of the Church over the State, which would have been in the end as disastrous to the Church itself as to the State. But the normal principle of the Church was that which was first fully stated by Pope Gelasius I in the fifth century, that the two great authorities, the spiritual and the temporal, are each divine, each draws its authority ultimately from God himself, each is supreme and independent in its own sphere, while each recognizes the authority of the other within its proper sphere. It is, indeed, the freedom of the spiritual life which the mediaeval Church was endeavouring to defend; it was the apprehension that there was some ultimate quality in human nature which stands and must stand outside of the direct or coercive control of society, which lies behind all the confused clamour of the conflicts of Church and State. It is true that in this great and generous effort to secure the freedom of the human soul men in some measure lost their way. They demanded and in a measure they succeeded in asserting the freedom of the religious organization, as against the temporal organization, but in doing this they went perilously near to denying the freedom of the individual spiritual experience. They went perilously near to denying it, but they never wholly forgot it. The Church claimed and exercised an immense authority in religion, so immense an authority that it might easily seem as though there were no place left for the freedom of the individual judgement and conscience. And yet that was not the case. The theory of excommunication that is set out in the canonical literature of the Middle Ages has generally been carelessly studied and imperfectly understood. It was the greatest and most masterful of the Popes, Innocent III, who laid down in memorable phrases which are embodied in the great collection of the Decretals, that if a Christian man or woman is convinced in his own mind and conscience that it would be a mortal sin to do or to leave undone some action, he must follow his own conscience even against the command of the authorities of the Church, and must submit patiently to Church censures and even excommunication; for it may well happen that the Church may condemn him whom God approves, or approve him whom God condemns.[24] This is no isolated or exceptional opinion, but is the doctrine which is constantly laid down in the canonical literature.[25] It is, I think, profoundly true to say that when men at last revolted against what seemed to them the exaggerated claims of the Church, when they slowly fought their way towards toleration and religious freedom, they were only asserting and carrying out its one most vital principle, the principle of the independence or autonomy of the spiritual life; the modern world is only fulfilling the Middle Ages. I do not continue to develop this aspect of the progress of western civilization, not because it is unimportant, for indeed it is perhaps the greatest and most significant aspect of mediaeval life, but because it is well known to you, and indeed, it has generally been insisted on to such a degree as to obscure the other aspects of progress in the Middle Ages, with which we must deal. * * * * * And first I would ask you to observe that it was in these centuries that there were laid over again the foundations of the social and political order of civilization, and that there were devised those forms of the political order upon which the structure of modern society is founded. We are familiar with the conception of the divine nature of political authority, the normal and fundamental mediaeval view of the State. If we translate this into more general terms we shall find that its meaning is that the State has an ethical or moral purpose or function; the State exists to secure and to maintain justice. You must not, indeed, confuse this great conception with that foolish perversion of it which was suggested, I think, by some characteristically reckless phrases of St. Augustine, stated in set terms by St. Gregory the Great, almost forgotten in the Middle Ages, and unhappily revived by the perversity of some Anglicans and Gallicans in the seventeenth century. This foolish perversion, which we know as the theory of the 'Divine Right of Kings', is indeed the opposite of the great Pauline and mediaeval conception of the divine nature of political authority, for to St. Paul, to the more normal Fathers like St. Ambrose, and to the political theory of the Middle Ages authority is divine just because, and only in so far as, its aim and purpose is the attainment and maintenance of justice. Indeed, it is not only the notion of the 'Divine Right' which was inconsistent with the mediaeval conception of the State, but the notion of an absolute sovereignty inherent in the State, that notion with which some eccentric or ignorant modern political theorists, ignorant of Rousseau as well as of Aristotle, have played, to the great danger of society; we have, indeed, got beyond the theory of the sovereignty of the king, but we are in some danger of being hag-ridden by the imposture of the sovereignty of the majority. Whatever mistakes the people of the Middle Ages may have made, they were, with rare exceptions, clear that there was no legitimate authority which was not just, and which did not make for justice. It is here that we find the real meaning of the second great political principle of the Middle Ages, that is the supremacy of law; that it is the law which is the supreme authority in the State, the law which is over every person in the State. When John of Salisbury, the secretary of Thomas à Becket, wishes to distinguish between the prince and the tyrant, he insists that the prince is one who rules according to law, while the tyrant is one who ignores and violates the law.[26] And in a memorable phrase, Bracton, the great English jurist of the latter part of the thirteenth century, lays it down dogmatically that the king has two superiors, God and the law.[27] There is an absurd notion still current among more ignorant persons--I have even heard some theologians fall into the mistake--that men in the Middle Ages thought of authority as something arbitrary and unintelligible, while the truth is that such a conception was wholly foreign to the temper of that time. It is quite true that the political life of the Middle Ages seems constantly to oscillate between anarchy and despotism, but this is not because the men of those days did not understand the meaning of law and of freedom, but because they were only slowly working out the organization through which these can be secured. The supreme authority in the mediaeval state was the law, and it was supreme because it was taken by them to be the embodiment of justice. It is again out of this principle that there arose another great conception which is still often thought to be modern, but which is really mediaeval, the conception that the authority of the ruler rests upon and is conditioned by an agreement or contract between him and the people. For this agreement was not an abstract conception, but was based upon the mutual oaths of the mediaeval coronation ceremony, the oath of the king to maintain the law, and to administer justice, and the oath of the people to serve and obey the king whom they had recognized or elected. The people do, indeed, owe the king honour and loyal service, but only on the condition that he holds inviolable his oath. The ruler who breaks this is a tyrant, and for him there was no place in mediaeval political theory. This conception was expressed in very plain and even crude terms by Manegold in the eleventh century when he said that the king was in the same relation to the community as the man who is hired to keep the pigs to his master. If the swineherd fails to do his work the master turns him off and finds another. And if the king or prince refuses to fulfil the conditions on which he holds his power he must be deposed.[28] John of Salisbury in the twelfth century expressed this in even stronger terms when he said that if the prince became a tyrant and violated the laws, he had no rights, and should be removed, and if there were no other way to do it, it was lawful for any citizen to slay him.[29] These are, no doubt, extreme forms of the mediaeval conception, but the principle that the authority of the ruler was conditioned by his faithful discharge of his obligations is the normal doctrine of the Middle Ages, is maintained by the compilers of the feudal law-books of the Kingdom of Jerusalem, by the great English jurist Bracton, by St. Thomas Aquinas, and even by some of the most representative of the Roman jurists of Bologna, like Azo. These were the fundamental principles of the conception of the nature of political authority whose development we can trace in the Middle Ages, and it is out of these conceptions that there grew the system of the control of the common affairs of the community by means of the representation of the community. For it should be more clearly understood than it is, that the representative system was the creation of the mediaeval political genius, it was these men--to whom even yet the more ignorant would deny the true political instinct--it was these men who devised that method upon which the structure of modern civilized government has been built up. There is, however, yet another aspect of the development of political civilization which deserves our attention if we are to understand the nature of political progress in the Middle Ages. It was in these centuries that there were created the elementary forms of the administrative system of government. And indeed, there is perhaps no clearer distinction between a barbarian and a civilized government than this, that while the barbarian government hangs precariously on the life of the capable king, the civilized government is carried on continuously by an organized civil service. It would be impossible here to discuss the earlier forms of this in the organization of government by Charles the Great, or the very interesting developments of the royal or imperial chapel as the nucleus of a civil service in Germany, it is enough here to remind ourselves that it is the creation of this organized administration by Henry I and Henry II of England which laid the foundations of our national order. Enough has, I think, been said to illustrate the reality and significance of the progressive reconstruction of the political order of Western society in the Middle Ages. * * * * * It may, however, be said that this may all be true, but that in all this we have after all only an example of the preoccupation of the Middle Ages with conduct and religion. I must, therefore, ask you to consider the character and development of the intellectual movement of the Middle Ages. And here, fortunately, we can find the best of guidance in Dr. Rashdall's great work on _The Universities of Europe in the Middle Ages_, and in Dr. R. L. Poole's _Illustrations of Mediaeval Thought_. Indeed I could wish that a little more attention was given to the history and character of the intellectual movement which the Universities represent, and perhaps a little less to reading and discussing the great scholastic works of the thirteenth century, which are almost impossible to understand except in relation to the intellectual movements of the twelfth century. The new intellectual movement came very suddenly in the last years of the eleventh century; why it should have come then is hard to determine, but it seems reasonable to say that it represents the reawakening of the desire for knowledge which had been in abeyance during the stormy centuries after the fall of the Roman Empire in the West, when men had little leisure for anything but the constant labour to secure a little decent order and peace. For a few years, indeed, in the ninth century the genius of Charlemagne had almost restored the order of civilization, and even in those few years the human mind reasserted itself, and for a moment the learning and culture which had been preserved mainly by the Irish and their pupils in Britain, and in Central Europe, flowered and bore fruit; but with his death Western Europe plunged again into anarchy and misery, and it was only slowly that the genius of the great German emperors in Central Europe, and of the Norman settlers in France and England, rebuilt the commonwealth of European civilization. By the end of the eleventh century the work was not indeed done, but was being done, and men had again a little leisure, and the desire for knowledge reawakened, but indeed it was no mere gentle desire, but a veritable passion which possessed the men of the twelfth century, and it was this spontaneous passion which produced the universities. The first thing, indeed, which we must observe about the oldest universities of Europe, especially Bologna, Paris, and Oxford, is just this, that they were not made by any external authority, that they did not derive their being from Church or State, from pope or king, but that they were formed by the enthusiasm and passion which drew men from every quarter of Europe to sit at the feet of some man or another who could give them the knowledge which they desired, and, in their turn, to become teachers. It is quite true that as time went on, and they found that popes and kings were friendly and interested, these groups of students procured for themselves bulls and charters of recognition and protection, but while later universities may trace their foundation to these respectable patrons, the older universities recognize them indeed as benefactors and friends, but not as founders, but rather claim that they grew out of men's desire for knowledge, and that they were recognized by the general consent of the civilized world. In the second place it is important, and especially I think in these days, to understand that the men who thus created the universities in their eagerness to learn, were of every class and condition, rich and poor, noble and simple, and they lived as they could, in comfortable quarters if they were wealthy men, or in the garrets and cellars of the citizens if they were poor, and for the most part they were poor; but neither poverty nor riches could destroy their noble thirst for knowledge. The life of the universities was indeed turbulent and disorderly, the students were always at war with the citizens, and, when they were not breaking the heads of the citizens or having their heads broken by them, they were at war with each other, the men of the north with the southerners, the western with the eastern; for the universities were not local or national institutions, but were made up of a cosmopolitan crowd of men of every nation in Europe, intelligible to each other, as unhappily we are not, by the universal knowledge and use of that mediaeval Latin, which might distress the Ciceronian ears of a pedant of the Renaissance, but was a good, useful, and adaptable language. It was a turbulent, disorderly, brutal, profligate, and drunken world, for the students were as hard drinkers as the citizens, but it was animated, it was made alive by a true passion for knowledge, by an unwearied and never satisfied intellectual curiosity. But it will be asked, what did they learn? Well, the only answer that one can give is that they learned whatever there was to learn. Our literary friends have often still the impression that in the Middle Ages men spent their whole time in learning theology, and were afraid of other forms of knowledge, but this is a singular delusion. As the universities developed a system, their studies were arranged in the main under four heads, the general studies of what came to be called the Faculty of Arts, and the professional studies of the three superior Faculties of Law, Medicine, and Theology, but the student was not normally allowed to study in the three superior Faculties until he had spent some years in the studies of the Faculty of Arts. It is therefore with this latter that we are primarily occupied. The studies in the Faculty of Arts consisted, to use our modern terminology, of literature, philosophy, and science, and the accomplished mediaeval student was expected to know whatever there was to know. And this means--what is strangely often forgotten--that the studies of the mediaeval universities were primarily based upon the literature which had survived from the ancient world. The Latin poets and orators were their models of literary art, the surviving treatises of the ancients their text-books in medicine, and the Greek philosophers in Latin translations, or in Latin works founded on them, their masters in thought. To understand the extent of the influence and the knowledge of antiquity of a twelfth-century scholar we need only turn again to John of Salisbury, and we shall find him as familiar as any Renaissance scholar with Latin literature, and possessing a very considerable acquaintance with Greek literature so far as it could be obtained through the Latin.[30] Indeed, so much is he possessed by the literature of antiquity that in works like the _Policraticus_ he can hardly write two lines together without a quotation from some classical author. This type of literary scholarship has been too much overlooked, and, as I said before, too exclusive an attention has been given to the thirteenth-century schoolmen, who are neither from a literary nor from a philosophical point of view as representative of mediaeval scholars, and philosophically they are often really unmediaeval, for the general quality of mediaeval thought is its Platonism: the Aristotelian logic was indeed known to the Middle Ages through Boethius, but the other Aristotelian works were not known till towards the middle of the thirteenth century. It would be impossible here, even if I were competent, which I am not, to discuss the character of mediaeval thought, but one thing we can observe, one aspect of the intellectual method which may serve to clear away some confusion. The great intellectual master of the Middle Ages was Abelard, and the method which he elaborated in his _Sic et Non_ is the method which imposed itself upon all aspects of mediaeval thought. It has often been supposed that mediaeval thinkers were in such a sense the creatures of authority that it was impossible for them to exercise any independent judgement; how far this may have been true of the decadent scholasticism of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries I do not pretend to say, but such a judgement is a ludicrous caricature of the living and active thought of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, and a little consideration of the critical method which Abelard developed is sufficient to correct this. This is as follows: first some general principle is enunciated for consideration, then all the authorities which may seem to support it are cited, then all the authorities against, and finally the writer delivers his own judgement, criticizing and explaining the opinions which may seem contrary to it. The method has its defects and its limitations, but its characteristic is rather that of scepticism than of credulity. And it is on this method that the most important systems of knowledge of the Middle Ages are constructed. It was applied by Gratian in his _Decretum_, the first great reasoned treatise on Church law, and leads there often to somewhat unexpected conclusions, such as that even the legislative authority of the Pope is limited by the consenting custom of the Christian people;[31] and it is this method upon which the great systematic treatises, like the _Suma Theologica_ of St. Thomas Aquinas, were constructed in the thirteenth century. Whatever its defects may be the method cannot fairly be accused of ignoring difficulties and of a submission to authority which leaves no place for the critical reason. I have, I hope, said enough to make it clear that there was a real and living intellectual movement in the Middle Ages, and that even in those days men had resumed the great adventure of the pursuit of truth. * * * * * We can only for a moment consider the significance and the character of mediaeval civilization as it expresses itself in Art, and we must begin by noticing a distinction between mediaeval art and mediaeval learning, which is of the first importance. The intellectual movement of the Middle Ages was related to the ancient world, both in virtue of that continuity which was mediated by the Christian Fathers, whose education was that of the later Empire, and also in virtue of the intense and eager care with which mediaeval scholars studied all that they possessed of ancient literature. The relation of the art of the Middle Ages to the ancient world was quite different. There was no continuity between the vernacular poetry of the Middle Ages and that of the ancient world, and while there was a certain continuity in architecture and in mosaic painting, this amounted to little more than that the mediaeval artists took the formal structure or method as the starting-point of their own independent and original work. For the western art of the third and fourth centuries was conventional and decadent, and had apparently lost its power of recovery, while the art of the centuries which followed was at first rude and imperfect, but was full of new life, determined in its reality and dominated by some intimate sense of beauty; it was in no sense imitative of ancient art, but grew and changed under the terms of its own inherent life and power. Mediaeval art, whatever else is to be said about it, was new and independent, and it had all the variety, the audacious experiments, characteristic of a living art. Nothing is so foolish as to imagine that it was uniform and unchanging. Indeed, from the historical point of view, the interest of the study of it is curiously contrasted with that of the art of the ancient world. There we have only an imperfect and fragmentary knowledge of the earlier and ruder form; its history, as we know it, might almost be said to begin with the perfection of the sixth and fifth centuries, and what we know after that is the history of a long decadence, not indeed without new developments of importance, as for instance in the architectural structure of Roman building, and perhaps in the sculpture of the Early Empire on one side, and in certain aspects of Latin literature on another. The history of mediaeval art is the history of the long development from what are generally rude forms to the highly developed art of the thirteenth century, a development full of incidents and experiments and variety. I have called the early form rude, but the phrase is not very happy, as those who know either the early mosaic or the early epic will understand. There are still some people, I suppose, who think that mediaeval poetry was all of one kind, cast in one mould, but the truth is that it is of every form and character. It ranges from the bold imaginative realism of the Epic of England, Iceland, Germany, and France, to the exquisite and gracious but somewhat artificial allegory of the _Romance of the Rose_. It includes the first great emotional poetry of the modern world--the sense of the greatness and tragedy of human passion has perhaps never been expressed in more moving terms than in the _Tristan and Iseult_ of Thomas or Beroul--but it also includes the mordant satire of the Renard poetry and of Jean de Meun, and the gross realistic humour of the Fabliaux. The mediaeval drama, in whose complex development we have to trace many strands, probably represents in its oldest forms the coarse farcical buffoonery which may be related to the last fashions of the ancient world; it received a new impulse from the dramatization of scripture history in the twelfth century; but in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, at least in France, it had already become substantially a drama of romantic or contemporary life, as we can see in Jean Bodel's _Jeu de St. Nicholas_, in Adam de la Halle's _Jeu de la Feuillée_ and _Robin et Marion_, and in dramas like the _Empress of Rome_ or the _Otho_. Whatever criticism we might want to make on mediaeval literature, at least we cannot say that it was of one type and of one mood. It is hardly necessary to point out the movement and changes in the other forms of art in the Middle Ages; it is only necessary to remind ourselves that, while we can see that the artists were often hampered by inadequate technical knowledge, they were not conventional or merely imitative. It would be impossible here to consider the history of mosaic painting, and its development from the decadent Graeco-Roman work of Santa Pudenziana in Rome, to the magnificent and living decorations of St. Mark's in Venice, or of the cathedral of Monreale. It is enough to remind ourselves of the immense interval which lies between the rude but living sculpture of the ninth century, and the exquisite grace of Chester or Wells, and of that development of architecture which culminates in the majesty of Durham, and in the beauty of Chartres and Westminster Abbey. It is doubtful if we have yet at all fully or correctly appreciated the nature of mediaeval art; there has been a good deal of foolish talk about 'primitives', which usually goes with a singular ignorance of mediaeval civilization; the one thing which is already clear, and which grows clearer, is that the men of those ages had an instinct and a passion for beauty which expressed itself in almost every thing that they touched; and, whatever we have gained, we have in a large measure lost this. * * * * * The mediaeval world was then a living growing world, neither cut off from the past, nor unrelated to the future. It was a rough and turbulent world, our ancestors were dogged, quarrelsome, and self-assertive, and the first task of civilization was to produce some sort of decent order. The world was a long way off from the firm urbanity of the English policeman. And yet the men of the Middle Ages never fell into that delusion which, as it would seem, has ruined other civilizations; the great effort for order was not in their mind to be fulfilled by any mere mechanical discipline, by any system imposed from outside, the only system of order which they were prepared to accept was one which should express the character, the tradition, and finally the will of the whole community. The great phrase of Edward I's summons to Parliament, 'Quod omnes tangit, ab omnibus approbetur' (That which concerns all, must be approved by all), was not a mere tag, as some foolish people have thought, but expressed the character and the genius of a living political civilization. And this rough turbulent world was inspired by a great breath of spiritual and intellectual and artistic life and freedom. It might well seem as though the Church and religion were merely a new bondage, and in part that is true, but it is not the whole truth. With all its mistakes the religion of the Middle Ages meant the growing apprehension of the reality of that 'love which moves the sun and other stars', it meant the growth of reverence for that which is beyond and above humanity and which is also within it. For it is the last truth of the Christian faith that we know God only under the terms of human life and nature. And with all the cruelty and brutality of the Middle Ages they taught men love as well as obedience. Again, it was in these ages, as soon as the confusion of the outer world was a little reduced, that the passion for knowledge awoke again in men's hearts. It is true that some were afraid lest the eager inquiry of men's minds should destroy the foundations of that order which men were slowly achieving, but still the passionate pursuit of knowledge has rarely been more determined. And once again the world was rough, but these men had an instinct, a passion for beauty which expressed itself in almost everything which they touched. They had not, indeed, the almost miraculous sense and mastery of the great artists of Greece, that did not come again till the time of the great Italian artists of the fifteenth century. But they were free from pedantry, from formalism, they left the dying art of the ancient world and made their own way. Their sense of colour was almost infallible, as those who have seen the mosaics of the older Roman basilicas and of St. Mark's in Venice will know; but, indeed, we have only to look at the illuminated manuscripts which are to be found in all our libraries. And in that great art in which, above all perhaps, they expressed themselves, in their great architecture, we see the growth of a constructive genius which is only overshadowed by the superb beauty of its form. A rough, disorderly, turbulent, greedy, cruel world, but it knew the human soul, and it knew the human heart. The ancient world had ended in a great destruction, but the sadness and emptiness of its last days compel us to feel that it was well that it should end. And the new world was a world of life, of crude force and restless energy, and from it we have received the principles and the forms of a great civilization, and the temper which is never satisfied, for there is no end to life. BOOKS FOR REFERENCE H. W. C. Davis, _Mediaeval Europe_ (Home University Library). Lord Bryce, _History of Roman Empire_. Rashdall, _Universities of Empire in the Middle Ages_. R. L. Poole, _Illustrations of Mediaeval Thought_. Gierke, _Political Theories of the Middle Ages_. W. P. Ker, _Epic and Romance_. FOOTNOTES: [23] Cf. Cicero, _De Legibus_, i. 10-12; and Seneca, _De Beneficiis_, iii. 18. [24] Cf. Decretals, v. 39. 44, 28. [25] Cf. Carlyle, _Mediaeval Political Theory_, vol. ii. pp. 244-9. [26] Cf. John of Salisbury, _Policraticus_, iv. 1. [27] Cf. Bracton, _De Legibus et Consuetudinibus_, i. 8, 5. [28] Cf. Manegold, _Ad Gebehardum_, c. XXX. [29] Cf. John of Salisbury, _Policraticus_, iii. 15, viii. 17, 18, 20. [30] Cf. C. C. J. Webb's edition of John of Salisbury's _Policraticus_, introduction. [31] Cf. Gratian, _Decretum_, D. iv. c. 3. V PROGRESS IN RELIGION BARON FRIEDRICH VON HÜGEL The difficulties are deep and delicate which confront any man at all well acquainted with the fuller significance of Religion and of Progress, who attempts clearly and shortly to describe or define the ultimate relations between these two sets of fact and conviction. It is plain that Religion is the deeper and richer of the two terms; and that we have here, above all, to attempt to fathom the chief elements and forces of Religion as such, and then to see whether Progress is really traceable in Religion at all. And again it is clear that strongly religious souls will, as such, hold that Religion answers to, and is occasioned by, the action, within our human life and needs, of great, abiding, living non-human Realities; and yet, if such souls are at all experienced and sincere, they will also admit--as possibly the most baffling of facts--that the human individuals, families, races, are relatively rare in whom this sense and need of Religion is strongly, sensitively active. Thus the religion of most men will either all but completely wither or vanish before the invasion of other great facts and interests of human life--Economics or Politics or Ethics, or again, Science, Art, Philosophy; or it will, more frequently, become largely assimilated, in its conception, valuation, and practice, to the quite distinct, and often subtly different, conceptions, valuations, and practices pertaining to such of these other ranges and levels of human life as happen here to be vigorously active. And such assimilations are, of course, effected with a particular Philosophy or Ethic, mostly some passing fashion of the day, which does not reach the deepest laws and standards even of its own domain, and which, if taken as Religion, will gravely numb and mar the power and character of such religious perception as may still remain in this particular soul. I will, then, first attempt some discriminations in certain fundamental questions concerning the functioning of our minds, feelings, wills. I will next attempt short, vivid descriptions of the chief stages in the Jewish and Christian Religions, with a view to tracing here what may concern their progress; and will very shortly illustrate the main results attained by the corresponding main peculiarities of Confucianism, Buddhism, and Mohammedanism. And I will finally strive to elucidate and to estimate, as clearly as possible, the main facts in past and present Religion which concern the question of religious 'Progressiveness'. I I begin with insisting upon some seven discriminations which, even only forty years ago, would have appeared largely preposterous to the then fashionable philosophy. First, then, our Knowledge is always wider and deeper than is our Science. I know my mother, I know my dog, I know my favourite rose-tree; and this, although I am quite ignorant of the anatomical differences between woman and man; of the psychological limits between dog and human being; or of the natural or artificial botanical order to which my rose-plant belongs. Any kind or degree of consciousness on my part as to these three realities is a knowledge of their content. 'Knowledge is not simply the reduction of phenomena to law and their resolution into abstract elements; since thus the unknowable would be found well within the facts of experience itself, in so far as these possess a concrete character which refuses translation into abstract relations.' So Professor Aliotta urges with unanswerable truth.[32] And next, this spontaneous awareness of other realities by myself, the reality Man, contains always, from the first, both matter and form, and sense, reason, feeling, volition, all more or less in action. Sir Henry Jones insists finely: 'The difference between the primary and elementary data of thought on the one hand, and the highest forms of systematized knowledge on the other, is no difference in kind, analogous to a mere particular and a mere universal; but it is a difference of articulation.'[33] Thirdly, direct, unchallengeable Experience is always only experience of a particular moment; only by means of Thought, and trust in Thought, can such Experience be extended, communicated, utilized. The sceptic, to be at all effective, practises this trust as really as does his opponent. Thought, taken apart from Experience, is indeed artificial and arid; but Experience without Thought, is largely an orderless flux. Philosophers as different as the Neo-Positivist Mach and the Intuitionist Bergson, do indeed attempt to construct systems composed solely of direct Experience and pure Intuition; and, at the same time, almost ceaselessly insist upon the sheer novelty, the utter unexpectedness of all direct Experience, and the entire artificiality of the constructions of Thought--constructions which alone adulterate our perceptions of reality with the non-realities repetition, uniformity, foreseeableness. Yet the amazing success of the application of such constructions to actual Nature stares us all in the face. 'It is, indeed, strange,' if that contention be right, 'that facts behave as if they too had a turn for mathematics.' Assuredly 'if thought, with its durable and coherent structure, were not the reflection of some order of stable relations in the nature of things, it would be worthless as an organ of life'.[34] Fourthly, both Space and Time are indeed essential constituents of all our perceptions, thoughts, actions, at least in this life. Yet Time is perhaps the more real, and assuredly the richer, constituent of the two. But this rich reality applies only to Concrete or Filled Time, Duration, in which our experiences, although always more or less successive, interpenetrate each other in various degrees and ways, and are thus more or less simultaneous. An absolutely even flow of equal, mutually exclusive moments, on the contrary, exists only for our theoretical thinking, in Abstract, Empty, or Clock time. Already, in 1886, Professor James Ward wrote: 'In time, conceived as physical, there is no trace of intensity; in time, as psychically experienced, duration is primarily an intensive magnitude.'[35] And in 1889 Professor Bergson, in his _Essai sur les Données Immédiates de la Conscience_, gave us exquisite descriptions of time as we really experience it, of 'duration strictly speaking', which 'does not possess moments that are identical or exterior to each other'.[36] Thus all our real soul life, in proportion to its depth, moves in Partial Simultaneity; and it apprehends, requires and rests, at its deepest, in an overflowingly rich Pure Simultaneity. Fifthly, Man is Body as well as Soul, and the two are closely interrelated. The sensible perception of objects, however humble, is always necessary for the beginning, and (in the long run) for the persistence and growth, of the more spiritual apprehensions of man. Hence Historical Persons and Happenings, Institutions, affording Sensible Acts and Contacts, and Social Corporations, each different according to the different ranges and levels of life, can hardly fail to be of importance for man's full awakening--even ethical and spiritual. Professor Ernst Troeltsch, so free from natural prejudice in favour of such a Sense-and-Spirit position, has become perhaps the most adequate exponent of this great fact of life, which is ever in such danger of evaporation amidst the intellectual and leading minority of men. Sixthly, the cultivated modern man is still largely arrested and stunted by the spell of Descartes, with his insistence upon immediate unity of outlook and perfect clearness of idea as the sole, universal tests, indeed constituents, of truth. 'I judged that I could take for my general rule that the things which we conceive very clearly and very distinctly are all true'--these and these alone.[37] Thus thenceforth Mathematics and Mechanics have generally been held to be the only full and typical sciences, and human knowledge to be co-extensive with such sciences alone. Yet Biology and Psychology now rightly claim to be sciences, each with its own special methods and tests distinct from those of Mathematics and Mechanics. Indeed, the wisest and most fruitful philosophy is now coming to see that 'Reality generally eludes our thought, when thought is reduced to mathematical formulas'.[38] Concrete thought, contrariwise, finds full room also for History, Philosophy, Religion, for each as furnishing rich subject-matters for Knowledge or Science, of a special but true kind. Seventhly. Already Mathematics and Mechanics absolutely depend, for the success of their applications to actual Nature, upon a spontaneous correspondence between the human reason and the Rationality of Nature. The immensity of this success is an unanswerable proof that this rationality is not imposed, but found there, by man. But Thought without a Thinker is an absurd proposition. Thus faith in Science is faith in God. Perhaps the most impressive declaration of this necessary connexion between Knowledge and Theism stands at the end of that great work, Christoph Sigwart's _Logik_. 'As soon as we raise the question as to the real _right_', the adequate reason, 'of our demands for a correspondence, within our several sciences, between the principles and the objects of the researches special to each, there emerges the need for the Last and Unconditional Reason. And the actual situation is not that this Reason appears only on the horizon of our finite knowledge,' as Kant would have it. 'Not in thus merely extending our knowledge lies the significance of the situation, but in the fact that this Unconditional Reason constitutes the presupposition without which no desire for Knowledge (in the proper and strict sense of the word) is truly thinkable.'[39] And lastly, all this and more points to philosophical Agnosticism as an artificial system, and one hopelessly inadequate to the depths of human experience. Assuredly Bossuet is right: 'man knows not the whole of anything'; and mystery, in this sense, is also of the essence of all higher religion. But what man knows of anything is that thing manifested, not essentially travestied, in that same thing's appearances. We men are most assuredly realities forming part of a real world-whole of various realities; those other realities continuously affect our own reality; we cannot help thinking certain things about these other realities; and these things, when accepted and pressed home by us in action or in science, turn out, by our success in this their utilization, to be rightly apprehended by us, as parts of interconnected, objective Nature. Thus our knowledge of Reality is real as far as it goes, and philosophical Agnosticism is a _doctrinaire_ position. We can say with Herbert Spencer, in spite of his predominant Agnosticism, that 'the error' committed by philosophers intent upon demonstrating the limits and conditions of consciousness 'consists in assuming that consciousness contains _nothing but_ limits and conditions, to the entire neglect of that which is limited and conditioned'. In reality 'there is some thing which alike forms the raw material of definite thought and remains after the definiteness, which thinking gave to it, has been destroyed'.[40] II Let us next consider five of the most ancient and extensively developed amongst the still living Religions: the Israelitish-Jewish and the Christian religions shall, as by far the best known to us and as the most fully articulated, form the great bulk of this short account; the Confucian, Buddhist, and Mohammedan religions will be taken quite briefly, only as contrasts to, or elucidations of, the characteristics found in the Jewish and Christian faiths. All this in view of the question concerning the relations between Religion and Progress. 1. We can roughly divide the Israelitish-Jewish religion into three long periods; in each the points that specially concern us will greatly vary in clearness, importance, and richness of content. The first period, from the time of the founder Moses and the Jewish exodus out of Egypt to the appearance of the first great prophet Elijah (say 1300 B.C. to about 860 B.C.) is indeed but little known to us; yet it gives us the great historical figure of the initial lawgiver, the recipient and transmitter of deep ethical and religious experiences and convictions. True, the code of King Hammurabi of Babylon (in 1958 to 1916 B.C.; or, according to others, in about 1650) anticipates many of the laws of the _Book of the Covenant_ (Exod. xx, 22-xxiii. 33), the oldest amongst the at all lengthy bodies of laws in the Pentateuch; and, again, this covenant appears to presuppose the Jewish settlement in Canaan (say in 1250 B.C.) as an accomplished fact. And, indeed, the Law and the books of Moses generally have undoubtedly passed through a long, deep, wide, and elaborate development, of which three chief stages, all considerably subsequent to the Covenant-Book, have, by now, been established with substantial certainty and precision. The record of directly Mosaic sayings and writings is thus certainly very small. Yet it is assuredly a gross excess to deny the historical reality of Moses, as even distinguished scholars such as Edward Meyer and Bernhard Stade have done. Far wiser here is Wellhausen, who finds, in the very greatness and fixity of orientation of the development in the Law and in the figure of the Lawgiver, a conclusive proof of the rich reality and greatness of the Man of God, Moses. Yet it is Hermann Gunkel, I think, who has reached the best balanced judgement in this matter. With Gunkel we can securely hold that Moses called God Yahweh, and proclaimed Him as the national God of Israel; that Moses invoked Him as 'Yahweh is my banner'--the divine leader of the Israelites in battle (Exod. xvii. 15); and that Yahweh is for Moses a God of righteousness--of the right and the law which he, Moses, brought down from Mount Sinai and published at its foot. Fierce as may now appear to us the figure of Yahweh, thus proclaimed, yet the soul's attitude towards Him is already here, from the first, a religion of the will: an absolute trust in God ('Yahweh shall fight for you, and ye shall hold your peace,' Exod. xiv. 14), and a terrible relentlessness in the execution of His commands--as when Moses orders the sons of Levi to go to and fro in the camp, slaying all who, as worshippers of the Golden Calf, had not been 'on Yahweh's side' (Exod. xxxii. 25-29); and when the chiefs, who had joined in the worship of Baal-Peor, are 'hung up unto Yahweh before the sun' (Num. xxv. 1-5). Long after Moses the Jews still believed in the real existence of the gods of the heathen; and the religion of Moses was presumably, in the first instance, 'Monolatry' (the adoration of One God among many); but already accompanied by the conviction that Yahweh was mightier than any other god--certainly Micah, 'Who is like Yahweh?,' is a very ancient Israelitish name. And if Yahweh is worshipped by Moses on a mountain (Sinai) and His law is proclaimed at a spring, if Moses perhaps himself really fashioned the brazen serpent as a sensible symbol of Yahweh, Yahweh nevertheless remains without visible representation in or on the Ark; He is never conceived as the sheer equivalent of natural forces; and all mythology is absent here--the vehement rejection of the calf-worship shows this strikingly. Michael Angelo, himself a soul of fire, understood Moses well, Gunkel thinks.[41] The second period, from Elijah's first public appearance (about 860 B.C.) to the Dedication of the Second Temple (516 B.C.), and on to the public subscription to the Law of Moses, under Ezra (in 444 B.C.), is surpassed, in spiritual richness and importance, only by the classical times of Christianity itself. Its beginning, its middle, and its end each possess distinctive characters. The whole opens with Elijah, 'the grandest heroic figure in all the Bible,' as it still breathes and burns in the First Book of Kings. 'For Elijah there existed not, in different regions, forces possessed of equal rights and equal claims to adoration, but everywhere only one Holy Power that revealed Itself, not like Baal, in the life of Nature, but like Yahweh, in the moral demands of the Spirit' (Wellhausen). And then (in about 750 B.C.) appears Amos, the first of the noble 'storm-birds' who herald the coming national destructions and divine survivals. 'Yahweh was for these prophets above all the god of justice, and God of Israel only in so far as Israel satisfied His demands of justice. And yet the special relation of Yahweh to Israel is still recognized as real; the ethical truth, which now stood high above Israel, had, after all, arisen within Israel and could still only be found within it.' The two oldest lengthy narrative documents of the Pentateuch--the Yahwist (J) and the Ephraemite (E)--appear to have been composed, the first in Judah in the time of Elijah, the second in Israel in the time of Amos. J gives us the immortal stories of Paradise and the Fall, Cain and Abel, Noah and the Flood; E, Abraham's sacrifice of Isaac; and the documents conjointly furnish the more naïve and picturesque parts of the grand accounts of the Patriarchs generally--the first great narrative stage of the Pentateuch. God here gives us some of His most exquisite self-revelations through the Israelitish peasant-soul. And Isaiah of Jerusalem, successful statesman as well as deep seer, still vividly lives for us in some thirty-six chapters of that great collection the 'Book of Isaiah' (i-xii, xv-xx, xxii-xxxix). There is his majestic vocation in about 740 B.C., described by himself, without ambiguity, as a precise, objective revelation (chap. vi); and there is the divinely impressive close of his long and great activity, when he nerves King Hezekiah to refuse the surrender of the Holy City to the all-powerful Sennacherib, King of Assyria: that Yahweh would not allow a single arrow to be shot against it, and would turn back the Assyrian by the way by which he came--all which actually happens as thus predicted (chap. xxxvii). The middle of this rich second period is filled by a great prophet-priest's figure, and a great prophetical priestly reform. Jeremiah is called in 628 B.C., and dies obscurely in Egypt in about 585 B.C.; and the Deuteronomic Law and Book is found in the Temple, and is solemnly proclaimed to, and accepted by, the people, under the leadership of the High Priest Hilkiah and King Josiah, 'the Constantine of the Jewish Church,' in 628 B.C. Jeremiah and Deuteronomy (D) are strikingly cognate in style, temper, and injunctions; and especially D contrasts remarkably in all this with the documents J and E. We thus have here the second great development of the Mosaic Law. Both Jeremiah and Deuteronomy possess a deeply interior, tenderly spiritual, kernel and a fiercely polemical husk--they both are full of the contrast between the one All-Holy God to be worshipped in the one Holy Place, Jerusalem, and the many impure heathen gods worshipped in so many places by the Jewish crowd. Thus in Jeremiah Yahweh declares: 'This shall be my covenant that I will make with the house of Israel: I will write my law in their hearts: and they shall all know me, from the least to the greatest: for I will remember their sin no more' (xxxi. 33, 34). And Yahweh exclaims: 'My people have committed two evils: they have forsaken me, the fountain of living waters, and have hewn out cisterns that can hold no water.' 'Lift up thine eyes unto the high places ... thou hast polluted the land with thy wickedness.' 'Wilt thou not from this time cry unto me: My Father, thou art the guide of my youth?' (ii. 13, iii. 2, 4). And Deuteronomy teaches magnificently: 'This commandment which I command you this day, is not too hard for thee, neither is it far off. It is not in heaven, neither is it beyond the sea, that thou shouldest say: Who shall go up for us to heaven or over the sea, and bring it unto us? But the word is very nigh unto thee, in thy mouth and in thy heart, that thou mayest do it' (xxx. 11-14). And there are here exquisite injunctions--to bring back stray cattle to their owners; to spare the sitting bird, where eggs or fledglings are found; to leave over, at the harvest, some of the grain, olives, grapes, for the stranger, the orphan, the widow; and not to muzzle the ox when treading out the corn (xxii. 1, 6, 7; xxiv. 19; xxv. 4). Yet the same Deuteronomy ordains: 'If thine own brother, son, daughter, wife, or bosom friend entice thee secretly, saying, let us go and serve other gods, thine hand shall be first upon him to put him to death.' Also 'There shall not be found with thee any consulter with a familiar spirit ... or a necromancer. Yahweh thy God doth drive them out before thee.' And, finally, amongst the laws of war, 'of the cities of these people (Hittite, Amorite, Canaanite, Perizzite, Hivite, Jebusite) thou shalt save alive nothing that breatheth, as Yahweh thy God hath commanded thee' (xii. 2-5; xiii. 6, 9; xviii. 10-13; xx. 16, 17). Here we must remember that the immorality of these Canaanitish tribes and cults was of the grossest, indeed largely unnatural, kind; that it had copiously proved its terrible fascination for their kinsmen, the Jews; that these ancient Easterns, e.g. the Assyrians, were ruthlessly cruel at the storming of enemy cities; and especially that the morality and spirituality, thus saved for humanity from out of a putrid flood, was (in very deed) immensely precious. One point here is particularly far-sighted--the severe watchfulness against all animism, spiritualism, worship of the dead, things in which the environing world of the Jews' fellow Semites was steeped. The Israelitish-Jewish prophetic movement did not first attain belief in a Future Life, and then, through this, belief in God; but the belief in God, strongly hostile to all those spiritualisms, only very slowly, and not until the danger of any infusion of those naturalisms had become remote, led on the Jews to a realization of the soul's survival with a consciousness at least equal to its earthly aliveness. The Second Book of Kings (chaps. xxii, xxiii) gives a graphic account of King Josiah's rigorous execution of the Deuteronomic law. The end of this most full second period is marked by the now rapid predominance of a largely technical priestly legislation and a corresponding conception of past history; by the inception of the Synagogue and the religion of the Book; but also by writings the most profound of any in the Old Testament, all presumably occasioned by the probing experiences of the Exile. In 597 and 586 B.C. Jerusalem is destroyed and the majority of the Jews are taken captives to Babylon; and in between (in 593) occurs the vocation of the prophet-priest Ezekiel, and his book is practically complete by 573 B.C. Here the prophecies as to the restoration are strangely detailed and schematic--already somewhat like the apocalyptic writers. Yet Ezekiel reveals to us deathless truths--the responsibility of the individual soul for its good and its evil, and God Himself as the Good Shepherd of the lost and the sick (xviii. 20-32; xxxiv. 1-6); he gives us the grand pictures of the resurrection unto life of the dead bones of Israel (chap. xxxvii), and of the waters of healing and of life which flow forth, ever deeper and wider, from beneath the Temple, and by their sweetness transform all sour waters and arid lands that they touch (xlvii. 1-12). A spirit and doctrine closely akin to those of Ezekiel produced the third, last, and most extensive development of the Pentateuchal legislation and doctrinal history--in about 560 B.C., the Law of Holiness (Lev., chaps. xvii-xxvi); and in about 500 B.C., the Priestly Code. As with Ezekiel's look forward, so here with these Priests' look backward, we have to recognize much schematic precision of dates, genealogies, and explanations instinct with technical interests. The unity of sanctuary and the removal from the feasts and the worship of all traces of naturalism, which in Jeremiah, Deuteronomy, and the Second Book of Kings appear still as the subject-matters of intensest effort and conflict, are here assumed as operative even back to patriarchal times. Yet it can reasonably be pleaded that the life-work of Moses truly involved all this development; and even that Monotheism (at least, for the times and peoples here concerned) required some such rules as are assumed by P throughout. And P gives us the great six days' Creation Story with its splendid sense of rational order pervasive of the Universe, the work of the all-reasonable God--its single parts good, its totality very good; and man and woman springing together from the Creator's will. But the writer nowhere indicates that he means long periods by the 'days'; each creation appears as effected in an instant, and these instants as separated from each other by but twenty-four hours. In between Deuteronomy and the Priestly Code, or a little later still, lies probably the composition of three religious works full, respectively, of exultant thanksgiving, of the noblest insight into the fruitfulness of suffering, and of the deepest questionings issuing in childlike trust in God. For an anonymous writer composes (say, in 550 B.C.) the great bulk of the magnificent chapters forty to fifty-five of our Book of Isaiah--a paean of spiritual exultation over the Jews' proximate deliverance from exile by the Persian King Cyrus. In 538 B.C. Cyrus issues the edict for the restoration to Judaea, and in 516 the Second Temple is dedicated. Within this great Consolation stand (xlii. 1-4; xlix. 1-6; l. 4-9; lii. 13-liii. 12) the four poems on the Suffering Servant of Yahweh--the tenderest revelation of the Old Testament--apparently written previously in the Exile, say in 570-560 B.C. The Old Law here reaches to the very feet of the New Law--to the Lamb of God who taketh away the sins of the world. And the Book of Job, in its chief constituents (chaps. i-xxxi, xxxviii-xlii), was probably composed when Greek influences began--say in about 480 B.C., the year of the battle of Thermopylae. The canonization of this daringly speculative book indicates finely how sensitive even the deepest faith and holiness can remain to the apparently unjust distribution of man's earthly lot. Our second period ends in 444 B.C., when the priest and scribe Ezra solemnly proclaims, and receives the public subscription to, the Book of the Law of Moses--the Priestly Code, brought by him from Babylon. The Jewish last period, from Ezra's Proclamation 444 B.C. to the completion of the Fourth Book of Ezra, about A.D. 95, is (upon the whole) derivative. Amos, Isaiah, Jeremiah were absorbed in the realities of their own epoch-making times, and of God's universal governance of the world past and future; Daniel now, with practically all the other Apocalyptic writers in his train, is absorbed in those earlier prophecies, and in ingenious speculations and precise computations as to the how and the when of the world's ending. The Exile had given rise to the Synagogue, and had favoured the final development and codifying of the Mosaic law; the seventy years intermission of the Temple sacrifices and symbolic acts had turned the worship, which had been so largely visible, dramatic, social, into the praying, singing, reading, preaching of extant texts, taken as direct and final rules for all thought and action, and as incapable of additions or interpretations equal in value to themselves. Yet thus priceless treasures of spiritual truth and light were handed down to times again aglow with great--the greatest religious gifts and growths; and indeed this literature itself introduced various conceptions or images destined to form a largely fitting, and in the circumstances attractive, garment for the profound further realities brought by Christianity. In the Book of Daniel (written somewhere between 163 and 165 B.C.) all earthly events appear as already inscribed in the heavenly books (vii. 10), and the events which have still really to come consist in the complete and speedy triumph of the Church-State Israel against King Antiochus Epiphanes. But here we get the earliest clear proclamation of a heightened life beyond death--though not yet for all (xii. 2). The noble vision of the four great beasts that came up from the sea, and of one like unto a Son of Man that came with the clouds of heaven (chap. vii), doubtless here figures the earthly kingdoms, Babel, Media, Persia, Greece (Alexander), and God's kingdom Israel. The Psalter appears to have been closed as late as 140 B.C.; some Psalms doubtless date back to 701--a few perhaps to David himself, about 1000 B.C. The comminatory Psalms, even if spoken as by representatives of God's Church and people, we cannot now echo within our own spiritual life; any heightened consciousness after death is frequently denied (e.g. vi. 5: 'in the grave who shall give thee thanks?' and cxv. 17: 'the dead praise not the Lord')--we have seen the impressive reason of this; and perhaps a quarter of the Psalms are doubles, or pale imitations of others. But, for the rest, the Psalter remains as magnificently fresh and powerful as ever: culminating in the glorious self-commitment (Ps. lxxiii), 'I was as a beast before Thee. Nevertheless I am continually with Thee. Whom have I in heaven but Thee, and there is none upon earth that I desire beside Thee.' The keen sense, present throughout this amazingly rich collection, of the reality, prevenience, presence, protection--of the central importance for man, of God, the All-Abiding, finds thus its full, deathless articulation. Religiously slighter, yet interesting as a preparation for Christian theology, are the writings of Philo, a devout, Greek-trained Jew of Alexandria, who in A.D. 40 appeared before the Emperor Caligula in Rome. Philo does not feel his daringly allegorical sublimations as any departures from the devoutest Biblical faith. Thus 'God never ceases from action; as to burn is special to fire, so is action to God'--this in spite of God's rest on the seventh day (Gen. ii. 2). 'There exist two kinds of men: the heavenly man and the earthly man.'[42] The long Life of Moses[43] represents him as the King, Lawgiver, High Priest, Prophet, Mediator. The Word, the Logos (which here everywhere hovers near, but never reaches, personality) is 'the firstborn son of God', 'the image of God'[44]; its types are 'the Rock', the Manna, the High Priest's Coat; it is 'the Wine Pourer and Master of the Drinking Feast of God'.[45] The majority of the Jews, who did not accept Jesus as the Christ, soon felt they had no need for so much allegory, and dropped it, with advantage upon the whole, to the Jewish faith. But already St. Paul and the Fourth Gospel find here noble mental raiment for the great new facts revealed by Jesus Christ. 2. The Christian Religion we will take, as to our points, at four stages of its development--Synoptic, Johannine, Augustinian, Thomistic. The Synoptic material here specially concerned we shall find especially in Mark i. 1 to xv. 47; but also in Matt. iii. 1 to xxvii. 56, and in Luke iii. 1 to xxiii. 56. Within the material thus marked off, there is no greater or lesser authenticity conferred by treble, or double, or only single attestation; for this material springs from two original sources--a collection primarily of doings and sufferings, which our Mark incorporates with some expansions; and a collection primarily of discourses, utilized especially by Matthew and Luke in addition to the original Mark. Both these sources contain the records of eyewitnesses, probably Saints Peter and Matthew. The chronological order and the special occasions of the growths in our Lord's self-manifestation, or in the self-consciousness of His human soul, are most carefully given by Mark and next by Luke. Matthew largely ignores the stages and occasions of both these growths, and assumes, as fully explicit from the beginning of the Ministry, what was manifested only later on or at the last; and he already introduces ecclesiastical and Christological terms and discriminations which, however really implicit as to their substance in Jesus's teaching, or inevitable (as to their particular form) for the maintenance and propagation of Christianity in the near future, are nevertheless still absent from the accounts of Mark and Luke. The chief rules for the understanding of the specific character of our Lord's revelation appear to be the following. The life and teaching must be taken entire; and, within this entirety, each stage must be apprehended in its own special peculiarities. The thirty years in the home, the school, the synagogue, the workshop at Nazareth, form a profoundly important constituent of His life and teaching--impressively contrasted, as they are, with the probably not full year of the Public Ministry, even though we are almost completely bereft of all details for those years of silent preparation. The Public Ministry, again, consists of two strongly contrasted stages, divided by the great scene of Jesus with the Apostles alone at Caesarea Philippi (Mark viii. 27-33; Luke ix. 18-22; Matt. xvi. 13-23). The stage before is predominantly expansive, hopeful, peacefully growing; the stage after, is concentrated, sad, in conflict, and in storm. To the first stage belong the plant parables, full of exquisite sympathy with the unfolding of natural beauty and of slow fruitfulness; to the second stage belong the parables of keen watchfulness and of the proximate, sudden second coming. Both movements are essential to the physiognomy of our Lord. And they are not simply differences in self-manifestation; they represent a growth, a relatively new element, in His human soul's experience and outlook. The central doctrine in the teaching is throughout the Kingdom of God. But in the first stage this central doctrine appears as especially upheld by Jesus's fundamental experience--the Fatherhood of God. In the second stage the central doctrine appears as especially coloured by Jesus's other great experience--of Himself as the Son of Man. In the earlier stage the Kingdom is presented more in the spirit of the ancient prophets, as predominantly ethical, as already come in its beginnings, and as subject to laws analogous to those obtaining in the natural world. In the second stage the coming of the Kingdom is presented more with the form of the apocalyptic writers, in a purely religious, intensely transcendent, and dualistic outlook--especially this also in the Parables of Immediate Expectation--as not present but future (Matt. xix. 28); not distant but imminent (Matt. xvi. 28; xxiv. 33; xxvi. 64); not gradual but sudden (Matt. xxiv. 27, 39, 43); not at all achieved by man but purely given by God (so still in Rev. xxi. 10). To the earlier stage belongs the great Rejoicing of Jesus (Matt. xi. 25-30; Luke x. 21, 22). The splendid opening, 'I thank Thee, Father--for so it hath seemed good in Thy sight', and the exquisite close, special to Matthew, 'Come unto Me--and my burthen is light', raise no grave difficulty. But the intermediate majestic declaration, 'All things are delivered unto Me by the Father--neither knoweth any man the Father save the Son and he to whomsoever the Son will reveal him', causes critical perplexities. I take this declaration to be modelled upon actual words of Jesus, which genuinely implied rather than clearly proclaimed a unique relation between the Father and Himself. Numerous other words and acts involve such a relation and Jesus's full consciousness of it. His first public act, His baptism, is clearly described by Mark as a personal experience, 'He saw the heavens opened' and heard a heavenly voice 'Thou art my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased' (i. 10, 11). Already in the first stage Jesus declares the Baptist to be 'more than a prophet' (Matt. xi. 9), yet claims superiority over him and over Solomon (xi. 11; xii. 42). His doctrine is new wine requiring new bottles (Mark ii. 22); indeed His whole attitude towards the law is that of a superior, who most really exhorts all, 'Learn of Me'. And soon after Caesarea Philippi He insists to the people: 'Whosoever shall be ashamed of Me in this generation, of him also shall the Son of Man be ashamed, when He cometh in the glory of the Father' (Mark viii. 38). The most numerous cures, physical, psychical, moral, certainly performed by Him, appear as the spontaneous effect of a unique degree and kind of spiritual authority; and the sinlessness attributed to Him throughout by the apostolic community (2 Cor. v. 21; Heb. iv. 15; John viii. 46; 1 John ii. 29) entirely corresponds to the absence, in the records of Him, of all traits indicating troubles of conscience and the corresponding fear of God. And this His unique Sonship is conjoined, in the earliest picture of Him, with an endless variety and combination of all the joys, admirations, affections, disappointments, desolations, temptations possible to such a stainless human soul and will. We thus find here a comprehensiveness unlike the attitude of the Baptist or St. Paul, and like, although far exceeding, the joy in nature and the peace in suffering of St. Francis of Assisi. The Second Stage opens with the great scene at Caesarea Philippi and its sequel (given with specially marked successiveness in Mark viii. 27-x. 45), when, for the first time in a manner beyond all dispute, Mark represents Jesus as adopting the designation 'the Son of Man' in a Messianic and eschatological sense. For our Lord here promptly corrects Peter's conception of 'Messiah' by repeated insistence upon 'the Son of Man'--His glory yet also His sufferings. Thus Jesus adopts the term of Daniel vii. 13 (which already the Apocalypse of Enoch had understood of a personal Messiah) as a succinct description of His specific vocation--its heavenly origin and difference from all earthly Messianism; its combination of the depths of human weakness, dereliction, sufferings with the highest elevation in joy, power and glory; and its connexion of that pain with this triumph as strictly interrelated--only with and through the Cross, was there here the offer and acceptance of the Crown. As to the Passion and Death, and the Risen Life, four points appear to be central and secured. Neither the Old Testament nor Jewish Theology really knew of a Suffering Messiah. Jesus Himself clearly perceived, accepted, and carried out this profound new revelation. This suffering and death were conceived by Him as the final act and crown of His service--so in Mark x. 44, 45 and Luke xxii. 24-7. (All this remains previous to, and independent of, St. Paul's elaborated doctrine as to the strictly vicarious and juridical character of the whole.) And the Risen Life is an objectively real, profoundly operative life--the visions of the Risen One were effects of the truly living Jesus, the Christ. The Second Christian Stage, the Johannine writings, are fully understandable only as posterior to St. Paul--the most enthusiastic and influential, indeed, of all our Lord's early disciples, but a convert, from the activity of a strict persecuting Pharisee, not to the earthly Jesus, of soul and body, whom he never knew, but to the heavenly Spirit-Christ, whom he had so suddenly experienced. Saul, the man of violent passions and acute interior conflicts, thus abruptly changed in a substantially _pneumatic_ manner, is henceforth absorbed, not in the past Jewish Messiah, but in the present universal Christ; not in the Kingdom of God, but in Pneuma, the Spirit. Christ, the second Adam, is here a life-giving Spirit, an element that surrounds and penetrates the human spirit; we are baptized, dipped, into Christ, Spirit; we can drink Christ, the Spirit. And this Christ-Spirit effects and maintains the universal brotherhood of mankind, and articulates in particular posts and functions the several human spirits, as variously necessary members of the one Christian society and Church. Now the Johannine Gospel indeed utilizes considerable Synoptic materials, and does not, as St. Paul, restrict itself to the Passion and Resurrection. Yet it gives us, substantially, the Spirit-Christ, the Heavenly Man; and the growth, prayer, temptation, appeal for sympathy, dereliction, agony, which, in the Synoptists, are still so real for the human soul of Jesus Himself, appear here as sheer condescensions, in time and space, of Him who, as all things good, descends from the Eternal Above, so that we men here below may ascend thither with Him. On the other hand, the Church and the Sacraments, still predominantly implicit in the Synoptists, and the subjects of costly conflict and organization in the Pauline writings, here underlie, as already fully operative facts, practically the entire profound work. The great dialogue with Nicodemus concerns Baptism; the great discourse in the synagogue at Capernaum, the Holy Eucharist--in both cases, the strict need of these Sacraments. And from the side of the dead Jesus flow blood and water, as those two great Sacraments flow from the everliving Christ; whilst at the Cross's foot He leaves His seamless coat, symbol of the Church's indivisible unity. The Universalism of this Gospel is not merely apparent: 'God so loved the world' (iii. 16), 'the Saviour of the world' (iv. 42)--this glorious teaching is traceable in many a passage. Yet Christ here condemns the Jews--in the Synoptists only the Pharisees; He is from above, they are from below; all those that came before Him were thieves and robbers; He will not pray for the world--'ye shall die in your sins' (xvii. 9; viii. 24); and the commandment, designated here by Jesus as His own and as new, to 'love one another', is for and within the community to which He gives His 'example' (xv. 12; xiii. 34)--in contrast with the great double commandment of love proclaimed by Him, in the Synoptists, as already formulated in the Mosaic Law (Mark xii. 28-34), and as directly applicable to every fellow-man--indeed, a schismatic Samaritan is given as the pattern of such perfect love (Luke x. 25-37). Deuteronomy gained its full articulation in conflict with Canaanite impurity; the Johannine writings take shape during the earlier battles of the long war with Gnosticism--the most terrible foe ever, so far, encountered by the Catholic Church, and conquered by her in open and fair fight. Also these writings lay much stress upon Knowing and the Truth: 'this is life eternal, to know Thee, the only true God and Jesus Christ whom Thou hast sent' (xvii. 3); symbolism and mysticism prevail very largely; and, in so far as they are not absorbed in an Eternal Present, the reception of truth and experience is not limited to Christ's earthly sojourn--'the Father will give you another Helper, the spirit of truth who will abide with you forever' (xiv. 16). Yet here the knowing and the truth are also deeply ethical and social: 'he who doeth the truth cometh to the light' (iii. 21); and Christ has a fold, and other sheep not of this fold--them also He must bring, there will be one fold, one Shepherd; indeed, ministerial gradations exist in this one Church (so in xiii. 5-10; xx. 3-8; xxi. 7-19). And the Mysticism here is but an emotional intuitive apprehension of the great historical figure of Jesus, and of the most specifically religious of all facts--of the already overflowing operative existence, previous to all our action, of God, the Prevenient Love. 'Not we loved God (first), but He (first) loved us,' 'let us love Him, because He first loved us,' 'no man can come to Me, unless the Father draw him'--a drawing which awakens a hunger and thirst for Christ and God (1 John iv. 10, 19; John vi. 44; iv. 14; vi. 35). The Third Stage we can find in St. Augustine, who, born a North African Roman (A.D. 354) and a convert from an impure life and Manichaeism, with its spatially extended God (A.D. 386), wrote his _Confessions_ in 397, lived to experience the capture and sack of Rome by Alaric the Goth, 410, composed his great work, _The City of God_, amidst the clear dissolution of a mighty past and the dim presage of a problematical future, and died at Hippo, his episcopal city, in 430, whilst the Vandals were besieging it. St. Augustine is more largely a convert and a rigorist even than St. Paul when St. Paul is most incisive. But here he shall testify only to the natures of Eternity and of real time, a matter in which he remains unequalled in the delicate vividness and balance of his psychological analysis and religious perception. 'Thou, O God, precedest all past times by the height of Thine ever-present Eternity; and Thou exceedest all future times, since they _are_ future, and, once they have come, will be past times. All thy years abide together, because they abide; but these our years will all be, only when they all will have ceased to be. Thy years are but One Day--not every day, but To-Day. This Thy To-Day is Eternity'.[46] The human soul, even in this life, has moments of a vivid apprehension of Eternity, as in the great scene of Augustine and Monica at the window in Ostia.[47] And this our sense of Eternity, Beatitude, God, proceeds at bottom from Himself, immediately present in our lives; the succession, duration of man is sustained by the Simultaneity, the Eternity of God: 'this day of ours _does_ pass within Thee, since all these things' of our deeper experience 'have no means of passing unless, somehow, Thou dost contain them all'. 'Behold, Thou wast within, and I was without ... Thou wast with me, but I was not with Thee.' 'Is not the blessed life precisely _that_ life which all men desire? Even those who only hope to be blessed would not, unless they in some manner already possessed the blessed life, desire to be blessed, as, in reality, it is most certain that they desire to be.'[48] Especially satisfactory is the insistence upon the futility of the question as to what God was doing in Time before He created. Time is only a quality inherent in all creatures; it never existed of itself.[49] And our fourth, last Christian Stage shall be represented by St. Thomas Aquinas (A.D. 1225-74), in the one great question where this Norman-Italian Friar Noble, a soul apparently so largely derivative and abstractive, is more complete and balanced, and penetrates to the specific genius of Christianity more deeply, than Saints Paul and Augustine with all their greater directness and intensity. We saw how the deepest originality of our Lord's teaching and temper consisted in His non-rigoristic earnestness, in His non-Gnostic detachment from things temporal and spatial. The absorbing expectation of the Second Coming, indeed the old, largely effete Graeco-Roman world, had first to go, the great Germanic migrations had to be fully completed, the first Crusades had to pass, before--some twelve centuries after Nazareth and Calvary--Christianity attained in Aquinas a systematic and promptly authoritative expression of this its root-peculiarity and power. No one has put the point better than Professor E. Troeltsch: 'The decisive point here is the conception, peculiar to the Middle Ages, of what is Christian as Supernatural, or rather the full elaboration of the consequences involved in the conception of the Supernatural. The Supernatural is now recognized not only in the great complicated miracle of man's redemption from out of the world corrupted by original sin. But the Supernatural now unfolds itself as an autonomous principle of a logical, religious and ethical kind. The creature, even the perfect creature, is only Natural--is possessed of only natural laws and ends; God alone is Supernatural. Hence the essence of Christian Supernaturalism consists in the elevation of the creature, above this creature's co-natural limitations, to God's own Supernature'. The distinction is no longer, as in the Ancient Church, between two kinds (respectively perfect and relative) of the one sole Natural Law; the distinction here is between Natural Law in general and Supernature generally. 'The Decalogue, in strictness, is not yet the Christian Ethic. "Biblical" now means revealed, but not necessarily Christian; for the Bible represents, according to Aquinas, a process of development which moves through universal history and possesses various stages. The Decalogue is indeed present in the legislation of Christ, but as a stage preliminary to the specifically Christian Ethic. The formula, on the contrary, for the specifically Christian Moral Law is here the Augustinian definition of the love of God as the highest and absolute, the entirely simple, Moral end--an end which contains the demand of the love of God in the stricter sense (self-sanctification, self-denial, contemplation) and the demand of the love of our neighbour (the active relating of all to God, the active interrelating of all in God, and the most penetrating, mutual self-sacrifice for God). This Ethic, a mystical interpretation of the Evangelical Preaching, forms indeed a strong contrast to the This-World Ethic of the Natural Law, Aristotle, the Decalogue and Natural Prosperity; but then this cannot fail to be the case, given the entire fundamental character of the Christian Ethic'.[50] Thus the widest and most primitive contrasts here are, not Sin and Redemption (though these, of course, remain) but Nature (however good in its kind) and Supernature. The State becomes the complex of that essentially good thing, Nature; the Church the complex of that different, higher good, Supernature; roughly speaking, where the State leaves off, the Church begins. It lasted not long, before the Canonists and certain ruling Churchmen helped to break up, in the consciousness of men at large, this noble perception of the two-step ladder from God to man and from man to God. And the Protestant Reformers, as a whole, went even beyond Saints Paul and Augustine in exclusive preoccupation with Sin and Redemption. Henceforth the single-step character of man's call now more than ever predominates. The Protestant Reformation, like the French Revolution, marks the existence of grave abuses, the need of large reforms, and, especially on this point, the all but inevitable excessiveness of man once he is aroused to such 'reforming' action. Certainly, to this hour, Protestantism as such has produced, within and for religion specifically, nothing that can seriously compare, in massive, balanced completeness, with the work of the short-lived golden Middle Ages of Aquinas and Dante. Hence, for our precise present purpose, we can conclude our Jewish and Christian survey here. 3. Only a few words about Confucianism, Buddhism, Mohammedanism, as these, in some of their main outlines, illustrate the points especially brought out by the Jewish Christian development. Confucianism admittedly consists, at least as we have it, in a greatly complicated system of the direct worship of Nature (Sun, Moon, Stars especially) and of Ancestors, and of a finely simple system of ethical rules for man's ordinary social intercourse. That Nature-worship closely resembles what the Deuteronomic reform fought so fiercely in Israel; and the immemorial antiquity and still vigorous life of such a worship in China indicates impressively how little such Nature-worship tends, of itself, to its own supersession by a definite Theism. And the Ethical Rules, and their very large observance, illustrate well how real can be the existence, and the goodness in its own kind, of Natural, This-World morality, even where it stands all but entirely unpenetrated or supplemented by any clear and strong supernatural attraction or conviction. Buddhism, in its original form, consisted neither in the Wheel of Reincarnation alone, nor in _Nirvana_ alone, but precisely in the combination of the two; for that ceaseless flux of reincarnation was there felt with such horror, that the _Nirvana_--the condition in which that flux is abolished--was hailed as a blessed release. The judgement as to the facts--that all human experience is of sheer, boundless change--was doubtless excessive; but the value-judgement--that if life be such pure shiftingness, then the cessation of life is the one end for man to work and pray for--was assuredly the authentic cry of the human soul when fully normal and awake. This position thus strikingly confirms the whole Jewish and Christian persistent search for permanence in change--for a Simultaneity, the support of our succession. And Mohammedanism, both in its striking achievements and in its marked limitations, indeed also in the presentations of it by its own spokesmen, appears as a religion primarily not of a special pervasive spirit and of large, variously applicable maxims, but as one of precise, entirely immutable rules. Thus we find here something not all unlike, but mostly still more rigid than, the post-Exilic Jewish religion--something doubtless useful for certain times and races, but which could not expand and adapt itself to indefinite varieties of growths and peoples without losing that interior unity and self-identity so essential to all living and powerful religion. III Let us now attempt, in a somewhat loose and elastic order, a short allocation and estimate of the facts in past and present religion which mainly concern the question of Religion and Progress. We West Europeans have apparently again reached the fruitful stage when man is not simply alive to this or that physical or psychic need, nor even to the practical interest and advantage of this or that Art, Science, Sociology, Politics, Ethics; but when he awakens further to the question as to why and how these several activities, all so costly where at all effectual, can deserve all this sacrifice--can be based in anything sufficiently abiding and objective. The history of all the past efforts, and indeed all really adequate richness of immediate outlook, combine, I think, to answer that only the experience and the conviction of an Objective Reality distinct from, and more than, man, or indeed than the whole of the world apprehended by man as less than, or as equal to, man himself, can furnish sufficiently deep and tenacious roots for our sense and need of an objective supreme Beauty, Truth, and Goodness--of a living Reality already overflowing that which, in lesser degrees and ways, we small realities cannot altogether cease from desiring to become. It is Religion which, from first to last, but with increasing purity and power, brings with it this evidence and conviction. Its sense of the Objective, Full Reality of God, and its need of Adoration are quite essential to Religion, although considerable systems, which are largely satisfactory in the more immediate questions raised by Aesthetics and even by Ethics, and which are sincerely anxious to do justice also to the religious sense, are fully at work to explain away these essential characteristics of all wideawake Religion. Paul Natorp, the distinguished Plato-scholar in Germany, the short-lived pathetically eloquent M. Guyau in France, and, above all, Benedetto Croce, the large encyclopaedic mind in Italy, have influenced or led much of this movement, which, in questions of Religion, has assuredly not reached the deepest and most tenacious teachings of life. The intimations as to this deepest Reality certainly arise within my own mind, emotion, will; and these my faculties cannot, upon the whole, be constrained by my fellow mortals; indeed, as men grow more manysidedly awake, all attempts at any such constraint only arrest or deflect the growth of these intimations. Yet the dispositions necessary for the sufficient apprehension of these religious intimations--sincerity, conscientiousness, docility--are not, even collectively, already Religion, any more than they are Science or Philosophy. With these dispositions on our part, objective facts and living Reality can reach us--and, even so, these facts reach us practically always, at first, through human teachers already experienced in these things. The need of such facts and such persons to teach them are, in the first years of every man, and for long ages in the history of mankind, far more pressing than any question of toleration. Even vigorous persecution or keen exclusiveness of feeling have--_pace_ Lord Acton--saved for mankind, at certain crises of its difficult development, convictions of priceless worth--as in the Deuteronomic Reform and the Johannine Writings. In proportion as men become more manysidedly awake, they acquire at least the capacity for greater sensitiveness concerning the laws and forces intrinsic to the various ranges and levels of life; and, where such sensitiveness is really at work, it can advantageously replace, by means of the spontaneous acceptance of such objective realities, the constraints of past ages--constraints which now, in any case, have become directly mischievous for such minds. None the less will men, after this change as before, require the corporate experience and manifestation of religion as, in varying degrees and ways, a permanent necessity for the vigorous life of religion. Indeed, such corporate tradition operates strongly even where men's spiritual sense seems most individual, or where, with the retention of some ethical nobility of outlook, they most keenly combat all and every religious institution. So with George Fox's doctrine of the Divine Enlightenment of every soul separately and without mediation of any kind, a doctrine derived by him from that highly ecclesiastical document, the Gospel of St. John; and with many a Jacobin's fierce proclamation of the rights of Man, never far away from reminiscences of St. Paul. This permanent necessity of Religious Institutions is primarily a need for men to teach and exemplify, not simply Natural, This-World Morality, but a Supernatural, Other-World Ethic; and not simply that abstraction, Religion in General or a Religious Hypothesis, but that rich concretion, this or that Historical Religion. In proportion as such an Historical Religion is deep and delicate, it will doubtless contain affinities with all that is wholesome and real within the other extant historical religions. Nevertheless, all religions are effectual through their special developments, where these developments remain true at all. As well deprive a flower of its 'mere details' of pistil, stamen, pollen, or an insect of its 'superfluous' antennae, as simplify any Historical Religion down to the sorry stump labelled 'the religion of every honest man'. We shall escape all bigotry, without lapsing into such most unjust indifferentism, if we vigorously hold and unceasingly apply the doctrine of such a Church theologian as Juan de Lugo. De Lugo (A.D. 1583-1660), Spaniard, post-Reformation Roman Catholic, Jesuit, Theological Professor, and a Cardinal writing in Rome under the eyes of Pope Urban VIII, teaches that the members of the various Christian sects, of the Jewish and Mohammedan communions, and of the heathen religions and philosophical schools, who achieve their salvation, do so, ordinarily, simply through the aid afforded by God's grace to their good faith in its instinctive concentration upon, and in its practice of, those elements in their respective community's worship and teaching, which are true and good and originally revealed by God.[51] Thus we escape all undue individualism and all unjust equalization of the (very variously valuable) religious and philosophical bodies; and yet we clearly hold the profound importance of the single soul's good faith and religious instinct, and of the worship or school, be they ever so elementary and imperfect, which environ such a soul. A man's religion, in proportion to its depth, will move in a Concrete Time which becomes more and more a Partial Simultaneity. And these his depths then more and more testify to, and contrast with, the Fully Simultaneous, God. Because man thus lives, not in an ever-equal chain of mutually exclusive moments, in Clock Time, but in Duration, with its variously close interpenetrations of the successive parts; and because these interpenetrations are close in proportion to the richness and fruitfulness of the durations he lives through; he can, indeed he must, conceive absolutely perfect life as absolutely simultaneous. God is thus not Unending, but Eternal; the very fullness of His life leaves no room or reason for succession and our poor need of it. Dr. F. C. S. Schiller has admirably drawn out this grand doctrine, with the aid of Aristotle's Unmoving Action, in _Humanism_, 1903, pp. 204-27. We need only persistently apprehend this Simultaneity as essential to God, and Succession as varyingly essential to all creatures, and there remains no difficulty--at least as regards the Time-element--in the doctrine of Creation. For only with the existence of creatures does Time thus arise at all--it exists only in and through them. And assuredly all finite things, that we know at all, bear traces of a history involving a beginning and an end. Professor Bernardino Varisco, in his great _Know Thyself_, has noble pages on this large theme.[52] In any case we must beware of all more or less Pantheistic conceptions of the simultaneous life of God and the successive life of creatures as but essential and necessary elements of one single Divine-Creaturely existence, in the manner, e.g., of Professor Josiah Royce, in his powerful work _The World and the Individual_, 2nd series, 1901. All such schemes break down under an adequate realization of those dread facts error and evil. A certain real independence must have been left by God to reasonable creatures. And let it be noted carefully: the great difficulty against all Theism lies in the terrible reality of Evil; and the deepest adequacy of this same Theism, especially of Christianity, consists in its practical attitude towards, and success against, this most real Evil. But Pantheism increases, whilst seeming to surmount, the theoretical difficulty, since the world as it stands, and not an Ultimate Reality behind it, is held to be perfect; and it entirely fails really to transmute Evil in practice. Theism, no more than any other outlook, really explains Evil; but it alone, in its fullest, Jewish-Christian forms, has done more, and better, than explain Evil: it has fully faced, it has indeed greatly intensified, the problem, by its noble insistence upon the reality and heinousness of Sin; and it has then overcome all this Evil, not indeed in theory, but in practice, by actually producing in the midst of deep suffering, through a still deeper faith and love, souls the living expression of the deepest beatitude and peace. The fully Simultaneous Reality awakens and satisfies man's deepest, most nearly simultaneous life, by a certain adaptation of its own intrinsic life to these human spirits. In such varyingly 'incarnational' acts or action the non-successive God Himself condescends to a certain successiveness; but this, in order to help His creatures to achieve as much simultaneity as is compatible with their several ranks and calls. We must not wonder if, in the religious literature, these condescensions of God largely appear as though they themselves were more or less non-successive; nor, again, if the deepest religious consciousness tends usually to conceive God's outward action, if future, then as proximate, and, if present, then as strictly instantaneous. For God in Himself is indeed Simultaneous; and if we try to picture Simultaneity by means of temporal images at all, then the instant, and not any period long or short, is certainly nearest to the truth--as regards the form and vehicle of the experience. The greater acts of Divine Condescension and Self-Revelation, our Religious _Accessions_, have mostly occurred at considerable intervals, each from the other, in our human history. After they have actually occurred, these several acts can be compared and arranged, according to their chief characteristics, and even in a series of (upon the whole) growing content and worth--hence the Science of Religion. Yet such Science gives us no power to produce, or even to foresee, any further acts. These great Accessions of Spiritual Knowledge and Experience are not the simple result of the conditions obtaining previously in the other levels of life, or even in that of religion itself; they often much anticipate, they sometimes greatly lag behind, the rise or decline of the other kinds of life. And where (as with the great Jewish Prophets, and, in some degree, with John the Baptist and Our Lord) these Accessions do occur at times of national stress, these several crises are, at most, the occasion for the demand, not the cause of the supply. The mostly long gaps between these Accessions have been more or less filled up, amongst the peoples concerned, by varyingly vigorous and valuable attempts to articulate and systematize, to apply in practice, and rightly to place (within the other ranges of man's total life) these great, closely-packed masses of spiritual fact; or to elude, to deflect, or directly to combat them, or some of their interpretations or applications. Now fairly steady improvement is possible, desirable, and largely actual, in the critical sifting and appraisement, as to the dates and the actual reality, of the historical documents and details of these Accessions; in the philosophical articulation of their doctrinal and evidential content; in the finer understanding and wider application of their ethical demands; and in the greater adequacy (both as to firmness and comprehensiveness) of the institutional organs and incorporations special to these same Accessions. All this can and does progress, but mostly slowly, intermittently, with short violent paroxysms of excess and long sleepy reactions of defect, with one-sidedness, travesties, and--worst of all--with worldly indifference and self-seeking. The grace and aid of the Simultaneous Richness are here also always necessary; nor can these things ever really progress except through a deep religious sense--all mere scepticism and all levelling down are simply so much waste. Still, we can speak of progress in the Science of Religion more appropriately than we can of progress in the Knowledge of Religion. The Crusades, the Renaissance, the Revolution, no doubt exercised, in the long run, so potent a secularizing influence, because men's minds had become too largely other-worldly--had lost a sufficient interest in this wonderful world; and hence all those new, apparently boundless outlooks and problems were taken up largely as a revolt and escape from what looked like a prison-house--religion. Yet through all these violent oscillations there persisted, in human life, the supernatural need and call. In this God is the great central interest, love and care of the soul. We must look to it that both these interests and Ethics are kept awake, strong and distinct within a costingly rich totality of life: the Ethic of the honourable citizen, merchant, lawyer--of Confucius and Socrates; and the Ethic of the Jewish Prophets at their deepest, of the Suffering Servant, of our Lord's Beatitudes, of St. Paul's great eulogy of love, of Augustine and Monica at the window in Ostia, of Father Damian's voluntarily dying a leper amidst the lepers. The Church is the born incorporation of this pole, as the State is of the other. The Church indeed should, at its lower limit, also encourage the This-world Stage; the State, at its higher limit, can, more or less consciously, prepare us for the Other-World Stage. Both spring from the same God, at two levels of His action; both concern the same men, at two stages of their response and need. Yet the primary duty of the State is turned to this life; the primary care of the Church, to that life--to life in its deepest depths. Will men, after this great war, more largely again apprehend, love, and practise this double polarity of their lives? Only thus will the truest progress be possible in the understanding, the application, and the fruitfulness of Religion, with its great central origin and object, God, the beginning and end of all our true progress, precisely because He Himself already possesses immeasurably more than all He helps us to become,--He Who, even now already, is our Peace in Action, our Joy even in the Cross. BOOKS FOR REFERENCE I. 1. Oswold Külpe, _The Philosophy of the Present in Germany_, English translation. London: George Allen, 1913, _3s. 6d._ net. 2. J. McKeller Stewart, _A Critical Exposition of Bergon's Philosophy_. London: Macmillan, 1913, _6s._ net. II. 1. R. H. Charles, _A Critical History of the Doctrine of a Future Life_. London: A. & C. Black, 1899, _10s. 6d._ net. 2. Ernest T. Scott, _The Fourth Gospel_. Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1906, _6s._ net. III. 1. Aliotta, _The Idealistic Reaction against Science_. English translation. Macmillan, 1914, _12s._ net. 2. F. C. Schiller, _Humanism_, Macmillan, 1903, _7s. 6d._ net. 3. C. C. J. Webb, _Group Theories of Religion and the Individual_, Allen and Unwin, 1916, _5s._ net. FOOTNOTES: [32] _The Idealistic Reaction against Science_, Engl. tr. 1914, pp. 6, 7. [33] _A Critical Account of the Philosophy of Lotze_, 1895, p. 104. [34] Aliotta, op. cit., pp. 89, 187. [35] _Encyl. Brit._, 'Psychology,' 11th ed., p. 577. [36] Ed. 1898, p. 90. [37] _Discours sur la Méthode_, 1637, IVe Partie. [38] Aliotta, op. cit., p. 408. [39] Ed. 1893, vol. ii, p. 759. [40] _First Principles_, 6th ed., 1900, vol. i, p. 67. [41] Article, 'Moses,' in _Die Religion in Geschichte und Gegenwart_, 1913. [42] Ed. Mangey, vol. i, pp. 44, 49. [43] Ibid., pp. 80-179. [44] Ibid., pp. 308, 427. [45] Ibid., pp. 213, 121, 562, 691. [46] _Conf._ x, 13, 2. [47] Autumn, 387. [48] _Conf._ 1, 6, 3; x, 27; x, 20. [49] _Conf._ xi, 13. [50] _Die Soziallehren der christlichen Kirchen und Gruppen_, 1912, pp. 263-5. [51] _De Fide_, Disp. xix, 7, 10; xx, 107, 194. [52] _Cognosci Te Stesso_, 1912, pp. 144-7. VI MORAL PROGRESS L. P. JACKS From the syllabus of all the lectures in this course I gather that every lecturer on the programme is dealing with the question of moral progress. This is inevitable. Each lecturer must show that the particular sort of progress he is dealing with is real or genuine progress, and this it cannot be unless it is moral. That is itself a significant fact and throws a valuable light on our subject. It shows that progress, as it is studied throughout the course, is not progress in the abstract, whatever that may mean, but progress _for us_ constituted as we are; and since our constitution is essentially moral all progress that we can recognize as such must be moral also. Science, Industry, Government, might all claim progress on their own ground and in their own nature, but this would not prove progress as we understand the word, unless it could be shown further that these things contribute to human betterment in the highest sense of the word. _Their_ progress might conceivably involve _our_ regress. To believe in moral progress as an historical fact, as a process that has begun, and is going on, and will be continued--that is one thing, and it is my own position. To believe that this progress is far advanced is another thing, and is not my position. While believing in Moral Progress as a fact, I also believe that we are much nearer to the beginnings of it than the end. We should do well to accustom ourselves to this thought. Many of our despairs, lamentations, and pessimisms are disappointments which arise from our extravagant notions of the degree of progress already attained. There has been a great deal of what I have called philosophic pharisaism. Perhaps it would be better called aeonic pharisaism. I mean the spirit in the present age which seems to say 'I thank thee, O God, that I am not as former ages: ignorant, barbaric, cruel, unsocial; I read books, ride in aeroplanes, eat my dinner with a knife and fork, and cheerfully pay my taxes to the State; I study human science, talk freely about humanity, and spend much of my time in making speeches on social questions'. Now there is truth in all this, but not the kind of truth which should lead us to self-flattery. A good rule for optimists would be this: 'Believe in moral progress, but do not believe in too much of it.' I think there would be more optimists in the world, more cheerfulness, more belief in moral progress, if we candidly faced the fact that morally considered we are still in a neolithic age, not brutes indeed any longer, and yet not so far outgrown the brutish stage as to justify these trumpetings. One of the beneficent lessons of the present war has been to moderate our claims in this respect. It has revealed us to ourselves as nothing else in history has ever done, and it has revealed, among other things, that moral progress is not nearly so advanced as we thought it was. It has been a terrible blow to the pharisaism of which I have just spoken. It has not discredited science, nor philosophy, nor government, nor anything else that we value, but it has shown that these things have not brought us as far as we thought. That very knowledge, when you come to think of it, is itself a very distinct step in moral progress. Before the war we were growing morally conceited; we thought ourselves much better, more advanced in morality, than we really were, and this conceit was acting as a real barrier to our farther advance. A sharp lesson was needed to take this conceit out of us--to remind us that as yet we are only at the bare beginnings of moral advance--and not, as some of us fondly imagined, next door to the goal. This sudden awakening to the truth is full of promise for the future. And now what is the cause of these exaggerated notions which so many of us have entertained? I think they arise from our habit of letting ourselves be guided by words rather than by realities, by what men are _saying_ rather than by what they are _doing_, by what teachers are teaching than by what learners are learning. If you take your stand in the realm of words, of doctrines, of theories, of philosophies, of books, preachings, and uttered ideals, you might make out a strong case for a high degree of moral progress actually attained. But if you ask how much of this has been learnt by mankind at large, and learnt in such a way as to issue in practice, you get a different story. We have attached too much importance to the first story and too little to the second. There has been a great deal of false emphasis in consequence. This false emphasis is especially prominent in the education controversy which is now going on--and the question of moral progress, by the way, is the question of education in the widest and highest sense of the term. People seem quite content so long as they can get the right thing taught. They don't always see that unless the right thing is taught by the right people and in the right way it will not be _learnt_. Now education is ultimately a question of what is being _learnt_, not of what is being _taught_. The process of learning is a very curious and complicated one, and it often happens that what goes in at the teacher's end comes out at the pupil's end in a wholly different form and with a wholly different value; and we have the highest authority for believing that what really counts is not so much that which goeth into a man but that which cometh out of him. That applies to all education--especially moral education. So that if you argue from what has gone into the human race in the way of moral teaching you may be greatly surprised and perhaps disappointed when you compare it with what has come out of the human race in the meantime. What has been taught is not what has been learnt. It has suffered a sea change in the process. Nor is the question wholly one of learning. There is the further question of remembering. I believe that a candid examination of the facts would convince us that the human race has proved itself a forgetful pupil. It has not always retained what it has learnt. Emerson has said that no account of the Holy Ghost has been lost. But how did Emerson find that out? The only accents Emerson knew of were those which the world happened to have remembered. If any had been lost in the meantime Emerson naturally would not know of their existence. I have heard of a functionary, whose precise office I am not able to define, called 'the Lord's Remembrancer'. It would be a great help to Moral Progress if we had in modern life a People's Remembrancer. His place is occupied to some extent by the study of history, and for that reason one could wish for the sake of Moral Progress that the study of history were universal. For my own part I seldom open a book of history without recovering what for me is a lost account of the Holy Ghost. Next to conceit I reckon forgetfulness as the greatest enemy of Moral Progress. I suppose Rudyard Kipling had something of this in mind when he wrote his poem-- Lord God of Hosts be with us yet, Lest we forget, lest we forget. Another cause of our over-estimate of Moral Progress is that we have thought too much of the abstract State and too little of the actual States now in being. Our devotion to 'the' State as an ideal has led us to overlook the fact that many actual States represent a form of morality so low that it is doubtful if it can be called morality at all. In their relations _with one another_ they display qualities which would disgrace the brutes. And the worst of it is that at times these States drag down to their own low level the morality of the individuals belonging to them. Thus at the present moment we see quite decent Englishmen and quite decent Germans tearing one another to pieces like mad dogs, a thing they would never dream of doing as between man and man, and which they do only because they are in the grip of forces alien to their own nature. We have overestimated Progress by thinking only of what is happening inside each of the States. We have forgotten to consider the bearing of the States to one another, which remains on a level lower than that of individuals. The impression has gone abroad that the nations of the world need to take _only one step_ from the position where they now stand to accomplish the final unity of all mankind. Taking any one of these nations--our own for example--we can trace the steps by which the warring elements within it have become reconciled, until finally there has emerged that vast unitary corporation--the British Empire. So with all the others. What more is required therefore than one step further in the same direction, to join up all the States into a single world State. But I am bound to think we are too hasty in treating the unity of mankind as needing only one step more. It is not so easy as all that. When you study the process by which unity has been brought about in the various European communities you find that motives of conquest and corresponding motives of defence have had a great deal to do with it. Germany, for example, was built up and now holds together as a fighting unit. Whether Germany and the other States would still maintain their cohesion when they were no longer fighting units, and when the motives of conquest and defence were no longer in operation, is a question on which I should not like to dogmatize either way. Certainly we have no right to assume offhand that the unifying process which has given the nations the mass cohesion and efficiency they require for holding their own against enemy States would still remain in full power when there were no longer any enemy States to be considered. But what do we mean by Progress? Progress may be defined as that process by which a thing advances from a less to a more complete state of itself. Now whether this process is a desirable one or not obviously depends on the nature of the thing which is progressing. Take the largest and most inclusive of all things--the whole world. And now suppose philosophy to have proved that the world, the whole world, is advancing from a less to a more complete state of itself--which as a matter of fact is what the doctrine of evolution claims to have proved. Ought I to rejoice in this discovery? Will it give me satisfaction? That clearly depends on the nature of the world. If I am antecedently assured that the world is good, I shall naturally rejoice on hearing that it is advancing from a less to a more complete state of itself. But if the nature of the world is evil, what reason can I possibly have for rejoicing in its evolution? Assuming the world to be evil in its essential nature, I for my part, if I were consulted in the matter, would certainly give my vote against its being allowed to advance from a less to a more complete state of itself. The less such a world progresses the easier it will be for moral beings to live in it. Our interest lies in its remaining as undeveloped as possible. Obvious as this seems there are some evolutionists who take a rather different view. They seem to think that any sort of world, no matter what its nature might be, would ultimately become a good world if it were allowed to develop its nature far enough. It is just the fact of its continually becoming more of itself that makes it good. But this would compel us to abandon our definition that progress is the advance of a thing from a less to a more complete state of _itself_. For if itself were a bad self to begin with all such advance of _itself_ would only make it worse. It is possible that an essentially bad man like Iago might be converted into a good one, but not by advancing from a less to a more complete state of _himself_ as he originally was--unless indeed we change the hypothesis and suppose that he was not essentially bad to begin with. So with the world at large. Our nature being what it is, namely moral, we must first be convinced that the world is in principle good before we can derive the least satisfaction from knowing that it is advancing from a less to a more complete state of _itself_. The alternative doctrine makes a breach in the doctrine of progress which is inconsistent with its original form. A thing develops by retaining its essential nature--that is the original form. But a bad world which develops into a good one doesn't retain its essential nature. There comes a point somewhere when the next step of progress can be achieved only by the thing dropping its original nature--a point at which the thing is no longer becoming more of its former self, which was bad, but is ceasing to be its former self altogether and becoming something else, which is good. Let us apply this to progress in three specific directions--Science, the Mechanical Arts, and Government. We find that the progress of science has enormously increased man's power over the forces of nature. Is it a good thing that man's power over the forces of nature should be increased? That surely depends on the manner in which this power is used, and this depends again on the moral nature of man. When we observe, as we may truly observe, especially at the present time, that of all the single applications which man has made of science, the most extensive and perhaps the most efficient is that of devising implements for destroying his brother man, it is at least permissible to raise the question whether the progress of science has contributed on the whole to the progress of humanity. Had it not been for the progress of science, which has enormously increased the wealth of the world, it is doubtful if this war, which is mainly a war about wealth, would have taken place at all. Or if a war had broken out, it would not have involved the appalling destruction of human life and property we are now witnessing--such that, within a space of two years, about six million human beings have been killed, thirty-five millions wounded, and wealth destroyed to the extent of about fifteen thousand millions sterling--though some say it is very much more. Science taught us to make this wealth: science has also taught us how to destroy it. When one thinks of how much of this is attributable to the progress of science, I say it is _permissible to raise the question_ whether man is a being who can safely be entrusted with that control over the forces of nature which science gives him. What if he uses this power, as he plainly can do, for his own undoing? To ask this, as we can hardly help asking, is to transfer the question of scientific progress into the sphere of morality. It is conceivable that the progress of science might involve for us no progress at all. It might be, and some have feared that it may become, a step towards the self-destruction of the human race. Take the mechanical arts. The chief effects of progress in the mechanical arts have been an enormous increase in the material wealth of mankind, and, partly consequent upon this, a parallel growth of population in the industrial countries of the world. It is by no means clear that either of these things constitutes a definite step in human progress. Consider the growth of population--the immense increase in the total bulk and volume of the human race. Whether this constitutes a clear gain to humanity obviously cannot be answered without reference to moral considerations. To increase the arithmetical quantity of life in the world can be counted a gain only if the general tendencies of life are in the right direction. If they are in the wrong direction, then the more lives there are to yield to these tendencies the less reason has the moralist to be satisfied with what is happening. No one, so far as I know, has ever seriously maintained that the end and aim of progress is to increase the number of human beings up to the limit which the planet is able to support; though some doctrines if pressed to their conclusion would lead to that, notably the doctrine that all morality rests ultimately on the instinct for the preservation and the reproduction of life. We have first to be convinced that the human race is not on the wrong road before we can look with complacency on the increase of its numbers. We may note in this connexion that mankind possesses no sort of collective control over its own mass or volume. The mass or total number of lives involved is determined by forces which are not subject to the unitary direction of any existing human will either individual or collective. This applies not only to the human race as a whole, but to particular communities. Their growth is unregulated. They just come to be what they are in point of size. This fact seems to me a very important one to bear in mind when we talk of the progress of science giving us control over the forces of nature. So far no state, no government, no community has won any effective control over that group of the forces of nature which determine the total size of the community in question. It is an aspect of human destiny which appears to be left to chance; and yet when we consider what it means, is there any aspect of human destiny on which such tremendous consequences depend? And ought we not to consider this before claiming, as we so often claim, that the progress of science has given us control of the forces of nature? It is strange that this point has not been more considered, especially by thinkers who are fond of the word 'humanity'--'the good of humanity'--or the 'greatest happiness of the greatest number'. Humanity has an arithmetical or quantitative side, and the good of humanity surely depends, to some extent, on how much humanity there is. I can imagine many things which might be good for a Greek city state of 10,000 souls which would not be good, or not good in the same sense, for a community of 100,000,000 souls. Surely it needs no reasoning to prove that our power to do our duty to others is affected by the number of others to whom duty has to be done--it makes a difference where there are 10,000 of men or 100,000,000. Similarly with the greatest happiness of the greatest number. What is the _greatest_ number? A great deal that has been said about this would not have been said if we had considered that the _greatest number_ itself is left at the disposal of forces outside the present scope of our own will. Even the proposal to sell our goods and give the proceeds to the poor would surely be affected, from the moral point of view, by the number of the poor who were to receive the distribution. Were this so small that the poor would get five pounds apiece it would be one question; were it so large that they would receive a halfpenny apiece it would be another question. Thus we may conclude that the progress of the mechanical arts with the consequent increase in the bulk of the human race has not solved the problem of moral progress, but only placed that problem in a new and more perplexing context. A similar conclusion would meet us if we were to consider the parallel increase of the wealth of the world. The moral question is not about the amount of wealth the world possesses, but about the way men spend it and the use they make of it. Industrially speaking, the human race has made its fortune during the last hundred years. But has it made up its mind what to do with the fortune? And has its mind been made up in the right way? To raise these questions is to see that progress from the economic point of view may be the reverse of progress from the moral. But I shall not further enlarge upon this--the theme being too familiar. The third question which relates itself to moral progress is that of Government. Now Government, I need hardly say, is not an end in itself. It is a device which man has set up to help him in attaining the true end of his life. To make up our minds how we ought to be governed is therefore impossible unless we have previously made up our minds how we ought to live. What might be a good government for a people whose end is industrial success might be a very bad one for a people who had some other end in view. Well, then, are we well governed at the present time? Are we better governed than we were? Has progress taken place in this department? Plainly we cannot answer these questions unless we have chosen our end in life and are morally satisfied with it. In the history of modern states we discover a tendency, more strongly marked in some quarters than in others, towards that form of democracy which is called responsible self-government. Government of the people, for the people, by the people. The people are going to govern themselves. But they may do so in a thousand different ways--each of which has a different moral value. A people may go wrong just as fatally in governing itself as in being governed by some external authority. I confess that nothing I can learn from the history of government entirely reassures me on this point. I see everywhere progress towards organization, but then one is bound to ask on what ulterior end is this organization directed? I see everywhere a growing subordination of the individual to the State. This may or may not be a very good thing. What _kind of State_ is it to which the individual is becoming subordinated? There are great differences among them--some seem to me, one in particular at the present time, thoroughly bad, and I cannot see that the individual gains morally by being subordinated to such a State--at least if he gains in one direction he loses more in another. Even the social unity which Governments are capable of achieving must not be too hastily translated into moral progress. We are entitled to ask several questions before the one can be equated with the other. To begin with, do men know what they want to achieve by their unified life? And if they do know what they want, have we not still the right to criticize its moral value and say 'this is right' or this is wrong? Should the time ever come when the common will of mankind should get itself expressed by the decrees of a universal democracy, would moral criticism be at an end so far as the said decrees were concerned? For my part I cannot see that it would. Perhaps it were truer to say that only then would moral criticism effectively begin. As things now are, we are prevented from criticizing the common will because none of us knows what exactly the common will demands. But if it could get itself expressed and defined by the decrees of a perfect democracy we should know. Those decrees would reveal the human community to itself, and it is possible that the revelation would not be altogether agreeable to our moral sense. We might then discover that the common will is capable of being grossly immoral. So far it has been impossible for us to make this discovery because no organ exists for expressing the common will on the human scale, and even those which express it on the national scale are not perfect. I am far from saying the discovery would be made; but I know of no line of argument which rules it out as impossible. Meanwhile we are scarcely justified in regarding the common will as necessarily moral until we know more than we do of what precisely it is that the common will aims at and intends to achieve. To back the common will through thick and thin, as some of our philosophers seem disposed to do, is a dangerous speculation--it might perhaps be described as putting your money on a dark horse. This leads me to say a word concerning a phrase which has been much in use of late--the Collective Wisdom of Mankind, or the Collective Wisdom of the State. Progress is sometimes defined as a gradual approach to a state of things where this collective wisdom rules the course of events. And collective wisdom is sometimes represented as vastly wiser than that possessed by any individual, even the wisest. Now if this really is so it seems pretty obvious that, when the collective wisdom speaks, no individual can have the right of appeal. What are you, what am I, that either of us should set up our private intelligence against the intelligence of forty million of our fellow citizens? That surely would be a preposterous claim. The collective wisdom must know best: at least it knows much better than you or I. But is the collective wisdom of the State so immensely superior to that of the individual, and of necessity so? Have we any means of bringing the matter to the test? It is extremely difficult to do so. Not until we make the experiment do we find how rare are the occasions of which we can say that then and there the collective wisdom of the community fairly and fully expressed itself. Acts of Parliament are not good examples. They usually represent not the collective wisdom of the whole community, but the wisdom of the majority after it has been checked, modified, and perhaps nullified by the opposing wisdom of an almost equal minority. Take as an example the history of the Irish Question. How difficult it is to put one's finger on any moment in that tangled story and say that then and there the collective wisdom of the community knew what it wanted to do and did it! So with almost everything else. Now if there be such a thing as the collective wisdom of the State I suppose that the moment when we are most likely to find it in action is the moment when one State has dealings with another State. That surely is a fair test. If States possess collective wisdom they ought to show its existence and measure when they confront one another _as States_--when State calls to State across the great deeps of international policy. What should we say of any State which claimed collective wisdom only when dealing with its own individual members--with you and me--but dropped the claim when the question was one of reasonable intercourse with another State similarly endowed? This we should say is a very dubious claim. Well, how stands the matter when this test is applied? The present war provides the answer. The war arose out of a type of quarrel which, had it occurred between half a dozen individuals of average intelligence, would have been amicably settled, by reasonable human intercourse, in twenty minutes. Does not this afford a rough measure of the collective wisdom of such States as at present exist in this world? Does it not suggest that they have little faculty of reasonable intercourse with one another? And when you say _that_ of any being, or any collection of beings, do you not put it pretty low down in the scale of intelligence? It is literally true that these States do not understand one another. Thus we are driven back upon a plain alternative; either the States do not represent collective wisdom, or else this collective wisdom is one of the lowest forms of wisdom now extant on this planet. In either case we must be very cautious in our use of the phrase. We must not infer moral progress from the reign of collective wisdom until we are assured that collective wisdom is really as wise as some of its devotees assume it to be. About the idea of moral progress, which is only another name for the idea of progress in its widest form, I need say little, the question having been adequately treated by other lecturers. But I will add this. Belief in moral progress is a belief which no man can live without, and, at the same time, a belief which cannot be proved by any appeal to human experience. We cannot live without it, because life is just the process of reaching forward to a better form of itself. Were a man to say that since the world began no moral progress has taken place he would thereby show his latent belief in moral progress. For no man would take the trouble to deny moral progress unless he believed that the world would in some way be made better by his denial. He would not even trouble to come to a private conclusion in the matter unless he believed that his private conclusion was something to the good. In that sense perhaps we may say that moral progress is proved, for the best proof of any belief is that it remains indispensable to the life we have to live. But the appeal to experience would not prove it--and for this reason. A progressive world is a world which not only makes gains, but _keeps_ its gains when they are made. If the Kingdom of Heaven were to become a fact to-morrow, that of itself would not prove progress, if you admit the possibility that the world might hereafter retreat from the position it had won. That possibility you could never rule out--except by an appeal to faith. A world which attained the goal and then lost it would be a greater failure, from the point of view of moral progress, than one which never attained the goal at all. The doctrine that the gains of morality can never be lost is widely held; but it does not rest on a philosophic or a scientific basis. As Hume taught long ago, you cannot infer an infinite conclusion from finite data--and in this case the conclusion is infinite and the data are finite. They are not only finite but various: some pointing one way, some another. Finally we cannot prove moral progress by appeal to any objective standard, such as the amount of happiness existing in the world at successive dates. Suppose you were able to show that, up to date, the amount of happiness in the world has shown a steady increase until it has reached the grand sum total now existing. Now suppose that you were transferred to another planet where the conditions were the exact opposite: where the inhabitants ages ago started with the happiness we now possess, and gradually declined until, at the present moment, they are no happier than the human race was at the first stage of its career. Now add together the totals of happiness for both your worlds, the ascending world which starts with the minimum and ends with the maximum, the declining world which starts with the maximum and ends with the minimum. The grand totals in both cases are exactly the same. So far as the total result is concerned, the declining world has just as much to show for itself as the ascending. Valued in terms of happiness, the one world would be worth as much as the other. And yet we know that the value of these two worlds is not the same. The ascending is worth a lot more than the descending. Why? I leave you with that conundrum. Answer it, and you have the key to the meaning of Moral Progress. BOOKS FOR REFERENCE T. H. Green, _Prolegomena to Ethics_, Book III, ch. 3. Lecky, _History of European Morals_, ch. 1. Spencer, _Data of Ethics_, ch. 13 to 14. VII PROGRESS IN GOVERNMENT A. E. ZIMMERN When I was asked to speak to you on the subject of Progress in Government I gladly accepted, for it is a subject on which I have reflected a good deal. But when I came to think over what I should say, I saw that you had asked me for the impossible. For what is Government? I do not know whether there are any here for whom Government means no more than a policeman, or a ballot-box, or a list of office-holders. The days of such shallow views are surely over. Government is the work of ordering the external affairs and relationships of men. It covers all the activities of men as members of a community--social, industrial, and religious as well as political in the narrower sense. It is concerned, as the ancients had it, with 'that which is public or common', what the Greeks called [Greek: to koinon] and the Romans _res publica_. The Old English translation of these classical terms is 'The Commonwealth' or Common Weal; and I do not see that we can do better than adopt that word, with its richness of traditional meaning and its happy association of the two conceptions, too often separated in modern minds, of Wealth and Welfare. Our subject then is the Progress of the Commonwealth or, in other words, the record of the course of the common life of mankind in the world. It is a theme which really underlies all the other subjects of discussion at this week's meetings: for it is only the existence of the Commonwealth and its organized efforts to preserve and sustain the life of the individuals composing it, which have made possible the achievements of mankind in the various separate fields of effort which are claiming your attention. Lord Acton spent a lifetime collecting material for a History of Liberty. He never wrote it: but, if he had, it would have been a History of Mankind. A History of Government or of the Commonwealth would be nothing less. Such is the nature of the invitation so kindly given to me and so cheerfully accepted. If you could wait a lifetime for the proper treatment of the subject I would gladly give the time; for, in truth, it is worth it. What is the nature of this common life of mankind and with what is it concerned? The subjects of its concern are as wide as human nature itself. We cannot define them in a formula: for human nature overleaps all formulas. Whenever men have tried to rule regions of human activity and aspiration out of the common life of mankind, and to hedge them round as private or separate or sacred or by any other kind of taboo, human nature has always ended by breaking through the hedges and invading the retreat. Man is a social animal. If he retires to a monastery he finds he has carried problems of organization with him, as the promoters of this gathering would confess you have brought with you here. If he shuts himself up in his home as a castle, or in a workshop or factory as the domain of his own private power, social problems go with him thither, and the long arm of the law will follow after. If he crosses the seas like the Pilgrim Fathers, to worship God unmolested in a new country, or, like the merchant-venturers, to fetch home treasure from the Indies, he will find himself unwittingly the pioneer of civilization and the founder of an Empire or a Republic. In the life of our fellows, in the Common Weal, we live and move and have our being. Let us recall some wise words on this subject from the Master of Balliol's book on the Middle Ages. 'The words "Church" and "State"', he writes, represent what ought to be an alliance, but is, in modern times, at best a dualism and often an open warfare.... The opposition of Church and State expresses an opposition between two sides of human nature which we must not too easily label as good and evil, the heavenly and the earthly, the sacred and the profane. For the State, too, is divine as well as the Church, and may have its own ideals and sacramental duties and its own prophets, even its own martyrs. The opposition of Church and State is to be regarded rather as the pursuit of one great aim, pursued by contrasted means. The ultimate aim of all true human activity must be in the noble words of Francis Bacon 'the glory of God and the relief of man's estate'.[53] Bacon's words form a fitting starting-point for our reflections: for they bring vividly before us both the idealism which should inspire all who labour at the task of government and the vastness and variety of the field with which they are concerned. Looked at in this broad light, the history of man's common life in the world will, I think, show two great streams of progress--the progress of man over Nature, or, as we say to-day, in the control of his environment, and the progress of man in what is essentially a moral task--the art of living together with his fellows. These two aspects of human activity and effort are in constant contact and interaction. Studied together, they reveal an advance which, in spite of man's ever-present moral weakness, may be described as an advance from Chaos to Cosmos in the organization of the world's common life; yet they are so distinct in method and spirit that they can best be described separately. Let us first, then, consider the history of Government, as a record of the progress of man's power over Nature. Human history, in this sphere, is the story of man making himself at home in the world. When human history begins we find men helpless, superstitious, ignorant, the plaything of blind powers in the natural and animal world. Superstitious because he was helpless, helpless because he was ignorant, he eked out a bare existence rather by avoiding than controlling the forces in the little world by which he found himself surrounded. Human life in its earliest stages is, as Hobbes described it, nasty, brutish, and short. Man was the slave of his environment. He has risen to become its master. The world, as the prophetic eye of Francis Bacon foretold, has become 'The Kingdom of Man'. How complete this conquest is, can best be realized perhaps by considering man's relation to the lower animals. When history opens, the animals are in their element; it is man who is the interloper. Two thousand years ago it was not the Society of Friends but wolves and wild boars who felt themselves at home on the site of Bournville Garden Village. To-day we are surprised when we read that in remote East Africa lions and giraffes venture occasionally to interfere in the murderous warfare between man and man. Man has imposed himself on the animals, by dint of his gradual accumulation of knowledge and his consequent power of organization and government. He has destroyed the conditions under which the animals prospered. He has, as we might say, destroyed their home life, exposing them to dangers of his own making against which they are now as powerless as he was once against them. 'It is a remarkable thing,' writes Sir E. Ray Lankester, which possibly may be less generally true than our present knowledge seems to suggest--that the adjustment of organisms to their surroundings is so severely complete in Nature apart from Man, that diseases are unknown as constant and normal phenomena under those conditions. It is no doubt difficult to investigate this matter, since the presence of Man as an observer itself implies human intervention. But it seems to be a legitimate view that every disease to which animals (and probably plants also) are liable, excepting as a transient and very exceptional occurrence, is due to Man's interference. The diseases of cattle, sheep, pigs, and horses are not known except in domesticated herds and those wild creatures to which Man's domesticated productions have communicated them. The trypanosome lives in the blood of wild game and of rats without producing mischief. The hosts have become tolerant of the parasite. It is only when man brings his unselected, humanly-nurtured races of cattle and horses into contact with the parasite, that it is found to have deadly properties. The various cattle-diseases which in Africa have done so much harm to native cattle, and have in some regions exterminated big game, have _per contra_ been introduced by man through his importation of diseased animals of his own breeding from Europe. Most, if not all, animals in extra-human conditions, including the minuter things such as insects, shellfish, and invisible aquatic organisms, have been brought into a condition of 'adjustment' to their parasites as well as to the other conditions in which they live: it is this most difficult and efficient balance of Nature which Man everywhere upsets.[54] And Sir E. Ray Lankester goes on to point out the moral to be drawn from this development. He points out that civilized man has proceeded so far in his interference with extra-human nature, has produced for himself and the living organisms associated with him such a special state of things by his rebellion against natural selection and his defiance of Nature's pre-human dispositions, that he must either go on and acquire firmer control of the conditions, or perish miserably by the vengeance certain to fall on the half-hearted meddler in great affairs. We may indeed compare civilized man to a successful rebel against Nature, who, by every step forward, renders himself liable to greater and greater penalties, and so cannot afford to pause or fail in one single step. Or again we may think of him as the heir to a vast and magnificent kingdom, who has been finally educated so as to take possession of his property, and is at length left alone to do his best; he has wilfully abrogated, in many important respects, the laws of his mother Nature by which the kingdom was hitherto governed; he has gained some power and advantage by so doing, but is threatened on every hand by dangers and disasters hitherto restrained: no retreat is possible--his only hope is to control, as he knows that he can, the sources of these dangers and disasters. The time will come, not too long hence, as I believe, when men have realized, with the scientists, that the world is one kingdom not many, and these problems of man's relation to his non-human environment will be the first concern of statesmen and governors. In some of our tropical colonies they have, perforce, become so already. If you live on the Gold Coast, the war against malaria cannot help seeming more important to you than the war against German trade: and in parts of Central Africa the whole possibility of continued existence centres round the presence or absence of the tsetse fly which is the carrier of sleeping sickness. Some day, when means have been adopted for abating our fiercer international controversies, we shall discover that in these and kindred matters lies the real province of world-politics. When that day comes the chosen representatives of the human race will see their constituents, as only philosophers see them now, as the inheritors of a great tradition of service and achievement, and as trustees for their successors of the manifold sources of human happiness which the advance of knowledge has laid open to us. If the first and most important of these sources is the discovery of the conditions of physical well-being, the second is the discovery of means of communication between the widely separate portions of man's kingdom. The record of the process of bringing the world under the control of the organized government of man is largely the record of the improvement of communications. Side by side with the unending struggle of human reason against cold and hunger and disease we can watch the contest against distance, against ocean and mountain and desert, against storms and seasons. There can be few subjects more fascinating for a historian to study than the record of the migrations of the tribes of men. He might begin, if he wished, with the migrations of animals and describe the westward progress of the many species whose course can be traced by experts along the natural highways of Western Europe. Some of them, so the books tell us, reached the end of their journey while Britain was still joined to the continent. Others arrived too late and were cut off by the straits of Dover. I like to form an imaginary picture, which the austerity of the scientific conscience will, I know, repudiate with horror, of the unhappy congregation, mournfully assembled bag and baggage on the edge of the straits and gazing wistfully across at the white cliffs of England, which they were not privileged to reach--_tendentesque manus ripae ulterioris amore_, 'stretching out their paws in longing for the further bank.' Our historian would then go on to describe the early 'wanderings of peoples' (_Völkerwanderungen_) how whole tribes would move off in the spring-time in the search for fresh hunting-grounds or pasture. He would trace the course of that westward push which, starting from somewhere in Asia, brought its impact to bear on the northern provinces of the Roman Empire and eventually loosened its whole fabric. He would show how Europe, as we know it, was welded into unity by the attacks of migratory warriors on three flanks--the Huns and the Tartars, a host of horsemen riding light over the steppes of Russia and Hungary: the Arabs, bearing Islam with them on their camels as they moved westward along North Africa and then pushing across into Spain: and the Northmen of Scandinavia, those carvers of kingdoms and earliest conquerors of the open sea, who left their mark on England and northern France, on Sicily and southern Italy, on the Balkan Peninsula, on Russia, on Greenland, and as far as North America. Then, passing to Africa and Asia, he would describe the life of the pack-saddle and the caravan, the long and mysterious inland routes from the Mediterranean to Nubia and Nigeria, or from Damascus with the pilgrims to Medina, and the still longer and more mysterious passage through the ancient oases of Turkestan, now buried in sand, along which, as recent discoveries have shown us, Greece and China, Christianity and Buddhism, exchanged their arts and ideas and products. Then he would tell of the great age of maritime discovery, of the merchant-adventurers and buccaneers, of their gradual transformation into trading companies, in the East and in the West, from companies to settlements, from settlements to colonies. Then perhaps he would close by casting a glimpse at the latest human migration of all, that which takes place or took place up to 1914, at the rate of a million a year from the Old World into the United States. He would take the reader to Ellis Island in New York harbour, where the immigrants emerge from the steerage to face the ordeal of the Immigration Officer. He would show how the same causes, hunger, fear, persecution, restlessness, ambition, love of liberty, which set the great westward procession in motion in the early days of tribal migration, are still alive and at work to-day among the populations of Eastern Europe. He would look into their minds and read the story of the generations of their nameless fore-runners; and he would ask himself whether rulers and statesmen have done all that they might to make the world a home for all its children, for the poor as for the rich, for the Jew as for the Gentile, for the yellow and dark-skinned as for the white. Let us dwell for a moment more closely on one phase of this record of the conquest of distance. The crucial feature in that struggle was the conquest of the sea. The sea-surface of the world is far greater than its land-surface, and the sea, once subdued, is a far easier and more natural means of transport and communication. For the sea, the uncultivable sea, as Homer calls it, is itself a road, whereas on earth, whether it be mountain or desert or field, roads have first painfully to be made. Man's definitive conquest of the sea dates from the middle of the fifteenth century when, by improvements in the art of sailing and by the extended use of the mariner's compass, it first became possible to undertake long voyages with assurance. These discoveries are associated with the name of Prince Henry of Portugal, whose life-long ambition it was, to quote the words engraved on his monument at the southern extremity of Portugal, 'to lay open the regions of West Africa across the sea, hitherto not traversed by man, that thence a passage might be made round Africa to the most distant parts of the East.' The opening of the high seas which resulted from Prince Henry's activities is one of the most momentous events in human history. Its effect was, sooner or later, to unite the scattered families of mankind, to make the problems of all the concern of all: to make the world one place. Prince Henry and his sailors were, in fact, the pioneers of internationalism, with all the many and varied problems that internationalism brings with it. 'In 1486,' says the most recent history of this development, Bartholomew Dias was carried by storm beyond the sight of land, round the southern point of Africa, and reached the Great Fish River, north of Algoa Bay. On his return journey he saw the promontory which divides the oceans, as the narrow waters of the Bosphorus divide the continents, of the East and West. As in the crowded streets of Constantinople, so here, if anywhere, at this awful and solitary headland the elements of two hemispheres meet and contend. As Dias saw it, so he named it, 'The Cape of Storms'. But his master, John II, seeing in the discovery a promise that India, the goal of the national ambition, would be reached, named it with happier augury 'The Cape of Good Hope'. No fitter name could have been given to that turning-point in the history of mankind. Europe, in truth, was on the brink of achievements destined to breach barriers, which had enclosed and diversified the nations since the making of the World, and commit them to an intercourse never to be broken again so long as the World endures. That good rather than evil may spring therefrom is the greatest of all human responsibilities.[55] The contrast between Constantinople and the Cape, so finely drawn in these lines, marks the end of the age when land-communications and land-power were predominant over sea-power. The Roman Empire was, and could only be, a land-power. It is no accident that the British Commonwealth is, as the American Commonwealth is fast becoming, predominantly a sea-power. How was 'the greatest of all human responsibilities', arising from this new intercourse of races, met? Knowledge, alas, is as much the devil's heritage as the angels': it may be used for ill, as easily as for good. The first explorers, and the traders who followed them, were not idealists but rough adventurers. Breaking in, with the full tide of western knowledge and adaptability, to the quiet backwaters of primitive conservatism, they brought with them the worse rather than the better elements of the civilization, the control of environment, of which they were pioneers. To them Africa and the East represented storehouses of treasure, not societies of men; and they treated the helpless natives accordingly. England and Holland as well as the Latin monarchies treated the natives of Africa as chattels without rights and as instruments for their own ends, and revived slavery in a form and upon a scale more cruel than any practised by the ancients. The employment of slaves on her own soil has worked the permanent ruin of Portugal. The slave trade with America was an important source of English wealth, and the philosopher John Locke did not scruple to invest in it. There is no European race which can afford to remember its first contact with the subject peoples otherwise than with shame, and attempts to assess their relative degrees of guilt are as fruitless as they are invidious. The question of real importance is how far these various states were able to purge themselves of the poison, and rise to a higher realization of their duty towards their races whom they were called by the claims of their own superior civilization to protect. The fate of that civilization itself hung upon the issue.[56] The process by which the Western peoples have risen to a sense of their duty towards their weaker and more ignorant fellow citizens is indeed one of the chief stages in that progress of the common life of mankind with which we are concerned. How is that duty to be exercised? The best way in which the strong can help the weak is by making them strong enough to help themselves. The white races are not strong because they are white, or virtuous because they are strong. They are strong because they have acquired, through a long course of thought and work, a mastery over Nature and hence over their weaker fellow men. It is not virtue but knowledge to which they owe their strength. No doubt much virtue has gone to the making of that knowledge--virtues of patience, concentration, perseverance, unselfishness, without which the great body of knowledge of which we are the inheritors could never have been built up. But we late-born heirs of the ages have it in our power to take the knowledge of our fathers and cast away any goodness that went to its making. We have come into our fortune: it is ours to use it as we think best. We cannot pass it on wholesale, and at one step, to the more ignorant races, for they have not the institutions, the traditions, the habits of mind and character, to enable them to use it. Those too we must transmit or develop together with the treasure of our knowledge. For the moment we stand in the relation of trustees, teachers, guides, governors, but always in their own interest and not ours, or rather, in the interest of the commonwealth of which we and they, since the opening of the high seas, form an inseparable part. It has often been thought that the relation of the advanced and backward races should be one purely of philanthropy and missionary enterprise rather than of law and government. It is easy to criticize this by pointing to the facts of the world as we know it--to the existing colonial empires of the Great Powers and to the vast extension of the powers of civilized governments which they represent. But it may still be argued that the question is not Have the civilized powers annexed large empires? but Ought they to have done so? Was such an extension of governmental authority justifiable or inevitable? Englishmen in the nineteenth century, like Americans in the twentieth, were slow to admit that it was; just as the exponents of _laissez-faire_ were slow to admit the necessity for State interference with private industry at home. But in both cases they have been driven to accept it by the inexorable logic of facts. What other solution of the problem, indeed, is possible? 'Every alternative solution', as a recent writer remarks,[57] breaks down in practice. To stand aside and do nothing under the plea that every people must be left free to manage its own affairs, and that intervention is wicked, is to repeat the tragic mistake of the Manchester School in the economic world which protested against any interference by the State to protect workmen ... from the oppression and rapacity of employers, on the ground that it was an unwarranted interference with the liberty of the subject and the freedom of trade and competition. To prevent adventurers from entering the territory is impossible, unless there is some civilized authority within it to stop them through its police. To shut off a backward people from all contact with the outside world by a kind of blockade is not only unpracticable, but is artificially to deny them the chances of education and progress. The establishment of a genuine government by a people strong enough and liberal enough to ensure freedom under the law and justice for all is the only solution.... They must undertake this duty, not from any pride of dominion, or because they wish to exploit their resources, but in order to protect them alike from oppression and corruption, by strict laws and strict administration, which shall bind the foreigner as well as the native, and then they must gradually develop, by education and example, the capacity in the natives to manage their own affairs. Thus we see that the progress in knowledge and in the control of their environment made by the civilized peoples has, in fact and inevitably, led to their leadership in government also, and given them the predominant voice in laying down the lines along which the common life of mankind is to develop. If we are to look for the mainspring of the world's activities, for the place where its new ideas are thought out, its policies framed, its aspirations cast into practical shape, we must not seek it in the forests of Africa or in the interior of China, but in those busy regions of the earth's surface where the knowledge, the industries, and all the various organizations of government and control find their home. Because organization is embodied knowledge, and because knowledge is power, it is the Great Powers, as we truly name them,[58] who are predominantly responsible for the government of the world and for the future of the common life of mankind. In the exercise of this control the world has already, in many respects, become a single organism. The conquest of distance in the fifteenth century was the beginning of a process which led, slowly but inevitably, to the widening of the boundaries of government. Two discoveries made about the same time accentuated the same tendency. By the invention of gunpowder the people of Europe were given an overwhelming military superiority over the dwellers in other continents. By the invention of printing, knowledge was internationalized for all who had the training to use it. Books are the tools of the brain-worker all the world over; but, unlike the file and the chisel, the needle and the hammer, books not only create, but suggest. A new idea is like an electric current set running throughout the world, and no man can say into what channels of activity it may not be directed. But neither travel nor conquest nor books and the spread of ideas caused so immense a transformation in the common life of mankind as the process beginning at the end of the eighteenth century which is known to historians as the Industrial Revolution. As we have spoken of the conquest of distance perhaps a better name for the Industrial Revolution would be the Conquest of Organization. For it was not the discovery of the steam-engine or the spinning-jenny which constituted the revolution: it was the fact that men were now in a position to apply these discoveries to the organization of industry. The ancient Greeks played with the idea of the steam-engine: it was reserved for eighteenth-century England to produce a generation of pioneers endowed with the knowledge, the power, the foresight, and the imagination to make use of the world-transforming potentialities of the idea. The Industrial Revolution, with its railways and steamships, telegraphs and telephones, and now its airships and submarines and wireless communication, completed the conquest of distance. Production became increasingly organized on international lines. Men became familiar with the idea of an international market. Prices and prospects, booms and depressions, banking and borrowing, became international phenomena. The organization of production led to an immensely rapid increase of wealth in Western Europe. The application of that wealth to the development of the world's resources in and outside Europe led to a correspondingly huge advance in trade and intercourse. The breakfast-table in an ordinary English home to-day is a monument to the achievements of the Industrial Revolution and to the solid reality of the economic internationalism which resulted from it. There is still poverty in Western Europe, but it is preventable poverty. Before the Industrial Revolution, judged by a modern standard, there was nothing but poverty. The satisfying physical and economic condition which we describe by the name of comfort did not exist. The Italian historian Ferrero, in one of his essays, recommends those who have romantic yearnings after the good old times to spend one night on what our forefathers called a bed. Mr. Coulton, in his books on the Middle Ages, has used some very plain language on the same text. And Professor Smart, in his recently published posthumous work, pointing a gentle finger of rebuke at certain common Socialist fantasies, remarks: There never was a golden age of equality of wealth: there was rather a leaden one of inequality of poverty.... We should speak more guardedly of the riches of the old world. A careful examination of any old book would show that the most splendid processions of pomp and luxury in the Middle Ages were poor things compared to the parade of a modern circus on its opening day.[59] Such prosperity as we enjoy to-day, such a scene as we can observe on these smiling outskirts of Birmingham, is due to man's Conquest of Organization and to the consequent development and linking-up, by mutual intercourse and exchange, of the economic side of the world's life. So far we have been watching the progress of man in his efforts to 'make himself at home' in the world. We have seen him becoming more skilful and more masterful century by century, till in these latter days the whole world is, as it were, at his service. He has planted his flag at the two poles: he has cut a pathway for his ships between Asia and Africa, and between the twin continents of America: he has harnessed torrents and cataracts to his service: he has conquered the air and the depths of the sea: he has tamed the animals: he has rooted out pestilence and laid bare its hidden causes: and he is penetrating farther and ever farther in the discovery of the causes of physical and mental disease. He has set his foot on the neck of Nature. But the last and greatest conquest is yet before him. He has yet to conquer himself. Victorious against Nature, men are still at war, nay, more than ever at war, amongst themselves. How is it that the last century and a half, which have witnessed so unparalleled an advance in the organization of the common life of man on the material side, should have been an age of wars and rumours of wars, culminating in the vastest and most destructive conflict that this globe of ours has ever witnessed? What explanation could we give of this to a visitor from the moon or to those creatures of inferior species whom, as Sir E. Ray Lankester has told us, it is our function, thanks to our natural superiority, to command and control? This brings us to the second great branch of our subject--the progress of mankind in the art of living together in the world. Government, as we have seen, covers the whole social life of man: for the principles that regulate human association are inherent in the nature of man. But in what follows we shall perforce confine ourselves mainly to the sphere of what is ordinarily called politics, that is to the recognized and authoritative form of human association called the State, as opposed to the innumerable subordinate or voluntary bodies and relationships, which pervade every department of man's common life. The progress of Government in this second sphere may be defined as the deepening and extension of man's duty towards his neighbour. It is to be reckoned, not in terms of knowledge and organization, but of character. The ultimate goal of human government, in the narrower sense, as of all social activity--let us never forget it--is liberty, to set free the life of the spirit. 'Liberty,' said Lord Acton, who could survey the ages with a wealth of knowledge to which no other man, perhaps, ever attained, 'Liberty is not a means to a higher political end. It is itself the highest political end. It is not for the sake of a good public administration that it is required but for security in the pursuit of the highest objects of civil society and of private life.'[60] Government is needed in order to enable human life to become, not efficient or well-informed or well-ordered, but simply good; and Lord Acton believed, as the Greeks and generations of Englishmen believed before him, that it is only in the soil of liberty that the human spirit can grow to its full stature, and that a political system based upon any other principle than that of responsible self-government acts as a bar at the outset to the pursuit of what he called 'the highest objects of civil society or of private life'. For though a slave, or a man living under a servile political system, may develop many fine qualities of character: yet such virtues will, in Milton's words, be but 'fugitive and cloistered', 'unexercised and unbreathed'. For liberty, and the responsibilities that it involves, are the school of character and the appointed means by which men can best serve their neighbours. A man deprived of such opportunities, cut off from the quickening influence of responsibility, has, as Homer said long ago 'lost half his manhood'. He may be a loyal subject, a brave soldier, a diligent and obedient workman: but he will not be a full-grown man. Government will have starved and stunted him in that which it is the supreme object of government to develop and set free. It is idle, then, to talk in general terms about the extension of government as a good thing, whether in relation to the individual citizen or to the organization of the world into an international State. We have always first to ask: What kind of Government? On what principles will it be based? What ideal will it set forth? What kind of common life will it provide or allow to its citizens? If the whole world were organized into one single State, and that State, supreme in its control over Nature, were armed with all the knowledge and organization that the ablest and most farseeing brains in the world could supply, yet mankind might be worse off under its sway, in the real essentials of human life, than if they were painted savages. 'Though I have the gift of prophecy and understand all mysteries and all knowledge: and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not charity, I am nothing.' Government may be the organization of goodness, or the organization of evil. It may provide the conditions by which the common life of society can develop along the lines of man's spiritual nature: or it may take away the very possibility of such a development. Till we know what a Government stands for, do not let us judge it by its imposing externals of organization. The Persian Empire was more imposing than the Republics of Greece: Assyria and Babylon than the little tribal divisions of Palestine: the Spanish Empire than the cities of the Netherlands. There is some danger that, in our new-found sense of the value of knowledge in promoting happiness, we should forget what a tyrant knowledge, like wealth, can become. No doubt, just as we saw that moral qualities, patience and the like, are needed for the advancement of knowledge, so knowledge is needed, and greatly needed, in the task of extending and deepening the moral and spiritual life of mankind. But we cannot measure that progress in terms of knowledge or organization or efficiency or culture. We need some other standard by which to judge between Greece and Persia, between Israel and Babylon, between Spain and the Netherlands, between Napoleon and his adversaries, and between contending powers in the modern world. What shall that standard be? It must be a similar standard--let us boldly say it--to that by which we judge between individuals. It must be a standard based on our sense of right and wrong. But right and wrong in themselves will not carry us very far, any more than they will carry the magistrate on the bench or the merchant in his counting-house. Politics, like business, is not the whole of life--though some party politicians and some business men think otherwise--but a department of life: both are means, not ends; and as such they have developed special rules and codes of their own, based on experience in their own special department. In so far as they are framed in accordance with man's spiritual nature and ideals these rules may be considered to hold good and to mark the stage of progress at which Politics and Business have respectively arrived in promoting the common weal in their own special sphere. With the rules of business, or what is called Political Economy, we have at the moment no concern. It is the rules of politics, or the working experience of rulers, crystallized in what is called Political Science or Political Philosophy, to which we must devote a few moments' attention. We are all of us, of course, political philosophers. Whether we have votes or not, whether we are aware of it or not, we all have views on political philosophy and we are all constantly making free use of its own peculiar principles and conceptions. Law, the State, Liberty, Justice, Democracy are words that are constantly on our lips. Let us try to form a clear idea of the place which these great historic ideals occupy in the progress of mankind. The great political thinkers of the world have always been clear in their own minds as to the ultimate goal of their own particular study. Political thought may be said to have originated with the Jewish prophets, who were the first to rebuke kings to their faces and to set forth the spiritual aims of politics--to preach Righteousness and Mercy as against Power and Ambition and Self-interest. Their soaring imagination, less systematic than the Greek intellect, was wider in its sweep and more farseeing in its predictions. 'As the earth bringeth forth her bud and as the garden causeth the things sown in it to spring forth', says Isaiah, in magnificent anticipation of the doctrine of Natural Law, 'so the Lord God will cause righteousness and praise to spring forth before all the nations.' 'Peace, peace, to him that is far off, and to him that is near, saith the Lord, and I will heal him: but the wicked are like the troubled sea when it cannot rest, whose waters cast up mire and dirt. There is no peace, saith my God, for the wicked.' 'Out of Zion shall go forth the Law and the word of the Lord from Jerusalem. And he shall judge between the nations and shall reprove many peoples; and they shall beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks: nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more.'[61] It was, however, Plato and Aristotle who first made politics a branch of separate study: and, unlike many of their modern successors, they pursued it throughout in close connexion with the kindred studies of ethics and psychology. Their scope was, of course, confined to the field of their own experience, the small self-contained City-States of Greece, and it did not fall within their province to foreshadow, like the Jewish Prophets, the end of warfare, or to speculate on the ultimate unity of mankind. Their task was to interpret the work of their own fellow-countrymen on the narrow stage of Greek life. Their lasting achievement is to have laid down for mankind what a State is, as compared with other forms of human association, and to have proclaimed, once and for all, in set terms, that its object is to promote the 'good life' of its members. 'Every State', says Aristotle in the opening words of his _Politics_, 'is a community of some kind.' That is to say, States belong to the same _genus_, as it were, as political parties, trade unions, cricket clubs, business houses, or such gatherings as ours. What, then, is the difference between a State and a political party? 'If all communities', he goes on, 'aim at some good, the State or political community, which is the highest of all and which embraces all the rest, aims, and in a greater degree than any other, at the highest good.' Why is the State the highest of all forms of association? Why should our citizenship, for instance, take precedence of our trade unionism or our business obligations? Aristotle replies, and in spite of recent critics I think the reply still holds good: because, but for the existence of the State and the reign of law maintained by it, none of these associations could have been formed or be maintained. 'He who first founded the State was the greatest of benefactors. For man, when protected, is the best of animals, but when separated from law and righteousness, he is the worst of all.' Or, to put it in the resounding Elizabethan English of Hooker: 'The public power of all societies is above every soul contained in the same societies. And the principal use of that power is to give laws to all that are under it; which laws, in such case, we must obey, unless there be reason showed which may necessarily enforce that the law of Reason or of God doth enjoin the contrary. Because except our own private and probable resolutions be by the law of public determinations overruled, we take away all possibility of social life in the world.'[62] The Greeks did not deny, as the example of Socrates shows, the right of private judgement on the question of obedience to law, or the duty of respect for what Hooker calls the Law of Reason or of God. Against the authentic voice of conscience no human authority can or should prevail. But Aristotle held, with Hooker, that obedience to law and faithful citizenship are themselves matters normally ordained by the law of Reason or of God and that, as against those of any other association ([Greek: koinônia]), the claims of the State are paramount. In other words, he would deny what is sometimes loosely called the _right_ of rebellion, whilst not closing the door to that _duty_ of rebellion which has so often advanced the cause of liberty. When Aristotle speaks of the State, moreover, he does not mean a sovereign authority exercising arbitrary power, as in Persia or Babylon: he means an authority administering Law and Justice according to recognized standards: and he is thinking of Law and Justice, not simply as part of the apparatus of government but as based upon moral principles. 'Righteousness', he says, 'is the bond of men in States and the administration of Justice, which is the determination of what is righteous, is the principle of order in political society.' 'Of Law', says Hooker,[63] here as elsewhere echoing the ancients, 'there can be no less acknowledged than that her seat is the bosom of God, her voice the harmony of the world.' The State takes precedence of the party or the trade union because, however idealistic in their policy these latter may be, the State covers all, not merely a section of the community, and is able not merely to proclaim but to enforce the rule of law and justice. Put in modern language, one might define the Greek idea of the State as the Organization of Mutual Aid. The Greek States did not remain true to this high ideal. Faced with the temptations of power they descended almost to the level of the oriental monarchies with which they were contrasted. But even had they remained faithful to their philosophers' ideal of public service they would not have survived. Unable to transcend the limits of their own narrow State-boundaries and to merge their ideals with those of their neighbours, they were helpless in the face of the invader. First Macedonia and then Rome swept over them, and political idealism slumbered for many centuries. Rome gave the world, what it greatly needed, centuries of peace and order and material prosperity: it built up an enduring fabric of law on principles of Reason and Humanity: it did much to give men, what is next to the political sense, the social sense. It made men members of one another from Scotland to Syria and from Portugal to Baghdad. But it did not give them 'the good life' in its fullness: for it did not, perhaps it could not, give them liberty. Faced with the choice between efficiency and the diffusion of responsibility, the rulers of the Roman Empire unhesitatingly chose efficiency. But the atrophy of responsibility proved the canker at the heart of the Empire. Deprived of the stimulus that freedom and the habit of responsibility alone can give, the Roman world sank gradually into the morass of Routine. Life lost its savour and grew stale, flat and unprofitable, as in an old-style Government office. 'The intolerable sadness inseparable from such a life', says Renan, 'seemed worse than death.' And when the barbarians came and overturned the whole fabric of bureaucracy, though it seemed to educated men at the time the end of civilization, it was in reality the beginning of a new life. Amid the wreckage of the Roman Empire, one governing institution alone remained upright--the Christian Church with its organization for ministering to the spiritual needs of its members. With the conversion of the barbarians to Christianity the governing functions and influence of the Church became more and more important; and it was upon the basis of Church government that political idealism, so long in abeyance, was reawakened. The thinkers who took up the work of Plato and Aristotle on the larger stage of the Holy Roman Empire boldly looked forward to the time when mankind should be united under one government and that government should embody the highest ideals of mankind. Such an ideal seemed indeed to many one of the legacies of the Founder of Christianity. The familiar petition in the Lord's Prayer: _thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven_ sounded, in the ears of Dante and Thomas Aquinas and innumerable theologians and canonists, as a prayer and a pledge for the ultimate political unity of mankind on the basis of Christian Law. Such a belief was indeed the bedrock of mediaeval political thought. To devout Christians, brought up in the oecumenical traditions of the Roman Empire, 'every ordering of a human community must appear as a component part of that ordering of the world which exists because God exists, and every earthly group must appear as an organic member of that _Civitas Dei_, that God-State, which comprehends the heavens and the earth.[1] ... Thus the Theory of Human Society must accept the divinely created organization of the Universe as a prototype of the first principles which govern the construction of human communities.... Therefore, in all centuries of the Middle Age, Christendom, which in destiny is identical with Mankind, is set before us as a single, universal Community, founded and governed by God Himself. Mankind is one "mystical body"; it is one single and internally connected "people" or "folk"; it is an all-embracing corporation, which constitutes that Universal Realm, spiritual and temporal, which may be called the Universal Church, or, with equal propriety, the Commonwealth of the Human Race. Therefore, that it may attain its one purpose, it needs One Law and One Government.'[64] But the mediaeval ideal, like the Greek, broke down in practice. 'Where the Middle Ages failed', says the Master of Balliol, continuing a passage already quoted, 'was in attempting ... to make politics the handmaid of religion, to give the Church the organization and form of a political State, that is, to turn religion from an indwelling spirit into an ecclesiastical machinery.' In other words, the mediaeval attempt broke down through neglecting the special conditions and problems of the political department of life, through declining, as it were, to specialize. While men were discussing the Theory of the Two Swords, whether the Emperor derived his power directly from God or indirectly through the Pope, or whether the sword should be used at all, the actual work of government in laying the foundations of the good life was neglected. Not only Liberty but Justice and Order were largely in abeyance and the range of State action which we to-day describe as 'social legislation' was not even dreamed of. Absorbed in theory or wrapped in ignorance, men forget the practical meaning of Statehood and its responsibilities. Central Europe languished for centuries, under a sham Empire, in the unprogressive anarchy of feudalism. 'The feudal system', it has been said,[65] 'was nothing more nor less than the attempt of a society which had failed to organize itself as a State, to make contract do the work of patriotism.' It is the bitter experience which Germany went through under the anarchy of feudalism and petty governments, lasting to well within living memory, which by a natural reaction has led the German people, under Prussian tutelage, to cling to the conception of the State as Power and nothing more. The study of politics had to become secular before it could once more become practical, and, by being practical, ministering to practical ideals and enlisting practical devotion, become, as it were, sacred once more. Where the well-being of our fellow men is concerned it is not enough to be well-meaning. Government is an art, not an aspiration: and those who are concerned with it, whether as rulers or voters, should have studied its problems, reflected on its possibilities and limitations, and fitted themselves to profit by its accumulated experience. Since the close of the Middle Ages, when politics became secular, the art of government has advanced by giant strides. Invention has followed invention, and experiment experiment, till to-day skilled specialists in the Old World and the New are at hand to watch and to record the latest devices for dealing with a hundred difficult special problems--whether it be the administration of justice or patronage, the organization of political parties, the fixing of Cabinet responsibility, the possibilities and limits of federalism, the prevention of war. There has, indeed, been as great an advance in the political art in the last four centuries and particularly in the last century, as in the very kindred art of medicine. The wonderful concentration of energy which the various belligerent powers have been able to throw into the present war is at once the best and the most tragic illustration of this truth. Man's common life in the State is more real, more charged with meaning and responsibility, more potent for good or for ill than it has ever been before--than our predecessors even in the time of Napoleon could have dreamed of. The greatest inventors and most skilful practitioners of the political art in the modern world have been the English, for it is the English who, of all nations, have held closest to the ideal of freedom in its many and various manifestations. Superficially regarded, the English are a stupid people, and so their continental neighbours have often regarded them. But their racial heritage and their island situation seem to have given them just that combination of experience and natural endowment necessary to success in the task of government. Taken as a whole, the English are not brilliant, but they are clear-headed: they are not far-sighted, but they can see the fact before their eyes: they are ill equipped with theoretical knowledge, but they understand the working of institutions and have a good eye for judging character: they have little constructive imagination of the more grandiose sort, but they have an instinct for the 'next step' which has often set them on paths which have led them far further than they dreamed; above all, they have a relatively high standard of individual character and public duty, without which no organization involving the free co-operation of man and man can hope to be effective. It is this unique endowment of moral qualities and practical gifts, coupled with unrivalled opportunities, which has made the English the pioneers in modern times in the art of human association. Englishmen, accustomed to what eighteenth-century writers used to call 'the peculiar felicity of British freedom', do not always remember how far their own experience has carried them on the road of political progress. They do not realize how many problems they have solved and abolished, as the art of medicine has abolished diseases. When they hear speak of the eternal conflict between Nationality and Nationality, they often forget that a war between England and Scotland has long since become unthinkable and that the platitudes of St. Andrew's Day are still paradoxes in Central and Eastern Europe. When they are told of States where the spontaneous manifestations of group-life, non-conforming sects, workmen's associations, and ordinary social clubs, are driven underground and classed as dangerous secret societies, they should realize how precious a thing is that freedom of association which is one of the dearest attributes of English liberty. So too when they read of monarchical and military supremacy in a country like Germany, which is still politically speaking in the stage of England under the Tudors, or of Russian autocracy, or of the struggle over the King's prerogative which has been taking place in Greece. If we believe, as we must, in the cause of liberty, let us not be too modest to say that nations which have not yet achieved responsible self-government, whether within or without the British Commonwealth, are politically backward, and let us recall the long stages of political invention by which our own self-government has been achieved. Representation, trial by jury, an independent judiciary, equality before the law, habeas corpus, a limited monarchy, the practice of ministerial responsibility, religious toleration, the freedom of printing and association, colonial autonomy--all these are distinctly English inventions, but time has shown that most of them are definite additions to the universal art of government. We can survey the Balkans, for instance, and say with confidence that one thing, amongst others, that those nations are in need of is toleration, both in the sphere of nationality and of religion: or declare of the United States that their industrial future will be menaced till they have freed Trade Unionism from the threat of the so-called law of Conspiracy: or ask of our own so-called self-governing Dominions whether they are content with a system that concedes them no responsible control over the issues of peace and war. This is not to say that our own governmental machinery is perfect. Far from it. It was never in greater need of overhauling. It is only to reaffirm the belief, which no temporary disillusionment can shake, that it is founded on enduring principles which are not political but moral. To compare a system which aims at freedom and seeks to attain that aim through the working of responsible self-government with systems, however logically perfect or temporarily effective, which set no value on either, is, as it were, to compare black with white. It is to go back on the lessons of centuries of experience and to deny the cause, not of liberty alone, but of that progress of the spirit of man which it is the highest object of liberty to promote. We have no time here to discuss in detail the various English inventions in the art of politics, but we must pause to consider two of the most important, because they are typical of British methods. The first is the invention called the Principle of Representation. Representation is a device by which, and by which alone, the area of effective government can be extended without the sacrifice of liberty. It is a device by which the scattered many can make their will prevail over the few at the centre. Under any non-representative system, whether in a State or a Church or a Trade Union or any other association, men always find themselves set before the inexorable dilemma between freedom and weakness on the one hand and strength and tyranny on the other. Either the State or the association has to be kept small, so that the members themselves can meet and keep in touch with all that goes on. Or it is allowed to expand and grow strong, in which case power becomes concentrated at the centre and the great body of members loses all effective control. The ancient world saw no way out of this dilemma. The great Oriental monarchies never contemplated even the pretence of popular control. The city-states of Greece, where democracy originated, set such store in consequence by the personal liberty of the individual citizen, that they preferred to remain small, and suffered the inevitable penalty of their weakness. Rome, growing till she overshadowed the world, sacrificed liberty in the process. Nor was the Christian Church, when it became a large-scale organization, able to overcome the dilemma. It was not till thirteenth-century England that a way out was found. Edward I in summoning two burgesses from each borough and two knights from each shire to his model Parliament in 1295, hit on a method of doing business which was destined to revolutionize the art of government. He stipulated that the men chosen by their fellows to confer with him must come, to quote the exact words of the summons, armed with 'full and sufficient power for themselves and for the community of the aforesaid county, and the said citizens and burgesses for themselves and the communities of the aforesaid cities and boroughs separately, there and then, for doing what shall then be ordained according to the Common Council in the premises, so that the aforesaid business shall not remain unfinished in any way for defect of this power'. In other words, the members were to come to confer with the king not as individuals speaking for themselves alone, but as representatives. Their words and acts were to bind those on whose behalf they came, and those who chose them were to do so in the full knowledge that they would be so bound. In choosing them the electors deliberately surrendered their own share of initiative and sovereignty and combined to bestow it on a fellow citizen whom they trusted. In this way, and in this way alone, the people of Cornwall and of Northumberland could bring their wishes to bear and play their part, together with the people at the centre, in the government of a country many times the size of a city-state of ancient Greece. There had been assemblies before in all ages of history: but this was something different. It was a Parliament. Representation seems to us such an obvious device that we often forget how comparatively modern it is and what a degree of responsibility and self-control it demands both in the representative and in those whom he represents. It is very unpleasant to hear of things done or acquiesced in by our representatives of which we disapprove, and to have to remember that it is our own fault for not sending a wiser or braver man to Westminster in his place. It is still more unpleasant for a representative to feel, as he often must, that his own honest opinion and conscience draw him one way on a matter of business and the opinions of most of his constituents another. But these are difficulties inherent in the system, and for which there is no remedy but sincerity and patience. It is part of the bargain that a constituency should not be able to disavow a representative: and that a representative should feel bound to use his own best judgement on the issues put before him. To turn the representative, as there is a tendency to do in some quarters, into a mere mouthpiece with a mandate, is to ignore the very problem which made representation necessary, and to presume that a local mass-meeting can be as well informed or take as wide a view as those who have all the facts before them at the centre. The ancient Greeks, who had a strong sense of individuality, were loth to believe that any one human being could make a decision on behalf of another. In the deepest sense of course they were right. But government, as has been said, is at best a rough business. Representation is no more than a practical compromise: but it is a compromise which has been found to work. It has made possible the extension of free government to areas undreamed of. It has enabled the general sense of the inhabitants of the United States, an area nearly as large as Europe, to be concentrated at Washington, and it may yet make it possible to collect the sense of self-governing Dominions in four continents in a Parliament at London. All this lay implicit in the practical instructions sent by the English king to his sheriffs; but its development would only have been possible in a community where the general level of character was a high one and where men were, therefore, in the habit of placing implicit trust in one another. The relationship of confidence between a member of Parliament and his constituents, or a Trade Union leader and his rank and file, is a thing of which public men are rightly proud: for it reflects honour on both parties and testifies to an underlying community of purpose which no passing disagreement on details can break down. Representation paved the way for the modern development of responsible self-government. But it is important to recognize that the two are not the same thing. Responsible self-government, in its modern form, is a separate and more complex English invention in the art of government. A community may be decked out with a complete apparatus of representative institutions and yet remain little better than an autocracy. Modern Germany is a case in point. The parliamentary suffrage for the German Reichstag is more representative than that for the British House of Commons. The German workman is better represented in his Parliament than the British workman is in ours. But the German workman has far less power to make his will effective in matters of policy than the British, because the German constitution does not embody the principle of responsible self-government. Sovereignty still rests with the Kaiser as it rested in the thirteenth century with Edward I. The Imperial Chancellor is not responsible to the Reichstag but to the Kaiser, by whom he is appointed and whose personal servant he remains. The Reichstag can discuss the actions of the Chancellor: it can advise him, or protest to him, or even pass votes of censure against him; but it cannot make its will effective. We can observe the working of similar representative institutions in different parts of the British Commonwealth. The provinces of India and many British Colonies have variously composed representative assemblies, but in all cases without the power to control their executives. The self-governing Dominions, on the other hand, do enjoy responsible self-government, but in an incomplete form, because the most vital of all issues of policy are outside their control. On questions of foreign policy, and the issues of war and peace, the Parliaments of the Dominions, and the citizens they represent, are, constitutionally speaking, as helpless as the most ignorant native in the humblest dependency. Representative institutions in themselves thus no more ensure real self-government than the setting up of a works committee of employees in a factory would ensure that the workmen ran the factory. The distinction between representation and effective responsibility is so simple that it seems a platitude to mention it. Yet it is constantly ignored, both in this country by those who speak of Colonial self-government as though the Dominions really enjoyed the same self-government as the people of these islands, and by the parties in Germany whose programme it is, not to make Germany a truly constitutional country, but to assimilate the retrograde Prussian franchise to the broader representation of the Reichstag. Wherein does the transition from representation to full responsibility consist? It came about in England when Parliament, instead of merely being consulted by the sovereign, felt itself strong enough to give orders to the sovereign. The sovereign naturally resisted, as the Kaiser and the Tsar will resist in their turn; but in this country the battle was fought and won in the seventeenth century. Since that time, with a few vacillations, Parliament has been the sovereign power. But once this transfer of sovereignty has taken place, a new problem arises. A Parliament of several hundred members, even though it meets regularly, is not competent to transact the multitudinous and complex and highly specialized business of a modern State. The original function of Parliament was to advise, to discuss, and to criticize. It is not an instrument fit for the work of execution and administration. Having become sovereign, its first business must be to create out of its own members an instrument which should carry out its own policy and be responsible to itself for its actions. Hence arose the Cabinet. The Cabinet is, as it were, a distillation of Parliament, just as Parliament itself is a distillation of the country. It consists of members of Parliament and it is in constant touch with Parliament; but its methods are not the methods of Parliament but of the older, more direct, organs of government which Parliament superseded. It meets in secret: it holds all the strings of policy: it has almost complete control of political and legislative initiative: it decides what is to be done and when and how: it has its own staff of agents and confidential advisers in the Departments and elsewhere whose acts are largely withdrawn from the knowledge and criticism of Parliament. A modern Cabinet in fact is open to the charge of being autocracy in a new guise. Such a charge would, of course, be a gross overstatement. But there is no doubt that the increasing complexity in the tasks of government has led to a corresponding growth of power and organization at the centre which has strengthened the Cabinet immeasurably of recent years at the expense of the direct representatives of the people. There are, however, powerful influences at work in the opposite direction, towards decentralization and new forms of representation, which there is no space to touch on here. Suffice it to say that here, as elsewhere, the price of liberty is eternal vigilance. England, then, and all who enjoy the full privileges of British citizenship have been placed by the progress of events in a position of peculiar responsibility. The twentieth century finds us the centre of the widest experiment of self-government which the world has ever seen; for the principles of liberty, first tested in this island, have approved themselves on the soil of North America, Australasia, and South Africa. It finds us also responsible for the government and for the training in responsibility of some 350,000,000 members of the more politically inexperienced and backward races of mankind, or about one-fifth of the human race. The growth of the British Commonwealth, about which so astonishingly little is known either by ourselves or by other peoples, is not a mere happy or unhappy accident. It is one of the inevitable and decisive developments in the history of mankind. It is the direct result of that widening of intercourse, that internationalizing of the world, to which reference has already been made. It represents the control of law and organized government over the blind and selfish forces of exploitation. In the exercise of this control we have often ourselves been blind and sometimes selfish. But 'the situation of man', as Burke finely said of our Indian Empire, 'is the preceptor of his duty'. The perseverance of the British character, its habit of concentration on the work that lies to hand, and the influence of our traditional social and political ideals, have slowly brought us to a deeper insight, till to-day the Commonwealth is becoming alive to the real nature of its task--the extension and consolidation of liberty. If it has thus taken up, in part, the work of the mediaeval Empire and has had a measure of success where the other failed, it is because of the character of its individual citizens, because despite constant and heart-breaking failures in knowledge and imagination, we are a people who, in the words of a stern, if friendly, critic, 'with great self-assertion and a bull-dog kind of courage, have yet a singular amount of gentleness and tenderness'.[66] * * * * * We have come to the end of our long survey. Some of you may feel that I have fetched too wide a compass and given too wide an extension to the meaning of government. But if I have sinned I have sinned of set purpose. I refuse to confine government within the limits of what is ordinarily called politics, or to discuss the association called the State in isolation from other sides of man's community life. To do so, I feel, is to lay oneself open to one of two opposite errors: the error of those for whom the State is the Almighty, and who invest it with a superhuman morality and authority of its own; and the error of those who draw in their skirts in horror from the touch of what Nietzsche called this 'cold monster' and take refuge in monastic detachment from the political responsibilities of their time. We must be able to see politics as a part of life before we can see it steadily and see it whole. We must be able to see it in relation to the general ordering of the world and to connect it once more, as in the Middle Ages, with religion and morality. No thinking man can live through such a time as this and preserve his faith unless he is sustained by the belief that the clash of States which is darkening our generation is not a mere blind collision of forces, but has spiritual bearings which affect each individual living soul born or to be born in the world. It is not for us to anticipate the verdict of history. But what we can do is to bear ourselves worthily, in thought and speech, like our soldiers in action, of the times in which we live--to testify, as it were, in our own lives, to that for which so many of our friends have laid down theirs. We are met at a culminating moment of human fate--when, so far as human judgement can discern, the political destinies of this planet are being settled for many generations to come--perhaps for good. If the task of leadership in the arts of government remains with us, let us face the responsibility conscious of the vast spiritual issues which it involves, and let us so plan and act that history, looking back on these years of blood, may date from them a new birth of freedom and progress, not for ourselves in this country alone but throughout that kingdom of Man which must one day, as we believe, become in very truth the kingdom of God. BOOKS FOR REFERENCE 1. _Man's Control over Nature_: Ray Lankester, _The Kingdom of Man_, and other essays. 1912. Demolins, _Comment la route crée le type social_. Curtis (ed. by), _The Commonwealth of Nations_. Vol. i, 1916. Murphy, _The Basis of Ascendancy_. 1909. _Introduction to the Study of International Relations_ (Greenwood and others). 1916. 2. _Political Ideals_: _The Jews_: Todd, _Politics and Religion in Ancient Israel_. 1904. _Greece_: _Aristotle's Politics_, translated by B. Jowett. 1908. Dickinson, _The Greek View of Life_. 1909. Barker, _The Political thought of Plato and Aristotle_. 1908. _Rome_: H. Stuart Jones, _The Roman Empire_. (Story of the Nations.) 1908. Warde Fowler, _Rome_ (Home University Series). _The Middle Ages_: A. L. Smith, _Church and State in the Middle Ages_. 1911. Gierke, _Political Theories of the Middle Ages_ (introduction by Maitland). 1900. _Miscellaneous_: Wallas, _Human Nature in Politics_. 1908. Acton, _The History of Freedom_, and other essays. 1909. Lowell, _The Government of England_. Bülow, _Imperial Germany_. 1916. FOOTNOTES: [53] A. L. Smith, _Church and State in the Middle Ages_, pp. 207-8. [54] Lankester, _Nature and Man_, Romanes Lecture, 1905, pp. 27-9. [55] _The Commonwealth of Nations_, edited by L. Curtis, Part I, p. 130. [56] Ibid., p. 166. [57] P. H. Kerr in _An Introduction to the Study of International Relations_, 1915, p. 149. [58] A still better name would be the Great Responsibilities. [59] _Second Thoughts of an Economist_, 1916, pp. 17-18, 22. [60] _Freedom and other Essays_, p. 22. [61] Isaiah lxvi. 2; lvii. 19, 21; ii. 3, 4. [62] _Ecclesiastical Polity_, Book I, ch. xvi. 5. [63] End of Book I of the _Ecclesiastical Polity_. [64] Gierke, _Political Theories of the Middle Age_, pp. 8 and 10. [65] _The Commonwealth of Nations_, Part I, p. 73. [66] _Memoirs and letters of Sir Robert Morier_, ii. 276. VIII PROGRESS IN INDUSTRY A. E. ZIMMERN In our study of Government we traced the upward course of the common life of mankind in the world. We saw it in the increasing control of Man over his physical environment, and we saw it also in his clearer realization of the ultimate ideal of government--the ordering of the world's affairs on the basis of liberty. We have now to turn aside from this main stream of social development to watch one particular branch of it--to survey man's record in the special department of economics. We shall no longer be studying human history, or the history of human society, as a whole, but what is known as economic or industrial history. It is important to be clear at the outset that economic or industrial history _is_ a tributary stream and not the main stream: for there are a number of people who are of the contrary opinion. There has been an increasing tendency of recent years to write human history in terms of economic or industrial progress. 'Tell me what men ate or wore or manufactured,' say historians of this school, 'and we will tell you what stage of civilization he had reached. We will place him in his proper pigeonhole in our arrangement of the record of human progress.' Did he use flint implements or fight with nothing but a bow and arrow? Did he use a canoe with a primitive pole which he had not even the sense to flatten so as to make it into a serviceable paddle? Then our sociologist will put him very low down on his list of the stages of human progress. For the modern sociologist is a confirmed plutocrat. He measures the character of men and races by their wealth. Just as old-fashioned people still think of the society of our own country as a hierarchy, in which the various classes are graded according to their social prestige and the extent of their possessions: so students of primitive civilization classify races according to their material equipment, and can hardly help yielding to the temptation of reckoning their stage of progress as a whole by the only available test. Thus it is common, especially in Germany and the United States, to find histories of what purports to be the progress of mankind which show man first as a hunter and a fisherman, then as a shepherd, then as a tiller of the soil, and then work upwards to the complicated industrial system of to-day. We are asked to accept the life of Abraham or David among the sheepfolds as the bottom of the ladder, and the life of a modern wage-earner under the smoky sky of a manufacturing area as the top; and when we complain and say, as men like William Morris and Stephen Graham are always saying, that we would far prefer to live in David's world, in spite of all its discomforts, we are told that we have no right to quarrel with the sacred principle of Evolution. To interpret human history in this way is, of course, to deny its spiritual meaning, to deny that it is a record of the progress of the human _spirit_ at all. It is to read it as a tale of the improvement, or rather the increasing complication, of _things_, rather than of the advance of man. It is to view the world as a Domain of Matter, not as the Kingdom of Man--still less, as the Kingdom of God. It is to tie us helplessly to the chariot wheels of an industrial Juggernaut which knows nothing of moral values. Let the progress of industry make life noisy and ugly and anxious and unhappy: let it engross the great mass of mankind in tedious and uncongenial tasks and the remainder in the foolish and unsatisfying activities of luxurious living; let it defile the green earth with pits and factories and slag-heaps and the mean streets of those who toil at them, and dim the daylight with exhalations of monstrous vapour. It is not for us to complain or to resist: for we are in the grip of a Power which is greater than ourselves, a Power to which mankind in all five continents has learnt to yield--that Economic Process which is, in truth, the God, or the Devil, of the modern world. No thinking man dare acquiesce in such a conclusion or consent to bow the head before such fancied necessities. The function of industry, he will reply, is to serve human life not to master it: to beautify human life not to degrade it: to set life free not to enslave it. Economics is not the whole of life: and when it transgresses its bounds and exceeds its functions it must be controlled and thrust back into its place by the combined activities of men. The soul is higher than the body, and life is more than housekeeping. Liberty is higher than Riches, and the welfare of the community more important than its economic and material progress. These great processes, which the increase of man's knowledge has set in motion, are not impersonal inhuman forces: Men originated them: men administer them: and men must control them. Against economic necessity let us set political necessity: and let the watchword of that political necessity, here as always, be the freedom and the well-being of mankind. With this caution in mind, then, let us approach our subject. What is Economics? Economics is simply the Greek for 'house-keeping'. If writers and thinkers on the subject had only kept this simple fact in mind, or used the English word instead of the Greek, the world would have been saved much misery and confusion. Political economy is not, what Mill and other writers define it to be, 'the Science of Wealth'. It is the art of community-housekeeping, and community-housekeeping, as every woman knows, is a very important if subsidiary branch of the art of community-management or government. Housekeeping, of course, is not a selfish but a social function. Housewives do not lay in bread and cheese simply to gratify their own desire to be possessors of a large store, but for the sake of their household. The true housekeeper or economic man is the man who is consciously ministering to the real needs of the community. Like the ruler or minister in the political sphere, he is a man who is performing a public service. This is equally true whether the housekeeper has a monopoly of the purchase of bread and cheese for the household, or whether he or she has to compete with others as to which is to be allowed to serve the public in that particular transaction. Just as, under the party system, which seems to be inseparable from the working of democratic institutions, men stand for Parliament and compete for the honour of representing their neighbours, so in most systems of industry men compete for the honour of supplying the public. Competition in industry is practically as old as industry. In the earliest picture that has come down to us of Greek village life we read of the competition between potter and potter and between minstrel and minstrel--a competition as keen and as fierce, we may be sure, as that between rival shopkeepers to-day. For the opposite of competition, as has been truly said, is not co-operation but monopoly or bureaucracy: and there is no short and easy means of deciding between the rival systems. Sometimes the community is better served by entrusting one department wholly to one purveyor or one system of management--as in the Postal Service, or the Army and Navy. Sometimes it is clearly better to leave the matter open to competition. Nobody, for instance, would propose to do with only one minstrel, and seal the lips of all poets but the Poet Laureate. Sometimes, as in the case of the organized professions and the liquor trade, a strictly regulated system of competition has been considered best. No doubt the tendency at the present time is setting strongly against competition and towards more unified and more closely organized systems of doing business. But it is important to make quite clear that there is nothing immoral or anti-social about the fact of competition itself, and nothing inconsistent with the idea of service and co-operation which should underlie all social and economic activity. It is not competition itself, as people often wrongly think, which is the evil, but the shallow and selfish motives and the ruthless trampling down of the weak that are too often associated with it. When we condemn the maxim 'the Devil take the hindmost', it is not because we think we ought to treat the hindmost as though he were the foremost--to buy cracked jars or patronize incapable minstrels. It is because we feel that there is a wrong standard of reward among those who have pushed to the front, and that the community as a whole cannot ignore its responsibility towards its less fortunate and capable members. It is, indeed, quite impossible to abolish competition for the patronage of the household without subjecting its members to tyranny or tying them down to an intolerable uniformity--forcing them to suppress their own temporary likes or dislikes and to go on taking in the same stuff in the same quantities world without end. For the most serious and permanent competition is not that between rival purveyors of the same goods, between potter and potter and minstrel and minstrel, but between one set of goods and another: between the potter and the blacksmith, the minstrel and the painter. If we abolished competition permanently between the British railways we could not make sure that the public would always use them as it does now. People would still be at liberty to walk or to drive or to bicycle or to fly, or, at the very worst, to stay at home. Competition, as every business man knows, sometimes arises from the most unexpected quarters. The picture-house and the bicycle have damaged the brewer and the publican. Similarly the motor-car and the golf links have spoilt the trade in the fine china ornaments such as used to be common in expensively furnished drawing-rooms. People sit less in their rooms, so spend less on decorating them. The members of the household always retain ultimate control over their economic life, if they care to exercise it. 'Whoso has sixpence,' as Carlyle said, 'is sovereign (to the length of sixpence), over all men; commands Cooks to feed him, Philosophers to teach him, Kings to mount guard over him,'--to the length of sixpence. Passive resistance and the boycott are always open to the public in the last resort against any of their servants who has abused the powers of his position. A good instance of this occurred in the events which led to the so-called Tobacco riots in Milan in 1848. The Austrians thought they could force the Italians in their Lombard provinces to pay for a government they hated by putting a heavy tax on tobacco. But the Italians, with more self-control than we have shown in the present war, with one accord gave up smoking. Here was a plain competition between a monopoly and the consumer, between tobacco and patriotism: between a united household and an unpopular servant: and the household won, as it always can unless its members are incapable of combined action or have been deprived by governmental tyranny of all power to associate and to organize. We are faced then with a community or household which has certain wants that need to be supplied. The individual members of the community are justified, within the limits of general well-being,[67] in deciding what are their own wants and how to satisfy them. They claim the right to _demand_, as the economists put it, the goods and services they require, bread and cheese, poetry, tobacco, motor-bicycles, china ornaments. In order to meet those demands, which are stable in essentials but subject to constant modification in detail, there is ceaseless activity, rivalry, competition, on the part of the purveyors--on the side of what economists call _supply_. The business of housekeeping, or what is called the economic process, is that of bringing this demand and this supply into relation with one another. If the members of the household said they wanted to eat the moon instead of sugar, their demand would not be an economic demand: for no housekeeper could satisfy it. Similarly on the supply side: if the baker insisted on bringing round bad epics instead of bread and the grocer bad sonatas instead of sugar, the supply, however good it might seem to the baker and the grocer, and however much satisfaction they might personally have derived from their work, would not be an economic supply: for the housekeeper, acting on behalf of the household, would not take it in. But if the demand was for something not yet available, but less impossibly remote than the moon, the housekeeper might persuade the purveyors to cudgel their brains till they had met the need. For, as we know, Necessity, which is another word for Demand, is the mother of invention. Similarly, if a purveyor supplied something undreamed of by the household, but otherwise good of its kind, he might succeed in persuading the household to like it--in other words, in creating a demand. The late Sir Alfred Jones, by putting bananas cheap on the market, persuaded us that we liked them. Similarly Mr. Marvin, who deals in something better than bananas, has persuaded us all to come here, though most of us would never have thought of it unless he had created the demand in us. Economic Progress, then, is progress both on the side of demand and on the side of supply. It is a progress in wants as well as in their means of satisfaction: a progress in the aspirations of the household as well as in the contrivances of its purveyors: a progress in the sense of what life might be, as well as in the skill and genius and organizing powers of those to whom the community looks for help in the realization of its hopes. It is important that this double aspect of our subject should be realized, for in what follows we shall have no opportunity to dwell further upon it. Space compels us to leave the household and its wants and aspirations out of account and to direct our attention solely to the side of supply; although it must always be remembered that no real and permanent progress in the organization of production is possible without improvements in the quality and reduction in the number of the requirements of what is called civilization.[68] What we have to watch, in our study of progress in industry, is the history of man as a purveyor of the household: in other words, as a producer of goods and services: from the days of the primitive savage with his bark canoe to the gigantic industrial enterprises of our own time. We can best do so by dividing our subject into two on somewhat similar lines to the division in our study of government. Let us consider industry, first as an activity involving a relationship between man and Nature; secondly, as involving what may be called a problem of industrial government, a problem arising out of the co-operation between man and man in industrial work. In the first of these aspects we shall see man as a maker, an inventor, an artist; in the second as a subject or a citizen, a slave or a free man, in the Industrial Commonwealth. Man as a maker or producer carries us back to the dawn of history. Man is a tool-using animal and the early stages of human history are a record of the elaboration of tools. The flint axes in our museums are the earliest monuments of the activity of the human spirit. We do not know what the cave men of the Old Stone Age said or thought, or indeed whether they did anything that we should call speaking or thinking at all; but we know what they made. Centuries and millenniums elapsed between them and the first peoples of whom we have any more intimate record--centuries during which the foundations of our existing industrial knowledge and practice were being steadily laid. 'One may say in general,' says Mr. Marvin,[69] that most of the fruitful practical devices of mankind had their origin in prehistoric times, many of them existing then with little essential difference. Any one of them affords a lesson in the gradual elaboration of the simple. A step minute in itself leads on and on, and so all the practical arts are built up, a readier and more observant mind imitating and adapting the work of predecessors, as we imagined the first man making his first flint axe. The history of the plough goes back to the elongation of a bent stick. The wheel would arise from cutting out the middle of a trunk used as a roller. House architecture is the imitation with logs and mud of the natural shelters of the rocks, and begins its great development when men have learnt to make square corners instead of a rough circle. And so on with all the arts of life or pleasure, including clothing, cooking, tilling, sailing, and fighting. How did this gradual progress come about? Mr. Marvin himself supplies the answer. Through the action of the 'readier and more observant minds'--in other words, through specialization and the division of labour. As far back as we can go in history we find a recognition that men are not all alike, that some have one gift and some another, and that it is to the advantage of society to let each use his own gift in the public service. Among primitive peoples there has indeed often been a belief that men are compensated for physical weakness and disability by peculiar excellence in some sphere of their own. Hephaestos among the Greek gods was lame: so he becomes a blacksmith and uses his arms. Homer is blind: so instead of fighting he sings of war. They would not go so far as to maintain that all lame men must be good blacksmiths or all blind men good poets: but at least they recognized that there was room in the community for special types and that the blacksmith and the poet were as useful as the ordinary run of cultivators and fighting men. The Greek word for craftsman--[Greek: dêmiourgos]--'worker for the people,' shows how the Greeks felt on this point. To them poetry and craftsmanship were as much honourable occupations or, as we should say, professional activities as fighting and tilling. Whether Homer took to poetry because he could not fight or because he had an overwhelming poetic gift, he had justified his place in the community. Specialization is the foundation of all craftsmanship and therefore the source of all industrial progress. We recognize this, of course, in common speech. 'Practice makes perfect,' 'Genius is an infinite capacity for taking pains,' are only different ways of saying that it is not enough to be 'ready' and 'observant', but that continued activity and concentration are necessary. A perfect industrial community would not be a community where everybody was doing the same thing: nor would it be a community where every one was doing just what he liked at the moment: it would be a community where every one was putting all his strength into the work which he was by nature best qualified to do--where, in the words of Kipling: No one shall work for money, and no one shall work for fame, But each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star, Shall draw the thing as he sees it for the God of Things as They Are. Progress in industry, then, on this side, consists in increasing specialization and in the perfection of the relationship between the workman and his work. Man in this world is destined to labour, and labour is often described as the curse of Adam. But in reality, as every one knows who has tried it, or observed the habits of those who have, idleness is far more of a curse than labour. Few men--at any rate in the temperate zone--can be consistently idle and remain happy. The born idler is almost as rare as the born poet. Most men, and, it must be added, most women, are happier working. If holidays were the rule and work the exception the world would be a much less cheerful place than it is even to-day. Purposeful activity is as natural to man as playing is to a kitten. From a purely natural point of view, no one has ever given a better definition of happiness than Aristotle when he defined it as _an activity of the soul in the direction of excellence in an unhampered life_. By excellence, of course, in this famous definition, Aristotle does not mean simply virtue: he means excellence in work. It is impossible, as we all know, to be good in the abstract. We must be good in some particular directions, _at_ some particular thing. And the particular thing that we are good at is _our_ work, our craft, our art--or, to use our less aesthetic English word, for which there is no equivalent in Greek, our duty. If happiness is to be found in doing one's duty, it does not result from doing that duty badly, but from doing it well--turning out, as we say, a thoroughly good piece of work, whether a day's work or a life work. There is a lingering idea, still held in some quarters, that the more unpleasant an activity is the more virtuous it is. This is a mere barbarous survival from the days of what Nietzsche called slave-morality. We are each of us born with special individual gifts and capacities. There is, if we only knew it, some particular kind or piece of work which we are pre-eminently fitted to do--some particular activity or profession, be it held in high or in low repute in the world of to-day, in which we can win the steady happiness of purposeful labour. Shall we then say that it ministers to human progress and to the glory of God deliberately to bury our talent out of sight and to seek rather work which, because it is irksome and unpleasant to us, we can never succeed in doing either easily or really well? No one who knows anything of education or of the training of the young, no one, indeed, who has any love for children, would dare to say that we should. Our State educational system, miserably defective though it is in this regard, is based upon the idea of ministering to the special gifts of its pupils--of trying by scholarships, by Care Committees, by the institution of schools with a special 'bias', to meet the needs of different kinds of young people and to set them in the path on which they are best fitted to travel. In doing this the modern State is only trying to carry out the principle laid down in the greatest book ever written on education--Plato's _Republic_. Plato's object was to train every citizen to fill the one position where he could lead the best life for the good of the State. His aim was not to make his citizens happy but to promote goodness; but he had enough faith in human nature--and who can be an educational thinker without having faith in human nature?--to be convinced that to enable men to 'do their bit', as we say to-day, was to assure them of the truest happiness. We of this generation know how abundantly that faith has been confirmed. And indeed we can appeal in this matter not only to the common sense of Education Authorities or to the philosophy of the ancients, but to the principles of the Christian religion. The late Professor Smart, who was not only a good economist but a good man; has some very pertinent words on this subject. 'If for some reason that we know not of,' he remarks,[70] this present is merely the first stage in being; if we are all at school, and not merely pitched into the world by chance to pick up our living as best we can ... it seems to me that we have reason enough to complain of the existing economic system.... I imagine that many of our churchgoing people, if they ever get to the heaven they sing about, will find themselves most uncomfortable, if it be a place for which they have made no preparation but in the 'business' in which they have earned their living.... A man's daily work is a far greater thing towards the development of the God that is in him than his wealth. And, however revolutionary the idea is, I must say that all our accumulations of wealth are little to the purpose of life if they do not tend towards the giving to all men the opportunity of such work as will have its reward _in the doing_. And of his own particular life-work, teaching, he remarks, in words that testify to his own inner peace and happiness, that 'some of us have got into occupations which almost seem to guarantee immortality'. Let us, then, boldly lay it down that the best test of progress in industry and the best measure of success in any industrial system is the degree to which it enables men to 'do their bit' and so to find happiness in their daily work, or if you prefer more distinctively religious language, the degree to which it enables men to develop the God that is in them. Let us have the courage to say that in the great battle which Ruskin and William Morris fought almost single-handed against all the Philistines of the nineteenth century, Ruskin and Morris, however wrong they may have been on points of practical detail, were right in principle. Let us make up our minds that a world in which men have surrendered the best hours of the day to unsatisfying drudgery, and banished happiness to their brief periods of tired leisure, is so far from civilized that it has not even made clear to itself wherein civilization consists. And when we read such a passage as the following from a leading modern economist, let us not yield to the promptings of our lower nature and acquiesce in its apparent common sense, but remember that economists, like all workmen, are bounded by the limits of their own particular craft or study. 'The greater part of the world's work,' says Professor Taussig,[71] the leading exponent of Economics at Harvard, is not in itself felt to be pleasurable. Some reformers have hoped to reach a social system under which all work would be in itself a source of satisfaction. It is probable that such persons are made optimistic by the nature of their own doings. They are writers, schemers, reformers; they are usually of strongly altruistic character, and the performance of any duty or set task brings to them the approval of an exacting conscience; and they believe that all mankind can be brought to labour in their own spirit. The world would be a much happier place if their state of mind could be made universal. But the great mass of men are of a humdrum sort, not born with any marked bent or any loftiness of character. Moreover, most of the world's work for the satisfaction of our primary wants must be of a humdrum sort, and often of a rough and coarse sort. There must be ditching and delving, sowing and reaping, hammering and sawing, and all the severe physical exertion which, however lightened by tools and machinery, yet can never be other than labour in the ordinary sense of the word. When Professor Taussig assures us that 'the great mass of men are of a humdrum sort, not born with any marked bent or loftiness of character' he is simply denying the Christian religion. To argue the point with him would carry us too far. We will do no more here than remind him that the people to whom the Founder of Christianity preached, and even those who were chosen to be its first disciples, were, like this audience, distinctly humdrum, and that assuredly the American Professor would not have discerned in them promising material for a world-transforming religious movement. What people see in others is often a mirror of themselves. Perhaps Professor Taussig, in spite of his excellent book, is rather a humdrum person himself. When, however, Professor Taussig declares that 'the greater part of the world's work is not in itself felt to be pleasurable' he is saying what, under existing conditions, we must all recognize to be true. A year or two ago Mr. Graham Wallas made an investigation into this very question, the results of which confirmed the general impression that modern workmen find little happiness in their work.[72] But two of the conclusions which he reached conflict in a rather curious way with the statement of Professor Taussig. Mr. Wallas's evidence, which was largely drawn from students of Ruskin College, led him to the conclusion 'that there is less pleasantness or happiness in work the nearer it approaches the fully organized Great Industry'. The only workman who spoke enthusiastically of his work was an agricultural labourer who 'was very emphatic with regard to the pleasure to be obtained from agricultural work'. Professor Taussig, on the other hand, selects four agricultural occupations, ditching, delving, sowing, and reaping, as characteristically unpleasant and looks to machinery and the apparatus of the Industrial Revolution to counteract this unpleasantness. But the most interesting evidence gathered by Mr. Wallas was that relating to women workers. He had an opportunity of collecting the views of girls employed in the laundries and poorer kind of factories in Boston. 'The answers', he says,[73] 'surprised me greatly. I expected to hear those complaints about bad wages, hard conditions and arbitrary discipline which a body of men working at the same grade of labour would certainly have put forward. But it was obvious that the question "Are you happy?" meant to the girls "Are you happier than you would have been if you had stayed at home instead of going to work?" And almost every one of them answered "Yes".' Why were they unhappy at home? Let Professor Taussig reflect on the answer. Not because they had 'rough' or 'coarse' or 'humdrum' work to do, as in a factory or laundry, but because they had nothing to do, and they had found idleness unbearable. 'One said that work "took up her mind", she had been awfully discontented'. Another that 'you were of some use'. Another thought 'it was because the hours went so much faster. At home one could read, but only for a short time, there was the awful lonesome afternoon ahead of you.' 'Asked a little girl with dyed hair but a good little heart. She enjoyed her work. It made her feel she was worth something.' And Mr. Wallas concludes that it is just because 'everything that is interesting, even though it is laborious, in the women's arts of the old village is gone': because 'clothes are bought ready-made, food is bought either ready-cooked, like bread and jam and fish, or only requiring the simplest kind of cooking': in fact just because physical exertion has been lightened by books and machinery, that 'there results a mass of inarticulate unhappiness whose existence has hardly been indicated by our present method of sociological enquiry'. It would seem then that the task of associating modern industrial work with happiness is not impossible, if we would only set ourselves to the task. And the task is a two-fold one. It is, first, to make it possible for people to follow the employment for which they are by nature best fitted; and secondly, to study much more closely than heretofore, from the point of view of happiness, the conditions under which work is done. The first task involves a very considerable reversal of current educational and social values. It does not simply mean paving the way for the son of an engine-driver to become a doctor or a lawyer or a cavalryman. It means paving the way for the son of a duke to become, without any sense of social failure, an engine-driver or a merchant seaman or a worker on the land--and to do so not, as to-day, in the decent seclusion of British Columbia or Australia, but in our own country and without losing touch, if he desires it, with his own natural circle of friends. The ladder is an old and outworn metaphor in this connexion. Yet it is still worth remembering that the Angels whom Jacob observed upon it were both ascending and descending. It is one of the fallacies of our social system to believe that a ladder should only be used in one direction--and that the direction which tends to remove men from contact and sympathy with their fellows. But in truth we need to discard the metaphor of the ladder altogether, with its implied suggestion that some tasks of community-service are more honourable and involve more of what the world calls 'success' than others. We do not desire a system of education which picks out for promotion minds gifted with certain kinds of capacity and stimulates them with the offer of material rewards, while the so-called humdrum remainder are left, with their latent talents undiscovered and undeveloped. Recent educational experiments,[74] and not least that most testing of all school examinations, the war, have shown us that we must revise all our old notions as to cleverness and stupidity. We know now that, short of real mental deficiency, there is or ought to be no such personage as the dunce. Just as the criminal is generally a man of unusual energy and mental power directed into wrong channels, so the dunce is a pupil whose special powers and aptitudes have not revealed themselves in the routine of school life. And just as the criminal points to serious defects in our social system, so the dunce points to serious defects in our educational system. The striking record of our industrial schools and reformatories in the war shows what young criminals and dunces can do when they are given a fair field for their special gifts. One of the chief lessons to be drawn from the war is the need for a new spirit and outlook in our national education from the elementary school to the University. We need a system which treats every child, rich or poor, as a living and developing personality, which enables every English boy and girl to stay at school at least up to the time when his or her natural bent begins to disclose itself, which provides for all classes of the community skilled guidance in the choice of employment based upon psychological study of individual gifts and aptitude,[75] which sets up methods of training and apprenticeship in the different trades--or, as I would prefer to call them the different professions--such as to counteract the deadening influence of premature specialization, and which ensures good conditions and a sense of self-respect and community-service to all in their self-chosen line of life, whether their bent be manual or mechanical or commercial or administrative, or for working on the land or for going to sea, or towards the more special vocations of teaching or scholarship or the law or medicine or the cure of souls. No one can estimate how large a share of the unhappiness associated with our existing social system is due to the fact that, owing to defects in our education and our arrangements for the choice of employment, there are myriads of square pegs in round holes. This applies with especial force to women, to whom many of the square holes are still inaccessible, not simply owing to the lack of opportunities for individuals, but owing to the inhibitions of custom and, in some cases, to narrow and retrograde professional enactments. The war has brought women their chance, not only in the office and the workshop, but in higher administrative and organizing positions, and not the least of its results is the revelation of undreamt-of capacities in these directions. In the second task, that of perfecting the adaptation between men and their tools, we have much to learn from the industrial history of the past. It is natural for men to enjoy 'talking shop', and this esoteric bond of union has existed between workmen in all ages. We may be sure that there were discussions amongst connoisseurs in the Stone Age as to the respective merits of their flint axes, just as there are to-day between golfers about niblicks and putters, and between surgeons as to the technique of the extraction of an appendix. A good workman loves his tools. He is indeed inseparable from them, as our law acknowledges by forbidding a bankrupt's tools to be sold up. Give a good workman, in town or country, a sympathetic listener and he is only too ready to expatiate on his daily work. This sense of kinship between men and their tools and material is so little understood by some of our modern expert organizers of industry that it is worth while illustrating it at some length. I make no apology, therefore, for quoting a striking passage from an essay by Mr. George Bourne, who is not a trade unionist or a student of Labour politics but an observer of English village life, who has taken the trouble to penetrate the mind of what is commonly regarded as the stupidest and most backward--as it is certainly the least articulate--class of workmen in this country, the agricultural labourer in the southern counties. 'The men', he writes, are commonly too modest about their work, and too unconscious that it can interest an outsider, to dream of discussing it. What they have to say would not therefore by itself go far in demonstration of their acquirements in technique. Fortunately, for proof of that we are not dependent on talk. Besides talk there exists another kind of evidence open to every one's examination, and the technical skill exercised in country labours may be purely deduced from the aptness and singular beauty of sundry country tools. The beauty of tools is not accidental, but inherent and essential. The contours of a ship's sail bellying in the wind are not more inevitable, nor more graceful, than the curves of an adze-head or of a plough-share. Cast in iron or steel, the gracefulness of a plough-share is more indestructible than the metal, yet pliant (in the limits of its type) as a line of English blank verse. It changes for different soils: it is widened out or narrowed; it is deep-grooved or shallow; not because of caprice at the foundry or to satisfy an artistic fad, but to meet the technical demands of the expert ploughman. The most familiar example of beauty indicating subtle technique is supplied by the admired shape of boats, which, however, is so variable (the statement is made on the authority of an old coast-guardsman) that the boat best adapted for one stretch of shore may be dangerous, if not entirely useless, at another stretch ten miles away. And as technique determines the design of a boat, or of a waggon, or of a plough-share, so it controls absolutely the fashioning of tools, and is responsible for any beauty of form they may possess. Of all tools none, of course, is more exquisite than a fiddle-bow. But the fiddle-bow never could have been perfected, because there would have been no call for its tapering delicacy, its calculated balance of lightness and strength, had not the violinist's technique reached such marvellous fineness of power. For it is the accomplished artist who is fastidious as to his tools; the bungling beginner can bungle with anything. The fiddle-bow, however, affords only one example of a rule which is equally well exemplified by many humbler tools. Quarryman's peck, coachman's whip, cricket-bat, fishing-rod, trowel, all have their intimate relation to the skill of those who use them; and like animals and plants, adapting themselves each to its own place in the universal order, they attain to beauty by force of being fit. That law of adaptation which shapes the wings of a swallow and prescribes the poise and elegance of the branches of trees is the same that demands symmetry in the corn-rick and convexity in the beer-barrel; the same that, exerting itself with matchless precision through the trained senses of haymakers and woodmen, gives the final curve to the handles of their scythes and the shafts of their axes. Hence the beauty of a tool is an unfailing sign that in the proper handling of it technique is present ... 'It is not the well-informed and those eager to teach', he says in another passage, who know the primitive necessary lore of civilization; it is the illiterate. In California, Louis Stevenson found men studying the quality of vines grown on different pockets of earth, just as the peasants of Burgundy and the Rhine have done for ages. And even so the English generations have watched the produce of their varying soils. When or how was it learnt--was it at Oxford or at Cambridge?--that the apples of Devonshire are so specially fit for cider? Or how is it that hops are growing--some of them planted before living memory--all along the strip of green sand which encircles the Weald--that curious strip to which text-books at last point triumphantly as being singularly adapted for hops? Until it got into the books, this piece of knowledge was not thought of as learning; it had merely been acted upon during some centuries. But such knowledge exists, boundless, in whatever direction one follows it: the knowledge of fitting means to ends: excellent rule-of-thumb knowledge, as good as the chemist uses for analyzing water. When the peculiar values of a plot of land have been established--as, for instance, that it is a clay 'too strong' for bricks--then further forms of localized knowledge are brought to supplement this, until at last the bricks are made. Next, they must be removed from the field; and immediately new problems arise. The old farm-cart, designed for roots or manure, has not the most suitable shape for brick-carting. Probably, too, its wide wheels, which were intended for the softness of ploughed land, are needlessly clumsy for the hard road. Soon, therefore, the local wheelwright begins to lighten his spokes and felloes, and to make the wheels a trifle less 'dished'; while his blacksmith binds them in a narrower but thicker tyre, to which he gives a shade more tightness. For the wheelwright learns from the carter--that ignorant fellow--the answer to the new problems set by a load of bricks. A good carter, for his part, is able to adjust his labour to his locality. A part of his duty consists in knowing what constitutes a fair load for his horse in the district where he is working. So many hundred stock bricks, so many more fewer of the red or wire-cut, such and such a quantity of sand, or timber, or straw, or coal, or drain-pipes, or slates, according to their kinds and sizes, will make as much as an average horse can draw in this neighbourhood; but in London the loads are bigger and the vehicles heavier; while in more hilly parts (as you may see any day in the West Country) two horses are put before a cart and load which the London carter would deem hardly too much for a costermonger's donkey. So it goes throughout civilization: there is not an industry but produces its own special knowledge relating to unclassified details of adjustment.[76] It is this craft-knowledge and common professional feeling which is at the basis of all associations of workpeople, from the semi-religious societies of ancient times, which met in secret to worship their patron-god--Hephaestos, the god of the metal-workers, or Asclepios, the god of the doctors--through the great guilds of the Middle Ages to the trade unions and professional organizations of to-day. Trade unions do not exist simply to raise wages or to fight the capitalist, any more than the British Medical Association exists simply to raise fees and to bargain with the Government. They exist to serve a professional need: to unite men who are doing the same work and to promote the welfare and dignity of that work. It is this which renders so difficult the problems of adjustment which arise owing to the introduction of new and unfamiliar processes. Professional associations are, and are bound to be, conservative: their conservatism is honourable and to their credit: for they are the transmitters of a great tradition. The problem in every case is to ensure the progress necessary to the community without injury to that sense of 'fellowship in the mystery' on which the social spirit of the particular class of workmen depends. It is from this point of view that recent American proposals in the direction of 'scientific management' are most open to criticism: for they involve the break-up of the craft-spirit without setting anything comparable in its place. In fact, Mr. F. W. Taylor, one of the inventors of what is called the 'system' of scientific management, frankly ignores or despises the craft-spirit and proposes to treat the workman as a being incapable of understanding the principles underlying the practice of his art. He goes so far as to lay it down as a general principle that 'in almost all the mechanic arts the science which underlies each act of each workman is so great and amounts to so much that the workman who is best suited to actually doing the work is incapable of fully understanding this science, without the guidance and help of those who are working with him or over him, either through lack of education or through insufficient mental capacity'.[77] Along the lines of this philosophy no permanent industrial advance is possible. It may improve the product for a time, but only at the cost of degrading the producer. If we are to make happiness our test, and to stand by our definition of happiness as involving free activity, such a system, destructive as it is of any real or intense relationship between the workman and his work, stands self-condemned. If we are looking for _real_ industrial progress it is elsewhere that we must turn. This leads us naturally on to the second great division of our subject: progress in the methods of co-operation between man and man in doing industrial work. For if man is a social animal his power to do his bit and his consequent happiness must be derived, in part at least, from his social environment. The lonely craftsman perfecting his art in the solitude of a one-man workshop does not correspond with our industrial ideal any more than the hermit or the monk corresponds with our general religious ideal. It was the great apostle of craftsmanship, William Morris, who best set forth the social ideal of industry in his immortal sentence: 'Fellowship is Life and lack of Fellowship is Death.' Our study of the workman, then, is not complete when we have seen him with his tools: we must see him also among his workmates. We must see industry not simply as a process of production but as a form of association; and we must realize that the association of human beings for the purpose of industrial work involves what is just as much a problem of government as their association in the great political community which we call the State. It is difficult to see the record of the progress of industrial government in clear perspective for the simple reason that the world is still so backward as regards the organization of this side of its common life. The theory and practice of industrial government is generations, even centuries, behind the theory and practice of politics. We are still accustomed in industry to attitudes of mind and methods of management which the political thought of the Western World has long since discarded as incompatible with its ideals. Two instances must suffice to illustrate this. It is constantly being said, both by employers and by politicians, and even by writers in sympathy with working-class aspirations, that all that the workman needs in his life is security. Give him work under decent conditions, runs the argument, with reasonable security of tenure and adequate guarantees against sickness, disablement and unemployment, and all will be well. This theory of what constitutes industrial welfare is, of course, when one thinks it out, some six centuries out of date. It embodies the ideal of the old feudal system, but without the personal tie between master and man which humanized the feudal relationship. Feudalism, as we saw in our study of political government, was a system of contract between the lord and the labourer by which the lord and master ran the risks, set on foot the enterprises (chiefly military), and enjoyed the spoils, incidental to mediaeval life, while the labourer stuck to his work and received security and protection in exchange. Feudalism broke down because it involved too irksome a dependence, because it was found to be incompatible with the personal independence which is the birthright of a modern man. So it is idle to expect that the ideal of security will carry us very far by itself towards the perfect industrial commonwealth. Take a second example of the wide gulf that still subsists between men's ideas of politics and men's ideas of industry. It is quite common, even in these latter days, and among those who have freely sacrificed their nearest and dearest to the claims of the State, to hear manufacturers and merchants say that they have a 'right to a good profit'. The President of the Board of Trade remarked openly in the House of Commons after many months of war that it was more than one could expect of human nature for coal-owners not to get the highest price they could. Such a standpoint is not merely indecent: it is hopelessly out-of-date. Looked at from the political point of view it is a pure anachronism. There used to be times when men made large fortunes out of the service of government, as men still make them out of the service of the community in trade and industry to-day. In the days of St. Matthew, when tax-gathering was let out by contract, the apostle's partners would probably have declared, as Mr. Runciman does to-day, that it was more than one could expect of human nature that a publican who had a government contract for the collection of the taxes should not get all he could out of the tax-payer. It is, indeed, little more than a century ago since it was a matter of course in this country to look upon oversea colonies merely as plantations--that is, as business investments rather than as communities of human beings. The existence of Chartered Company government marks a survival of this habit of mind. The old colonial system, which embodied this point of view, proved demoralizing not only to the home government but to the colonists, as a similar view is to the working class, and it led to the loss of the American colonies as surely as a similar attitude on the part of employers leads to unrest and rebellion among workpeople to-day. We have thus a long way to travel before the ideals of politics have been assimilated into the industrial life of the community and have found fitting embodiment in its kindred and more complex problems. But at least we have reached a point where we can see what the problem of industrial government is. We can say with assurance that a system which treats human beings purely as instruments or as passive servants, and atrophies their self-determination and their sense of individual and corporate responsibility, is as far from perfection in industry as the Roman Empire was in politics. Renan's words about 'the intolerable sadness' incidental to such a method of organization apply with redoubled force to occupations which take up the best part of the day of the mass of the working population. The bleak and loveless buildings, with their belching chimneys, which arrest the eye of the thoughtful traveller in the industrial districts of England are not prisons or workhouses. But they often look as if they were, and they resemble them in this--that they too often stand for similarly authoritarian ideas of government and direction. Industry is still an autocracy, as politics was in the days before the supremacy of Parliament. Power still descends from above instead of springing from below. It is a power limited no doubt by trade union action and parliamentary and administrative control: but it is in essence as autocratic as the government of England used to be before the transference of sovereignty from the monarch to the representatives of his subjects. It was recently announced in the press that Lord Rhondda had bought a group of Welsh collieries for 2 millions, and that as a result 'Lord Rhondda now controls over 3-1/2 millions of capital, pays 2-1/2 millions in wages every year, and is virtually the dictator of the economic destiny of a quarter of a million miners. Rumours are also current', the extract continues, 'that Lord Rhondda is extending his control over the press of Wales'.[78] The existence of such power in this twentieth century in the hands of single individuals, not selected from the mass for their special wisdom or humanity, is a stupendous fact which must give pause to any one who is inclined to feel complacent about modern industrial progress. In days gone by political power was as irresponsible as the economic power wielded to-day by Lord Rhondda; and it descended from father to son by hereditary right in the same way as the control over the lives of countless American workers descends to-day as a matter of course from John D. Rockefeller senior to John D. Rockefeller junior. If there is any reality at all in our political faith we must believe that a similar development towards self-government can and must take place in industry. It may be that generations will elapse before the problems of industrial government find a final and satisfactory constitutional solution. But at least we can say that there is only one basis for that solution which is compatible with a sound ideal of government, or indeed with any reasoned view of morality or religion--the basis of individual and corporate freedom with its corresponding obligations of responsibility and self-respect. No nation, as Abraham Lincoln said, can remain half-slave and half-free: and it was a greater than Lincoln who warned us that we cannot serve both God and Mammon. It is this underlying conflict of ideals in the organization of our existing economic system which is the real cause of the 'Labour unrest' of which we have heard so much in recent years. With this warning in our minds as to the imperfections of our modern industrial organization, let us briefly survey the record of the forms of economic association which preceded it. The earliest form of industrial grouping is, of course, the family; and the family, as we all know, still retains its primitive character in some occupations as a convenient form of productive association. This is particularly the case in agriculture in communities where peasant holdings prevail. But the family is so much more than an industrial group that it hardly falls to us to consider it further here. Outside the family proper, industrial work among primitive peoples is often carried on by slaves. It was a step forward in human progress when primitive man found that it was more advantageous to capture his enemies than to kill or eat them; and it was a still greater step forward when he found that there was more to be got out of slaves by kind treatment than by compulsion. This is not the place in which to go into the vexed questions connected with various forms of slavery. Suffice it to say that it is a profound mistake to dismiss the whole system in one undiscriminating condemnation. Slavery involves the denial of freedom, and as such it can never be good. But other systems besides slavery implicitly involve the denial of freedom. Some of the finest artistic work in the world has been done by slaves--and by slaves not working under compulsion but in the company of free men and on terms of industrial equality with them. This should serve to remind us that, in judging of systems of industry, we must look behind the letter of the law to the spirit of the times and of social institutions. Slavery at its best merges insensibly into wage-labour at its lower end. Many of the skilled slaves of ancient Greece and Rome are hardly distinguishable in status from a modern workman bound by an unusually long and strict indenture and paid for his work not only in money but partly in truck. In order to stimulate their productive capacity it was found necessary in Greece and Rome to allow skilled slaves to earn and retain money--although in the eye of the law they were not entitled to do so; and they were thus frequently in a position to purchase their own freedom and become independent craftsmen. Slavery in the household and in small workshops is open to many and serious dangers, which need not be particularized here; but the worst abuses of slavery have always taken place where slaves have been easily recruited, as in the early days of European contact with Africa, and when there were large openings for their employment in gangs on work of a rough and unskilled character. The problem of slavery in its worse forms is thus at bottom a cheap-labour problem analogous to that which confronts North America and South Africa to-day; and there is an essential difference which is often ignored between the educated slave in a Roman Government office who did the work of a First Division Civil Servant for his imperial master and his compeer working in the fields of South Italy: and between the household servants of a Virginian family and the plantation-slaves of the farther South. Let us remember, in passing judgement on what is admittedly an indefensible system, that during the war which resulted in the freeing of the American slaves the slaveholders of the South trusted their household slaves to protect the women and children during their absence from home and that that trust was nowhere betrayed. There is another side to _Uncle Tom's Cabin_ as surely as there is another side to Mr. Carnegie's paean of modern industrialism in his _Triumphant Democracy_. Systems of serfdom or caste which bind the workman to his work without permitting him to be sold like a slave may be regarded as one step higher than slavery proper. Such systems are common in stable and custom-bound countries, and persisted throughout the European Middle Ages. We need not describe how the rising tide of change gradually broke up the system in this country and left the old-time villein a free but often a landless and property less man. The transition from serfdom to the system of wage-labour which succeeded it was a transition from legal dependence to legal freedom, and as such it marked an advance. But it was also a transition from a fixed and, as it were, a professional position of service to the community to a blind and precarious individualism. It was a transition, as Sir Henry Maine put it, from status to contract. This famous nineteenth-century aphorism is eloquent of the limitations of that too purely commercial age. Every thinking man would admit to-day that status at its best is a better thing than contract at its best--that the soldier is a nobler figure than the army contractor, and that corporate feeling and professional honour are a better stimulus to right action than business competition and a laudable keenness to give satisfaction to a valuable customer. We have always suffered from the temptation in this country of adapting business methods and ideals to politics rather than political ideals and methods to business. Our eighteenth-century thinkers explained citizenship itself, not as a duty to our neighbours but as the fulfilment of an unwritten contract. Our nineteenth-century legal writers elevated the idea of free contract almost to an industrial ideal; while, in somewhat the same spirit, the gutter journalists of to-day, when they are at a loss for a popular watchword, call for a business government. Such theories and battle-cries may serve for a 'nation of shopkeepers'; but that opprobrious phrase has never been true of the great mass of the English people, and it was never less true than to-day. The idea of industrial work as the fulfilment of a contract, whether freely or forcibly made, is thus essentially at variance with the ideal of community service. It is difficult for a man who makes his livelihood by hiring himself out as an individual for what he can get out of one piece of work after another to feel the same sense of community service or professional pride as the man who is serving a vocation and has dedicated his talents to some continuous and recognized form of work. It is this which makes the system of wage-labour so unsatisfactory in principle compared with the guilds of the town workmen in the Middle Ages and with the organized professions of to-day; and it is this which explains why trade unions of recent years have come to concern themselves more and more with questions of status rather than of wages and to regard the occupation which they represent more and more as a profession rather than a trade. No one has laid bare the deficiencies of the wage-system more clearly than Adam Smith in the famous chapter in which he foreshadows the principle of collective bargaining. 'What are the common wages of labour', he there remarks,[79] 'depends everywhere upon the contract usually made between those two parties, whose interests are by no means the same. The workmen desire to get as much, the masters to give as little, as possible. The former are disposed to combine in order to raise, the latter in order to lower, the wages of labour.... We rarely hear, it has been said, of the combinations of masters, though frequently of those of workmen. But whoever imagines, upon this account, that masters rarely combine is as ignorant of the world as of the subject. Masters are always and everywhere in a sort of tacit but constant and uniform combination not to raise the wages of labour above their actual rate. To violate this combination is everywhere a most unpopular action and a sort of reproach to a master among his neighbours and equals. We seldom, indeed, hear of this combination, because it is the usual, and one may say, the natural state of things which nobody ever hears of. Masters, too, sometimes enter into particular combinations to sink the wages of labour even below this rate. These are always conducted with the utmost secrecy till the moment of execution; and, when the workmen yield, as they sometimes do without resistance, though severely felt by them, they are never heard of by other people. Such combinations, however, are frequently resisted by a contrary defensive combination of the workmen, who sometimes, too, without any provocation of this kind, combine of their own accord to raise the price of labour. Their usual pretences are, sometimes the high price of provisions, sometimes the great profit which their masters make by their work.' These words were written 140 years ago, but, as we all know, they are still true of the working of the system to-day. Indeed the war has served to emphasize their truth by showing us how deeply entrenched are the habits of bargaining and of latent antagonism which the working of the wage-system has engendered. It is the defect of the wage-system, as Adam Smith makes clear to us, that it lays stress on just those points in the industrial process where the interests of employers and workpeople run contrary to one another, whilst obscuring those far more important aspects in which they are partners and fellow-workers in the service of the community. This defect cannot be overcome by strengthening one party to the contract at the expense of the other, by crushing trade unions or dissolving employers' combinations, or even by establishing the principle of collective bargaining. It can only be overcome by the recognition on both sides that industry is in essence not a matter of contract and bargaining at all, but of mutual interdependence and community service: and by the growth of a new ideal of status, a new sense of professional pride and corporate duty and self-respect among all who are engaged in the same function. No one can say how long it may take to bring about such a fundamental change of attitude, especially among those who have most to lose, in the material sense, by an alteration in the existing distribution of economic power. But the war has cleared away so much of prejudice and set so much of our life in a new light that the dim ideals of to-day may well be the realities of to-morrow. This at least we can say: that no country in the world is in a better position than we are to redeem modern industry from the reproach of materialism and to set it firmly upon a spiritual basis, and that the country which shall first have had the wisdom and the courage to do so will be the pioneer in a vast extension of human liberty and happiness and will have shown that along this road and no other lies the industrial progress of mankind. BOOKS FOR REFERENCE 1. _Economics_: H. Clay, _Economics for the General Reader_. 1916. Ruskin, _Unto this last_. Smart, _Second Thoughts of an Economist_. 1916. 2. _Man and his Tools_: Marvin, _The Living Past_. 1913. F. W. Taylor, _The Principles of Scientific Management_. 1911. Hoxie, _Scientific Management and Labour_. 1916. 3. _Industrial Government_: Aristotle, _Politics_ (Book I, chapters on Slavery). Zimmern, _The Greek Commonwealth_ (chapters on Slavery). 1911. Ashley, _The Economic Organization of England_. 1914. Unwin, _Industrial Organization in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries_. S. and B. Webb, _The History of Trade Unionism_. Macgregor, _The Evolution of Industry_ (Home University Library). Wallas, _The Great Society_. 1914. G. D. H. Cole, _The World of Labour_. 1915. _Round Table, June 1916 (Article on the Labour Movement and the Future of British Industry)._ FOOTNOTES: [67] Including the well-being of the producers--a point which is too often overlooked. [68] On this point see _Poverty and Waste_, by Hartley Withers, 1914, written before the war, which has driven its lessons home. [69] _The Living Past_, pp. 20, 21. [70] _Second Thoughts of an Economist_, p. 89. [71] _Principles of Economics_, vol. i, p. 11. It is interesting to note that in his latest book, _Inventors and Money-making, lectures on some relations between Economics and Psychology_ (1915), Professor Taussig to some extent goes back upon the point of view of the extract given above. [72] A similar inquiry on a much larger scale was made by Adolf Levinstein in his book _Die Arbeiterfrage_ (Munich, 1910). He examined 4,000 workpeople, consisting of coalminers, cotton operatives, and engineers. With the exception of a few turners and fitters almost all replied that they found little or no pleasure in their work. [73] _The Great Society_, p. 363. [74] Especially the wonderful results obtained from the young criminals at the Little Commonwealth in Dorsetshire. [75] See _Readings in Vocational Guidance_ by Meyer Bloomfield (Boston, 1915). [76] _Lucy Bettesworth_, pp. 178-80, and 214-16. [77] This sentence is practically an unconscious paraphrase of a passage from Aristotle's defence of slavery. [78] _The Welsh Outlook_, August 1916, p. 272. [79] _Wealth of Nations_, Book I, ch. viii. IX PROGRESS IN ART A. CLUTTON BROCK It is often said that there can be no such thing as progress in art. At one time the arts flourish, at another they decay: but, as Whistler put it, art happens as men of genius happen; and men cannot make it happen. They cannot discover what circumstances favour art, and therefore they cannot attempt to produce those circumstances. There are periods of course in which the arts, or some one particular art, progress. One generation may excel the last; through several generations an art may seem to be rushing to its consummation. This happened with Greek sculpture and the Greek drama in the sixth and fifth centuries; with architecture and all kindred arts in western Europe in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, and at the same time with many arts in China. It happened with painting and sculpture in Italy in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, with literature in England in the sixteenth century, with music in Germany in the eighteenth century and the beginning of the nineteenth. But in all these cases there followed a decline, often quite unconscious at the time and one of which we cannot discover the causes. Attempts are made by historians of the arts to state the causes; but they satisfy only those who make them, for they are, in fact, only statements of the symptoms of decline. They tell us what happened, not why it happened. And they all seem to point to two conclusions about the course of the arts, both of which would make us despair of any settled progress in them. The first is that the practice of any art by any particular people always follows a certain natural course of growth, culmination, and decay. At least it always follows this course where an art is practised naturally and therefore with success. Art in fact, in its actual manifestations, is like the life of an individual human being and subject to inexorable natural laws. It is born, as men are born, without the exercise of will; and in the same way it passes through youth, maturity, and old age. The second conclusion follows from this, and it is that one nation or age cannot take up an art where another has left it. That is where art seems to differ from science. The mass of knowledge acquired in one country can, if that country loses energy to apply or increase it, be utilized by another. But we cannot so make use of the art of the Greeks or of the Italian Renaissance or of our own Middle Ages. In the Gothic revival we tried to make use of the art of the Middle Ages and we failed disastrously. We imitated without understanding, and we could not understand because we were not ourselves living in the Middle Ages. Art, in fact, is always a growth of its own time which cannot be transplanted, and no one can tell why it grows in one time and among one people and not in another. That is what we are always told, and yet we never quite believe all of it. For, as art is a product of the human mind, it must also be a product of the human will, unless it is altogether unconscious like a dream. But that it is not; for men produce it in their waking hours and with the conscious exercise of their faculties. If a man paints a picture he does so because he wants to paint one. He exercises will and choice in all his actions, and the man who buys a picture does the same. We talk of inspiration in the arts as something that cannot be commanded, but there is also inspiration in the sciences. No man can make a scientific discovery by the pure exercise of his will. It jumps into one mind and not into another just like an artistic inspiration. And further we are taught and trained in the arts as in the sciences; and success in both depends a great deal upon the nature of the training. In both good training will not give genius or inspiration to those who are without it; but it will enable those who possess it to make the most of it; and, what is more, it will enable even the mediocre to produce work of some value. What strikes us most about the Florentine school of painting of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries is the fact that its second-rate painters are so good, that we can enjoy their works even when they are merely imitative. But the Florentine school excelled all others of the time in its teaching; most painters of other schools in Italy learnt from Florence; and the inspiration came to them from Florence, they were quickened from Florence, however much their art kept its own natural character. But this school which had the best teaching also produced the most painters of genius. Its level was higher and its heights were higher; and for this reason, that the whole Florentine intellect went both into the teaching and into the practice of painting and sculpture. The Florentine was able to put all his mind, the scientific faculties as well as the aesthetic, into his art. He never relied merely on his temperament or his mood. He was eager for knowledge. It was not enough for him to paint things as he saw them; he tried to discover how they were made, what were the laws of their growth and construction; and his knowledge of these things changed the character of his vision, made him see the human body, for instance, as no mediaeval artist had ever seen it; made him see it as an engineer sees a machine. Just as an engineer sees more in a machine than a man who does not understand its working, so the Florentine saw more in the human body than a mediaeval artist. He saw it with a scientific as well as an aesthetic passion, and all this science of his enriched his art so that there has never since been drawing like the Florentine, drawing at once so logical and so expressive. The Florentines in fact did exercise their will upon their art more than any other modern artists, more, perhaps, than any other artists known to us, and their painting and sculpture were the greatest of the modern world. Yet the fact remains that Florentine art declined suddenly and irresistibly, and that all the Florentine intellect, which still remained remarkable and produced men of science like Galileo, could not arrest that decline. Indeed the Florentines themselves seem not to have been conscious of it. They thought that the dull imitators of Michelangelo were greater than his great predecessors. As we say, their taste became bad, their values were perverted; and with that perversion all their natural genius for the arts was wasted. To this day Carlo Dolci is the favourite painter of the ordinary Florentine. He was a man of some ability, and he painted pictures at once feeble and revolting because he himself and his public liked such pictures. There is no accounting for tastes, we say, and in saying that we despair of progress in the arts. For it is ultimately this unaccountable thing called taste, and not the absence or presence of genius, which determines whether the arts shall thrive or decay in any particular age or country. People often say that they know nothing about art, but that they do know what they like; and what they imply is that there is nothing to be known about art except your own likes and dislikes, and further that no man can control those. The Florentines of the seventeenth century happened to like Carlo Dolci, where the Florentines of the fifteenth had liked Botticelli. That is the only explanation we can give of the decline of Florentine painting. It is of course no explanation; and because no explanation beyond it has been given, we are told that there can be no such thing as progress in the arts. That is the lesson of history. We are far beyond the Egyptians in science, but certainly not beyond them in art. Indeed one might say that there has been a continual slow decline in all the arts of Europe, except music, since the year 1500, and that music itself has been slowly declining since the death of Beethoven. But with this slow inexorable decline of the arts there has been a great advance in nearly everything else, in knowledge, in power, even in morality. Upon everything man has been able to exercise his will except upon the arts. Where he has really wished for progress there he has got it, except in this one case. Therefore it seems that upon the arts he cannot exercise his will, and that they alone of all his activities are not capable of progress. What do we mean by progress except the successful exercise of the human will in a right direction? That is what distinguishes progress from natural growth; that alone can preserve it from natural processes of decay. There are people who say that it does not exist, that everything which happens to man is a natural process of growth or decay. Whether that is so or not, we do mean by progress something different from these natural processes. When we speak of it we do imply the exercise of the human will, man's command over circumstances; and those who deny progress altogether deny that man has any will or any command over circumstances. For them things happen to man and that is all, it is not man's will that makes things happen. But if we use the word progress at all, we imply that it is man's will that makes things happen. And since man is evidently liable to decline as well as progress, it follows that if we believe man to be capable of exercising his will in a right direction we must also believe that he can and does exercise it in a wrong direction. I assume that man has this power both for good and for evil. If I did not, I should not be addressing you upon the question whether man is capable of progress in the arts, but upon the question whether he is capable of progress at all. And I should be trying to prove that he is not. As it is, the question I have to discuss is whether he has the power of exercising for good or evil his will upon the arts as upon other things; and hitherto I have been giving you certain facts in the history of the arts which seem to prove that he is not. They all amount to this--that man has not hitherto succeeded in exercising his will upon the arts; that he has not produced good art because he wished to produce it. We, for instance, wish to excel in the arts; we have far more power than the ancient Greeks or Egyptians; but we have not been able to apply that power to the arts. In them we are conscious of a strange impotence. We cannot build like our forefathers of the Middle Ages, we cannot make furniture like our great-grandfathers of the eighteenth century. Go into an old churchyard and look at the tombstones of the past and present. You will see that the lettering is always fine up to the first generation of the nineteenth century. In that generation there is a rapid decline; and since about 1830 there has been no decent lettering upon tombstones except what has been produced in the last ten years or so by the conscious effort of a few individual artists of great natural talent and high training. If I want good lettering on a tombstone I have to employ one of these artists and to pay him a high price for his talent and his training. But that is only one example of a universal decline in all the arts of use, a decline which happened roughly between the years 1800 and 1830. And the significant fact about it is that when it happened no one was aware of it. So far as I know, this artistic catastrophe, far the swiftest and most universal known to us in the whole course of history, was never even mentioned in contemporary literature. The poets, the lovers of beauty, did not speak of it. They talked about nature, not about art. There is not a hint of it in the letters of Shelley or Keats. There is just a hint of it in some sayings of Blake; but that is all. One would suppose that such a catastrophe would have filled the minds of all men who were not entirely occupied with the struggle for life, that all would have seen that a glory was passing away from the earth, and would have made some desperate struggle to preserve it. But, as I say, they saw nothing of it. They were not aware that a universal ugliness was taking the place of beauty in all things made by man; and therefore the new ugliness must have pleased them as much as the old beauty. So it appears once again that there is no accounting for tastes, and no test that we can apply to them. When science declines, men at least know that they have less power. They are more subject to pestilence when they forget medicine and sanitation; their machines become useless to them when they no longer know how to work them; there is anarchy when they lose their political goodwill. But when their taste decays they do not know that it has decayed. And with it decays their artistic capacity, so that, quite complacently, they lose the power of doing decently a thousand things that their fathers did excellently. But here suddenly I am brought to a stop by a new fact in human history. The arts have declined, but our complacency over their decline has ceased. The first man who disturbed it was Ruskin. It was he who saw the catastrophe that had happened. Suddenly he was aware of it; suddenly he escaped from the universal tyranny of the bad taste of his time. He was the first to deny that there was no accounting for tastes; the first to deny, indeed, that the ordinary man did know what he liked. And he was followed with more knowledge and practical power, in fact with more science, by William Morris. What both of these great men really said was that taste is not unaccountable; that the mass of men do not know what they like, that they do not apply their intellect and will to what they suppose to be their likes and dislikes, and that they could apply their intellect and will to these things if they chose. When we say that there is no accounting for tastes we imply that tastes are always real, that, whether good or bad, they happen to men without any exercise of their will. But Ruskin and Morris implied that we must exercise our will and our intelligence to discover what our tastes really are; that this discovery is not at all easy, but that, if we do not make it, we are at the mercy, not of our own real tastes, but of an unreal thing which is called the public taste, or of equally unreal reactions against it. We think that we like what we suppose other people to like, and these other people too think that they like what no one really likes. Or in mere blind reaction we think that we dislike what the mob likes. But in either case our likes and dislikes are not ours at all and, what is more, they are no one's. Taste in fact is bad because it is not any one's taste, because no one's will is exercised in it or upon it. When it is good, it is always real taste, that is to say some real person's taste. In the work of art the artist does what he really likes to do and expresses some real passion of his own, not some passion which he believes that he, as an artist, ought to express. Art, said Morris, is the expression of the workman's pleasure in his work. It cannot be real art unless it is a real pleasure. And so the public will not demand real art unless they too take a real pleasure in it. If they do not know what they really like, they will not demand of the artist what they really like or what he really likes. They will demand something tiresome and insincere, and by the tyranny of their demand will set him to produce it. That was what happened at the beginning of the nineteenth century in nearly all the arts and especially in the arts of use. It had happened before in different ages and countries, especially in painting, sculpture, architecture, and the arts of use as they were patronized by the vulgar rich, such as the court of Louis XV. But now it happened suddenly and universally to all arts. There were no longer vulgar rich only but also vulgar poor and vulgar middle-classes. Everywhere there spread a kind of aesthetic snobbery which obscured real tastes. Of this I will give one simple and homely example. The beautiful flowers of the cottage garden were no longer grown in the gardens of the well-to-do, because they were the flowers of the poor. Instead were grown lobelias, geraniums, and calceolarias, combined in a hideous mixture, not because any one thought them more beautiful, but because, since they were grown in green-houses, they implied the possession of green-houses and so of wealth. They did not, of course, even do that, since they could be bought very cheaply from nurserymen. They implied only the bad taste of snobbery which is the absence of all real taste. For it is physically impossible for any one to like such a combination of plants better than larkspurs and lilies and roses. What they did enjoy was not the flowers themselves but their association with gentility. But so strong was the contagion of this association that cottagers themselves began to throw away their beautiful cottage-garden flowers and to grow these plants, so detestable in combination. And to this day one can see often in cottage gardens pathetic imitations of a taste that never was real and which now is discredited among the rich, so that a border of lobelias, calceolarias, and geraniums has become a mark of social inferiority as it was once one of social superiority. But what it never was and never could be was an expression of a genuine liking. Now I owe the very fact that I am able to give this account of a simple perversion of taste to Ruskin and Morris. It was they who first made the world aware that its taste was perverted and that most of its art was therefore bad. It was they who filled us with the conviction of artistic sin, and who also in a manner entirely scientific tried to discover what was the nature of this sin and how it had come about. First Ruskin tentatively, and afterwards Morris systematically and out of his own vast artistic experience, connected this decay of the arts with certain social conditions. It was not merely that taste had decayed or that the arts had developed to a point beyond which there was nothing for them but decline. Morris insisted that there were causes for the decay of taste and the decline of the arts, causes as much subject to the will of man as the causes of any kind of social decay or iniquity. He insisted that a work of art is not an irrational mystery, not something that happens and may happen well or ill; but that all art is intimately connected with the whole of our social well-being. It is in fact an expression of what we value, and if we value noble things it will be noble, if we pretend to value base things it will be base. Whistler said that this was not so. He insisted that genius is born, not made, and that some peoples have artistic capacity, some have not. Now it is true that nations vary very much in their artistic capacity and in the strength of their desire to produce art. But even the nations which have little artistic capacity and little desire to produce art have in their more primitive state produced charming works of real art. Whistler gave the case of the Swiss as an excellent people with little capacity for art. But the old Swiss chalets are full of character and beauty, and there are churches in Switzerland which have all the beauty of the Middle Ages. The cuckoo clocks and other Swiss articles of commerce which Whistler despised are contemptible, not because they are Swiss, but because they are tourist trash produced by workmen who express no pleasure of their own in them for visitors who buy them only because they think they are characteristic of Switzerland. They are, in fact, not the expression of any genuine taste or liking whatever, like the tourist trash that is sold in the Rue de Rivoli. Probably the Swiss would never be capable of producing works of art like Chartres Cathedral or Don Giovanni, but they have in the past possessed a genuine and delightful art of their own like nearly every European nation in the Middle Ages. So, though genius is born, it is also made, and though nations differ in artistic capacity, they all have some artistic capacity so long as they know what they like and express only their own liking in their art, so long as they are not infected with artistic snobbism or commercialism. This we know now, and we have developed a new and remarkable power of seeing and enjoying all the genuine art of the past. This power is part of the historical sense which is itself modern. In the past, until the nineteenth century, very few people could see any beauty or meaning in any art of the past that did not resemble the art of their own time and country. The whole art of the Middle Ages, for instance, was thought to be merely barbarous until the Gothic revival, and so was the art of all the past so far as it was known, except the later art of Greece and Rome. For our ancestors' taste did indeed happen as art happened, and they could not escape from the taste which circumstances imposed on them; any art that was not according to that taste was for them as it were in an unknown tongue. But we have made this great progress in taste, at least, if not in the production of art, that we can understand nearly all artistic languages, and that what used to be called classical art has lost its old superstitious prestige for us. Not only can we enjoy the art of our own Middle Ages; but many of us can enjoy and understand just as well the great art of Egypt and China, and can see as clearly when that art is good or bad as if it were of our own time. We have, in fact, in the matter of artistic appreciation gained the freedom of all the ages, and this is a thing that has never, so far as we know, happened before in the history of the human mind. But still this freedom of all the ages has not enabled us to produce a great art of our own. There are some, indeed, who think that it has hindered us from doing so, that we are becoming merely universal connoisseurs who can criticize anything and produce nothing. We have the most wonderful museums that ever were, and the most wonderful power of enjoying all that is in them, but, with all our riches from the past, our present is barren; and it is barren because our rich men would rather pay great prices for past treasures than encourage artists to produce masterpieces now. If that is so, if that is all that is coming to us from our freedom of all the ages, there is certainly not progress in it. Better that we should produce and enjoy the humblest genuine art of our own than that we should continue in this learned impotence. But this power of enjoying the art of all ages, though it certainly has had some unfortunate results, must be good in itself. It is sympathy, and that is always better than indifference or antipathy. It is knowledge, and that is always better than ignorance. And we have to remember that it has existed only for a short time and is, therefore, not yet to be judged by its fruits. We are still gasping at all the artistic treasures of the past that have been revealed to us like a new world; and still they are being revealed to our new perceptions. Only in the last ten years, for instance, have we discovered that Chinese painting is the rival of Italian, or that the golden age of Chinese pottery was centuries before the time of that Chinese porcelain which we have hitherto admired so much. The knowledge, the delight, is still being gathered in with both hands. It is too soon to look for its effects upon the mind of Europe. But it is not the result of mere barren connoisseurship or scholasticism. Rather it is a new renaissance, a new effort of the human spirit, and an effort after what? An effort to exert the human will in the matter of art far more consciously than it has exerted ever before. It is to be noted that Morris himself, the man who first told us that we must exert our wills in art, was also himself eager in the discovery and enjoyment of all kinds of art in the past. He had his prejudices, the prejudices of a very wilful man and a working artist. 'What can I see in Rome,' he said, 'that I cannot see in Whitechapel?' But he enjoyed the art of most ages and countries more than he enjoyed his prejudices. He had the historical sense in art to a very high degree. He knew what the artist long dead meant by his work as if it were a poem in his own language, and from the art of the past which he loved he saw what was wrong with the art of our time. So did Ruskin and so do many now. Further we are not in the least content to admire the art of the past without producing any of our own. There is incessant restless experiment, incessant speculation about aesthetics, incessant effort to apply them to the actual production of art, in fact to exert the conscious human will upon art as it has never been exerted before. So, if one wished in a sentence to state the peculiarity of the last century in the history of art, one would say that it is the first age in which men have rebelled against the process of decadence in art, in which they have been completely conscious of that process and have tried to arrest it by a common effort of will. We cannot yet say that that effort has succeeded, but we cannot say either that it has failed. We may be discontented with the art of our own time, but at least we must allow that it is, with all its faults, extravagances, morbidities and blind experiments, utterly unlike the art of any former age of decadence known to us. There may be confusion and anarchy, but there is not mere pedantry and stagnation. Artists perhaps are over-conscious, always following some new prophet, but at least there is the conviction of sin in them, which is exactly what all the decadent artists of the past have lacked. The artistic decadence of the past which is most familiar to us is that of the later Graeco-Roman art. It was a long process which began at least as early as the age of Alexander and continued until the fall of the Western Roman Empire and afterwards, until, indeed, the decadent classical art was utterly supplanted by the art which we call Romanesque and Byzantine, and which seems to us now at its best to be as great as any art that has ever been. But a hundred years ago this Romanesque and Byzantine art was thought to be only a barbarous corruption of the classical art. For then the classical art even in its last feebleness still kept its immense and unique prestige. Shelley said that the effect of Christianity seemed to have been to destroy the last remains of pure taste, and he said this when he had been looking at the great masterpieces of Byzantine mosaic at Ravenna. Now we know with an utter certainty that he was wrong. He was himself a great artist, but to him there was only one rational and beautiful and civilized art, and that was the decadent Graeco-Roman art. To him works like the Apollo Belvedere were the masterpieces of the world, and all other art was good as it resembled them. He and in fact most people of his time were still overawed by the immense complacency of that art. They had not the historical sense at all. They had no notion of certain psychological facts about art which are now familiar to every educated man. They did not know that art cannot be good unless it expresses the character of the people who produce it; that characterless art, however accomplished, is uninteresting; that there may be more life and so more beauty in the idol of an African savage than in the Laocoon. This later Greek and Graeco-Roman art was doomed to inevitable decay because of its immense complacency. The artists had discovered, as they thought, the right way to produce works of art, and they went on producing them in that way without asking themselves whether they meant anything by them or whether they enjoyed them. They knew, in fact, what was the proper thing to do just as conventional people now know what is the proper thing to talk about at a tea party; and their art was as uninteresting as the conversation of such people. In both the talk and the art there is no expression of real values and so no expression of real will. The past lies heavy upon both. So people have talked, so artists have worked, and so evidently people must talk and artists must work for evermore. Now we have been threatened with just the same kind of artistic decadence, and we are still threatened with it; so that it would be very easy to argue that, when men reach a certain stage in that organization of their lives which we call civilization, they must inevitably fall into artistic decadence. The Roman Empire did attain to a high stage of such organization, and all the life went out of its art. We have reached perhaps a still higher or at least more elaborate stage of it, and the life has gone or is going out of our art. It has become even more mechanical than the Graeco-Roman. We, too, have lost the power of expressing ourselves, our real values, our real will, in it; and we had better submit to that impotence and not make a fuss about it. Indeed art really is an activity proper to a more childish stage of the human mind, and we shall do well not to waste our time and energy upon it. That is the only way in which we can be superior to the Graeco-Roman world in the matter of art. We can give it up altogether or rather put it all into museums as a curiosity of the past to be studied for historical and scientific purposes. But I have only to say that to prove that we will not be contented with such a counsel of despair. The Romans went on producing art, even if it was bad art, and we shall certainly go on producing art whether it is good or bad. We have produced an immense mass of bad art, worse perhaps than any that the Roman world produced. But there is this difference between us and the Romans, that we are not content with it. We have the conviction of artistic sin and they had not. Therefore we do not think that their example need make us despair. They were not exercising their will on their art. It was to them what a purely conventional morality is to a morally decadent people. It went from bad to worse, just as conventional morals do, when no man arises and says: 'This is wrong, although you think it right. I know what is right from my own sense of values, and I will do it in spite of you.' So far as we know, there were no rebels of that kind in the art of the Graeco-Roman world. But our world of art is full of such rebels and has been ever since the artistic debacle at the beginning of the nineteenth century. In fact the chief and the unique characteristic of the art of the last hundred years has been the constant succession of artistic rebels. All our greatest artists have been men who were determined to exercise their own wills in their art, whatever the mass of men might think of it. And what has always happened is that they have been first bitterly abused and then passionately praised. This, so far as I know, has never happened before. There have been rebel artists like Rembrandt, but only a few of them. Most great artists before the nineteenth century have been admired in their own time. But in the nineteenth century, and more and more towards the end of it, the great artists have had to conquer the world with their rebellion, they have had to exercise their own individual wills against the common convention. And it seems to us now the mark of the great artist so to exercise his individual will, so to rebel and conquer the world with his rebellion, even if he kills himself in the process. Think of Constable and even Turner, of our pre-Raphaelites, and above all of nearly all the great French artists, of Millet, of Manet, of Cezanne, Gauguin, of Rodin himself, who has conquered the world now, but only in his old age. Think of Beethoven, of Schubert, of Wagner, and of all the rebel musicians of to-day. But in the past the great artists, Michelangelo, Titian, even the great innovator Giorgione; Mozart, Bach, Handel; none of these were thought of as rebels. They had not to conquer the world against its will. They came into the world, and the world knew them. So, we may be sure, the decadent artists of the Graeco-Roman world were not rebels. There they were like Michelangelo and Raphael, if they were like them in nothing else. If they had been rebels we might not yawn at their works now. Now, clearly, this rebellion is not so good a thing as the harmony between the artist and his public which has prevailed in all great ages of art. But it is better than the harmony of dull and complacent convention which prevailed in the Graeco-Roman decadence. For it means that our artists are not content with such complacence, that they will not accept decadence as an inevitable process. And the fact that we do passionately admire them for their rebellion as soon as we understand what it means, that this rebellion seems to us a glorious and heroic thing, is a proof that we, the public, also are not content to sink into the Graeco-Roman complacency. We may stone our prophets at first, but like the Hebrews, we produce prophets as well as priests, that is to say academicians. And we treasure their works as the Hebrews treasured the books of the prophets. Art, in fact, is a human activity in which we try to exercise our wills. We are aware that it is threatened with decadence by the mere process of our civilization, that it is much more difficult for us to produce living art than it was for our forefathers of the Middle Ages. But still we are not content to produce dead art. Half unconsciously we are making the effort to exercise our wills upon our art, as upon our science, our morals, our politics, to avoid decadence in art as we try to avoid it in other human activities; and this effort is the great experiment, the peculiar feature, of the art of the last century. It is an effort not merely aesthetic but also intellectual. There is a great interest in aesthetics and a constant and growing effort to charge them with actual experience and to put them to some practical end. In the past they have been the most backward, the most futile and barren, kind of philosophy because men wrote about them who had never really experienced works of art and who saw no connexion between their philosophy and the production of works of art. They talked about the nature of the beautiful, as schoolmen talked about the nature of God. And they knew no more about the nature of the beautiful from their own experience of it than schoolmen knew about the nature of God. But now men are interested in the beautiful because they miss it so much in the present works of men and because they so passionately desire it; and their speculation has the aim of recovering it. So aesthetics, whatever some artists in their peculiar and pontifical narrowness may say, is of great importance now; they are part of the effort which the modern world is making to exercise its will in the production of works of art, and they are bound, if that effort is successful, to have more and more effect upon that production. But is that effort going to be successful? That is a question which no one can answer yet. But my object is to insist that in our age, because of its effort, an effort which has never been made so consciously and resolutely before, there is a possibility of a progress in art of the same nature as progress in other human activities. If we can escape from what has seemed to some men this inexorable process of decadence in art, we shall have accomplished one of the greatest achievements of the human will. We shall have redeemed art from the tyranny of mere fate. What we have to do now is to understand what it is that causes decadence in art, we have to apply a conscious science to the production of it. We have to see what are the social causes that produce excellence and decay in it. And we have made a great beginning in this. For we are all aware that art is not an isolated thing, that it does not merely happen, as Whistler said. We know that it is a symptom of something right or wrong with the whole mind of man and with the circumstances that affect that mind. We know at last that there is a connexion between the art of man and his intellect and his conscience. It was because William Morris saw that connexion that he, from being a pure artist, became a socialist and spoke at street corners. Such a change, such a waste and perversion as it seemed to many, would have been impossible in any former age. It was possible and inevitable, it was a natural process for Morris in the nineteenth century, because he was determined to exercise his will upon art, just as men in the past had exercised their will upon religion or politics; because he no longer believed that art happened as the weather happens and that the artist is a charming but irresponsible child swayed merely by the caprices of his own private subconsciousness. Was he right or wrong? I myself firmly believe that he was right. That if man has a will at all, if he is not a mere piece of matter moulded by circumstances, he has a will in art as in all other things. And, further, if he has a common will which can express itself in his other activities, in religion or politics, that common will must also be able to express itself in art. It has not hitherto done so consciously, because man in all periods of artistic success has been content to succeed without asking why he succeeded, and in all periods of artistic failure he has been content to fail without asking why he has failed. We have been for long living in a period of artistic failure, but we have asked, we are asking always more insistently, why we fail. And that is where our time differs from any former period of artistic decadence, why, I believe, it is not a period of decadence but one of experiment, and of experiment which will not be wasted, however much it may seem at the moment to fail. But if out of all this conscious effort and experiment we do arrest the process of decadence, if we do pass from failure to success, then we shall have accomplished a progress in art such as has never been accomplished before even in the greatest ages. For whereas men have never been able to learn from the experience of those ages, whereas the Greeks and the men of the thirteenth century have not taught men how to avoid decadence in art, we and our children will teach them how to avoid it. We shall then have given a security to art such as it has never enjoyed before; and we shall do that by applying science to it, by using the conscious intelligence upon it. We may fail, of course, but even so our effort will not have been in vain. And some future age in happier circumstances may profit by it, and achieve that progress, that application of science to art, which we are now attempting. Many people, especially artists, tell us that the attempt is a mere absurdity. But ignorance even about art need not be eternal. Ignorance is eternal only when it is despairing or contented. Twenty years ago many people said that men never would be able to fly, yet they are flying now because they were resolved to fly. So we are more and more resolved to have great art. Every year we feel the lack of it more and more. Every year more people exercise their wills more and more consciously in the effort to achieve it. This, I repeat, has never happened before in the history of the world. And the consequence is that our art, what real art we have, is unlike any that there has been in the world before. It is so strange and so rebellious that we ourselves are shocked and amazed by it. Much of it, no doubt, is merely strange and rebellious, as much of early Christianity was merely strange and rebellious and so provoked the resentment and persecution of self-respecting pagans. Every great effort of the human mind attracts those who merely desire their own salvation, and so it is with the artistic effort now. There are cubists and futurists and post-impressionists who are as silly as human beings can be, because they hope to attain to artistic salvation by rushing to extremes. They are religious egotists, in fact, and nothing can be more disagreeable than a religious egotist. But there were no doubt many of them among the early Christians. Yet Christianity was a great creative religious effort which came because life and truth had died out of the religions of the past, and men could not endure to live without life and truth in their religion. So now they cannot endure to live without life and truth in their art. They are determined to have an art which shall express all that they have themselves experienced of the beauty of the universe, which shall not merely utter platitudes of the past about that beauty. So far perhaps there is little but the effort at expression, an effort strange, contorted, self-conscious. You can say your worst about it and laugh at all its failures. Yet they are failures different in kind from the artistic failures of the past, for they are failures of the conscious will, not of mere complacency. And it is such failures in all human activities that prepare the way for successes. Let us remember then, always, that art is a human activity, not a fairy chance that happens to the mind of man now and again. And let us remember, too, that it does not consist merely of pictures or statues or of music performed in concert-rooms. It is, indeed, rather a quality of all things made by man, a quality that may be good or bad but which is always in them. That is one of the facts about art that was discovered in the nineteenth century, when men began to miss the excellence of art in all their works and to wish passionately that its excellence might return to them. And this discovery which was then made about art was of the greatest practical importance. For then men became aware that they could not have good pictures or architecture or sculpture unless the quality of art became good again in all their works. So much they learnt about the science of art. They began, or some of them did, to think about their furniture and cottages and pots and pans and spoons and forks, and even about their tombstones, as well as about what had been called their works of art. And in all these humbler things an advance, a conscious resolute wilful advance, has been made. We begin to see when and also why spoons and forks and pots and pans are good or bad. We are less at the mercy of chance or blind fashion in such things than our fathers were. We know our vulgarity and the naughtiness of our own hearts. The advance, the self-knowledge, is not general yet, but it grows more general every year and the conviction of sin spreads. No doubt, like all conviction of sin, it often produces unpleasant results. The consciously artistic person often has a more irritating house than his innocently philistine grandfather had. So, no doubt, many simple pagan people were much nicer than those early Christians who were out for their own salvation. But there was progress in Christianity and there was none in paganism. The title of this book is _Progress and History_, and it may justly be complained that the progress of which I have been talking is not historic, but a progress that has not yet happened and may never happen at all. But that I think is a defect of my particular branch of the subject. Progress in art, if progress is anything more than a natural process of growth to be followed inevitably by a natural process of decay, has never yet happened in art; but there is now an effort to make it happen, an effort to exercise the human will in art more completely and consciously than it has ever been exercised before. Therefore I could do nothing but attempt to describe that effort and to speculate upon its success. X PROGRESS IN SCIENCE F.S. MARVIN 'L'Esprit travaillant sur les données de l'expérience.' The French phrase, neater as usual than our own, may be taken as the starting-point in our discussion. We shall put aside such questions as what an experience is, or how much the mind itself supplies in each experience, or what, if anything, is the not-mind upon which the mind works. We must leave something for the chapter on philosophy; and the present chapter is primarily historical. Having defined what we mean by science, we are to consider at what stage in history the working of the mind on experience can be called scientific, in what great strides science has leapt forward since its definite formation, and in what ways this growth of science has affected general progress, both by its action on the individual and on the welfare and unity of mankind. Our French motto must be qualified in order to give us precision in our definition and a starting-point in history for science in the strict sense. In a general sense the action of the mind upon the given in experience has been going on from the beginning of animal life. But science, strictly so-called, does not appear till men have been civilized and settled in large communities for a considerable time. We cannot ascribe 'science' to the isolated savage gnawing bones in his cave, though the germs are there, in every observation that he makes of the world around him and every word that he utters to his mates. But we may begin to speak of science when we reach those large and ordered societies which are found in the great river-basins and sedentary civilizations of East and West, especially in Egypt and Chaldea. When we turn to the quality of the thing itself, we note in the first place that while science may be said to begin with mere description, it implies from the first a certain degree of order and accuracy, and this order and accuracy increase steadily as science advances. It is thus a type of progress, for it is a constant growth in the fullness, accuracy and simplification of our experience. From the dawn of science, therefore, man must have acquired standards and instruments of measurement and means of handing on his observations to others. Thus writing must have been invented. But in the second place, there is always involved in this orderly description, so far as it is scientific, the element of prediction. The particular description is not scientific. 'I saw a bird fly' is not a scientific description, however accurate; but 'The bird flies by stretching out its wings' is. It contains that causal connexion or element of generality which enables us to predict. Before entering on a historical sketch of the most perfect example of human progress, it is of the first importance to realize its social foundation. This is the key-note, and it connects science throughout with the other aspects of our subject. Knowledge depends upon the free intercourse of mind with mind, and man advances with the increase and better direction of his knowledge. But when we consider the implications of any generalization which we can call 'a law of nature' the social co-operation involved becomes still more apparent. Geometry and astronomy--the measurement of the earth and the measurement of the heavens--dispute the honour of the first place in the historical order. Both, of course, involved the still more fundamental conception of number and the acceptance of some unit for measurement. Now in each case and at every step a long previous elaboration is implied of intellectual conventions and agreements--conscious and unconscious--between many minds stretching back to the beginnings of conscious life: the simplest element of thought involves the co-operation of individual minds in a common product. Language is such a common product of social life and it prepares the ground for science. But science, as the exact formulation of general truths, attains a higher degree of social value, because it rises above the idioms of person or race and is universally acceptable in form and essence. Such is the intrinsic nature of the process, and the historical circumstances of its beginnings make it clear. It was the quick mind of the Greek which acted as the spark to fire the trains of thought and observation which had been accumulating for ages through the agency of the priests in Egypt and Babylonia. The Greeks lived and travelled between the two centres, and their earliest sages and philosophers were men of the most varied intercourse and occupation. Their genius was fed by a wide sympathy and an all-embracing curiosity. No other people could have demonstrated so well the social nature of science from its inception, and they were planting in a soil well prepared. In Egypt conspicuously and in Chaldea also to a less extent there had been a social order which before the convulsions of the last millennium B.C. had lasted substantially unchanged for scores of centuries. This order was based upon a religious discipline which connected the sovereigns on earth with the divine power ruling men from the sky. Hence the supreme importance of the priesthood and their study of the movements of the heavenly bodies. The calendar, which they were the first to frame, was thus not only or even primarily a work of practical utility but of religious meaning and obligation. The priests had to fix in advance the feast days of gods and kings by astronomical prediction. Their standards and their means of measurement were rough approximations. Thus the 360 degrees into which the Babylonians taught us to divide the circle are thought to have been the nearest round number to the days of the year. The same men were also capable of the more accurate discovery that the side of a hexagon inscribed in a circle was equal to the radius and gave us our division of sixty minutes and sixty seconds with all its advantages for calculation. In Egypt, if the surveyors were unaware of the true relation between a triangle and the rectangle on the same base, they had yet established the carpenter's rule of 3, 4 and 5 for the sides of a right-angled triangle. How much the Greeks drew from the ancient priesthoods we shall never know, nor how far the priests had advanced in those theories of general relations which we call scientific. But one or two general conclusions as to this initial stage of scientific preparation may well be drawn. One is that a certain degree of settlement and civilization was necessary for the birth of science. This we find in these great theocracies, where sufficient wealth enabled a class of leisured and honoured men to devote themselves to joint labour in observing nature and recording their observations. Another point is clear, namely, that the results of these early observations, crude as they were, contributed powerfully to give stability to the societies in which they arose. The younger Pliny points out later the calming effect of Greek astronomy on the minds of the Eastern peoples, and we are bound to carry back the same idea into the ancient settled communities where astronomy began and where so remarkable an order prevailed for so long during its preparation. But however great the value we allow to the observations of the priests, it is to the Ionian Greeks that we owe the definite foundation of science in the proper sense; it was they who gave the raw material the needed accuracy and generality of application, A comparison of the societies in the nearer East to which we have referred, with the history of China affords the strongest presumption of this. In the later millenniums B.C. the Chinese were in many points ahead of the Babylonians and Egyptians. They had made earlier predictions of eclipses and more accurate observations of the distance of the sun from the zenith at various places. They had, too, seen the advantages of a decimal system both in weights and measures and in the calculations of time. But no Greek genius came to build the house with the bricks that they had fashioned, and in spite of the achievements of the Chinese they remained until our own day the type in the world of a settled and contented, although unprogressive, conservatism. Science then among its other qualities contains a force of social movement, and our age of rapid transformation has begun to do fuller justice to the work of the Greeks, the greatest source of intellectual life and change in the world. We are now fully conscious of the defects in their methods, the guesses which pass for observations, the metaphysical notions which often take the place of experimental results.[80] But having witnessed the latest strides in the unification of science on mathematical lines, we are more and more inclined to prize the geometry and astronomy of the Greeks, who gave us the first constructions on which the modern mechanical theories of the universe are based. We shall quote from them here only sufficient illustrations to explain and justify this statement. The first shall be what is called Euclidean geometry, but which is in the main the work of the Pythagorean school of thinkers and social reformers who flourished from the seventh to the fifth centuries B.C. This formed the greater part of the geometrical truth known to mankind until Descartes and the mathematicians recommenced the work in the seventeenth century. The second greatest contribution of the Greeks was the statics and the conics of which Archimedes was the chief creator in the third century B.C. In his work he gave the first sketch of an infinitesimal calculus and in his own way performed an integration. The third invaluable construction was the trigonometry by which Hipparchus for the first time made a scientific astronomy possible. The fourth, the optics of Ptolemy based on much true observation and containing an approximation to the general law. These are a few outstanding landmarks, peaks in the highlands of Greek science, and nothing has been said of their zoology or medicine. In all these cases it will be seen that the advance consisted in bringing varying instances under the same rule, in seeing unity in difference, in discovering the true link which held together the various elements in the complex of phenomena. That the Greek mind was apt in doing this is cognate to their idealizing turn in art. In their statues they show us the universal elements in human beauty; in their science, the true relations that are common to all triangles and all cones. Ptolemy's work in optics is a good example of the scientific mind at work.[81] The problem is the general relation which holds between the angles of incidence and of refraction when a ray passes from air into water or from air into glass. He groups a series of the angles with a close approximation to the truth, but just misses the perception which would have turned his excellent raw material into the finished product of science. His brick does not quite fit its place in the building. His formula _i_ (the angle of incidence) = _nr_ (the angle of refraction) only fits the case of very small angles for which the sine is negligible, though it had the deceptive advantage of including reflexion as one case of refraction. He did not pursue the argument and make his form completely general. Sin _i_ = _n_ sin _r_ escaped him, though he had all the trigonometry of Hipparchus behind him, and it was left for Snell and Descartes to take the simple but crucial step at the beginning of the seventeenth century. The case is interesting for more than one reason. It shows us what is a general form, or law of nature in mathematical shape, and it also illustrates the progress of science as it advances from the most abstract conceptions of number and geometry, to more concrete phenomena such as physics. The formula for refraction which Ptolemy helped to shape, is geometrical in form. With him, as with the discoverer of the right angle in a semicircle, the mind was working to find a general ideal statement under which all similar occurrences might be grouped. Observation, the collection of similar instances, measurement, are all involved, and the general statement, law or form, when arrived at, is found to link up other general truths and is then used as a starting-point in dealing with similar cases in future. Progress in science consists in extending this mental process to an ever-increasing area of human experience. We shall see, as we go on, how in the concrete sciences the growing complexity and change of detail make such generalizations more and more difficult. The laws of pure geometry seem to have more inherent necessity and the observations on which they were originally founded have passed into the very texture of our minds. But the work of building up, or, perhaps better, of organizing our experience remains fundamentally the same. Man is throughout both perceiving and making that structure of truth which is the framework of progress. Ptolemy's work brings us to the edge of the great break which occurred in the growth of science between the Greek and the modern world. In the interval, the period known as the Middle Ages, the leading minds in the leading section of the human race were engaged in another part of the great task of human improvement. For them the most incumbent task was that of developing the spiritual consciousness of men for which the Catholic Church provided an incomparable organization. But the interval was not entirely blank on the scientific side. Our system of arithmetical notation, including that invaluable item the cipher, took shape during the Middle Ages at the hands of the Arabs, who appear to have derived it in the main from India. Its value to science is an excellent object-lesson on the importance of the details of form. Had the Greeks possessed it, who can say how far they might have gone in their applications of mathematics? Yet in spite of this drawback the most permanent contribution of the Greeks to science was in the very sphere of exact measurement where they would have received the most assistance from a better system of calculation had they possessed it. They founded and largely constructed both plane and spherical geometry on the lines which best suit our practical intelligence. They gave mankind the framework of astronomy by determining the relative positions of the heavenly bodies, and they perceived and correctly stated the elementary principles of equilibrium. At all these points the immortal group of men who adopted the Copernican theory at the Renascence, began again where the Greeks had left off. But modern science starts with two capital improvements on the work of the Greeks. Measurement there had been from the first, and the effort to find the constant thing in the variable flux; and from the earliest days of the Ionian sages the scientific mind had been endeavouring to frame the simplest general hypothesis or form which would contain all the facts. But the moderns advanced decisively, in method, by experimenting and verifying their hypotheses, and in subject-matter, by applying their method to phenomena of movement, which may theoretically include all facts biological as well as physical. Galileo, the greatest founder of modern science, perfectly exemplifies both these new departures. It is, perhaps, the most instructive and encouraging thing in the whole annals of progress to note how the men of the Renascence were able to pick up the threads of the Greeks and continue their work. The texture held good. Leonardo da Vinci, whose birth coincides with the invention of the printing-press, is the most perfect reproduction in modern times of the early Greek sophos, the man of universal interests and capacity. He gave careful and admiring study to Archimedes, the greatest pure man of science among the Greeks, the one man among them whose works, including even his letters, have come down to us practically complete. A little later, at the beginning of the sixteenth century, Copernicus gained from the Pythagoreans the crude notion of the earth's movement round a great central fire, and from it he elaborated the theory which was to revolutionize thought. Another half-century later the works of Archimedes were translated into Latin and for the first time printed. They thus became well known before the time of Galileo, who also carefully studied them. At the beginning of the seventeenth century Galileo made the capital discoveries which established both the Copernican theory and the science of dynamics. Galileo's death in 1642 coincides with the birth of Sir Isaac Newton. Such is the sequence of the most influential names at the turning-point of modern thought. Galileo's work, his experiments with falling bodies and the revelations of his telescope, carried the strategic lines of Greek science across the frontiers of a New World, and Newton laid down the lines of permanent occupation and organized the conquest. Organization, the formation of a network of lines connected as a whole, and giving access to different parts of the world of experience, is perhaps the best image of the growth of science in the mind of mankind. It will be seen that it does not imply any exhaustion of the field, nor any identification of all knowledge with exact or systematic knowledge. The process is rather one of gradual penetration, the linking up and extension of the area of knowledge by well-defined and connected methods of thought. No all-embracing plan thought out beforehand by the first founders of science, or any of their successors, can be applied systematically to the whole range of our experience. It has not been so in the past; still less does it seem possible in the future. For the most part the discoverer works on steadily in his own plot, occupying the nearest places first, and observing here and there that one of his lines runs into some one else's. Every now and then a greater and more comprehensive mind appears, able to treat several systems as one whole, to survey a larger area and extend that empire of the mind which, as Bacon tells us, is nobler than any other. Of such conquerors Newton was the greatest we have yet known, because he brought together into one system more and further-reaching lines of communication than any one else. He unified the forms of measurement which had previously been treated as the separate subjects of geometry, astronomy, and the newly-born science of dynamics. Celestial mechanics embraces all three, and is a fresh and decisive proof of the commanding influence of the heavenly bodies on human life and thought. Not by a horoscope, but by continued and systematic thought, humanity was unravelling its nature and destiny in the stars as well as in itself. These are the two approaches to perfect knowledge which are converging more and more closely in our own time. Newton's work was the longest step yet taken on the mechanical side, and we must complete our notice of it by the briefest possible reference to the later workers on the same line, before turning to the sciences of life which began their more systematic evolution with the discovery of Harvey, a contemporary of Newton. The seventeenth century, with Descartes' application of algebra to geometry, and Newton's and Leibnitz's invention of the differential and integral calculus, improved our methods of calculation to such a point that summary methods of vastly greater comprehensiveness and elasticity can be applied to any problem of which the elements can be measured. The mere improvement in the method of describing the same things (cf. e.g. a geometrical problem as written down by Archimedes with any modern treatise) was in itself a revolution. But the new calculus went much farther. It enabled us to represent, in symbols which may be dealt with arithmetically, any form of regular movement. As movement is universal, and the most obvious external manifestation of life itself, the hopes of a mathematical treatment of all phenomena are indefinitely enlarged, for all fresh laws or forms might conceivably be expressed as differential equations. So to the vision of a Poincaré the human power of prediction appears to have no assignable theoretical limit. The seventeenth century which witnessed this momentous extension of mathematical methods, also contains the cognate foundation of scientific physics. Accurate measurement began to be applied to the phenomena of light and heat, the expansion of gases, the various changes in the forms of matter apart from life. The eighteenth century which continued this work, is also and most notably marked by the establishment of a scientific chemistry. In this again we see a further extension of accurate measurement: another order of things different in quality began to be treated by a quantitative analysis. Lavoisier's is the greatest name. He gave a clear and logical classification of the chemical elements then known, which served as useful a purpose in that science, as classificatory systems in botany and zoology have done in those cases. But the crucial step which established chemistry, a step also due to Lavoisier, was making the test of weight decisive. 'The balance was the _ultima ratio_ of his laboratory.' His first principle was that the total weight of all the products of a chemical process must be exactly equal to the total weight of the substances used. From this, and rightly disregarding the supposed weight of heat, he could proceed to the discovery of the accurate proportions of the elements in all the compounds he was able to analyse. Since then the process of mathematical synthesis in science has been carried many stages further. The exponents of this aspect of scientific progress, of whom we may take the late M. Henri Poincaré as the leading representative in our generation, are perfectly justified in treating this gradual mathematical unification of knowledge with pride and confidence. They have solid achievement on their side. It is through science of this kind that the idea of universal order has gained its sway in man's mind. The occasional attacks on scientific method, the talk one sometimes hears of 'breaking the fetters of Cartesian mechanics', seem to suggest that the great structure which Galileo, Newton, and Descartes founded is comparable to the false Aristotelianism which they destroyed. The suggestion is absurd: its chief excuse is the desire to defend the autonomy of the sciences of life, about which we have a word to say later on. But we must first complete our brief mention of the greatest stages on the mechanical side, of which a full and vivid account may be found in such a book as M. Poincaré's _Science et Hypothèse_. Early in the nineteenth century a trio of discoverers, a Frenchman, a German, and an Englishman, established the theory of the conservation of energy. To the labours of Sadi Carnot, Mayer, and Joule is due our knowledge of the fact that heat which, as a supposed entity, had disturbed the physics and chemistry of the earlier centuries, was itself another form of mechanical energy and could be measured like the rest. Later in the century another capital step in synthesis was taken by the foundation of astrophysics, which rests on the identity of the physics and chemistry of the heavenly bodies with those of the earth. The known universe thus becomes still more one. Later researches again, especially those of Maxwell, tend to the identification of light and heat with electricity, and in the last stage matter as a whole seems to be swallowed up in motion. It is found that similar equations will express all kinds of motion; that all are really various forms of the motion of something which the mind postulates as the thing in motion; we have in each case to deal with wave-movements of different length. The broad change, therefore, which has taken place since the mechanics of Newton is the advance from the consideration of masses to that of molecules of smaller and smaller size, and the truth of the former is not thereby invalidated. Newton, Descartes, Fresnel, Carnot, Joule, Mayer, Faraday, Helmholtz, Maxwell appear as one great succession of unifiers. All have been engaged in the same work of consolidating thought at the same time that they extended it. Their conceptions of force, mass, matter, ether, atom, molecule have provisional validity as the imagined objective substratum of our experience, and the fact that we analyse these conceptions still further and sometimes discard them, does not in any way invalidate the law or general form in which they have enabled us to sum up our experience and predict the future. But now we turn to the other side. In spite of the continued progress noted on the mechanical side, it is true that the predominant scientific interest changed in the nineteenth century from mechanics to biology, from matter to life, from Newton to Darwin. Darwin was born in 1809, the year in which Lamarck, who invented the term biology, published his _Philosophie Zoologique_. The _Origin of Species_ appeared in 1858 after the conservation of energy had been established, and the range and influence of evolutionary biology have grown ever since. Before anything can be said of the conclusions in this branch of science one preliminary remark has to be made. From the philosophical point of view the science of life includes all other, for man is a living animal, and science is the work of his co-operating mind, one of the functions of his living activity. What this involves on the philosophical side does not concern us here, but it is necessary to indicate here the nature of the contact between the two great divisions of science, the mechanical and the biological, considered purely as sciences. For, though we know that our consciousness as a function of life must in some form come into the science of life, and is, in a sense, above it all, we are yet able to draw conclusions, apparently of infinite scope, about the behaviour of all living things around us and including ourselves, just as we do about a stone or a star. And we are interested in this chapter in seeing how this drawing of general conclusions keeps growing with regard to the phenomena of life, just as it has grown with regard to all other phenomena, and we have to consider what sort of difference there is between the one class of generalizations and the other. For those of us who are content to rest their conclusions on the positively known, who, while not setting any limits to the possible extension of knowledge, are not prepared to dogmatize about it, it is still necessary to draw a line. A dualism remains, name and fact alike abhorrent to the completely logical philosophic mind. On the one hand the ordinary laws of physical science are constantly extending their sphere; on the other, the fact of life still remains unexplained by them, and becomes in itself more and more marvellous as we investigate it. The general position remains much as Johannes Müller expressed it about the middle of the last century, himself sometimes described as the central figure in the history of modern physiology. 'Though there appears to be something in the phenomena of living beings which cannot be explained by ordinary mechanical, physical, or chemical laws, much may be so explained, and we may without fear push these explanations as far as we can, so long as we keep to the solid ground of observation and experiment.' Since this was written the double process has gone on apace. The chemistry and physics of living matter are being sketched, and biologists are more and more inclined to study the mechanical expression of the facts of life. Mr. Bateson, for instance, tells us that the greatest advance that we can foresee will be made 'when it is possible to connect the geometrical phenomena of development with the chemical'. The process of applying physical laws to life follows, it would seem, the reverse order of their original development. First the chemistry of organic matter was investigated, then the physical attraction of their molecules, and now their geometry is in question. So, says Professor Bateson, the 'geometrical symmetry of living things is the key to a knowledge of their regularity and the forces which cause it. In the symmetry of the dividing cell the basis of that resemblance which we call Heredity is contained'. But such work as this is still largely speculative and in the future. It does not solve the secret of life. It does not affect the fact of consciousness which we are free to conceive, if we will, as the other side of what we call matter, evolving with it from the most rudimentary forms into the highest known form in man, or still further into some super-personal or universal form. This, however, is philosophy or metaphysics. We are here concerned with the progress of science, in one of its two great departments, i.e. knowledge about life and all its known manifestations, which from Aristotle onwards have been subjected to a scrutiny similar to that which has been given to the physical facts of the universe and with results in many points similar also. But the facts, although superficially more familiar, are infinitely more complicated, and the scrutiny has only commenced in earnest some hundred years ago. Considering the short space for this concentrated and systematic study, the results are at least as wonderful as those achieved by the physicists. Two or three points of suggestive analogy between the courses of the two great branches of science may here be mentioned. We will put first the fundamental question on which, as we have seen, no final answer has yet been reached: What is life, and is there any evidence of life arising from the non-living? Now this baffling and probably unanswerable question--unanswerable, that is, in terms which go beyond the physical concomitants of life--has played the part in biology which the alchemists' quest played in chemistry. It led by the way to a host of positive discoveries. Aristotle, the father of biology, believed in spontaneous generation. He was puzzled by the case of parasites, especially in putrefying matter. Even Harvey, who made the first great definite discovery about the mechanism of the body, agreed with Aristotle in this error. It was left for the minute and careful inquirers of the nineteenth century to dispose of the myth. It was only after centuries of inquiry that the truth was established that life, as we know it, only arises from life. But the whole course of the inquiry had illuminated the nature of life and had brought together facts as to living things of all kinds, plants and animals, great and small, which show superficially the widest difference. Illumination by unification is here the note, as clearly as in the mathematical-physical sciences. All living things are found to be built up from cells and each cell to be an organism, a being, that is, with certain qualities belonging to it as a whole, which cannot be predicated of any collection of parts not an organism. The cell is such an organism, just as the animal is an organism, and among its qualities as an organism is the power of growth by assimilating material different from itself. Yet, in spite of this assimilation and constant change, it grows and decays as one whole and reproduces its like. Another point of analogy between the animate and the inanimate sphere is that the process of study in both has been from the larger to the smaller elements. The microscope has played at least as decisive a part as the telescope, and it dates from about the same time, at the beginning of the seventeenth century. Since then it has penetrated farther and farther into the infinitesimal elements of life and matter, and in each case there seems to be no assignable limit to our analysis. The cell is broken up into physiological units to which almost every investigator gives a new name. We are now confronted by the fascinating theory of Arrhenius of an infinite universe filled with vital spores, wafted about by radio-activity, and beginning their upward course of evolution wherever they find a kindly soil on which to rest. To such a vision the hopes and fears of mortal existence, catastrophes of nature or of society, even the decay of man, seem transient and trivial, and the infinities embrace. A third point, perhaps the most important in the comparison, is the way by which the order of science has entered into our notions of life, through a great theory, the theory of evolution or the doctrine of descent. In this we find a solid basis for the co-ordination of facts: it was the rise of this theory in the hands of one thinker of unconquerable patience and love of truth which has put the study of biology in the pre-eminent position which it now holds. But it is necessary to consider the evolution theory as something both older and wider than Darwin's presentation of it. Darwin's work was to suggest a _vera causa_ for a process which earlier philosophers had imagined almost from the beginning of abstract thought. He observed and collected a multitude of facts which made his explanations of the change of species--within their limits--as convincing as they are plausible. But the idea that species change, by slow and regular steps, was an old one, and his particular explanations, natural and sexual selection, are seen on further reflection to have only a limited scope. This is no place, of course, to discuss the details of the greatest and most vexed question in the whole science of life. But it belongs to our argument to consider it from one or two general points of view. Its analogies with, and its differences from, the great generalizations of mathematical physics, are both highly instructive. The first crude hypothesis of the gradual evolution of various vegetable and animal forms from one another may be found in the earliest Greek thinkers, just as Pythagoras and Aristarchus anticipated the Copernican theory. Aristotle gave the idea a philosophic statement which only the fuller knowledge of our own time enables us to appreciate. He traced the gradual progression in nature from the inorganic to the organic, and among living things from the simpler to the higher forms. But his knowledge of the facts was insufficient: the Greeks had no microscope, and the dissecting knife was forbidden on the human subject. Then, as these things were gradually added to science from the seventeenth century onwards, and the record of the rocks gave the confirmation of palaeontology, the whole realm of living nature was gradually unfolded before us, every form connected both in function and in history with every other, every organ fulfilling a necessary part, either now or in the past, and growing and changing to gain a more perfect accord with its environment. Such is the supreme conception which now dominates biological science much as the Newtonian theory has dominated physics for two hundred years; and it is idle to debate whether this new idea is different in kind or only in degree from the great law of physics. It is a general notion or law which brings together and explains myriads of hitherto unrelated particulars; it has been established by observation and experiment working on a previous hypothesis; it involves measurement, as all accurate observation must, and it gives us an increasing power of prediction. So far, therefore, we must class it with the great mathematical laws and dissent from M. Bergson. But seeing that the multitudinous facts far surpass our powers of complete colligation, that much in the vital process is still obscure, that we are conscious in ourselves of a power of shaping circumstances which we are inclined in various degrees to attribute to other living things, so far we recognize a profound difference between the laws of life and the laws of physics, and pay our respects to M. Bergson and his allies of the neo-vitalist school. Not for the first time in history we have to seek the truth in the reconciliation, or at least the cohabitation, of apparent contradictories. To us who are concerned in tracing the progress of mankind as a whole, and constantly find the roots of progress in the growth of the social spirit, the development, that is, of unity of spirit and of action on a wider and deeper scale, there is one aspect of biological truth, as the evolutionists have lately revealed it, which is of special interest. The living thing is an organism of which the characteristic is the constant effort to preserve its unity. This is in fact the definition of an organism. It only dies or suffers diminution in order to reproduce itself, and the new creature repeats by some sort of organic memory the same preservative acts that its parents did. We recognize life by these manifestations. A merely material, non-living thing, such as a crystal, cannot thus make good its loss, nor can it assimilate unlike substance and make it a part of itself. But these things are of the nature of life. Now mankind, as a whole, has, if our argument is correct, this characteristic of an organism: it is bound together by more than mechanical or accidental links. It is _one_ by the nature of its being, and the study of mankind, the highest branch of the science of life, rests, or should rest, upon the basis of those common functions by which humanity is held together and distinguished from the rest of the animate world. Just as in passing from the mechanical sciences to that of life, we noticed that the general laws of the lower sphere still held good, but that new factors not analysable into those of the former had to be reckoned with, so in passing from the animate realm, as a whole, to man its highest member, we find that, while animal, and subject to the general laws of animality, he adds features which distinguish him as another order and cannot be found elsewhere. His unity as an organism has a progressive quality possessed by no other species. Step by step his mind advances into the recesses of time and space, and makes the farthest objects that his mind can reach a part of his being. His unity of organization, of which the humblest animalcule is a simple type, goes far beyond the preservation or even the improvement of his species: it touches the infinite though it cannot contain it. To trace this widening process is the true key to progress, the _idée-mère_ of history. For while man's evolution has its practical side, like that of other species,--the needs of nutrition, of reproduction, of adapting himself to his environment,--with man this is the basis and not the end. The end is, first the organization of himself as a world-being, conscious of his unity, and then the illimitable conquest of truth and goodness as far as his ever-growing powers extend. Man's reason is thus, as philosophers have always taught, his special characteristic, and takes the place for him, on a higher plane, of the law of organic growth common to all living things. In this we join hands, across two thousand years, with Aristotle: he would have understood us and used almost identical language. But the content of the words as we use them and their applications are immeasurably greater. The content is the mass of knowledge which man's reason has accumulated and partly put in order since Aristotle taught. It is now so great that thoroughly to master a single branch is arduous labour for a lifetime of concentrated toil, and at the end of it new discoveries will crowd upon the worker and he will die with all his earlier notions crying for revision. No case so patent, so conclusive, of the reality of human unity and the paramount need of organization. The individual here can only thrive and only be of service as a small member of a great whole, one atom in a planet, one cell in a body. The demand which Comte raised more than fifty years ago for another class of specialists, the specialists in generalities, is now being taken up by men of science themselves. But the field has now so much extended and is so much fuller in every part, that it would seem that nothing less than a committee of Aristotles could survey the whole. And even this is but one aspect of the matter. Just as the genesis of science was in the daily needs of men--the cultivators whose fields must be re-measured after the flooding, the priests who had to fix the right hour for sacrifice--so all through its history science has grown and in the future will grow still more by following the suggestions of practice. It gathers strength by contact with the world and life, and it should use its strength in making the world more fit to live in. Thus our committee of scientific philosophers needs to have constantly in touch with it not one but many boards of scientific practitioners. The past which has given us this most wonderful of all the fruits of time, does not satisfy us equally as to the use that has been made of it. Our crowded slums do not proclaim the glory of Watt and Stephenson as the heavens remind us of Kepler and Newton. Selfishness has grown fat on ill-paid labour, and jealous nations have sharpened their weapons with every device that science can suggest. But a sober judgement, as well as the clearest evidence of history, dictates a more hopeful conclusion. Industry, the twin brother of science, has vastly increased our wealth, our comfort, and our capacity for enjoyment. Medicine, the most human of her children, has lengthened our lives, fortified our bodies, and alleviated our suffering. Every chapter in this volume gives some evidence of the beneficent power of science. For religion, government, morality, even art, are all profoundly influenced by the knowledge that man has acquired of the world around him and his practical conclusions from it. These do not, with the possible exception of art, contradict the thesis of a general improvement of mankind, and science must therefore claim a share--it would seem the decisive share--in the result. We speak, of course, of science in the sense which has been developed in this essay, of the bright well-ordered centre to our knowledge which is always spreading and bringing more of the surrounding fringe, which is also spreading, into the well-defined area. In this sense religion, morality and government have all within historic times come within the range of clear and well-ordered thought: and mankind standing thus within the light, stands more firmly and with better hope. He sees the dark spots and the weaknesses. He knows the remedies, though his will is often unequal to applying them. And even with this revelation of weakness and ignorance, he is on the whole happier and readier to grapple with his fate. If this appears a fair diagnosis of the Western mind in the midst of its greatest external crisis, the reason for this amazing firmness of mind and stability of society must be sought in the structure which science and industry combined have built around us. The savage, untutored in astronomy, may think that an eclipse betokens the end of the world. Science convinces him that it will pass. Just so the modern world trained to an order of thought and of society which rests on world-wide activities elaborated through centuries of common effort, awaits the issue of our darkened present calmly and unmoved. The things of the mind on which all nations have co-operated in the past will re-assert their sway. Fundamentally this is a triumph for the scientific spirit, the order which man has now succeeded in establishing between himself and his surroundings. The country is demanding--and rightly--a stronger bias in our educational system for teaching of a scientific kind; but teachers and professors are not unnaturally perplexed. They see the immeasurable scope of the new knowledge; they know the labour, often ineffective, that has been expended in teaching the rudiments of the old 'humanities'. And now a task is propounded to them before which the old one with all its faults seems definite, manageable and formative of character. The classical world which has been the staple of our education for 400 years is a finished thing and we can compass it in thought. It lives indeed, but unconsciously, in our lives, as we go about our business. This new world into which our youth has now to enter, rests also on the past, but it is still more present; it grows all round us faster than we can keep pace with its earlier stages. How then can such a thing be used as an instrument of education where above all something is needed of clear and definite purpose, stimulating in itself and tending to mental growth and activity in after life? We could not, even if we would, offer any satisfactory answer here to one of the most troubled questions of the day. Decades of experiments will be needed before even a tolerable solution can be reached. But the argument pursued in this and other essays may suggest a line of approach. This must lie in a reconciliation between science and history, or rather in the recognition that science rightly understood is the key to history, and that the history best worth study is the record of man's collective thought in face of the infinite complexities, the barriers and byways, the lights and shadows of life and nature. From the study of man's approach to knowledge and unity in history each new-coming student may shape his own. He sees a unity of thought not wholly unattainable, a foundation laid beneath the storms of time. To a mind thus trained should come an eagerness to carry on the conquests of the past and to apply the lessons gained to the amelioration of the present. This we may hope from the well-disposed. But for all, the contemplation of a universe where man's mind has worked for ages in unravelling its secrets and describing its wonders, must bring a sense of reverence as well as trust. It is no dry category of abstract truths to which we turn and would have others turn, but a world as bright and splendid as the rainbow to the savage or the forest to the poet or the heavens to the lonely watcher on the Babylonian plain. The glories and the depths remain, deeper and more glorious, with all the added marvels of man's exploring thought. The seeing eye which a true education will one day give us, may read man's history in the world we live in, and read the world with the full illumination of a united human vision--the eyes of us all. BOOKS FOR REFERENCE Alcan, _De la méthode dans les Sciences_. Mach, _History of Mechanics_, Kegan Paul. Thomson, _Science of Life_, Blackie. Thomson, _Science in the Nineteenth Century_, Chambers. _New Calendar of Great Men_, Macmillan. _The Darwin Centenary Volume._ Bergson, _Creative Evolution_. FOOTNOTES: [80] See Lewes, 'Aristotle, a chapter in the History of Science'. [81] H. Bouasse, _La Méthode dans les Sciences_, Alcan. XI PROGRESS IN PHILOSOPHY J.A. SMITH To contend that there has been progress in Philosophy may seem but a desperate endeavour. For the reproach against it of unprogressiveness is of long standing: where other forms of human knowledge have undoubtedly advanced, Philosophy, in modern times at any rate, has (so it is said) remained stationary, propounding its outworn problems, its vain and empty solutions. Because of this failure it has by common consent been deposed from its once proud position at the head of the sciences and obliged to confess, in the words of the Trojan queen: modo maxima rerum Nunc trahor exul inops. The charge of unprogressiveness is not made against it by its foes alone; the truth of it is admitted by some of its best friends. If Voltaire exclaims 'O métaphysique, métaphysique, nous sommes aussi avancés qu'aux temps des Druides', Kant sadly admits the fact, sets himself to diagnose its cause, and if possible to discover or devise a remedy. Yet we must remember that it was philosophers who first descried those currents in the world of events which the non-philosophic, borrowing the name from them, call Progress, who first attempted to determine their direction and the possible goal of their convergence, and laboured to clear their own and others' minds in regard to the meaning, to capture which the name was thrown out as a net into the ocean of experience. Nor must we forget that it was in their own chosen field--the world of human thoughts and actions--that they from the beginning seemed to themselves to find the surest evidence of the reality of Progress. While the world that surrounded and hemmed them and their fellows in might or must be regarded as unchanging and unchangeable, doomed for ever to reproduce and monotonously reiterate whatsoever it had once done and been, the mind or spirit of Man in its own realm seemed capable of going beyond all its past achievements and rising to new heights, not merely here and there or in isolated instances but in such numbers or masses as to raise for long periods of history the general level of human efficiency and welfare. It is true that many of those who noted these advances or profited by them did not always admit that they took place in, or were due to the agency of, Philosophy. The advances were most often credited to other powers and the new territory claimed by their representatives. The contributions made by Philosophy to the general improvement of human life were and are obscure, difficult to trace, easily missed or forgotten. It came about that the philosopher was misconceived as one indifferent to ordinary human interests and disdainful of the more obvious advantages secured by others, pressing and urging forward and upward into a cloudland where the light was too dim for the eyes of man and the paths too uncertain for his feet. Unsatisfied with the region where Man had learned by the slow and painful lessons of experience to build himself a habitable city he dreamed of something higher, aspiring to explore beyond and above where the light of that experience shone and illuminated. Perhaps the main idea that the name of Philosophy now to most suggests is that of a Utopian ideal of knowledge so wide and so high that it must be by sane and sober minds pronounced for ever set beyond the reach of human faculty, an ideal which perhaps we cannot help forming and which constantly tempts us forward like a mirage, but which like a mirage leads us into waste and barren places, so much so that it is no small part of human wisdom to resist its subtle seductions and to confine our efforts to the pursuit of such ends as we may reasonably regard as well within the compass of our powers of thought and action. It is folly, we are told, to adventure ourselves upon the uncharted seas into which philosophers invite us, to waste our lives and perhaps break our hearts in the vain search for a knowledge that is for ever denied us. After all, there is much that we can know, and in the knowledge of which we can better the estate of Man, relieving him from many of his most pressing terrors and distresses. To cherish other hopes is to deceive ourselves to our own and our fellows' undoing, to refuse them our help and fail to play our part in the common business of mankind. There is surely in the world enough suffering and sorrow and sin to engage all our energies in dealing with them, nor are our endeavours to do so so plainly fruitless as to discourage from perseverance in them. Where in this task our hearts do faint and fail, are there not other means than the discredited nostrum of Philosophy to revive our hopes and recruit our forces? It was only, we are sometimes reminded, in the darkest days of human history that men turned desperately to Philosophy for comfort and consolation--how surely and demonstrably, we are told, in vain! When other duties are so urgent and immediate, have we even the right to consume our energies otherwise than in their direct discharge? And is it not presumption to ask for any further light than that which is vouchsafed to us in the ordinary course of experience or, if that is insufficient, in and by Religion? Much in this plea for a final relinquishment of aid from Philosophy in the furtherance of human progress is plausible and more than plausible. Yet the hope or, if you will, the dream of attaining some form or kind or degree of knowledge which the sciences do not and cannot supply and perhaps deny to be possible, some steadiness and firmness of assurance other and beyond the confidence of religious faith, is not yet extinct, is perhaps inextinguishable, and though it often takes extravagant and even morbid and repulsive forms, still haunts and tantalizes many, nor these the least wise or sane of our kind, so that they count all the labour they spend upon its search worth all the pains. Not for themselves alone do they seek it; they view themselves as not alone in the quest, but engaged in a matter of universally human moment. In the measure in which they count themselves to have attained any result they do not hoard it or grudge it to others. The notion of philosophic truth as something to be shared and enjoyed only by a few--as what is called 'esoteric'--is no longer in vogue and is indeed felt to involve an essential self-contradiction; rather it is conceived as something the value of which is assured and enhanced by being imparted. Those who believe themselves to be by nature or (it may be) accident appointed to the office of its quest, by no means feel that they are thereby divided from their fellows as a peculiar people or a privileged and exclusive priesthood, but much rather as fellow servants enlisted and engaged in the public service of mankind. Least of all do they believe that their efforts are foredoomed to inevitable failure, that progress therein is not to be looked for, or that they and their predecessors have hitherto made no advance towards what they and, as they also believe, all men sought and still seek. To them the history of Philosophy for say the last two thousand years is not the dreary and dispiriting narrative of repeated error and defeat, but the record of a slow but secure and steady advance in which, as nowhere else, the mind of Man celebrates and enjoys triumphs over the mightiest obstacles, kindling itself to an ever-brightening flame. Reviewing its own past in history the spirit of Philosophy sees its own inner light, which is its act and its essence, constantly increasing, spreading ever wider into the circumambient dark, and touching far-off and hitherto undiscovered peaks with the fire of a coming dawn. In place of the starlight of Science or the moonlight of Religion it sees a sun arise flooding the world with light and warmth and life. High hopes, high claims; but can they be made good, or even rationally entertained? Suffice it here that they be openly avowed and proclaimed to be laid up in the heart of the philosophic spirit, 'dreaming', and yet with waking eyes, 'of things to come'. Or rather shall we not say, seeing that its eyes are unsealed and the vision therefore no dream, beholding a present--an ever-present--Reality? It was Philosophy, or philosophers, as I have said, that first discerned the fact of Progress, named it, and divined its lineaments. To Philosophy the name and notion of Progress belongs as of right--the right of first occupation. Merely to have invented a name for the fact is no small service, for thus the fact was fixed for further study and examination. But with the name Philosophy gave us the idea, the notion, and therewith the fact began to be understood and to become amenable to further and further explanation. To this further explanation Philosophy gave notable assistance. To 'elaborate our concepts' has been said to be the whole business of Philosophy, that is, to arrest the vague and shifting meanings that float before our minds loosely attached to the words of ordinary careless speech, to fix their outlines, distinguishing, defining, ordering and organizing until each mass of meaning is improved and refined into a thought worthy to be called a notion, a fit member of the world of mind, a seat and source of intellectual light. In this work Philosophy proceeds and succeeds simply by reflecting on whatever meaning it has in whatever manner already acquired; it employs no strange apparatus or recondite methods, only continues more thoughtfully and conscientiously to use the familiar means by which the earlier simpler meanings were appropriated and developed, following the beaten tracks of the mind's native and spontaneous movement. Much more rarely than the sciences has it recourse to a technical vocabulary, being content to express itself in ordinary words though using them and their collocations with a careful delicacy and painstaking adroitness. To follow it in these uses demands an effort, for nothing is perhaps more difficult than to force our thoughts to run counter to our customary heedless use of words and to learn to employ them even for a short time with a steady precision of significance. Yet unless this effort is resolutely made we must remain the easy prey of manifold confusions and errors which trip us in the dark. Our words degrade into tokens which experience will not cash--tangles of symbols which we cannot retranslate. But Philosophy is more than the attempt to refine and subtilize our ordinary words so as to fit them for the higher service of interpretative thought, more even than the endeavour to improve the stock of ideas no matter how come by, by which we interpret to ourselves whatever it imports us to understand. All this it is and does, or strives to do, but only as subsidiary to its true business and real aim. All this it might do and do successfully, and yet make or bring about no substantial progress in itself or elsewhere. And when progress in Philosophy is spoken of, it is not either such improvement in language nor such improvement in ideas that alone or mainly is meant. What is claimed for (or denied to it) under the name of Progress is an advance in knowledge, knowledge clear-sighted, grounded, and assured, knowledge of some authentic and indubitable reality. It is by the attainment of such knowledge, by progress in and towards it, that the claim of Philosophy to be progressive must stand or fall. To the question whether it can make good its claim to the possession and increase of this knowledge we must give special attention, for if Philosophy fails in this it fails in all. The oldest name for the knowledge in question was simply Wisdom and, in some ways, in spite of its apparent arrogance this is the best name for what is sought--or missed. Yet from the beginning the name was felt not sufficiently to distinguish what was meant from the high skill of the cunning craftsman and the worldly wisdom of the man of affairs, the statesman or soldier or trader. In the case of all these it was difficult to disengage the knowledge involved from natural or trained practical dexterity. What was desired and required was knowledge distinguished but not divorced from practice and application--'pure knowledge' as it was sometimes called; not divorced, I repeat, for it was not conceived as without bearing upon the conduct of life, but still distinguished, as furnishing light rather than profit. For good or evil Philosophy began by considering what it sought and hoped to reach as pre-eminently knowledge in some distinctive sense, and having so begun it turned to reflect once more upon what it meant by so conceiving it and to make this meaning more precise and clear. So it came to present to itself as its aim or goal a special kind or degree of knowledge, to be inspired and guided by the hope of that. Practical as in many ways was the concern of ancient philosophy--its whole bent was towards the bettering of human life--it sought to achieve this by the extension and deepening of knowledge, and not either through the cultivation or refinement of emotion or the organization of practical, civil or social or philanthropic activities. It laboured--and laboured not in vain--to further the increase of knowledge by defining to itself in advance the kind or degree of knowledge which would accomplish the ultimate aim of its endeavour or subserve its accomplishment. Hence we must learn to view with a sympathetic eye its repeated essays to give precision and detail to the conception or ideal of knowledge. In form the answer rendered to its request to itself for a definition, was determined by the principle that the knowledge which was sought and alone, if found, could satisfy, was knowledge of the real, or as it was at first more simply expressed, of what is, or what really and veritably is. Refusing the name of knowledge except to what had this as its object, men turned to consider the nature of the object which stood or could stand in this relation. With this they contrasted what we, after them, call the phenomena, the appearances, the manifold aspects, constantly shifting with the shifting points of view of the observer or many observers of it, inconstant, unsteady, superficial, mirrored through the senses and imagination, multiplied and distorted in divergent and changing opinions, or misrepresented and even caricatured in the turbid medium of ordinary speech, like a clouded image on the broken waters of a rushing stream. 'It'--so at first they spoke of the object of true or 'philosophic' knowledge--was one and single, eternal and unchangeable, a universe or world-order of parts fixed for ever in their external relations and inward structure. In each and all of us there was, as it were, a tiny mirror that could be cleared so as to reflect all this, and in so far as such reflection took place an inner light was kindled in each which was a lamp to his path. Knowing--for to know was so to reflect the world as it really was--knowing, man came to self-possession and self-satisfaction--to peace and joy--and was even 'on this bank and shoal of time' raised beyond the reach of all accidents and evils of mortal existence--looking around and down upon all that could harm or hurt him and seeing it to be in its law-abiding orderliness and eternal changelessness the embodiment of good. So viewing it, man learned to feel the Universe his true home, and was inspired not only with awe but with a high loyalty and public spirit. 'The poet says "Dear City of Cecrops", and shall I not say "Dear City of God"?' The knowledge thus reached or believed to be attainable was more and more discriminated from what was offered or supplied by Art or Science or Religion, though it was still often confused with each and all of them. As opposed to that of Art, it was not direct or immediate vision flashed as it were upon the inner eye in moments of inspiration or excitement; as opposed to that of Science, it was a knowledge that pierced below the surface and the seeming of Nature and History; as opposed to that of Religion (which was rather faith than knowledge), it was sober, unimaginative, cleansed of emotional accompaniment and admixture, the 'dry light' of the wise soul. True to the principle which I have stated, ancient Philosophy proclaimed that the only knowledge in the end worth having was knowledge of Fact--of what lay behind all seeming however fair--Fact unmodified and unmodifiable by human wish or will; it bade us know the world in which we live and move and have our being, know it as it is truly and in itself, and knowing it love it, loyally acquiescing in its purposes and subserving its ends. In all this there was progress (was there not?) to a view, to a truth (how else shall we speak of it?) which has always, when apprehended, begotten a high temper in heroic hearts. Surely in having reached in thought so high and so far the mind of man had progressed in knowledge and in wisdom. But now a change took place, from which we must date the rise or birth of modern philosophy. Hitherto on the whole the mind of man had looked outward and sought knowledge of what lay or seemed to lie outside itself. So looking and gazing ever deeper it had encountered a spectacle of admirable and awe-compelling order, yet one which for that very reason seemed appallingly remote from, if not alien to, all human businesses and concerns. Now it turned inward and found within itself not only matter of more immediate or pressing interest, but a world that compelled attention, excited curiosity, rewarded study. Slowly and gradually the knowledge of this, the inner world--the world of the thinker's self--became the central object of philosophic reflection. The knowledge that was most required--that was all-important and indispensable (so man began explicitly to realize)--was knowledge of the Self, not of the outer world that at best could never be more than known, but of the self that knew or could know it, that could both know and be known. Henceforward what is studied is not knowledge of reality--of any and every reality--or of external reality, but knowledge of the Self which can know as well as be known. And the process by which it is sought is reflection, for the self-knowledge is not the knowledge of other selves, but the knowledge of just that Self which knows itself and no other. Thus the knowledge sought is once more and now finally distinguished from the knowledge offered or supplied by Art or Science or Religion: not by Art, for the Self cannot appear and has no seeming nor can it any way be pictured or described or imagined; not by Science, for it lies beyond and beneath and behind all observation, nor can it be counted or measured or weighed; not by Religion, for knowledge of it comes from within and the disclosure of its nature is by the self-witness of the Self to its self, not by revelation of any other to it. Thus there is disclosed the slowly-won and slowly-revealed secret of modern Philosophy, that the knowledge which is indispensable, which is necessary as the consummation and key-stone of all other knowledge, is knowledge of the knowing-self, self-knowledge, or, as it is sometimes more technically called, self-consciousness, with the corollary that this knowledge cannot be won by any methods known to or specially characteristic of Science or Art or Religion. To become self-conscious, to progress in self-consciousness is the end, and the way or means to it is by reflection--the special method of Philosophy. This is the step in advance made by the modern spirit beyond all discoveries of the ancients; it is the truth by the apprehension of which the modern spirit and its world is made what it is. Not outside us lies Truth or the Truth: Truth dwelleth in the inner man--_in interiore hominis habitat veritas_. Is this not progress, progress in wisdom, and to what else can we ascribe the advance save to Philosophy? It was one of the earliest utterances of modern Philosophy, and one which it has never found reason to retract, that the Self which knows can and does know itself better than aught else whatsoever, and in that knowledge can without end make confident and sure-footed advance. To itself the Self is the most certain and the most knowable of all realities--with this it is most acquainted, this it has light in itself to explore, of this it can confidently foresee and foretell the method of advance to further and further knowledge. It knows not only its existence but its essence, its nature, and it knows by what procedure, by what ordered effort or exercise of will it can progress to height beyond height of its self-knowledge. I say, it knows it, but it also knows that that knowledge cannot be attained all at once or taken complete and ready-made, for it _is_ itself a progress, a self-created and self-determined progress, and on that condition progress alone is or is real. For it to be is not to be at the beginning or at the end of this process, but to be always coming to be, coming to be what it is not and yet also what it has in it to be. Of nothing else is Progress so intimately the essence and very being; if we ask 'What progresses or evolves?', the most certain answer is 'The spirit which is in man, and what it progresses in, is knowledge of itself, which is wisdom'. Speaking of and for Philosophy I venture to maintain that nothing is more certain than that that spirit which has created it has grown, is growing, and will ever grow in wisdom, and that by reflection upon itself and its history--nor can the gates of darkness and error prevail against the irresistible march of its triumphant progress. As we look back the history of Philosophy seems strewn with the debris of outworn or outlived errors, but out of them all emerges this clear and assured truth, that in self-knowledge lies the master-light of all our seeing, inexhaustibly casting its rays into the retreating shadow world that now surrounds us, melting all mists and dispelling all clouds, and that the way to it is unveiled, mapped and charted in advance so that henceforward we can walk sure-footedly therein. Yet that does not mean that the work of Philosophy is done, that it can fold its hands and sit down, for only in the seeking is its prize found and there is no goal or end other than the process itself. For this too is its discovery, that not by, but in, endless reflection is the Truth concerning it known, the Truth that each generation must ever anew win and earn it for itself. The result is not without the process, nor the end without the means: the fact _is_ the process and other fact there is none. In other forms of so-called 'knowledge' we can sever the conclusion from its premisses, and the result can be given without the process, but with self-knowledge it is not so and no generation, or individual, can communicate it ready-made to another, but can only point the way and bid others help themselves. And if this, so put, seems hard doctrine, I can only remind you that to philosophize has always meant 'to think by and for oneself'. It is perhaps more necessary to formulate the warning that what is here called self-knowledge and pronounced to constitute the very essence of the spirit that is in man, is far removed from what sometimes bears its name, the extended and minute acquaintance by the individual mind with its individual peculiarities or idiosyncrasies, its weaknesses and vanities, its whims and eccentricities; nor is it to be confused with the still wider acquaintance with those that make up our common human nature in all its folly and frailty which is sometimes called 'knowledge of human nature'; no, nor with such knowledge as psychological science, with its methods of observation and induction and experiment, offers or supplies. It is knowledge of something that lies far deeper within us--'the inward man', which is not merely alike or akin but is the same in all of us; beneath all our differences, strong against all our weaknesses, wise against all our follies, what each of us rightly calls his true self and yet what is not his alone, but all men's also. As we reflect upon it duly, what discloses or reveals itself to us is a self which is both our very own and yet common or universal, the self of each and yet the self of all. The more we get to apprehend and understand it, the more we become and know ourselves, not so much as being but as becoming one with one another; the differences that sunder us in feeling and thought and action melting away like mist. The removal of these differences is just the unveiling of it, in which it at once comes to be and to be known. In coming to know it we create it. The unity of the spirit thus becomes and is known as indubitable fact, or rather (I must repeat) not as fact, as if it were or were anything before being known, but as something which is ever more and more coming to be, in the measure in which it is coming to be known--known to itself. For this is the hard lesson of modern philosophy, that our inmost nature and most genuine self is not aught ready-made or given, but something which is created in and by the process of our coming to know it, which progresses in existence and substantiality and value as our knowledge of it progresses in width and depth and self-assurance. The process is one of creative--self-creative--evolution, in which each advance deposits a result which prescribes the next step and supplies all the conditions for it, and so constantly furnishes all that is required for an endless progress in reality and worth. This is the process in which the spirit of man capitalizes and substantiates its activities, committing its gains to secure custody, amassing and using them for its self-enrichment--in which it depends on no other than itself and is sovereign master of its future and its fate. This is the way in which selves are made, or rather, make themselves. This is the discovery of modern Philosophy, the now patent secret which it offers for the interpretation of all mysteries and the solving of all problems--and it offers it with unquestioning assurance, for it has explored the ground and has awakened to the true method of progress within it. And as I have said or implied, to the reflective mind regress is impossible, it cannot go back upon itself, and with due tenderness and gratitude it has set behind it the things of its unreflective childhood. It stands on the stable foundation of the witness of the spirit within us to itself, to its own nature, its own powers and its own rights; it knows itself as the knower, the interpreter, the teacher, and therefore the master and maker of itself. Yet we must not identify or confuse this our deeper or deepest self which we thus create with the separate selves or souls which each of us is; it is not any one of them nor all of them together, unless we give to the word 'together' a new and more pregnant sense than it has yet come to bear. It is not the 'tribal' or 'collective' or 'social' self, for it is not made by congregation or collection or association, but by some far more intimate unification than is signified by any of these terms, namely by coming together in and by knowledge. It is the spirit which is in us all and in which we all are, which is more yet not other than we, without which we are nothing and do nothing and yet which is veritably the spirit of man, the immortal hero of all the tragedy and comedy--the whole drama--of human history; it is of this spirit as it is by it, that Philosophy has in repeated and resolute reflection come to know the nature and the method of its progress. Such knowledge has come into the world and prevails more widely and more potently than ever before; possessed in fullness by but a few, it is open and available to all and radiates as from a beacon light over the whole field of human experience; at that fire every man can light his candle. This is the light in which alone the record of man's thoughts and achievements can be construed and which exhibits them as steps and stages on that triumphant march to higher and higher levels such as alone we can rightly name Progress. Where else than in History, and, above all, in the History of Knowledge, is Progress manifested, and in that where more certainly than in the unretreating and unrevoked advance towards a deeper, a truer, a wiser knowledge of itself by the spirit that is in and is, Man? Yes, such knowledge, truth and wisdom now exists and is securely ours, though to inherit it each generation and each individual must win it afresh and having won it must develop and promote it, or it ceases not only to work but to be. For it exists only as it is made or rather only in the act and fact of its progress, and so for it not to progress is at once to return to impotence and nothingness. And it is we who maintain it in being, maintaining it by endless reiterated efforts of reflection, and so maintaining it we maintain ourselves, resting or relying upon it and using it as a source of strength and a fulcrum or a platform for further effort. Upon self-knowledge in this sense all other 'knowledge' reposes; upon it and the knowledge of other selves and the world, which flows from it, depends the possibility of all practical advance. In the dark all progress is impossible. But since this discovery was made and made good, the spirit of Philosophy has not stood still; it has gone on, and is still going on, to extend and deepen and secure its conquests. Once more it has turned from its fruitful and enlightening concentration on the inner self and its life to review what lies or seems to lie around and outside it. It finds that those who have stayed, or fallen, behind its audacious but justified advance in self-knowledge, still cherish a view of what is external to this (the true or real self so now made patent), thoughts or fancies which misconceive and misrepresent it--thoughts persisted in against the feebler protesting voices of Art and Religion and so held precariously and unstably though apparently grounded upon the authority of Science. To the unphilosophic or not yet philosophic mind the spirit of man, already in imagination multiplied and segregated into individual 'souls', appears to be surrounded with an environment of alien character, often harsh to man's emotions, often rebellious or untractable to his purposes, often impenetrable to his understanding, and in a word indifferent or hostile to his ideals and aspirations after progress and good. Nay, the individual souls seem to act towards one another separately and collectively as such hindrances, and again, each individual soul seems to be encrusted with insuperable impediments. Even the light within is enclosed in an opaque screen which prevents or counteracts its outflow, so that the spirit within is as it were entombed or imprisoned. 'Wall upon wall, the gross flesh hems us in,' we cannot communicate with one another or join with one another in thought or deed; and the hope of progress seems defeated by the recalcitrant matter that shell upon shell encases us. The world of our bodies, of the bodies and spirits of others, and all the vast _compages_ of things and forces which we call 'Nature' blinds and baffles us, mocks our hopes and breaks our hearts. How idle to dream that amidst and against all this neutrality or hostility any substantial or secure advance can be made! In answer to all these thoughts, these doubts and fears, Philosophy is beginning with increasing boldness to speak a word, not of mere comfort and consolation, but of secure and confident wisdom. All this so-called 'external' nature and environment is not hostile or alien to the self or spirit which is in man, it is akin and allied to it as we now know it to be. Whatever is real and not merely apparent in History or Nature is rational, is of the same stuff and character as that which is within us. It too is spiritual, the appearance and embodiment of what is one in nature and mode of being with what lies deepest and is most potent in us. So far as it is not that, it is appearance and not reality, woven like a dream by imagination or endowed with an unstable and shifting quasi-reality by our thoughts and suppositions and fancies about we know not what. Not that it is an illusion, still less a delusion, rather what it is is the outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual reality, a symbol beautiful, orderly, awe-inspiring yet mutilated, partial, confused, of something deeper and more real, the expression, the face and gesture, of a spirit that, as ours does, knows itself, its own profound being and meaning, and does what it does in the light of such knowledge, a spirit which above all progresses endlessly towards and in a richer and fuller knowledge of itself. What we call Fact--historical or natural--is essentially such an expression, on the one hand a finished expression, set in the past and therefore for ever beyond the possibility of change and so of progress, an exhausted or dead expression, on the other hand a passing into the light of what was before unknown even to the expresser's self, an act by which was made and secured a self-discovery or self-revelation, a creative act of self-knowledge and so significant and interpretable. This double character of events in History and Nature is dimly descried in what we specially call 'nature', but comes more fully into view in the sphere of human history, where each step is at once a deed and a discovery, a contribution to the constitution of the world of fact and a fulguration of the light within illuminating facts as the condition of its own inexhaustible continuance. The world of Fact, artistic or aesthetic, scientific, moral, political, economic, is what the spirit builds round itself, creating it out of its own substance, while it itself in creating it grows within, evolving out of itself into itself and advancing in knowledge or wisdom and power. And out of its now securely won self-knowledge it declares that it--itself--is the source and spring of all real fact whatsoever, which is its self-created expression, made by it in its own interests, and for its own good, the better and better to know itself. Nothing is or can be alien, still less hostile to it, for 'in wisdom has it made them all'. Looking back and around it re-reads in all fact the results of its own power of self-expression. Nothing is but what it has made. All this might perhaps have been put very simply by saying that ever since man has set himself to know his own mind in the right way, he has succeeded better and better, and that in knowing his own mind he has come to know and is still coming to know all else beside, including all that at first sight seems other than, or even counter to, his own mind. He has learned what manner of being he is, how that being has been made and how it continues to be made and developed, and again, how in the course of its self-creation and self-advance it deposits itself in 'fact' and reflecting on that fact rises beyond and above itself in knowledge and power. He is mind or spirit, and what lies behind and around him is spiritual. As he reflects upon this the meaning of it becomes ever more clear and distinct, ordered and organized, and at the same time more substantial, more real, more lively and potent. In becoming known what was before dead and dark and threatening or obstructive or hostile is made transparent, alive, utilisable, contributing to the constantly growing self that knows and is known. Here is the growing point of reality, the _fons emanationis_ of truth and worth and being, evidencing its power not as it were in increase of bulk, but in the enhancing of value. And surely here is Progress, which consists not in mere enlargement or expansion but in the heightening of forces to a new power--in a word, in their elevation to a more spiritual, a more intelligent and therefore more potent, level. To the artistic eye the universe presents itself as a vast and moving spectacle, to the scientific mind as the theatre of forces which repeat their work with a mechanical uniformity or perhaps fatally run down to a predestined and predictable final arrest, to the devout or religious soul as the constant efflux of a beneficent will, unweariedly kind, caring for the humblest of its creatures, august, worshipful, deserving of endless adoration and love, while to the philosophic mind it is known and ever more to be known as the self-expression of a mind in essence one with all minds that know it in knowing themselves, know it as the work or product of a mind engaged or absorbed in knowing itself, and so creating itself and all that is requisite that it may learn more and more what is hidden or stored from all eternity within its plenitude. At least we may say that the conception of a Mind which in order to know itself creates the conditions of such knowledge, which wills to learn whatever can be learned of itself from whatever it does, supplies the best pattern or original after which to model our vaguer and more blurred conceptions of progressive existence and being elsewhere. It furnishes to us an ideal of a progress which realizes or maintains and advances itself, for it is independent upon external conditions. The Progress of Philosophy or of Wisdom is a palmary instance of progress achieved out of the internal resources of that which progresses. And after this pattern we least untruly and least unworthily conceive the mode of that eternal and universal Progress which is the life of the Whole within and as part of which we live. The aim of Philosophy is not edification but the possession and enjoyment of Truth, and the Truth may wear an aspect which, while it enlightens, also blinds or even at first appals and paralyses. And certainly Reality or Philosophy as has come to know it and proclaims it to be, is not such as either directly to warm our hearts or stimulate our energies. Not to do either has Philosophy come into the world, nor so does it help to bring Progress about; nor does it offer prizes to those who pursue either moral improvement or business success, nor again does it increase that information concerning 'nature' and men which is the condition of the one and the other, yet to those who love Truth and who will buy no good at the sacrifice of it, what it offers is enough, and to progress towards and in it is for them worth all the world beside; it is, if not the only real progress, that in the absence of which all other progress is without worth or substance or reality. In the end, if any advance anywhere is claimed or asserted, must we not ask: Is the claim founded on truth, is the good or profit seemingly attained a (or the) true good? To whom or to what is it good? Can we stop short of the endeavour to assure ourselves beyond question or doubt that we are right in what answers we render? And where or by what means can we reach this save by turning inward on meditation or reflection, that is by philosophizing? [Greek: Ei philosophêteon philosophêteon, ei de mê, philosophêteon; pantôs ara philosophêteon]. Thither the mind of man has always turned when the burden of the mystery of its nature and fate has weighed all but intolerably upon it, and turning has never found itself betrayed, but from knowledge of itself has drawn fresh hope and strength to resume the uninterrupted march of Progress which is its life and its history, its being, its self-formation, in courage moving forwards in and towards the light. It is as if such light were not merely the condition of its welfare, but the food on which it lived, the stuff which it transmuted into substance and energy, out of it making, maintaining and building its very self. So under whatever name, whether we call what we are doing Philosophy or something else, the search for more and more light upon ourselves and our world is the most indispensable activity to which the leagued and co-operative powers of Man can be devoted. Fortunately it is also that in which success or failure depends most certainly upon ourselves and in which Progress can with most confidence be looked for. In it we cannot fail if we will to take sufficient trouble; the means to it are open and available; it is our fault if we do not employ them and profit by them. If we have less wisdom than we might have, it is never any one's fault but our own. The door of the treasure-house of Wisdom stands ever open. BOOKS FOR REFERENCE C. C. J. Webb, _History of Philosophy_ (Home University Library). Burnet, _History of Greek Philosophy_. E. J. Bevan, _Stoics and Sceptics_. Höffding, _History of Modern Philosophy_ (translated). Royce, _The Spirit of Philosophy_. Merz, _History of European Thought in the Nineteenth Century_. XII PROGRESS AS AN IDEAL OF ACTION J. A. SMITH Throughout this course of lectures, now come to its close, we have together been engaged in a theoretical inquiry. We have been looking mainly towards the past, to something therefore for ever and in its very nature set beyond the possibility of alteration by us or indeed at all. 'What is done not even God can make to be undone.' Were it otherwise it could not be fact or reality and so not capable of being theorized or studied. In the words of our programme we have analysed what is involved in the conception of Progress, shown when it became prominent in the consciousness of mankind and how far the idea has been realized--that is has become fact--in the different departments of life. We have taken Progress as a fact, something accomplished, and have attempted so taking it to explain or understand it. We have not indeed assumed that it is confined to the past, but have at times enlarged our consideration so as to recognize its continuance in the present and to justify the hope of its persistence in the future. Some of us would perhaps go further and hold that it has, by these and similar reflections, come to be part of our assured knowledge that it must so continue and persist. But however we have widened our purview, what we call Progress has remained to us a course or movement which still presents the appearance of a fact which is largely, if not wholly, independent of us--a fact because independent of us--to which we can occupy no other attitude than that of interested spectators, interested and concerned, moved or conditioned by it but not active or co-operative in it. So far as it is in process of realization in the vast theatre of nature, inorganic or organic, dead or living, that surrounds us, it pursues its course in virtue of powers not ours and unamenable to our control. And even when we view it within the closer environment of human history its current seems to carry us irresistibly with it. Its existence is indeed of very practical concern to us, but apparently all we can do is to come to know it, and knowing it to allow for it as or among the set conditions of our self-originated or self-governed actions if such actions there be. The clearer we have become as to the nature of Progress, the more it would appear that it must be for us, because it is in itself, a fact to be recognized in theory, taken into account and reckoned with. It is or it is not, comes to be or does not come to be, and what we have first and foremost to seek, is light upon its existence and character as it is or occurs. Light, we hope, has been cast upon it. We have learned that in its inmost essence and to its utmost bounds Reality--what lies outside and around us--is not fixed, rigid, immobile, was not and is not and cannot be as the ancient or mediaeval mind feigned or fabled, something beyond the reach of time and change--static or stationary--but is itself a process of ceaseless alteration. We have learned also to be dissatisfied with the compromise which, while acknowledging such alteration, all but withdraws it in effect by asserting it to be either in gross or in detail a process of mere repetition. The system of laws which science had taught us to consider as the truth of nature is itself now known to be caught in the evolutionary process, and to be undergoing a constant modification. As in the modern state, so in Nature, the legislative power is not exhausted but incessantly embodies itself in novel forms. Nature itself--_natura naturans_--is now conceived, and rightly conceived, as a power not bound to laws other than those which it makes for or imposes on itself, and as in its operations at least analogous to a will self-determined, self-governing, creative of the ways and means by which its purpose or purposes are achieved. What that purpose is we have begun to apprehend, and to see its various processes as converging or co-operating towards its fulfilment. In the mythological language which even Science is still obliged to use, we now speak of Nature as 'selecting' or 'devising', and we ascribe to it a large freedom of choice wisely used. We can already at least define the process as guided towards a greater variety and fullness and harmony of life, or (with a larger courage) as pointed towards a heightening or potentiation of life. So defining its goal we can sympathize with and welcome the successful efforts made toward it, and so feel ourselves at heart one with the power that carries on the process in its aspirations and its efforts. But still, we cannot help feeling, it and all its ways lie outside us, and to us it remains an alien or foreign power. I venture to repeat my contention that this is so just because, however much we come to learn of its ways, we do not feel that we are coming to understand it any better, getting inside it, as we do get inside and understand human nature. Its progress is a change, perhaps a betterment, in our environment--in externals--and takes place very largely whether we will and act or no. The larger our acquaintance with it, the more does its action seem to encroach upon the domain within which our volitions and acts can make any difference. Even in social life we seem in the grip and grasp of forces which carry us towards evil or good whether we will or no. _Ducunt volentem fata, nolentem trahunt._ The whole known universe outside and around us presents to us the spectacle of what has been called a _de facto_ teleology, and just because it is so, and so widely and deeply so, it leaves little or no room for us to set up our ideals within it and to work for their realization. The fact that the laws which prevail in it are modifiable and modified makes no difference; they modify themselves, and in their different forms still constrain us. And no matter how increasingly beneficent they may in their action appear, they are still despotic and we unfree. The rule of laws which Science discovers encroaches upon our liberties and privacies. What we had hitherto thought our very own, the movement of our impulses and desires and imaginations, are reported by science to be subject to 'laws of association', and we are borne onwards even if also at times upwards on an irresistible flood. We remain bound by the iron necessity of a fate that invades our inmost being--which will not let us anywhere securely alone. I repeat that it matters not how certainly the trend of the tide, which sets everywhere around and outside us, is towards what is good or best for us, it still is the case that it presents itself as neither asking for from us nor permitting to us the formation of any ideals of ours nor any prospect of securing them by our efforts. Were the fact of Progress established and conclusively shown to be all-pervasive and eternal, it still would bear to us the aspect of a paternal government which did good to and for us, but all the more left less and less to ourselves. This will doubtless be pronounced an exaggeration, and we may weakly refuse to face the impression naturally consequent upon the progress we have made in the ascertainment of the facts concerning the world in which we live. But does not the impression exist? The hateful and desolating impression made on us earlier by the thought of a 'block' universe, once for all and rigidly fixed in unalterable and uniform subjection to eternal and omnipresent law, has dissolved like the baseless fabric of a vision. And why? Just because being found intolerable it was faced and put to the question. Now that there has been substituted for it the spectacle of a universe necessarily or fatally evolving--or, as we have said, progressing--does it not, while still evoking the old awe or reverence, do anything but still daunt and dishearten us? What is our part, we ask, our very own part within all this? What can we within it do? And the answer, that it is ours, if we will, to enter into and live in the contemplation of all this no longer appeals to us. In such a progressive universe we can no longer feel ourselves 'at home'. In it our active nature would seem to exist only to be disappointed and rebuffed. The only progress which we can care for is the progress which we ourselves bring about, or can believe that we bring about, in ourselves or our fellows or in the world immediately around us. So long as what is so named is something devised and executed by a power not our own--not the same as our own--it may call out from us gratitude and reverence, but the spectacle of the reality of such Progress cannot exercise the attractive force nor, so far as it is realized, beget that creative joy which accompanies even humble acts in which we set an ideal of our own before ourselves, and see it through our efforts emerge into actual existence. A practical ideal must be through and through of our own making. It must be devised by us and set to ourselves for our pursuit, and its coming to be, or be real, must be our doing. The very idea of it must be our own, not given or prescribed, still less imposed, and the process towards it must be our doing too. That there should, on their view of it, ever be protest and rebellion against its tyrannous demands appears to me reasonable and right, and those who make it to be guarding the immediate jewel of man's nature. We should, we might say, if this were the whole truth about the universe, acknowledge ourselves as its sons bound to gratitude and obedience because of the fatherly care for us, but it would be an essential complement to our family loyalty that we should insist upon and make good our claims to be grown-up sons and fellow citizens, declining to pronounce it wholly good, if those claims were denied to us. Now all these conditions seem to make straight against the possibility of regarding Progress, in the view of it we have hitherto taken, as an ideal of our action. In view of this character of the known fact of Progress, so discouraging and disabling to our active or practical nature, certain suggestions have been made which are thought to relieve us from these effects. It is said sometimes that this fatal--if beneficent or beneficial, still fatal--progress leaves as it were certain interstices in the universe within which it loses its constraining force, petty provinces but sufficient, where man is master and determines all events, from which even, it is sometimes conceded, some obscure but important influences are permitted to flow, modifying his immediate surroundings, little sanctuaries where the spirit that is in him and is his devises and realizes ideals of its own. But the notion of such sacrosanct and inviolable autonomies is being steadily undermined, and they are felt, as science becomes more dominant over our imaginations and emotions, to be no more than eddies in the universal stream, only apparently distinct and self-maintained, means made and broken for its purpose, really products and instruments of the world-progress. At any rate, it has been denied that they can rightfully be thought to stand outside it or themselves to exercise any effect upon their fortunes and their fate, still less upon their environment. Another suggestion fully and frankly acknowledges this, but though denying to us any power to affect either the form or the direction of the currents on which we are borne along, declares still open to us the possibility of affecting their speed, and bids us find satisfaction in the thought that by taking thought or resolve we can hasten or delay their and the universal movement. Still another view, abandoning even that hope, proclaims one last choice open to us, namely, that of sullen submission to, or glad and loyal acquiescence in, its irresistible sway. But surely all these suggestions are idle, and but for a moment conceal or postpone the inevitable conclusion that if Progress was, is and must or will be, that is, is necessary, what we think or do makes no difference, and can make no difference to or in it. Whether or no we convert the fact into an ideal, whether or no we set it before as our aim and exert ourselves to work for it, it goes on its way all the same. Either then it is not a fact, never was, and never will be a fact, or it is no possible ideal for which we can act. To be or become a fact, it must be independent of our action or our consent or our liking; if it is not all these it is not an ideal of action, or at any rate not so for us. I must repeat that what is or can be an ideal of action for us must be wholly and solely of our making, the very thought of it self-begotten in our mind, every step to its actual existence the self-created deed of our will. Not that either idea or act comes into being in a void or without suggestion and assistance from without us, but still so that the initiative lies in what we think or do, and so that without us it is unreal and impossible. It is enough, indeed, that we should be contributory, but the ideal must be such that without our irreplaceable co-operation it must fail. The only Progress in which we can take an active interest or make an ideal of action, is one which we conceive and execute, and that the fact we call Progress is not. So far we have found much argument to show that what we have hitherto called Progress is not and cannot be an ideal of action, or at least of our action. And now we must face another argument more plain and apparently fatal, indeed, specially or peculiarly fatal. For the very notion of Progress is of a process which continues without end, or we have the dilemma that it is either endless or runs to an end in which there is no longer Progress but something else. In either case it is not itself an end or the end, and whatever an ideal of action is, it must be an end--something beyond which there is nothing, which has no Beyond at all. To set before oneself as an ideal of action what one certainly knows to be incapable of attainment or accomplishment, incapable of coming to an end--that is surely futile and vain. Without a best, better or better-and-better has no meaning, and when the best is reached Progress is no more. The objection may be put in various ways, as thus. What we seek or want or work for, is to be satisfied, and satisfaction is a state, not a process or a progress. Or again, acting is a process of seeking, seeking and striving for something, and surely the seeking cannot itself be the object of the search. Or once more, what we act for is, as we must conceive it, something complete, finished, perfect, but Progress is essentially something incomplete, unfinished, imperfect. We all feel this, and at times at least the thought that what we seek flies ever before, affrights and paralyses: recoiling from such a prospect, we set before our imaginations as the reward or result of our labours, not movement but rest, not creation or production but consumption and fruition. We dream of one day coming to participate in a life or experience so good that there is no change from less good to more good possible within it, and which, if it can be said to progress at all, only, in Milton's magnificent words, 'progresses the dateless and irrevoluble circle of its own perfections, joining inseparable hands with joy and bliss in over-measure for ever'. Once this ideal has presented itself to our hopes or desires, it degrades by comparison with it to a second-best, the former ideal of endless development from lower to higher. What we want and seek is to be there, to have done with getting there. 'Here is the house of fulfilment of craving, this is the cup with the roses around it.' Compared with this, how disconsolate a prospect is that 'of the sea that hath no shore beyond it, set in all the sea'--the endless voyage or quest. Not Progress is or can be the end, but achievement and the enjoyment of it. The progress is towards and for the end; the end is the supreme good and the progress is only good because of it, because it is on the way that leads to it, the way we are content to travel only because it leads there. Once more, and on still surer grounds, we must pronounce what we have come to know as Progress to be no possible ideal of action. What draws us on is the hope of something to be attained in and by the progress. To take Progress, which on the one hand is a fact and on the other is an incomplete fact, to be the end of our striving and our doing is to acquiesce in a self-contradiction. Yet the counter-ideal of a state in which we shall simply rest from our labours and sit down to enjoy the fruits of them does not promise satisfaction either, and so cannot be the end or ideal. Our desire and our endeavour is not for a moveless, changeless, undeveloping perfection. In fact, so often as the dream of such a state attained has presented itself, it has to thoughtful minds appeared anything but attractive or desirable. Our desire is to go on, and for that we are willing to pay a price--nay, it is for more than merely to go on, it is to advance and increase in perfection, so much so that the ideal itself once more slews round into its opposite and the search appears worth more than the attainment. It seems that we were not on the other view so wholly wrong, but must try so to frame our ideal of action as to unite both characters and satisfy both demands at once, so that it shall be at once a state and a movement or process, an achievement and a progress, a rest or quiet and a striving after it, a perfection and a perfecting. The combination at first sight appears impossible. Yet both characters it must combine. Here again, I must confess that the idea of mere Progress, even as achieved by our own efforts, seems to me to omit something essential to an ideal of action--of what is worth while our acting for. What is to be an ideal of action must have the character of a fulfilment--something to be consumed, not merely eternally added to. For this character of the (or any) ideal of action the best name is fruition or enjoyment. And the defect in the conception of it as Progress is that it seems to postpone this without a date. Let us put this truth which we have discovered concerning Progress in a nutshell, hiding or disregarding the internal contradiction. What is the nature, what is the kind of reality, which we have learned to ascribe to Progress (for we did pronounce it real and essentially capable of being realized)? It is that it is fact, yet fact not made but in the making; it is just the name for what is real only through and in the process of becoming real or being realized. Now I have already elsewhere pointed out that while a realization which is also a reality, or a reality which is also a realization, is in nature or what is external to us a mystery and a puzzle, it is just when we look inwards the open secret of our being; in our life or action regarded from within, it appears as something which is only dark because it is so close and familiar to us that inspection of it is difficult, not because it is in itself opaque or unintelligible. To its exemplification or illustration there we must turn for light upon our problem. Let us for the time disregard the pressure exercised upon us by the suggestions of physical science, or even, I may add, popular and imaginative or opinionative--which is Latin for 'dogmatic'--Religion, and examine how Progress takes place, or is realized and real, within our spirits, or that spirit which is within us. The inward process is one by which that spirit is or is real only in the act or fact of being or coming to be realized, or rather of realizing itself, and the way in which it so becomes or makes itself real is by acknowledging its own past, treating it as fact, recognizing its failures or imperfections therein, projecting on the future an idea or ideal of itself, suggested by those apprehended wants or defects, of what it might be, and using that to supply itself with both energy and guidance, drawing from its own past both strength and light. In all this it acts autonomously, out of itself, and creates both the requisite light and the indispensable force, making its very limitations into new sources and reservoirs of both. We do not sufficiently note and hold and use the indubitable truth that, in contradistinction to what we call Nature, the forces of the spirit reinforce and re-create themselves in their use, are in their use not consumed but reinvigorated, not dissipated or degraded but recollected and elevated, not expended but enhanced. There is in the realm of spirit which is our nature and our world no law of either the conservation or the degradation of energy. We must not allow ourselves to be brow-beaten by arguments drawn from the obscurer region of physical and external nature. We know ourselves to be energies or energizing powers which increase and do not waste by exercise. That is what we ought to mean by saying that we are wills and not forces, spiritual not physical or natural beings. If need be to confirm ourselves in this knowledge, let us think of what takes place, has taken place in the advance of knowledge, and particularly of the most important kind of knowledge, viz. self-knowledge, how we make it by our reflection upon what we have already in respect of it achieved, recognize how it or we have fallen short or over-shot our mark, define what is required to make good its deficiencies, and find ourselves thereby already in actual possession of the preconceived supplement. The real, the fact, what is attained or accomplished in and by us, prescribes and facilitates, or rather supplies, its own missing complement of perfection. The process carries itself on, the progress realizes itself, the ideal translates itself into the fact or actuality: it accomplishes itself and yet it is the doing of our very self, of the spirit within us. All this is not merely our doing, it is our being, it is the process by which we make our minds, our souls, our very selves or self. That man is essentially an, or rather the, ideal-forming animal (or rather spirit) has long been noted, and also that the formation of ideals is an indispensable factor in his progress, which is his life and very being. But all the same, this is sometimes put in such a way as to make action, or at least human action, a dispensable accident in the universe, an ineffective and unsubstantial unreality, while at the same time those who put it thus, profess to see through the illusion and to enjoy moments of insight which recognize its nullity. This way of putting it in my judgement intolerably misconceives and misrepresents the truth. Our ideals of action must be self-made or self-begotten, but yet they must be congruent with known fact; but the manner of such congruence is hard to see, hard to express. Ideals cannot be themselves facts, and therefore cannot be known, but on the other hand they cannot be mere imaginations or suppositions or beliefs, still less, of course, illusions or delusions. They are not visionary, and the apprehension of them is a sort or degree of perception. They point beyond themselves to some higher fact which is not cognizable by our senses or perhaps our understanding, but which is yet genuinely cognizable and so in some high sense fact. Yet they are not, as we envisage them, the fact to which they point, but a substitute for or representative of that--an anticipation of or prevision of it, a symbol of a fact. Their own kind or degree of reality is sometimes called 'validity'--a term I do not like: it might be more simply named 'rightness' with the connotation of a certain incumbency and imperativeness as well as of an appeal or adjustment to our nature as we know it; or perhaps all we can say is that their reality--it seems a paradox that an ideal should possess 'reality'--consists in their suggestiveness of modes of action and their applicability to it, all this being supported by the conception of a state of affairs beyond and around us which makes it 'right'. If all this is so, Progress as an ideal of action cannot be precisely identical with Progress as a fact or object of actual or possible knowledge. We can never know what we are aiming at. But though different, the two are and must be congruent, and this may be enough to justify us in using the one name for the two. Unless there were Progress as fact everywhere and always in the universe--outside us--in Nature and History, and unless we took ourselves genuinely to apprehend this, we could not form the practical ideal of Progress, or at least the ideal could not be right. But the difference remains, and we must be prepared for and allow for it; though we can use the knowledge we obtain of the fact of Progress to control and guide our formulation of the practical ideal, we cannot identify the one with the other. Our imagining and our supposing of what is best for or obligatory upon us to do or work for, must go on under conditions--the conditions of what we know as to the nature of ourselves and our surroundings--and yet under these conditions has a very large liberty or autonomy. The Progress which is to serve as a practical ideal is not and cannot be the Progress that we know, but must be the result of imagination or supposition, and it is high and necessary wisdom to trust our imaginations and aspirations. The forms which it rightly takes cannot be determined by what we have learned in or from the past; it cometh not with observation, and the sources of experience cannot of themselves supply us with it, and though it comes in and with experience, it does not come from or out of it. Yet it is due to an impression made upon us by the Universe as we by our faculties apprehend it, and is not merely subjective or of subjective origin. Begotten of the imagination, it is appearance, not ultimate reality, and it cannot be thought out or wholly evacuated of mystery and perplexity. Is this not involved in the language we use of it, proclaiming it practical and therefore not theoretical? Nevertheless, while I must acknowledge this insuperable difference between the Progress we can make our end or ideal and the Progress we believe that in ourselves and around us we apprehend, I still would lay renewed stress upon the congruence and affinity of the two, and urge that the perception of the one--the Progress without us--and the pursuit of the other--the Progress within us--support and fertilize each the other. The more we know or can learn of the one the more effectively do we pursue the other, and conversely. The light and the fruits are bound together: the theory and the practice of Progress cannot be dissevered without the ruin of both. The ideal of Progress which we present to ourselves is and must be one which is partly determined or limited by past achievement and partly enlarged by the study of what powers higher than our own have accomplished and are accomplishing. The formation of it must move constantly between a respect for what has been achieved and a worship, so to speak, for what is far better than anything that yet has been or become fact, and therefore incumbent or imperative upon us. The mode and manner of the Progress which is achieved in the Universe has become in various ways clearer to us and opens out undreamt-of possibilities, and our assurance of its reality is ever more and more confirmed, while on the other hand its actual or past results at the lower level of nature have grown and are growing more familiar. We see that Progress is the essential and therefore eternal form of life and spiritual being, which endows it everywhere with worth and substance. With this comes the conviction that the source of all this lies inward, in that inwardness where our true selves lie and springs from the very nature of that. The spirit which is within us is not other than the spirit which upholds and maintains the whole Universe and works after the same fashion. And with regard to this its manner of working, we have learned that it proceeds by taking account of its own past achievements, imagining or conceiving for itself tasks relevant to these but not limited by them, and finds in that the conditions and stimulus to their actualization. It is our business to imitate this procedure and so to contribute to the advance of the whole. No work so done is or can be lost. We are justified in supposing that in so doing we are leagued together in effective co-operation with one another and with all other forces at work in the whole. In and through us, though not in and through us only, Progress goes on, drawing us along with it. Inner and outer Progress, free allegiance and loyal subjection concur and do not clash, and the world in which we live and act appears to us as it is--a city of God which is also a self-governed and self-administered city of free men. But above all, what it prescribes to us is the duty--another name for 'the ideal of action'--to seek first light as to the true nature of our world and ourselves, dismissing and disregarding all appearance, however charming or seductive. Unless we learn to see Progress as universal and omnipresent and omnipotent, we shall set before ourselves ideals of action which are false and treacherous. We must exert ourselves not merely to apprehend, but to dwell in the apprehension and vision of it. And if there were no other reason, we should know it for the right ideal--this command first to seek light--because it is the hardest thing that can be asked of us or that we can ask of ourselves. But what is thus asked is not mere Faith and Hope, but a loyal adherence to the knowledge which is within us. Is this not the hardest? To-day, when over there in France and Flanders, and indeed almost all over Europe, as in a sort of Devil's smithy, men are busied in the most horrid self-destruction. The accumulated stores of age-long and patient industry are being consumed and annihilated; the works and monuments of civilized life are laid low: all physical and intellectual energies are bent to the service of destruction. The very surface of the kindly and fertile earth is seamed and scarred and wasted. And the human beings who live and move in this inferno, are jerked like puppets hither and thither by the operation of passions to which we dare not venture to give names, lest we be found either not condemning what defiles and imbrutes our nature or denying our meed of praise and gratitude to what ennobles it. All this portentous activity and business flows from no other fount and is fed by no other spring than the spirit which is within us, that spirit which has created that wealth, material, artistic, spiritual, which it is so busily engaged in wrecking and undoing. It is still as of old, making History, making it in the old fashion with the old ends in view and by the exercise of its old familiar powers. And if in this tragic scene or episode we cannot still read the features of Progress, our theory is a baseless dream, and we can frame no valid or 'right' ideal of action. For except to an environment known to be still, because always, the work and self-expression of a spirit akin to, and indeed identical with our own, and except as knowing ourselves to be still, because always, in all our ways of working its vehicles and instruments, we can neither define nor realize any ideals of action at all. This war is not an accident, nor an outburst of subterranean natural forces, but the act and deed of human will, and being so it cannot be merely evil. What, then, can we read not into, but out of, the tragic spectacle now being enacted, not merely before but in, through, and by us? Unless we have all along been mistaken, the victims of mere delusion and error, here, too, there has been and still is Progress. Primarily and principally what is taking place, is a tremendous revelation of the potencies which in our nature--in that which makes us men--have escaped our notice and therefore, because unseen or ignored, working in the dark, have not yet been drawn upon and utilized. There has been and still is going on, an enormous increase of self-knowledge. At first sight this seems wholly an opening up of undreamt-of evil. Side by side there has come to us a parallel revelation of undreamt-of good. I must bear witness to my conviction that we are beholding a tremendous inrush or uprush of good into man and his world. But what I wish to dwell upon is the growing and ever-confirmed revelation of an intimate relation or connexion between the two which is the very spring of Progress, viz. that the supply of good is not only adequate and more than adequate to the utmost demand made upon it, in the combating of the evil, and that for this reason, that while on the one hand the evil that impedes or counter-works the good is itself of spiritual origin, its existence and power is conditioned by the law that it must evoke and stimulate the very power which it attempts to crush and defeat. This is, as I have said, the now discovered and known spring of Progress both within and without us, that whatsoever is evil, evil just because it is enacted and does not merely occur, passes within the reach of knowledge and understanding, and in the measure that it passes into the light, not merely loses its sting and its force, but is convertible and converted into a strengthening condition of that which in its first appearance it seemed merely to thwart. Even regress is seen to be a necessary incident in progress, and the seasons which we call periods of decadence to be occasions in which the spirit progresses in secret, recruiting itself not by idleness or rest, but genuinely refreshing and recreating itself. The view here suggested is no sentimental optimism. The drama of the universe is no comedy or even melodrama, but a tragedy or epic of heroism, and more especially is this the character of the history of the spirit which is in Man and is Man. The evil we enact is real evil, the only real evil, the checks which our disobedience or disloyalty imposes upon the course of good, are genuine retardations or frustrations; nevertheless they are not wholly evil, for nothing is such, but are the means which the spirit that has begotten them, utilizes in its eternal Progress and wins out of them a richness, a complex and varied harmony to which they are compelled to contribute. Our ideal of action must therefore in principle acknowledge as essential, what I have called the 'tragic' character suggested by the spectacle of the war, the fear and agony which we imagine in Nature and comprehendingly discern in human history. The Progress which we can achieve or contribute to--which we can make our ideal of action--is one which cannot rightly be conceived otherwise than in its essence a victory over evil, and that it may be evil, it must come and be done in the dark. For the spirit in progressing deposits what, being abandoned by it, corrupts into venomous evil, but except in meeting and combating that, it cannot progress. And it can only combat it by getting to know it, for in darkness and ignorance it can make no secure advance. It has been profoundly said that to know all is to forgive all. Let us rather say that in coming to know its own past, the Spirit which is in Man can without undoing it--that it cannot--make it contributory to its own wealth of being, can, as I have said, utilize it for its own purposes, which are summed up in the knowing of itself. There is and can be nothing in its deeds which it cannot know, and so digest and assimilate and absorb into its own substance. In this interpretation of the meaning--the veiled but not hidden meaning of what has taken place and is taking place in the world--or rather in us and enacted by us, I seem to myself not to be expressing any private imagination or supposition which may or may not be so, but a certainty that it must be so. Either it is so or 'the pillared firmament is rottenness and earth's base built on stubble'. And this means that everywhere and always, but most specially and centrally and potently in man's spirit, there is Progress, in spite of checks and hindrances which come from within it, a constant if chequered advance in true worth or value. And that knowledge I build on grounded and reasoned hope that it will and must continue--how, I do not know, but can only surmise and conjecture and imagine. To the question, What, then, ought we to do? I can only reply first and foremost, Labour to retain this truth, fostering and developing it, verifying it as we have been doing in all the varied departments of human experience, exercising our imaginations while at the same time sobering and controlling them by the light that comes from it. If we are true to it and do not through slackness forget and lose it, we shall find arising spontaneously out of the depths of our self worthy and feasible ideals of action, the pursuit of which will not betray us or leave us without an ever-growing assurance that in bending and directing all our powers to their realization we are the agents of that Progress which is the source of all being and all worth whatsoever. If we will to learn from our own past, we can convert anything that is evil in it into an occasion, an opportunity, a means to good which without it were not possible. Thus we can even do what seems utterly impossible, for we can without forgetting or ignoring or denying, forgive ourselves even the evil which we have done. Yes, even the darkest and worst evil, the disloyalty to ourselves, to the best and deepest within us, which all but achieved the impossibility of finally defeating the march of Progress. For the basis and ground of our belief in the reality, and therefore the eternity, of Progress lies in this, that the now known nature of the Spirit which is in Man and not in Man alone, is that it can heal any wounds that it can inflict upon itself, can find in its own errors and failures, in its own mistakes and misdeeds, if it only will, the materials of richer and fuller and worthier life. +--------------------------------------------------------------+ | Transcriber's Notes | | | | Page 26: Opening and closing quotes added to "Beg humbly | | that he unlock the door." | | Page 89: _Suma Theologica_ _sic_ | | Page 92: course amended to coarse | | Page 165: preventible amended to preventable | | Page 299: missing word "is" added ("so far as it is | | realized") | | | | The footnote number is for footnote 81 is missing in the | | original text. The location of the number that has been | | added is only an assumption. | | | | Discrepancies between the Table of Contents and chapter | | headings ("Government"/"Progress in Government"; | | "Industry"/"Progress in Industry"; "Art"/"Progress in Art"; | | "Science"/"Progress in Science" and "Philosophy"/"Progress | | in Philosophy") have been retained. | +--------------------------------------------------------------+ 
15084	----	Proofreading Team. THE UNITY SERIES RECENT DEVELOPMENTS IN EUROPEAN THOUGHT _ESSAYS ARRANGED AND EDITED_ BY F.S. MARVIN AUTHOR OF 'THE LIVING PAST', ETC. 'To hope till Hope creates From its own wreck the thing it contemplates.' _Prometheus Unbound._ HUMPHREY MILFORD OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS LONDON EDINBURGH GLASGOW NEW YORK TORONTO MELBOURNE CAPE TOWN BOMBAY 1920 PRINTED IN ENGLAND AT THE OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS PREFACE This volume, like its two predecessors, arises from a course of lectures delivered at a Summer School at Woodbrooke, near Birmingham, in August, 1919. The first, in 1915, dealt with 'The Unity of Western Civilization' generally, the second, in 1916, with 'Progress'. In this book an attempt has been made to trace the same ideas in the last period of European history, broadly speaking since 1870. It was felt at the conclusion of the course that the point of view was so enlightening and offered so many opportunities of useful further study that it should, if possible, be resumed in future years. A large number of subjects were suggested--'The Relations of East and West,' 'The Duty of Advanced to Backward Peoples,' 'The Rôle of Science in Civilization,' &c.--all containing the same elements of 'progress in unity' which have inspired the previous volumes. It was thought that possibly for the next session 'World Reconstructions Past and Present' might be most appropriate. If any reader feels moved by interest or sympathy with the general idea to send suggestions, either as to possible places of meeting, or topics for treatment or any other kindred matter, they would be welcomed either by the Editor or by Edwin Gilbert, Woodbrooke, Selly Oak, Birmingham. F.S.M. BERKHAMSTED, _December, 1919._ [** Transcriber's Note: This text contains a single instance of a character with a diacritical mark. The character is a lower-case 'r' with a caron (v-shaped symbol) above it. In the text, that character is depicted thusly: [vr] **] CONTENTS PAGE I. GENERAL SURVEY 7 By F.S. MARVIN. II. PHILOSOPHY 25 By Professor A.E. TAYLOR, St. Andrews. III. RELIGION 65 By Dr. F.B. JEVONS, Hatfield Hall, Durham. IV. POETRY 91 By Professor C.H. HERFORD, Manchester. V. HISTORY 140 By G.P. GOOCH. VI. POLITICAL THEORY 164 By A.D. LINDSAY, Balliol College, Oxford. VII. ECONOMIC DEVELOPMENT 181 1. THE INDUSTRIAL SCENE, 1842 181 2. MINING OPERATIONS 195 3. THE SPIRIT OF ASSOCIATION 209 By C.R. FAY, Christ's College, Cambridge. VIII. ATOMIC THEORIES 216 By Professor W.H. BRAGG, F.R.S. IX. BIOLOGY SINCE DARWIN 229 By Professor LEONARD DONCASTER, F.R.S. X. ART 247 By A. CLUTTON BROCK. XI. A GENERATION OF MUSIC 262 By Dr. ERNEST WALKER, Balliol College, Oxford. XII. THE MODERN RENASCENCE 293 By F. MELIAN STAWELL. I GENERAL SURVEY F.S. MARVIN We are trying in this book to give some impression of the principal changes and developments of Western thought in what might roughly be called 'the last generation', though this limit of time has been, as it must be, treated liberally. From the political point of view the two most impressive milestones, events which will always mark for the consciousness of the West the beginning and the end of a period, are no doubt the war of 1870 and the Great War which has just ended. From 1870 to 1914 would therefore be the most obvious delimitation of our study; and it is a striking illustration of human paradox, that a great stage in the growth of unity should be marked by two international tragedies and crowned by the most terrible of all. Nearly coincident with the political divisions there are important landmarks in the history of thought. During the 'sixties, while the power of Prussia was rising to its culmination in the Franco-Prussian War, the Darwinian theory of development was gaining command in biology. To many thinkers there has appeared a clear connexion between that biological doctrine and the 'imperialism', Teutonic and other, which was so marked a feature of the time. In any case 'post-Darwinian' might well describe the scientific thought of the age we have in view. Industrially the epoch is as clearly defined as it is in politics and science. For in 1871, the year of the Treaty of Frankfort, an act was passed after a long working-class agitation, assisted by certain eminent members of the middle class, legalizing strikes and Trade Unions. And now at the end of the war, all over the world, society is faced by the problem of reconciling the full rights, and in some cases the extreme demands, of 'labour', with democratic government and the prosperity and social union of the whole community. This is the situation discussed in our seventh and eighth chapters. In philosophy and literature a similar dividing line appears. In the 'sixties Herbert Spencer was publishing the capital works of his system. The _Principles of Psychology_ was published in 1872. This 'Synthetic Philosophy' has proved up to the present the last attempt of its kind, and with the vast increase of knowledge since Spencer's day it might well prove the last of all such syntheses carried out by a single mind. Specialism and criticism have gained the upper hand, and the fresh turn to harmony, which we shall notice later on, is rather a harmony of spirit than an encyclopaedic unity such as the great masters of system from Descartes to Comte and Spencer had attempted before. In literature also the dates agree. Dickens, most typical of all early Victorians, died in 1870. George Eliot's last great novel, _Daniel Deronda_, was published in 1876. Victor Hugo's greatest poem, _La Légende des Siècles_, the imaginative synthesis of all the ages, appeared in the 'seventies. There have been many writers since, with Tolstoi perhaps at their head, in whom the fire of moral enthusiasm has burnt as keenly, nor have the borders of human sympathy been narrowed. Yet one cannot fail to note a less pervading and ready confidence in human nature, a less fervent belief that the good must prevail if good men will only follow their better leading. Here then is our period, marked in public affairs by a progress from one conflict, desperate and tragic, between two of the leading nations of the West, to another and still more terrible which swept the whole world into the maelstrom; and marked in thought by a certain dispersion and depression of mind, a falling in the barometer of temperament and imagination, but also by a grappling with realities at closer quarters. No wonder that some have seen here a 'tragedy of hope' and the 'bankruptcy of science'. But it must be noted at once that these obvious landmarks, though striking, are in themselves superficial. They require explanation rather than give it, and in some cases an explanation, much less tragic than the symptom, is suggested by the symptom itself. We may at least fairly treat them at starting simply as beacon-hills to mark out the country we are traversing. We have to go deeper to find out the nature of the soil, and travel to the end to study the vista beyond. In making this fuller analysis of man's recent achievement, especially in the West, the first, and perhaps ultimately the weightiest, element we have to note is the continued and unexampled growth of science. Was there ever a more fertile period than the generation which succeeded Darwin's achievement in biology and Bunsen's and Kirchhoff's with the spectroscope? Both have created revolutions, one in our view of living things, the other in our view of matter. In physics the whole realm of radio-activity has come into our ken within these years, and during the same time chemistry, both organic and inorganic, has been equally enlarged. All branches of science in fact show a similar expansion, and a new school of mathematicians claim that they have recast the foundations of the fundamental science and assimilated it to the simplest laws of all thinking. Some discussion of this will be found in the chapter on philosophy. It may serve as tonic--an antidote to that depression of spirits of which we have spoken--to consider that such an output of mental energy, rewarded by such a harvest of truth, is without precedent in man's evolution. No single generation before ever learnt so much not only of the world around it but also of the doings of previous generations. For since 1870 we have been living in an age as much distinguished for historical research as for natural science. If mankind is now to go down in a wrack of war, starvation, bankruptcy, and ruin, the sunset sky at least is glorious. And there is tonic in another thought which rises from the very nature of this recent blossoming of knowledge. It marks the growing co-operative activity of mankind. The fact that science and research of every kind have advanced so rapidly is not only, or even primarily, a proof of the continued vigour of the human intellect, but of the stability of society, the coherence of social classes and nations, the readiness of the bulk of men to allow their more immediately productive work to be used for the support of those whose labours are in a more remote and ideal sphere. Science did not begin until the ancient priesthoods were enabled to pursue disinterested inquiries without the need of earning their daily bread. Civilization, we may be assured, is not threatened in its most vital part so long as the general will permits the application of the general resources to the promotion of learning and research without a claim for immediate marketable results. Our last generation has not only permitted but has encouraged this in all Western countries, and in other countries, such as China and Japan, influenced by the West. The money thus spent is vastly greater than in any equal period before, and the United States, the land of the fullest democratic claims, is also the land of the amplest generosity for scientific and educational purposes. The growth of knowledge is a symptom not only of the collective capacity of living man but also of the continuity of the present age with those which had laid the earlier foundations. One school of vigorous action, and still more vigorous talk, advises our generation to be done with the past and make a fresh start on more ideal lines. This is not the voice of science, which, just in proportion to its growth, has shown more and more care for its origins and its past: and this is true at every stage in the history of thought. The Greeks, fighting for freedom and establishing in the city-state a new form of political organization for the world, were yet in their scientific evolution true and grateful successors of the priests who first compiled the observations necessary for the scientific study of the heavens and founded the art of medicine. The men of the Renascence, who were burnt and imprisoned for doubting the verbal inspiration of Aristotle and the Bible, were in fact going back to an earlier impulse than that of the scholastic philosophy. The mathematics of Pappus and the mechanics of Archimedes had to be carried further before the new sciences of which Aristotle had given the first sketch could be securely founded. The pioneers of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries built therefore on the past, although accused of impiety and revolution; and it must be so with any intellectual construction which is to hold its own and form the future. So far from there being any opposition in nature between history and science, the two are but different aspects of one continuous enlargement of the human spirit, which sees and lives more fully at each great moment of its progress, and, so far as it is alive, is always informed by the real achievements of the past. We illustrate this advance in the marvellous record of our fifth chapter, and its spirit is summed up in the great saying of Benedetto Croce that 'all history is contemporary history'. But the reader may here begin not unnaturally to feel some impatience with the argument, and to think that he is being carried into a region of ideal imaginings quite out of touch with the realities of blood and hatred and starvation with which we have been actually surrounded at the end of our period. It is well to be thus sharply reminded of the contrariety of facts, when we are sailing smoothly along on the current of any theory, whether of education or politics, religion or art. To get right with our objector, to set our sail so that the rocks in the stream may not completely wreck us, we will go back to the point where we were insisting on the obvious truth that the collective resources and capacity of mankind have of late enormously increased. The material fruits of science are among our most familiar wonders--the motor-car, the aeroplane, wireless telegraphy. But it is not sufficiently realized how all these things and the like are dependent upon the co-operation of a multitude of minds, the collective rather than the individual capacity of man. Men had dreamt for ages of flying, but it was not until the invention of the internal combustion engine that bird-like wings and the mechanical skill of man could be brought together and made effective. It is Humanity that flies, and not the individual man alone. The German Daimler, the French Levassor, are the two names which stand out most prominently in this later development of engineering as our own Watt and Stephenson stand in the history of the steam-engine. Wireless telegraphy offers a similar story. Faraday, Maxwell, Hertz, Lodge, Marconi; the names are international. In 1913, before ever the League of Nations had been planned, Lord Bryce was telling an International Congress in London that 'the world is becoming one in an altogether new sense.... More than four centuries ago the discovery of America marked the first step in the process by which the European races have gained dominion over nearly the whole earth. As the earth has been narrowed through the new forces science has placed at our disposal, the movements of politics, of economics, and of thought, in each of its regions, become more closely interwoven. Whatever happens in any part of the globe has now a significance for every other part. World History is tending to become one History.' The war, tragically as it has shaken this growing oneness of mankind, has not destroyed it. In some ways it has even stimulated growth. Against a background of blood and fire the League of Nations has been forced into actual being, and the long isolation alike of the ancient East and the youthful West has been broken down at last. Within the State, again, even allowing for all setbacks, the efforts at social solidarity have on the whole been strengthened, not weakened. This war his been an accelerator of, not, as the Napoleonic, a brake upon, reform. Many reforms, especially in England, which had been long discussed and partly attempted before the war, were carried out with dispatch at its close. This was the case with education, with the franchise and with measures affecting the health, the housing, and the industrial conditions of the people. And there is now a greater and stronger demand among us for a further advance, above all for making every citizen not merely or even primarily a voting unit, but a consciously active, consciously co-operative, member of the community. Comte, who died in 1857 just before our period, was perhaps the clearest voice in Europe to herald both movements: the advance to international unity, and social reform within the State. It was he who, under the title of _Western Republic_, proclaimed the existence of a real unity of nations, whose business it was to strengthen themselves as a moral force, to act as trustees for the weaker people and lead the world. It was he who, in the phrase 'incorporation of the proletariate', summed up all those social reforms in which we are immersed, which aim at making every citizen a full member of his nation. Like all ideals it was far easier to conceive and to respect than to foresee or to secure the necessary means to put it into effect. Perhaps the perfect symmetry of the plan, the over-sanguine hopes of the man who framed it, have even proved some hindrance to its rapid spread. It has seemed, like Dante's polity in the _De Monarchia_, to take its place rather among the utopias than the practical schemes of reform, and when men saw the infinite complexity of the problems and met the living lions in the path, they suffered the comparative depression which we have noticed as a feature of the age. Here indeed it would appear that we have reached one of the most serious cross-currents in recent European thought. In science, in philosophy, in politics, and in social economics, though we see the goal at least in outline, we are in some danger of being overwhelmed by the difficulties of the pursuit. Our vision is somewhat clouded and our steps hampered by the entangling details of the country between. It is substantially the same problem which faces us both in the philosophical and the practical sphere, and the analogy between the two is instructive. Spencer's synthesis, which we instanced as the last encyclopaedic attempt to present all knowledge--at least all scientific knowledge--in one system, has been riddled fore and aft by hostile shot, though in the end more of it may be found to have survived than is seen at present above water. The philosopher who in our generation has acquired the European vogue most comparable to that of Spencer is Bergson. Now Bergson has dealt some of the shrewdest blows at Spencer's system, but he does not set out to construct a rival system of his own. He is most careful to say that he is not doing this, that any such work must be done by later workers, that he is only making suggestions for a new point of view. It is interesting to note in general terms what that point of view is, as we shall have occasion later on to revert to it. It rests on a new interpretation of the nature and growth of conscious life. He is in short a _semeur d'idées-force_ rather than an encyclopaedist or a system-maker. The difference is characteristic of the age and might be traced in the other contemporary schools, the pragmatists, the new realists, and the rest. The new Descartes is looked for but not announced. Perhaps when he arrives he will prove to be a whole army and not a single man. But if an army, it will need a better co-ordination, a more clearly defined common spirit, than is at present apparent in the philosophic hosts. A similar perplexity in the practical sphere has a similar cause but a graver urgency. The multiplicity and contrariety of the facts are upon us as we face in practice the ideals which we have accepted from the earlier thinkers, from the century of hope. In science and philosophy we feel that the cause of unity may with some safety be left to look after itself. If the new Descartes does not appear in person, we may have confidence that plenty of inferior substitutes will be found, who, if they work together, will keep alive the great task of unifying thought. For in this region the nature of things assists our efforts and will sooner or later get the work done. The stars in their courses are fighting for us and for unity. But in the world of wills the task is tenfold more difficult and the dangers imminent. The poor and labouring millions, the oppressed and dissatisfied nations, are forcing the door, and though there is fair agreement in theory as to how they should live and work together in peace, yet the realization is by no means automatic, and the difficulties thicken as we come nearer to them. But even here, perhaps most of all here, it is the first word of wisdom to take stock of the favourable symptoms, to see clearly the forces on which we can rely in our forward march. And they are not far to seek in all classes and in every Western land. Read any account of an English community in the early nineteenth century, say George Eliot's 'Milby' in the _Scenes of Clerical Life_. How far more humane, more enlightened, and happier is the state of the succeeding community, the Nuneaton or Coventry of the present day! No question but the novelist would have welcomed as a convincing proof of her 'meliorist' doctrine the progress made in her own homeland in the century since her birth. We know by personal experience the general kindliness and cheerfulness of our fellow citizens, their tolerance, their readiness to hope, their prevalent orderliness and self-restraint. We are thinking perhaps of a certain tendency to slackness, a dangerous falling-off in the output of work. If that be so, we need only look at the activities of any playground, or of a class-room in a well-ordered school, to be sure of the future. The natural man, at least in our temperate climates, and as exhibited in the behaviour of his natural progenitor, the child, is all for vigour and experiment. It is we, the adult community, the trustees of the child, who are to blame if his maturity fails of the eager questioning and the untiring labours of his unspoilt youth. But we are dealing in this volume rather with changes of thought than with the actual life of the times. Theories affecting the organization of work, the distribution of the product, and the government of society have had much to do with our present difficulties. They have arisen from the conditions of the industrial revolution and the doctrines of the political revolution which began about the same time, and they have reacted ever since on the work and wages, the life and government of the mass of Western men. They are discussed in our eighth chapter. It may be said broadly that in this sphere, as in philosophy, the old and _simpliste_ doctrines have been criticized almost to the point of extinction, but that no new all-embracing practical synthesis has taken their place. The Marxian theory that social evolution has been due mainly to economic causes, that these have produced inevitably the present--or recent--capitalist system, which inevitably must be turned upside down in the interests of manual labour--this is no longer dominant in any Western community, though it is fighting a desperate battle in Eastern Europe. But it is equally true that the capitalist system, presented in an ideal and moralized form in the Utopias of St. Simon and Comte, is not generally accepted now as an ideal for industry. The spirit which Comte desired and believed would animate the moralized employer, acting as the providence of his workpeople, we look to find rather in a reconstituted and moralized State. We all share this hope in our degree, _The Times_ as well as the _Daily News_, and we do not expect the new spirit to operate simply through the free-will and private capacity and initiative of individuals. The joint stock company has settled that. What we are waiting and hoping for is the time when, under the aegis of a benevolent State, capital and labour may live together in many mansions and, like the monks of old, follow many rules of life. In this region our ideal of unity is more diversified than in the realm of thought, and there is no demand for a Descartes. And here it is interesting to note that one of the most telling books on social reconstruction published since the war is by an international writer. This is Dr. Walther Rathenau, a German of Jewish descent, whose ideas have just been popularized by a Frenchman, M. Gaston Raphael[1]. He fits in well with our general argument by virtue of his double attitude, holding, on the one hand, that under the general supervision of the State, industry should be organized in various self-governing groups, 'Social Guilds' or 'professional syndicates' in which both employers and workmen would be included with representatives of the Government; while, on the other hand, he is emphatic that progress must proceed from a changed and widening mentality, and aim in turn at increasing the depth and capacity of the individual soul. Our book has no special chapter on the League of Nations itself. The idea pervades the whole, and the subject was treated in detail in the first volume of this series (_The Unity of Western Civilization_, 1915). The history behind the League offers a striking analogy to the other struggles for unity of which we have spoken. There is the same advance from the idea of a unity dictated and controlled by one mind to a unity of spirit arising from the free co-operation of many diverse elements all aiming at the same general good. Down even to yesterday it seemed to many minds a necessary condition that one man, gathering in his hands the resources of one great State, should from that centre dominate the world. And in the dawn of human history it was no doubt often true, the only way in which the world could then advance. This was true for Alexander, the prototype of all the Roman conquerors, and true, conspicuously, for the Roman empire at its best. But, after the break-up of the empire, unity of this type became a delusive mirage, misleading all who, like the Holy Roman emperors, sought to enjoy it again. By the time of Napoleon it had become an anachronism of the most dangerous and reactionary kind. The world was then too vast, the freedom of men and nations too various and deeply rooted. Meanwhile a real unity, stronger than before, had been forming beneath the surface and needed fresh institutions to body it forth. This movement for unity has been, as we have seen, precipitated by the war into visible and decisive action. It had been simmering for three hundred years in 'Great Designs', 'Projects of Peace', Treaties of Arbitration, and Hague Conventions. Among much that is doubtful in the future of the League, one thing stands out as a capital certainty. Without losing the very spirit of its being it can never become a satellite system, revolving round one dominant Power or even a dominant clique. It was formed to contradict and destroy an oppressive imperialism: it can only thrive by the free co-operation of the partners, finding their proper end in a prosperity shared by all. Such is a short summary of some of the leading topics treated here, those perhaps in which public interest has been most keenly aroused. But nothing has been said in this introduction of Art or Music, and of Religion only a little by implication. It may be well in conclusion to attempt a still more summary impression of the main drift of the period on the spiritual side. We may in such a wider view see some common tendency in all these activities, some inspiration of religion, some link with art, some impulse to live strongly and to hope. The present writer would find this leading thread in the increasing stress laid by recent European thought on the spiritual, or psychological, side of every problem, in the growing desire to understand the character of man's own nature and to develop all the powers of his soul. One of the latest authorities[2] on anthropology has told us that 'to develop soul is progress', and he has followed the clue through the meagre relics of Palaeolithic and Neolithic man. So does the last science of the nineteenth century throw light on the dim recesses of the past. For unquestionably psychology is the characteristic science added to the hierarchy in our period; it has crowned biology and is exercising a profound influence on philosophy, literature, and even politics. If Aristotle was its founder, if it was Descartes who first showed its profound connexion with philosophy, it is to workers in our own day that we must look for those methods of accurate observation, comparison, and the study of causes without which it could not advance farther. And modern psychology has advanced far enough to see that we must include in its purview the 'soul' of a minnow as well as of a man. Descartes had stopped too short, for to him animal life, as distinct from human, showed only the movements of automata. But now, just as the biologist conceives man as part of one infinite order of living things, so the psychologist believes that the facts of his consciousness, the crown of life, must find their place somewhere related to the simplest movements of the amoeba. Hence the whole of animate evolution, and not only that part of which Dr. Marett spoke, may be thought of as the growth of soul. But, the objector will inquire, does this imply the enlargement of every individual or even of the average or the typical personality? And if not, what becomes of a 'growth of the soul'? To this we must admit the impossibility of any complete, or even approximate, answer with our present knowledge. We can only note one or two points of certainty or of confident belief. The first, that there have been individual men, an Aristotle or a Shakespeare, in the past, with whom later ages never have, and perhaps never may, compare. The second, that there are good grounds for thinking that the average man has improved in goodness and in knowledge since we first knew him dimly in the dawn of history. But more important and more certain is the fact that the collective soul of man has grown, and all the extensions of knowledge and of power of which our volume speaks bear witness to it. They are essentially social in origin and outlook, and rest on a foundation of common thought immeasurably wider than any in the more distant past. The man of science, the statesman, even the poet, now speaks for a multitude, and out of a multitudinous consciousness, which had not gathered to support, to inspire, or to weigh down, an Aristotle, a Pericles, a Cromwell. This is a dominating fact from which it is well to take our start. Assuredly the soul of mankind has been collectively enlarged and enriched. How far the individual can share in this enlargement is still one of the problems of the future. The West has committed itself to a general policy of education which aims at making every citizen a full partaker in the advance of the race. But it cannot be said that this policy has yet been really tried. It is the acknowledged ideal to which in all Western countries partial steps have been taken, and the democracy, through their most enlightened leaders, will continue to press for its fulfilment. As this approaches, the individual may become more and more in his degree the microcosm which philosophers have proclaimed him, and the enlargement of the soul, which we know to be a fact for humanity, will become a fact for every man. Need we doubt that with the general raising in the level new eminences will appear? Do not great mountains sometimes rise from the sea and sometimes from the high plateau? We are now in the very midst of a struggle for settlement and incorporation, which, as it is accomplished, should prepare the way for new excellences of every kind. What may not be hoped of men if once they learn to live with their fellows? And they can only so learn by studying them. This is felt by all contemporary writers from Bergson in philosophy to Graham Wallas in politics. Poets and novelists, above all, have turned more and more to problems of the inner life. The novelists who ushered in our age are significant of this, and none more so than George Eliot, whose work, though somewhat out of fashion for the moment, is yet marked by the transition from Victorian complacency to modern unrest and modern hopes. Full of love and appreciation for the old order in England--the contentment and humours of the country-side, the difference of classes, the respect for religion--she was carried by the evolutionary philosophy of her time into thoughts of an eternal and world-wide order, the growth of humanity, the kinship of man with the universe, the social nature of duty. Her contribution was essentially psychological; she enlarged our knowledge of the soul. She showed us, not certainly more living types than Scott or Dickens, but more play of motives, more varied interests in life, more mental crises. The soul, above all the woman's soul, had widened its horizon between Flora Macdonald and Dorothea Brooke. Every reader will think of famous novelists who have followed the same broadening path, and their work is often really great as well as famous. The history of thought has in fact throughout the last century been a commentary on those words of Keats to which many of us have turned of late for comfort and inspiration: 'The world is not a vale of tears, but a vale of soul-making.' Tears there are in abundance, as the tears of children. But sorrow is not the leading note of children, nor should it be of humanity in growth. Soul-making--the practice and the theory--has become more and more clearly and consciously the object of human thought and endeavour. We need the greater mind to see the links in the overwhelming mass of science, in the mazes of human action and history. We need it still more to grasp and to preserve the unity of our social life. Most of all for the healing of the world is the greater soul needed, with a world-consciousness, some knowledge, some sympathy, some hope for all mankind. Without this, a league of nations would be dead before its birth. The recent development of psychology, social as well as individual, its pursuit on scientific lines, and its alliance with biology, suggest one thought which applies generally to an age of science and may be found to throw some illumination even on the future. Which of all types of modern men is the most habitually hopeful, the man of letters, the politician, the business man, or the man of science? There can be no question of the answer. The typical man of science is sure of the greatness and solidity of the work he shares, and confident that the future will extend and make still more beneficial its results. His forward glance is more assured because the backward reveals a course of growing strength and continuous ascent. The physicist foresees unmeasured sources of energy, still untapped. He warns us of our dangers, but has no doubt that, with due foresight, we may overcome them, and make the reign of man upon the planet wider and firmer than before. The doctor knows no disease which may not in time yield to scientific treatment. The agricultural expert foresees, and can produce, new types of grain and fruit which will surpass the best yet known. And the trainer of youth, the man to whom the new science of psychology stands most in stead, is the most hopeful of them all. Dealing with human nature in its growth he puts no limits to its powers of goodness and activity. He deplores the want of wise methods in the past, and if he errs at all it is in an excess of optimism, in believing that with new methods we may make a new man. On this enlargement of the soul, enlightened by science, we build the future. It is the crowning vision of the modern world, first sketched by Descartes, filled out and strengthened by the life and thought of three hundred years. In the interval we have lived much and learnt much, both of our own nature and of the world in which we live. In our own age a powerful stimulus has been given by a transformed biology and a new science which shows the soul itself in growth from an immemorial past, moulding the future by its own action, surmounting, while assimilating, the mechanism which surrounds it. But for this building two things are needed. One, that our souls, as builders, shall act as one with all our fellows and strive for unity as well as power. The other, that in the building the laws of growth shall be followed, which science has already revealed in part and will reveal more fully. For the spirit of science is the spirit of hope. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 1: _Walther Rathenau. Ses Idées et ses Projets d'Organisation Économique_. By Gaston Raphael (Paris: Payot, 4f. 50 c).] [Footnote 2: R.R. Marett in _Progress and History_ (Oxford University Press).] II PHILOSOPHY PROFESSOR A.E. TAYLOR Between forty and fifty years ago a great European man of science, Emil du Bois-Reymond, delivered before an audience of the leading scientific men of Germany a famous discourse on _The Limits of our Knowledge of Nature_, which he followed up some years later with a second discourse on the _Seven Riddles of the Universe_. His object was to convince the materialists of the 'seventies that there were at least seven such unsound places in _their_ story of everything. Some of the 'riddles', he admitted, might prove to be soluble as science advances, but the most important of them will always remain unanswered. Our position as regards them will always be _ignoramus et ignorabimus_--we do not know the solutions and we never shall know them. I do not ask now whether du Bois-Reymond was right in his judgement or not. If he was right, that means, of course, that the one tale of everything will never be told by human lips to human ears. There will no more ever be a finally true Philosophy than there will ever be a finally perfect poem or picture or symphony. But there is no reason why we should not, at any rate, try to make our story as nearly perfect as we can, to reduce the number of the places where we have to break off with 'that is another story', and perhaps even to hazard a 'wide solution' in matters where absolute certainty is beyond our reach. This is the work of human Philosophy as I conceive it, and every man who is disinterestedly trying, without one eye on wealth or fame or domination over the minds of others, to make any contribution, however humble, to the telling of this one story or the removal of loose threads from it, is inspired by the true spirit of Philosophy. Whoever is doing anything else, no matter under what name or with what profit or renown to himself, is no true philosopher. This point of view implies, it will be seen, no sharp dividing line between Philosophy and Science. The avoidance of this commonly made distinction may offend two different sets of students--students of metaphysics who wish to exalt their own pursuit at the expense of the 'special' sciences, and students of natural science who are accustomed to pride themselves on the contrast between the finality and definiteness of their own results and the vagueness and dubiousness of the conclusion of the metaphysicians. But I must avow my own conviction that the only distinction we can make is one of convenience, and it may help to make my peace with both parties if I explain where I take this distinction of convenience to come in. If we are ever to construct an approximation to the one story of everything, clearly one result will consist of a relatively few first principles and a great mass of conclusions which can be inferred from them. And clearly again, since men differ so widely in their mental aptitudes, some men will be most successful in the detection of the principles which underlie all our knowledge, and others most successful in the accumulation of facts and the detailed working out of the application of the principles to the facts. For convenience' sake it will be well that some of us shall be engaged on the discovery of principles which are so very ultimate that most men take them for granted without reflecting on them at all, and others on the work of detail. Further, it will be convenient that, within this second group, various students shall give their attention to more special masses of detail, according to their several tastes and aptitudes, some to the behaviour of moving particles, some to the behaviour of living organisms, some again to the structure and institutions of human societies, and so on. For convenience we may agree to call preoccupation with the great ultimate principles Philosophy and preoccupation with the application of the principles to masses of special facts Science. If we make the distinction in this way, we shall be following pretty closely the lines of historical development along which 'special' sciences have gradually been constituted. When we go back far enough in the history of human thought, we find that originally, among the great Greeks who have taught the world to think, there was no distinction at all between Science and Philosophy. Men like Plato and Aristotle were busied at once with the discovery of the first principles on which all our knowledge depends and with the construction of a satisfactory theory of the planetary motions or of the facts of growth and reproduction. As the study of special questions was pursued further, it became advisable to hand over the treatment of first one and then another group of closely interconnected questions to students who would pursue them independently of research into ultimate presuppositions. This is how Geometry, Astronomy, Biology came, in ancient times, to be successively detached from general Philosophy. The separation of Psychology--the detailed study of the processes of mental life--from Philosophy hardly goes back beyond the days of our fathers, and the separation of such studies as 'sociology' from general Philosophy may be said to belong quite definitely to our own time. If our children have leisure for study at all, no doubt they will see the process carried much further. But it is important to bear in mind that neither Philosophy in the narrower sense nor Science in the narrower sense will be fruitfully prosecuted unless the men who are working at each understand that their own labours are only part of a single undivided work. Without a genuine grasp of some department of detailed facts no man is likely to achieve much in the search for principles, for it is by analysis of facts that principles are to be found, and without real insight into broad general principles the worker in detail is likely to achieve nothing but confusion. The antagonism between 'philosophers' and 'men of science' so characteristic of the last half of the nineteenth century has been productive of nothing but evil. It has given us 'philosophers' whose knowledge about the facts with which serious thinking has to deal has been hopelessly inaccurate; it has also given us 'men of science' who have been 'ageometretes' and have, by consequence, when forced to offer some account of first principles, taken refuge in the wildest and weirdest improvisation. For really fruitful work we need the union in one person of the 'man of science' and the 'philosopher', or at least the most intimate co-operation between the two. Our theories of first principles require to be constantly revised, purified, and quickened by contact with knowledge of detailed fact; and our representations of fact call for constant restatement in terms of a system of more and more thoroughly thought-out postulates or first principles. This is perhaps why the department of human knowledge in which the last half-century has seen the most remarkable advances is just that in which unremitting scrutiny of principles has gone most closely hand-in-hand with the mastery of fresh masses of detail, pure mathematics, and again why the present state of what is loosely called 'evolutionary' science is so unsatisfactory to any one who has a high ideal of what a science ought to be. It exhibits at once an enormous mass of detailed information and an apparently hopeless vagueness about the meaning of the 'laws' by which all this detail is to be co-ordinated, the reasons for thinking these laws true, and the precise range of their significance. The work of men like Cantor, Dedekind, Frege, Whitehead, Russell, is providing us with an almost unexceptional theory of the first principles required for pure mathematics. We are already in a position to say with almost complete freedom from uncertainty what undefined simple notions and undemonstrated postulates we have to employ in the science and to express these ultimates without ambiguity. 'Evolutionary science,' rich as is its information about the details of the processes going on in the organic world, seems still to await its Frege or Russell. It talks, for example, much of 'hereditary' and non-hereditary peculiarities, and some of us can remember a time when our friends among the biologists seemed almost ready to put each other to the sword for differences of opinion about the inheritability of certain characteristics; but no one seems to trouble himself much with the question a philosopher would think most important of all--precisely what is meant by the metaphor of 'inheritance' when it is applied to the facts of biology. (Indeed, it is still quite fashionable to talk not merely as if a 'character' were, like a house or an orchard, a _thing_ which can be transferred bodily from the possession of a parent to the possession of the offspring, but even as though an 'heir' could 'inherit' himself.) This last remark leads me to a further consideration. Science and Philosophy are alike created by the simple determination to be _thorough_ in our thinking about the problems which all things and events present to us, to use no terms whose meaning is ambiguous, to assert no propositions as true until we are satisfied that they are either directly apprehended as true, or strictly deducible from other propositions which are thus apprehended. But now that the area of facts open to our exploration has become far too vast for a modern Francis Bacon to 'take all knowledge for his province', and convenience has led to the distinction between the philosopher and the man of science, a _practical_ distinction between the two makes its appearance. It is _convenient_ that our knowledge of detail should be steadily extended by considering the consequences which follow from a given set of postulates without waiting for the solution of the more strictly philosophical questions whether our postulates have been reduced to the simplest and most unambiguous expression, whether the list might not be curtailed by showing that some of its members which have been accepted on their own merits can be deduced from the rest, or again enlarged by the express addition of principles which we have all along been using without any actual formulation of them. The point may be illustrated by considering the set of 'postulates' explicitly made in the geometry of Euclid. We cannot be said to have made geometry thoroughly scientific until we know whether the traditional list of postulates is complete, whether some of the traditional postulates might not be capable of demonstration, and whether geometry as a science would be destroyed by the denial of one or more of the postulates. But it would be very undesirable to suspend examination of the consequences which follow from the Euclidean postulates until we have answered all these questions. Even in pure mathematics one has, in the first instance, to proceed tentatively, to venture on the work of drawing inferences from what seem to be plausible postulates before one can pass a verdict on the merits of the postulates themselves. The consequence of this tentative character of our inquiries is that, so far as there is a difference between Philosophy and Science at all, it is a difference in _thoroughness_. The more philosophic a man's mind is, the less ready will he be to let an assertion pass without examination as obviously true. Thus Euclid makes a famous assumption--the 'parallel-postulate'--which amounts to the assertion that if three of the angles of a rectilinear quadrilateral are right angles, the fourth will be a right angle. The mathematicians of the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, again, generally assumed that if a function is continuous it can always be differentiated. A comparatively unphilosophical mind may let such plausible assertions pass unexamined, but a more philosophical mind will say to itself, when it comes across them, 'You great duffer, aren't you going to ask _Why_?' Suppose that, by way of experiment, I assume that the fourth angle of my quadrilateral will be acute, or again obtuse, will the body of conclusions I can now deduce from my set of postulates be free from contradictions or not? If I really give my mind to the task, cannot I define a continuous function which is _not_ differentiable? The raising of the first question led in fact to the discovery of what is called 'non-Euclidean' geometry, the raising of the second has banished from the text-books of the Calculus the masses of bad reasoning which long made that branch of mathematics a scandal to logic and led distinguished philosophers--Kant among them--to suspect that there are hopeless contradictions in the very foundations of mathematical science. Now, the effect of such careful scrutiny of first principles is not, of course, to upset any conclusions which have been correctly drawn from a set of premisses. All that happens is that the conclusion is no longer asserted by itself as a truth; what is asserted is that the conclusion is true _if_ the premisses are true. Thus we no longer assert the 'theorem of Pythagoras' as a categorical proposition; what we assert is that the theorem follows as a consequence from the assertion of some half-dozen ultimate postulates which will be found on analysis to be the premisses of Euclid's proof of his forty-seventh proposition. To come back to the point I wish to illustrate. The peculiarity of the philosopher is simply that he still goes on to 'wonder' and ask _Why_ when other persons are ready to leave off. He is less contented than other men to take things for granted. Of course, he knows that, in the end, you cannot get away from the necessity of taking something for granted, but he is anxious to take for granted as few things as possible, and when he has to take something for granted, he is exceptionally anxious to know exactly what that something is. De Morgan tells a story of a very pertinacious controversialist who, being asked whether he would not at least admit that 'the whole is greater than the part', retorted, 'Not I, until I see what use you mean to make of the admission.' I am not sure whether De Morgan quotes this as an ensample for our following or as a warning for our avoidance, but to my own mind it is an excellent specimen of the philosophic temper. Until you know what use is going to be made of your admission, you do not really know what it is you have admitted. It is this superior thoroughness of Philosophy which Plato has in mind when he says of his supreme science 'Dialectic' that its business is to examine and even to 'destroy' ([Greek: anairein]) the assumptions of all the other sciences. It does not let propositions which they have been content to take for granted pass without challenge, and it may actually 'destroy' them by showing that there is no justification for asserting them. Thus Euclid's assumption about parallels ceased to be included among the indispensable premisses of geometry, and was 'destroyed' in Plato's sense when Lobatchevsky, Bolyai, and Riemann showed that complete bodies of self-consistent geometrical theory can be deduced from sets of postulates in which Euclid's assumption is explicitly denied. There are two further points I should like to put before you in this connexion. One of them has been forcibly argued by Mr. Bertrand Russell in his admirable little work _The Problems of Philosophy_; the other has not. Indeed, it is just in his unwillingness to allow the second of these points to be raised at all that Mr. Russell seems to me to fall conspicuously and unaccountably short of being what, by his own showing, a great philosopher ought to be. To take first the point with which Mr. Russell has dealt. There is one very important branch of inquiry, if we ought not rather to say that there are two, which appear to belong wholly to general Philosophy and not to any of the 'sciences'. We cannot so much as ask the simplest question without making the implication that there is an ultimate distinction between true assertions and false ones, and certain definite principles by which we can infer true conclusions from true premisses. It is thus a very important part of the true 'story of everything' to state the principles upon which valid reasoning depends, and to enunciate the ultimate postulates which have to be taken for granted whenever we try to reason validly about anything. This is the inquiry known by the name of logic. We cannot expect men whose time is fully taken up with the task of reaching true conclusions about some special class of facts, those which concern the history of living organisms, or the production and distribution of 'wealth', or the stability of various forms of government, to burden themselves with this inquiry in addition to their other tasks. They may fairly be allowed to leave the construction of logic to others. But the man who makes it the business of his life to get back to ultimate first principles must plainly be a logician, though he need not be a specialist in biology or economics or 'sociology'. One great advantage which our children should have over their parents as students of Philosophy is that the last half-century has been one of unprecedented advance in the study of logic. In the 'logic of relations', founded by De Morgan, carried out further in the third volume of Ernst Schröder's _Algebra der Logik_, and made still more precise in the earliest sections of the _Principia Mathematica_ of Whitehead and Russell, we now possess the most potent weapon of intellectual analysis ever yet devised by man. We must further remark that the serious pursuit of any kind of science implies not only that there _are_ truths, but that some of them, at least, can be _known_ by man. Hence there arises a problem which is not quite the same as that of logic. What _is_ the relation we mean to speak of when we talk of 'knowing' something, and what conditions must be fulfilled in order that a proposition may not only be true but be known by us to be true? The very generality of this problem marks it out as one which belongs to what I have been all along calling Philosophy. (We must be careful to note that the problem does not belong to the 'special science' of psychology. Psychology aims at telling us how particular thoughts and trains of thought arise in an individual mind, but it has nothing to say on the question which of our thoughts give us 'knowledge' and which do not. The 'possibility of knowledge' has to be presupposed by the psychologist as a pre-condition of his particular investigations exactly as it is presupposed by the physicist, the botanist, or the economist.) The study of the problem 'what are the conditions which must be satisfied whenever anything at all is known' is precisely what Kant meant by _Criticism_, though the raising of the problem in this definite form is not due to Kant but goes back to Plato, who made it the subject of one of his greatest dialogues, the _Theaetetus_. The simplest way to make the nature and importance of the problem clear is perhaps the way Mr. Russell adopts in the _Problems of Philosophy_--to give a very rough statement of Kant's famous solution. Kant held that careful analysis shows us that any piece of knowledge has two constituents of very diverse origin. It has a _matter_ or material constituent consisting, as Kant held, of certain crude data supplied by sensation, colours, tones of varying pitch and loudness, odours, savours, and the like. It has also a _form_ or formal constituent. Our data, when we know anything at all, are arranged on some definite principle of order. When we recognize an object by the eye or a tune by the ear, we do not apprehend simply so much colour or sound, but colours spread out and forming a pattern or notes following one another in a fixed order. (If you reverse the movement of a gramophone, you get the same notes as before, but you do not get the same tune.) Further, Kant thought it could be shown that the data of our knowledge are a disorderly medley and come to us from without, being supplied by things which exist and are what they are equally whether any one perceives them or not, but the element of form, pattern, or order is put into them by our own minds in the act of knowing them. Our minds are so constructed that we _can_ only perceive things or think of them as connected by certain definite principles of orderly arrangement. This, he thought, explains the indubitable fact that we can sometimes know universal propositions to be true without needing to examine all the individual instances. I can know for certain that in every triangle the greater angle is subtended by the greater side, or that every event has a definite cause among earlier events, though I cannot examine all triangles or all events one by one. This is because the postulates of geometry and the law of causality are types of order which my mind _puts_ into the data of its knowledge in the very act of attending to them, and it is therefore certain that I shall never perceive or think anything which does not conform to these types. I give Kant's answer to the problem of Criticism not because I believe it to be the correct one, but to show what important consequences follow from our acceptance of a solution of this problem. If it is true that one of the constituent elements of every piece of knowledge is a lump of crude sensation, it follows that we can have no knowledge about our own minds or souls, and still less about God, since, if there are such beings as my soul and God, at any rate neither furnishes me with sense-data. Hence a great part of Kant's famous _Critique of Pure Reason_ is taken up by an elaborate attempt to show that psychology and theology contain no real knowledge. We cannot even know whether there is any probability for or against the existence of the soul or of God, though Kant was very anxious to show that it is our duty on moral grounds to _believe_ very firmly in both. Now if Kant is right about this, his result is tremendously important. If psychology and theology are wholly devoid of scientific value, it is most desirable that we should know this, not only that we may not waste time in studying them, but because it may reasonably make a very great difference to the practical ordering of our lives. If Kant can be proved wrong, it is equally important to be convinced that he is wrong. We may have been led by belief in his teaching to neglect the acquisition of a great deal of knowledge of high intrinsic interest, and may even have been betrayed into basing the conduct of life on wrong principles. If, for example, we can really know something about the soul, it _may_ be possible to know whether it is immortal or not, and it is not unreasonable to hold that certain knowledge, or even probable belief, on such a point ought to make a great difference to our choice between rival aims in life. There is clearly much less to be said for the recommendation to 'eat and drink for to-morrow we die' if we have reason to believe our souls immortal than if we have not, and some of us do not share Mr. Russell's view that Philosophy is called upon to abdicate what the Greeks thought her sovereign function, the regulation of life. It is true that Kant convinced himself that it is a moral duty to act as if we knew the truth of doctrines for or against which we cannot detect the slightest balance of probability. But the logically sound inference from Kant's premisses would be that, to use Pascal's famous metaphor, a prudent man will do well to bet neither for nor against immortality. Unfortunately, as Pascal said, you can't _help_ betting; _il faut parier_. If it makes any difference to the relative values of different goods whether the soul dies with the body or not, one _must_ take sides in the matter. In making one's choices one must prefer either the things it is reasonable to regard as good for a creature whose days are threescore years and ten or those which it is reasonable to regard as best for a being who is to live for ever. The only way to escape having to bet is not to be born. I come to the second problem, the one which, as I think, Mr. Russell arbitrarily ignores. A human being is not a mere knowledge-machine. The relation of knower to known is not the only relation in which he stands to himself and to other things. The 'world' is not merely something at which he can look on, it is also an instrument for achieving what he regards as good and for creating what he judges to be beautiful. To do good and to make beautiful things are just as much man's business as to discover truth. A knowledge of the world would be very incomplete if it did not include knowledge of what ought to be, whether because it is morally best or because it is beautiful, as well as knowledge of what is actually there. And it is not immediately evident how the two, knowledge of what ought to be and knowledge of what merely is, are connected. There is, to be sure, one way in which it is pretty plain that they are _not_ related. You cannot learn what ought to be--what is beautiful or morally good--merely by first finding out what has been or what is likely to be. This simple consideration of itself deprives many of the big volumes which have been written about the 'evolution' of art and morals of most of their value. They may have interest if they are treated only as contributions to the history of opinion about art and morals. But unhappily their authors often assume that we can find out what really _is_ right or beautiful by merely discovering what men have thought right and beautiful in the remote past or guessing what they will think right or beautiful in the distant future. The fallacy underlying this procedure has been happily exposed by Mr. Russell himself in an occasional essay where he remarks that it is antecedently just as likely that evolution is going from bad to worse as that it is going from good to better. _Unless_ it is going from bad to worse it is obviously absurd to suppose that you can find out what _is_ good by discovering what our distant ancestors _thought_ good. And _if_ (as may be the case) it is going from bad to worse, no amount of knowledge about what our posterity will think good can throw any light on the question what is good. There is, in fact, no ground whatever for believing that 'evolution' need be the same thing as progress, and this is enough to knock the bottom out of 'evolutionary ethics'. On the other hand, it is quite certain that when we call an act right or a picture beautiful we do not mean to be expressing a mere personal liking of our own, any more than when we make a statement about the composition of sulphuric acid or the product of 9 and 7. As Dr. Rashdall has put it, when we say that a given act is right, we do not pretend to be infallible. We know that we may fall into mistakes about right and wrong just as we may make mistakes in working a multiplication sum. But we do mean to say that _if_ our own verdict 'that act is right' is a true one, then the verdict of any one who retorts 'that act is wrong' is false, just as when we state the result of our multiplication we mean to assert that _if_ we have done the sum correctly any one else who brings out a different answer has worked it wrongly. Indeed, we might convince ourselves that these verdicts are not meant to be expressions of private and personal liking in a still simpler way. All of us must be aware that the line of action we pronounce 'right' is not always what we like nor the conduct we call 'wrong' what we dislike. We often like doing what we fully believe to be wrong and dislike doing what we believe right, without being in the least confused in our moral verdicts by this collision of liking and conviction. So again it is a common thing to like one poem or picture better than another, and yet to be fully persuaded that the work we like the less is the better work of art. Indeed, the whole process of moral and aesthetic education may be said to exist just in learning to like most what is really best. All this, put into so many words, may seem too simple to call for statement, but it makes nonsense of a great deal that has been written about ethics of late years. It disposes once for all of the theory that moral and aesthetic verdicts are 'subjective', that is, that they mean no more than that the persons who make them have certain personal likes and dislikes of which these verdicts are a record. Of course, it might be urged that all of us do indeed mean to express truths which are independent of our personal likings when we make moral and aesthetic judgements, but that we never succeed in doing so. A man might conceivably hold that there is no real distinction between right and wrong or between beautiful and ugly, but that it is a universal illusion of mankind to suppose that there are such distinctions. Or he might hold that the distinctions are real, but that we do not know where to draw them. He might suggest that some ways of acting are really right and others really wrong, but that we do not know which are the right acts and so regularly confuse what we like doing with what is 'really' right. Mr. Russell, in some of his later writings, seems to incline to views of this sort. But the suggestion is really unmotived. It would be just as reasonable to suggest that all geometrical or astronomical propositions are only expressions of the personal and private feelings of geometers and astronomers, and that either there is no distinction between truths and falsehoods in geometry and astronomy, or that, at any rate, we do not know which the true propositions are. That there is a real distinction between true and false propositions and that, with pains and care, we can discover some truths are assumptions we must make if we are to recognize the possibility of pursuing knowledge at all, and there is no reason to suppose that these assumptions do not hold as good in matters of art and morals as elsewhere. No doubt, in practice men are prone to mistake what they like for what is right or beautiful, but this danger, such as it is, is not confined to art and morals. Men do often call acts right merely because they like doing them or pictures beautiful merely because they get pleasure from them. But it is also notorious that many men are prone to believe that a thing is likely to happen merely because they wish it to happen, or that it is unlikely to happen merely because they wish it not to happen. Yet no one seriously makes the reality of these tendencies a ground for denying the possibility of 'inferring the future from the past'. We must then, I hold, regard it as an integral part of the whole story of everything to find an answer to the questions What is good? and What is beautiful? as well as to the question What is fact? By the side of the so-called 'positive sciences', which deal with the third question, we must recognize as having an equal right to exist the so-called 'sciences of value', which deal with the first and the second. I want now to take a further step in which disciples of Mr. Russell would perhaps decline to follow me. We have already seen what is meant by the co-ordination of the sciences into a single body of deductions from definite ultimate postulates, though in what we have said about the task we were content to speak provisionally as if the sciences of 'what is' were all the sciences to be co-ordinated. We talked, in fact, as if the work of Philosophy were merely to work into a coherent story all that can be known of 'objects that present themselves to the contemplation' of a knower. But, of course, if Philosophy is ever to attack its final problem, we must take into account two things which we have so far ignored. The 'whole story of everything' includes the knowing intelligence itself as well as the 'objects' which present themselves to its gaze. Indeed, it is not even accurate to speak as if 'objects' 'presented themselves' to a merely passive intelligence; to be apprehended, they have to be actively attended to. If we would see them, we have to be on the look-out for them. And the knowing intelligence is not aware merely of these objects. It is also aware of itself, though it is certainly never a 'presented object'. Also, it is not only a knower but a doer and a maker. Intelligence is shown as much in the ordering of life by a rule based on a right valuation of goods and in the making of things of beauty as in the discovery of propositions about what is. Hence, we can hardly be content to leave the 'positive' sciences and the 'sciences of values' simply standing over against one another. There is that which 'is', and there is that which 'ought to be', and, at first sight at any rate, the two seem very different. Much that is--ignorance, sin, misery, ugliness--ought not to be, and much that ought to be is very far from being fact. We are accustomed to regard this as a matter of course, but, closely considered, it is perhaps the supreme wonder of all the wonders. We creatures of circumstance, as we call ourselves, can take stock of the sum of things to which we belong, and judge it. It is not simply that we can, and often do, _wish_ that it were different in various ways; we can judge that it _ought_ to be different, and you may find a man of science like Huxley, after a life spent in trying to understand the laws which prevail in the world, deliberately making it his last word to his fellows that their duty is to set themselves to reverse the 'cosmic process', to select for preservation just the human types which, if the much-abused metaphor may be tolerated, Nature, left to herself, selects for destruction. We might, of course, regard this apparently unreconcilable conflict between the arrangements which do prevail; as is commonly supposed, in the world, and those which ought to prevail, as a mystery which we must despair of ever understanding. But, to say the least of it, it is hardly consistent with the philosophic temper to treat any question as an insoluble riddle until one has tried all ways of solution and found them _culs-de-sac_. If we are to be thoroughly loyal to the spirit which prompts all intelligent inquiry, we are bound at least to ask whether it is, after all, beyond the power of human intelligence to think of the world as a system in which somehow, in the end, what ought to be prescribes what is. It is true that, for reasons already mentioned, we cannot, like Spinoza or the Sufis, reconcile facts and values by the simple assumption that what is is shown, by the fact that it is, to be what ought to be, and that our common conviction that sin and ugliness are painfully real is only an illusion due to spiritual short sight. We have just as much reason to believe that some pleasures are good, that pain which is not a means to good is evil, that justice and purity are good, lewdness and cruelty bad, that some colours are lovely and others odious, as we have to believe that between any two points there is always a third, or that, if _B_ and _C_ are two points there is always a point _D_ on the straight line _BC_ such that _C_ is between _B_ and _D_, and a point _A_ on _CB_ such that _B_ is between _C_ and _A_. Indeed, the most fanatical champion of what Mr. Russell in his anti-ethical mood calls 'ethical neutrality' cannot well avoid recognizing the truth of at least one proposition in ethics, the proposition that knowledge of scientific truth is _better_ than ignorance of it. The admission of this single truth of value is enough to raise all the time-honoured problems of ethics and theodicy. If knowledge of truth is better than ignorance of it, the actual present state of the world, in which so much truth is yet to seek, is by no means wholly good, and there really is at least one way in which it is our duty to make it more like what it ought to be. If then we cannot get rid of the apparent conflict between Is and Ought by saying that Ought is an illusion, can we get rid of it, in the only other possible way, by holding that what ought to be is the lasting and primary reality and that the 'facts' which are so far from being what they ought to be are by comparison only half-real, much what shadows are to the solid things which throw them? This was the doctrine of Plato, who makes Socrates say in the _Phaedo_ that it is the 'Good' which holds the Universe together, and that in the end the true reason for each particular arrangement in the world, whether we can see it or not, is that it is 'best' that this arrangement, and no other, should exist. It is also the foundation of Kant's well-known contention that, however barren speculative theology and psychology may be, the reality of the moral order and the unconditionality of moral obligation compel us to make the existence of God, the immortality of our souls, and the moral government of the world postulates of practical philosophy. More generally, it is just this conviction that 'what is' has its source and explanation in what 'ought to be', which is the central thought of all philosophical Theism. If we can accept such a faith, we shall not, of course, be enabled to eliminate mystery from things. We shall, for instance, be still quite in the dark about the way in which evil comes to be in a world of God's making. We shall neither be able to say _how_ any particular thing comes to be other than it ought to be, nor _how_ in the end good is 'brought out of evil'. But if we are to have a right to hold a view of the Platonic or Theistic type, we must be able, not indeed to say how evil comes about or how it is to be finally got rid of, but to say, in a general way, what it is 'good for'. Thus, if there are certain goods of the highest value which could not exist at all except on the condition of the existence of less important evils, this consideration will remove, so far as _those_ goods and evils are concerned, the time-honoured puzzle how evil can exist at all if God is. To take a specific example. To many of us it appears directly certain that such qualities of character as fortitude, patience, superiority to carnal lusts, magnanimity, are goods of the highest value. We think also that we see that these qualities are not primitive psychological endowments but require for their development the experience of struggle and discipline in a world where there is real suffering, real disappointment, real temptation. To us, therefore, there seems to be no contradiction between the existence of God and the presence in a world made by God of the evils needed for the development of these virtues. And this will include some of the worst of all the evils we know of. Few things are more ghastly than some of the cruelties which have been practised in the late War and are still being practised in the distracted country of Russia. Yet we know how revulsion from these horrors has made many a man who seemed to be sunk in sloth or greed or carnality into a Bayard or a Galahad. It may well be that this moral re-birth would never have been effected if the evils which provoked it had been less monstrous. Here, then, we seem to discern a principle which _may_ be adequate to explain what all the ills of human life are 'good for'. I must not deny that all such explanation, in my judgement, involves the postulate that the ennoblement of character and deepening of insight brought about by suffering are permanent--in fact, that it requires the postulates of the existence of God and the reality of everlasting life. Mr. Russell, I imagine, would regard this as a confession that I am sunk in what he airily dismisses as 'theological superstitions'. I should reply that the 'superstition' is on his side; to dismiss God and the eternal soul, without serious inquiry, as 'superstitions' is just the most superficial of all the superstitions. It is, of course, incumbent on anyone who holds the Platonic view to show that its postulates are not inconsistent with any known truth, and I would add that he ought also to show that there are at any rate known facts which seem to demand just this kind of explanation. Both these points, as I hold, can be established, but I do not in the least wish to suggest that any philosopher will ever find it an easy task to 'justify the ways of God to man'. As Timaeus says in Plato, 'to find the father and fashioner of the Universe is _not_ easy', and I want rather to lay stress on the magnitude of the task than to extenuate it. But I am concerned to urge that the doctrine which accounts for what is by what ought to be is the _only_ philosophical theory on which it ceases to be an unintelligible mystery that we should have--as I maintain we certainly have--the same kind of assurance about values that we have about facts. The chief complaint I have to make about the mental attitude of Mr. Russell and some of his friends is that, in their zeal for the unification of science, they seem inclined to assume that the larger problem of the co-ordination of Science with Life does not exist, or, at any rate, need not occupy our minds. This is what I should call mere atheistic superstition. On this point they might, I believe, learn much which it imports them to know from the works of some of the notable living philosophers of Italy, in particular from Professor Varisco of Rome and Professor Aliotta of Padua, whose labours have been specially directed to the co-ordination in a consistent system of the principles of the sciences of fact with those of the sciences of value. Though, after all, those who have refused to learn the lesson from the noble philosophical work of Professor James Ward, the illustrious champion of sober thought in their own University of Cambridge, are perhaps unlikely to master it in the schools of Rome or Padua. You will readily see that I am suggesting in effect that if Philosophy is ever to execute her supreme task, she will need to take into much more serious account than it has been the fashion to do, not only the work of the exact sciences but the teachings of the great masters of life who have founded the religions of the world, and the theologies which give reasoned expression to what in the great masters is immediate intuition. For us this means more particularly that it is high time philosophers ceased to treat the great Christian theologians as credulous persons whose convictions need not be taken seriously and the Gospel history as a fable to which the 'enlightened' can no longer pay any respect. They must be prepared to reckon with the possibility that the facts recorded in the Gospel happened and that Catholic theology is, in substance, true. If we are to be philosophers in earnest we cannot afford to have any path which may lead to the heart of life's mystery blocked for us by placards bearing the labels 'reactionary', 'unmodern,' and their likes. That what is most modern must be best is a superstition which it is strange to find in a really educated man--especially after the events of the last five years. A philosopher, at any rate, should be able to endure the charge of being 'unmodern' with fortitude. It is at least a tenable thesis that many of the qualities which we Western men have been losing in our craze for industrialism and commercialistic 'Imperialism' are just those which are most necessary to the seeker after speculative truth. Abelard and St. Thomas would very likely have failed as advertising agents, company promoters, or editors of sensational daily papers. But it may well be that both of them were much better fitted than Lord Northcliffe, Mr. Bottomley, or Mr. A.G. Gardiner to tell us whether God is and what God is. In fact, one would hardly suppose habitual and successful composition of effective 'posters' or alluring prospectuses to be wholly compatible with that candour and scrupulous veracity which are required of the philosopher. As for 'reaction', no one but a writer in a 'revolutionary' journal would be fool enough to use the word as, in itself, an epithet of reproach. Most persons who have a bowing acquaintance with Mechanics know that you cannot have an engine in which there is all action and no reaction, and most sane men can see that before you pronounce a given 'reaction' good or bad you need to know what it is reacting against. If a man who wants to go east discovers that he is walking west, he is usually reactionary enough to go back on his steps. In short, if we mean to be philosophical, our main concern will be that our beliefs should be true; we shall care very little whether they happen to be popular or unpopular with the intellectual 'proletarians' of the moment, and if we can get at a truth, we shall not mind having to go back a long way for it. Indeed, when one wants to get on the track of the most ultimate and important truths of all, there is usually a great positive advantage in going back a very long way for them. The questions which deal with first principles, being the simplest--though the hardest--of all, are mostly raised very simply and directly by Plato and Aristotle, who were the very first writers to raise them. In the discussions of later times, the great simple questions about principles have so often been overlaid by mainly irrelevant accretions of secondary details that it is usually very hard indeed 'to see the wood for the trees'. This is the chief reason why one who, like myself, finds it his main business in life to introduce younger men and women to the study of Philosophy must think indifference to Greek literature about the worst misfortune which could happen to our intellectual civilization. I have tried in what I have said so far to explain what I understand by the philosophical spirit and what I regard as the primary problems with which Philosophy has to wrestle. If what I have said is not wholly wide of the mark, it should be clear what is the deadliest enemy of the true spirit of Philosophy. It is the temper which is too indolent to think out a question for itself and consequently prefers to accept traditional ready-made answers to the problems of Science and Life. Traditionalism, wherever it is found, is the enemy, because Traditionalism is only another name for indolence. Observe that I say Traditionalism, not Tradition. Nowhere in life, and least of all in Philosophy, is the solitary likely to work to much purpose unless he has behind him that body of organized sound sense which we call Tradition. And I do not mean that true philosophers are necessarily 'heretics', or that 'orthodoxy' is less philosophical than 'heterodoxy'. I mean that however true an 'orthodox' proposition may be, it is no living truth for me unless I have made it my own, as its first discoverer did, by personal labour of the spirit. The truth is something which each generation must rediscover for itself. True traditions may be quite as injurious, if they have become mere traditions, as false ones. It was not so much because the Aristotelian doctrines were false that the unquestioning acceptance of Aristotelian formulae all but strangled human thought in the later days of Scholasticism. Some of these doctrines were false, but many of them were much truer than anything the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries had to put in their place, and the rediscovery of their real meaning is perhaps the chief service of the Hegelian school to Philosophy. The trouble was that mechanical repetition of Aristotle's formulae as matters of course inevitably led to loss of real insight into the meaning the formulae had borne for Aristotle. We may say, generally, that because Traditionalism is the death of sound thinking, the ages in which the prospects of advance in Philosophy are brightest are just those in which a powerful historical tradition has broken down and men feel themselves compelled to go back on their steps and raise once more the fundamental questions which their fathers had supposed to be disposed of once for all by a formula. This has happened twice since the downfall of the degenerate Scholasticism, Protestant and Roman, of the sixteenth century. In the seventeenth century the result was the great movement in Philosophy, Mathematics, and Physics, of which Descartes and Galileo are the principal figures. Towards the end of the eighteenth century, when the doctrines of Descartes had themselves been traditionalized, the same thing happened again, the leading actors in the drama being David Hume and Immanuel Kant; the result was first the revival of the 'critical' problem by Kant, and then the great, if over-hasty, attempt at a positive interpretation of the Universe which culminated in the philosophical system of Hegel. In our own age, it is mainly Kant and Hegel who have been traditionalized, and we seem to be living through the last stages of the discrediting of this third tradition with every prospect of a great advance if our own time can only find its Descartes. In what I am going on to say I must naturally speak of the disintegrating influences chiefly as we have seen them at work in our own country; but I should like, before I do so, to remark that on the Continent splendid work has been done in the requickening of genuine philosophical thought by an influence which has, so far, not made itself widely felt among ourselves. I mean the revival of Thomism so earnestly promoted in the academies of the Roman Church by Pope Leo XIII. Neo-Thomism, I am convinced, if its representatives will only maintain it at the high level characteristic, for example, of the Italian _Rivista Neo-Scolastica_, has a very great contribution to make to the Philosophy of the future, and is much more deserving of the serious attention of students in our own country than the much-advertised 'impressionism' of Pragmatists and Bergsonians. Indeed, I hardly know how much we may not hope from the movement if it should please Providence to send into the world a Neo-Thomist who is also a really qualified mathematician. Of the state of thought in our own country we may fairly say that a generation ago opinion on the ultimate questions was, in the main, fairly divided into two camps. There were the professional metaphysicians, mainly living on a tradition derived from Kant and Hegel, and there were the men of science whose 'philosophy', such as it was, is perhaps best represented by two well-known and most instructive books, Mach's _Science of Mechanics_ and Karl Pearson's _Grammar of Science_. The men of the Kant-Hegel tradition, whatever their family dissensions, were generally united by the common view that--as William James accused them of teaching--the function of sensation in contributing to knowledge, whatever it is, is something 'contemptible'. Kant himself, as we have seen, had thought very differently, but he was supposed to have been 'corrected' on this, as on so many points, by Hegel. The most distinguished of my own Oxford teachers seemed agreed to believe that our thought builds up the fabric of knowledge entirely from within by what Hegel called an 'immanent dialectic'. A rough idea of what this means may be given in the following way. You take any experience you please and try to put what you experience into a proposition. The proposition may, to begin with, be as vague as, e.g. 'I am now feeling something,' 'I am now aware of something.' On reflection you find that the statement does not do justice to the experience. You feel the need to say more precisely _what_ you are feeling or are aware of, how it is related to what you experience on other occasions, and what the 'I' is which is said to 'have' the experience. Until you have done this your thought is a miserable reproduction of your experience, and if you could ever do it completely, it would turn out that a really adequate account of the most trivial experience would involve complete knowledge of the structure and working of everything. Thus, if you once begin to think about your experience at all, you are irresistibly driven on to endless further reflection. If you try to stop short anywhere in the process, the results of your reflection are found to contain unexplained contradictions, just because you have not yet fitted on the fact on which you are reflecting to everything else there is to know. All the assumptions of every-day 'common sense' and all the more recondite assumptions of the sciences are saturated with these contradictions, because both 'common sense' and the sciences leave so much of the whole 'story of everything' untouched. If the whole story were told, all things would be found to be just one thing, which these philosophers call the 'Absolute', and the only perfectly true statement we can make would be a statement about this Absolute in which we asserted of it all that it is. Since no science ever attempts to say anything at all about this one sole thing, far less to get all there might be to be said about it into a single statement, no scientific proposition can be more than 'partially' true, and unhappily _we_ do not know what alterations would be required to make our 'partial' truths quite true. Naturally enough Kant's allegation that mathematical first principles are so self-contradictory that you can rigidly demonstrate mathematical propositions which contradict each other was grist to the Hegelian mill. That our notions of space, time, the infinitely great, the infinitely little, are all a jumble of contradictions was steadily repeated by the Hegelian philosophers, and indeed the mathematicians were accustomed to state their own principles so loosely and confusedly that there was a great deal of excuse for the suspicion that the fault lay with Mathematics and not with the mathematicians. It is clear that such a philosophy ought to end in unqualified Agnosticism. The Hegelians, to be sure, made merry over the Unknowable of Mr. Spencer, but their own Absolute is really just the Unknowable in its 'Sunday best'. Nothing that we can say about anything which is not the Absolute is really true, because there really _is_ nothing but the Absolute to speak about, and nothing that we can say about the Absolute is quite true either, because we can never succeed in saying itself of it. Mr. Bradley, far the most eminent of the philosophers of the Absolute, has made persistent and brilliant attempts to show that, in spite of this, we do know enough to be sure that our own mind is more like the Absolute than a cray-fish, and a cray-fish more like it than a crystal. But when all is said, though I owe more to Mr. Bradley than I can ever acknowledge adequately, I cannot help feeling that there are two men in Mr. Bradley, a great constructive thinker and a subtle destructive critic, and that the destructive Hyde is perpetually pulling to pieces all that the constructive Jekyll has built up. Of course it is obvious that the truth of mathematics, if mathematics are true, is a fatal stone of stumbling for this type of philosophy. Mathematics never attempts to say anything about the 'Absolute'--the only 'Absolute' of which it knows is only a 'degraded conic'--yet it claims that its statements, if once they have been correctly expressed, are not 'partial' but complete. Over against the Hegelianizing philosophers, we had, of course, the men of science. No one could wish to speak of the scientific men of the days of Huxley without deep respect for their success in adding to our positive knowledge of facts. But it may perhaps be said at this distance of time that it was not precisely the greatest among them who were most prominent as mystagogues of Science with the big S, and it may certainly be said that when the mystagogues, the Cliffords, Huxleys, and the rest, undertook to improvise a theory of first principles, their achievement was little better than infantile. They took it on trust from Hume that the whole of knowledge is built up of sensations, actual or 'revived', and quite missed Kant's point that their empiricism left the formal constituent in knowledge, the type of order by which data are organized into an intelligible pattern, wholly out of account. Even when they deigned to read Kant, they read him without any inkling of the character of the 'critical' problem. Hence they taught dogmatically as true a theory of scientific method which Hume himself had elaborately proved impossible. It was just because Hume had seen so clearly that no universal scientific truths can be derived from premisses which merely record particular facts that he professed himself a follower of the 'academic' or 'sceptical' philosophy. He recognized the impossibility of constructing scientific knowledge out of its material constituent alone, but did not see where the formal constituent could come from, and so resigned himself to regarding the actual successes of science as a kind of standing miracle. The men of the 'seventies were, after all, in many cases more anxious to damage theology than to build up Philosophy. They read Hume without any delicate sense for his urbane ironies, and believed in good faith that he and John Stuart Mill between them had shown that by a mysterious process called 'induction' it is possible to prove rigorously universal conclusions in science without universal premisses. A scientific law, according to them, is only a convenient short-hand notation in which to register the 'routine of our perceptions'. Thus we have known of a great many men who have died, and have never known of any man who lived to much over a hundred without dying. The universal proposition 'all men are mortal' is a short expression for this information, and it is nothing more. It ought to have been obvious that, if this is a true account of science, all scientific 'generalizations' are infinitely improbable. The number of men of whom we _know_ that they have died is insignificant by comparison with the multitude of those who have lived, are living, or will live, and we have no guarantee that this insignificant number is a fair average sample. So again, unless there are true universal propositions which are not 'short-hand' for any plurality of observed facts whatever, we cannot with any confidence, however faint, infer that a 'regular sequence' or 'routine' which has been observed from the dawn of recorded time up to, say, midnight, August 4, 1919, will continue to be observed on August 5, 1919. How, except by relying on the truth of some principle which does not depend itself on the validity of 'generalization', can we tell that it is even slightly probable that the nature of things will not change suddenly at the moment of midnight between August 4 and August 5, 1919? What is called 'inductive' science certainly has 'pulled off' remarkable successes in the past, but we can have no confidence that these successes will be repeated unless there are much better reasons for believing in its methods and initial assumptions than any which the scientific man who is an amateur 'empiricist' in his philosophy can offer us. We may note, in particular, that this empiricism, which has been expounded most carefully by Pearson and Mach, coincides with Hegelian Absolutism in leading to the denial of the truth of mathematics. It would be a superfluous task to argue at length that, e.g., De Moivre's theorem or Taylor's theorem is not a short-hand formula for recording the 'routine of our perceptions'. The general state of things at the time of which I am speaking was thus that relations were decidedly strained between a body of philosophers and a body of scientific men who ought at least to have met on the common ground of a complete Agnosticism. The philosophers were, in general, shy of Science, mainly, no doubt, because they were modest men who knew their own limitations, but they had a way of being condescending to Science, which naturally annoyed the scientific men. These latter professed a theory of the structure of knowledge which the philosophers could easily show to be grotesque, but the retort was always ready to hand that at any rate Science seemed somehow to be getting somewhere while Philosophy appeared to lead nowhere in particular. The conditions for mutual understanding have now greatly improved, thanks mainly to the labour of mathematicians with philosophical minds on the principles of their own science. If we admit that mathematics is true--and it seems quite impossible to avoid the admission--we can now see that neither the traditional Kant-Hegel doctrine nor the traditional sensationalistic empiricism can be sound. Not to speak of inquiries which have been actually created within our own life-time, it may fairly be said that the whole of pure mathematics has been shown, or is on the verge of being shown, to form a body of conclusions rigidly deduced from a few unproved postulates which are of a purely logical character. Descartes has proved to be right in his view that the exceptional certainty men have always ascribed to mathematical knowledge is not due to the supposed restriction of the science to relation of number and magnitude--there is a good deal of pure mathematics which deals with neither--but to the simplicity of its undefined notions and the high plausibility of its unproved postulates. Bit by bit the bad logic has been purged out of the Calculus and the Theory of Functions and these branches of study have been made into patterns of accurate reasoning on exactly stated premisses. It has appeared in the process that the alleged contradictions in mathematics upon which the followers of Kant and Hegel laid stress do not really exist at all, and only seemed to exist because mathematicians in the past expressed their meaning so awkwardly. Further, it has been established that the most fundamental idea of all in mathematics is not that of number or magnitude but that of _order_ in a series and that the whole doctrine of series is only a branch of the logic of Relations. From the logical doctrine of serial order we seem to be able to deduce the whole arithmetic of integers, and from this it is easy to deduce further the arithmetic of fractions and the arithmetic or algebra of the 'real' and 'complex' numbers. As the logical principles of serial order enable us to deal with infinite as well as with finite series, it further follows that the Calculus and the Theory of Functions can now be built up without a single contradiction or breach of logic. The puzzles about the infinitely great and infinitely small, which used to throw a cloud of mystery over the 'higher' branches of Mathematics, have been finally dissipated by the discovery that the 'infinite' is readily definable in purely ordinal terms and that the 'infinitesimal' does not really enter into the misnamed 'Infinitesimal Calculus' at all. Arithmetic and the theory of serial order have been shown to be the sufficient basis of the whole science which, as Plato long ago remarked, is 'very inappropriately called geometry'. A résumé of the work which has been thus done may be found in the stately volumes of the _Principia Mathematica_ of Whitehead and Russell, or--to a large extent--in the _Formulario Matematico_ of Professor Peano. Of other works dealing with the subject, the finest from the strictly philosophical point of view is probably that of Professor G. Frege on _The Fundamental Laws of Arithmetic_. The general result of the whole development is that we are now at last definitely freed from the haunting fear that there is some hidden contradiction in the principles of the exact sciences which would vitiate all our knowledge of universal truths. This removes the chief, if not the only ground for the view that all the truths of Science are only 'partial'. At the same time, the proof that pure mathematics is a strictly logical development and that all its conclusions are of the hypothetical form, 'if _a b c_ ..., then _x_' definitely disproves the popular Kantian doctrine that _sense_-data are a necessary constituent of scientific knowledge. And with this dogma falls the _main_ ground for the denial that knowledge about the soul and God is attainable. The recovery of a sounder philosophical method has, as Mr. Russell himself says, disposed of what was yesterday the accepted view that the function of Philosophy is to narrow down the range of possible interpretations of facts until only one is left. Philosophy rather opens doors than shuts them. It multiplies the number of logically possible sets of premisses from which consequences agreeing with empirical facts may be inferred. Mr. Russell's unreasoned anti-theism seems to me to make him curiously blind to an obvious application of this principle. On the other side, the revived attention to the logical methods of the sciences is killing the crude sensationalism of the days which saw the first publication of Mach's _Science of Mechanics_ and Pearson's _Grammar of Science_. The claims of 'induction' to be a method of establishing truths may be fairly said to have been completely exposed. It is clearer now than it was when Kant made the observation that each of the 'sciences' contains just so much science as it contains mathematics, and that the Critical Philosophy was fully justified in insisting that all science implies universal _à priori_ postulates, though it went wrong in thinking that these postulates are laws of the working of the human mind or are 'put into' things by the human mind. How far Science has moved away from crude sensationalistic empiricism may be estimated by a comparison of the successive editions of the _Grammar of Science_. It must always have been apparent to an attentive reader that the chapters of that fascinating book which deal directly with the leading principles of Physics and Biology are of very different quality from the earlier chapters which expound, with many self-contradictions and much wrath against metaphysicians and theologians whom the writer seems never to have tried to understand, the fantastic 'metaphysics of the telephone-exchange'. But the difference of quality is more marked in the second edition than in the first, and in the (alas!) unfinished third edition than in the second. So far, then, as the problem of the unification of the sciences is concerned, the old prejudices which divided the rationalist philosopher from the sensationalist scientific man seem to have been, in the main, dissipated. We can see now that what used to be called Philosophy and what used to be called Science are both parts of one task, that they have a common method and presuppose a common body of principles. So far it may be said with truth that Philosophy is becoming more faithful than Kant was himself to the leading ideas of 'Criticism', and again that it is reverting once more, as it reverted in the days of Galileo, to the positions of Plato. I do not mean that the whole programme has been completely executed and that there is nothing for a successor of Frege or Russell to do. It is instructive to observe that at the very end of the great work on arithmetic to which I have referred Frege found himself compelled by difficulties which had been overlooked until Russell called attention to them to add an appendix confessing that there was a single important flaw in his elaborate logical construction of the principles of arithmetic. He had shown that if there are certain things called 'integers', defined as he had defined them, the whole of arithmetic follows. But he had not shown that there _is_ any object answering to his definition of an integer, and the logical researches of Russell had thrown some doubt on the point. This proved that some restatement of the initial assumptions of the theory was needed. Since the date of Frege's appendix (1903), Mr. Russell and others have done something towards the necessary rectification, and the resulting 'Theory of Types' is pretty certainly one of the most important contributions ever made to logical doctrine, but it may still be reasonably doubted whether the 'Theory of Types', as expounded by Whitehead and Russell in their _Principia Mathematica_, is the last word required. At any rate, it seems clear that it is a great step on the right road to the solution of a most difficult problem. There still remains the greatest problem of all, the harmonization of Science and Life. I cannot believe that this problem is an illegitimate one, or that we must sit down content to accept the severance of 'fact' and 'value' as final for our thought. Even the unification of the sciences itself remains imperfect so long as we treat it as merely something which 'happens to be the case' that there are many things and many kinds of things in the universe and also a number of relations in which they 'happen' to stand. It is significant that in his later writings Mr. Russell has been driven to abandon the concept of personal identity, which is so fundamental for practical life, and to assert that each of us is not one man but an infinite series of men of whom each only exists for a mathematical instant. I am sure that such a theory requires the abandonment of the whole notion of value as an illusion, and even more sure that it is ruinous to any practical rule of living, and I cannot believe in the 'philosophy' of any man who is satisfied to base his practice on what he regards as detected illusion. Hence I find myself strongly in sympathy with my eminent Italian colleague Professor Varisco, who has devoted his two chief works (_I Massimi Problemi_ and _Conosci Te Stesso_) to an exceedingly subtle attempt to show that 'what ought to be', in Platonic phrase 'the Good', is in the end the single principle from which all things derive their existence as well as their value. Mr. Russell's philosophy saves us half Plato, and that is much, but I am convinced that it is whole and entire Plato whom a profounder philosophy would preserve for us. I believe personally that such a philosophy will be led, as Plato was in the end led, to a theistic interpretation of life, that it is in the living God Who is over all, blessed for ever, that it will find the common source of fact and value. And again I believe that it will be led to its result very largely by what is, after all, perhaps the profoundest thought of Kant, the conviction that the most illuminating fact of all is the _fact_ of the absolute and unconditional obligatoriness of the law of right. It is precisely here that fact and value most obviously meet. For when we ask ourselves what in fact we are, we shall assuredly find no true answer to this question about what _is_ if we forget that we are first and foremost beings who _ought_ to follow a certain way of life, and to follow it for no other reason than that it is good. But I cannot, of course, offer reasons here for this conviction, though I am sure that adequate reasons can be given. Here I must be content to state this ultimate conviction as a 'theological superstition', or, as I should prefer to put it with a little more certainty, as a matter of faith. The alternative is to treat the world as a stupid, and possibly malicious, bad joke. _Note_.--It may be thought that something should have been said about the revolt against authority and tradition which has styled itself variously 'Pragmatism' and 'Humanism', and also about the recent vogue of Bergsonianism. I may in part excuse my silence by the plea that both movements are, in my judgement, already spent forces. If I must say more than this, I would only remark about Pragmatism that I could speak of it with more confidence if its representatives themselves were more agreed as to its precise principles. At present I can discern little agreement among them about anything except that they all show a great impatience with the business of thinking things quietly and steadily out, and that none of them seems to appreciate the importance of the 'critical' problem. 'Pragmatism' thus seems to me less a definite way of thinking than a collective name for a series of 'guesses at truth'. Some of the guesses may be very lucky ones, but I, at least, can hardly take the claims of unmethodic guessing to be a philosophy very seriously. To 'give and receive argument' appears to me to be of the very essence of Philosophy. As for M. Bergson, I yield to no one in admiration for his brilliancy as a stylist and the happiness of many of his illustrations. But I have always found it difficult to grasp his central idea--if he really has one--because his whole doctrine has always seemed to me to be based upon a couple of elementary blunders which will be found in the opening chapter of his _Données Immédiates de la Conscience_. We are there called on to reject the intellect in Philosophy on the grounds (1) that, being originally developed in the services of practical needs, it can at best tell us how to find our way about among the bodies around us, and is thus debarred from knowing more than the _outsides_ of things; (2) that its typical achievement is therefore geometry, and geometry, _because it can measure only straight lines_, necessarily misconceives the true character of 'real duration'. Now, as to the first point, I should have thought it obvious that the establishment of a _modus vivendi_ with one's fellows has always been as much of a practical need as the avoidance of stones and pit-falls, and the alleged conclusion about the defects of the intellect does not therefore seem to me to follow from M. Bergson's premisses, even if we had any reason, as I do not see that we have, to accept the premisses. And as to the second point, I would ask whether M. Bergson possesses a clock or a watch, and if he has, how he supposes time is measured on them? He seems to me to have forgotten the elementary fact that angles can be measured as well as straight lines. (I might add that he makes the further curious assumption that all geometry is metrical.) It may be that something would be left of the Bergsonian philosophy if one eliminated the consequences of these initial blunders, but I do not know what the remainder would be. At any rate, the anti-intellectualism which M. Bergson and his disciple, Professor Carr, seem to regard as fundamental will have to go, unless different and better grounds can be found for it. I must leave it to others to judge of the adequacy of this apology. FOR REFERENCE Varisco, _The Great Problem_ (Macmillan). Varisco, _Know Thyself_ (Macmillan). Aliotta, _The Idealistic Reaction against Science_ (Macmillan). Bertrand Russell, _Our Knowledge of the External World_ (Open Court Publishing Co.). Bertrand Russell, _The Problems of Philosophy_ (Home University Library). A.N. Whitehead, _The Principles of Natural Knowledge_ (Cambridge Press). G.E. Moore, _Ethics_ (H.U.L.). W. McDougall, _Philosophy_ (H.U.L.). A.N. Whitehead, _Introduction to Mathematics_ (H.U.L.). III RECENT DEVELOPMENTS IN EUROPEAN THOUGHT ON THE EVOLUTION OF RELIGION F.B. JEVONS The living beings that exist or have existed upon the earth are of kinds innumerable; and, in the opinion of man, the chief of them all is mankind. Man, for the simple reason that he is man, is anthropomorphic in all his judgements and not merely in his religious conceptions; he holds himself to be the standard and measure in all things. If his right so to regard himself were challenged, if he were called upon to justify himself for having taken his foot as a unit of measurement, or his fingers as the basis of his system of numbers, he might reply that anything will serve as a standard for weights and measures, provided that it never varies, but is always the same whenever referred to. But the reply, valid though it is, does not do full justice to man: it leaves room for the suspicion that a standard is something chosen by man in a purely arbitrary manner and without reference to the facts of nature. If that were really the case, then man's conception of himself as superior to the other animals on earth might be but a prejudice of an arbitrary kind. When, however, we consider, from the point of view of evolution, the place of man among the other animals that occupy or have occupied the earth, it is indubitable that the human organism is in point of time the latest evolved and the human brain is in point of complexity and efficiency the most highly developed. Further, the evidence of embryology goes to show that the organism which has eventually become human became so only by passing through successive stages, each of which has its analogue in some of the existing forms of animal life. Those forms of animal life exist side by side; and if we conceive them to be represented diagrammatically by vertical lines, differing in height according to their degree of evolution, the line representing the human organism will be the tallest, and may be considered to have become the tallest by successive increments or stages corresponding to the height of the various other parallel vertical lines. When the conception of evolution, which had been employed to explain the origin of species and the descent of man, and which had been gained by a consideration of material organisms, came to be applied to the world of man's thoughts, to the non-material and spiritual domain, and to be used for the purpose of explaining the growth and the development of religion, it was natural that the conception which had proved so valuable in the one case should be applied without modification to the other--as natural as that the first railway coach should be built on the model of the stagecoach. The possibility that the theory of evolution might itself evolve, and in evolving change, was one that was not, and at that time could hardly be, present to the minds of those who were extending the theory and in the process of extending it were developing it. Yet the possibility was there, implicit in the very conception of evolution, which involves continuous change--change in continuity and continuity in change. Any and every attempt to trace the evolution of religion seems at first necessarily to involve the assumption that from the beginning religion was there to be evolved. That was the position assumed by Robertson Smith in _The Religion of the Semites_, which appeared in 1889. At that date the aborigines of Australia were supposed to represent the human race in its lowest and its earliest stage of development. In them, therefore, if anywhere, we might expect to find what would be religion in its lowest and earliest stage indeed but still religion. Reduced to its lowest terms, religion, it was felt at first, must imply at least belief in a god and communion with him. If, therefore, religion was to be found amongst the representatives of the lowest and earliest stage in the evolution of humanity, belief in a god and communion with him must there be found. He who seeks finds. Robertson Smith found amongst the Australians totem-gods and sacramental rites. Indeed, it was at that time the belief universally held by students of the science of religion that in Australia a totem was a god and a god might be a totem. It was conjectured by Robertson Smith that in Australia the totem animal or plant was eaten sacramentally. Since, then, the totem in Australia was held to be both the god and the animal or plant in which the god manifested himself, it followed that in Australia we had, preserved to this day, the earliest form of sacrifice--that in which the totem animal was itself the totem god to whom it was offered as a sacrifice, and was itself--or rather himself--the sacramental meal furnished to his worshippers. The totem was eaten, it was conjectured, with the object of acquiring the qualities of the divine creature, or of absorbing them into the person of the worshipper. That the totem was eaten sacramentally rested, as has just been said, on the conjecture made by Robertson Smith in 1889; but in 1899 Dr. (now Sir James) Frazer declared that, thanks to the investigations of Messrs. Spencer and Gillen, 'here, in the heart of Australia, among the most primitive savages known to us, we find the actual observance of that totem sacrament which Robertson Smith, with the intuition of genius, divined years ago, but of which positive examples have hitherto been wanting.' On the foundation thus laid by the intuition of Robertson Smith and approved in 1899 by Sir James Frazer, a simple and complete theory of the evolution of religion was possible. In any one tribe there were several totem-kins. The totem of each kin was divine, but the personality of a totem was so undeveloped in conception that, though it might, and on the theory did, develop into a deity, it was originally more of the nature of a spirit than a god, and totemism proper might easily pass into polydaemonism, that is a system in which the beings worshipped were conceived to possess a personality more clearly defined than that attributed to totems but less developed than that assigned to deities. From the beginning each tribe had worshipped a plurality of totems; it was, therefore, readily intelligible that, as these totems came to be credited with more and more definite and developed personality, the plurality of totems became not only a polydaemonism, but afterwards a plurality of deities, and a system of polytheism came to be established. From polytheism then, amongst the Israelites, monotheism was conceived to have been gradually developed. On this theory the evolution of religion was, if we may so describe it, linear or rectilinear: the process consisted in a series of successive stages. In some cases, as for instance among the aborigines of Australia, it never rose higher than its starting-point, totemism; in others, as for instance in Samoa, it became polytheism without ceasing to be totemism; in others again, as for instance amongst the Aryan peoples, it became so completely polytheistic that even conjecture can discover but few indications or 'survivals' of the totemism from which it is supposed to have developed; and the polytheism of the Israelites was so completely superseded by monotheism that the very existence of an earlier stage of polytheism could be as strenuously denied in their case as the pre-existence of totemism could be denied amongst the polytheistic Aryans. Nevertheless the theory was that if we represent the growth of the various religions of the world diagrammatically by vertical lines parallel to one another but of various lengths, one line standing for totemism, a longer line for polydaemonism, a still longer one for polytheism, and the longest of all for monotheism, we should see that the line of growth has been the same in all cases, and that it is in their length, or (shall we say?) in their height alone that the various lines differ, and that the longest line culminates in monotheism only because it has been, so to speak, pulled out in the same way that a telescope when closed, may be extended. The evolution of religion on this view has been a process literally of 'evolution' or unfolding: the idea of a god and of communion with him has been present from the beginning; and, much though religion may have changed, it remains to the end essentially the same thing. This view of the process of religious evolution we may fairly term 'the pre-formation theory'; for on this theory each stage is pre-formed in the stage immediately preceding it, and in the earliest stage of all were all succeeding stages contained pre-formed, though it depended on circumstances whether the seed should spring up, and how many stages of its growth it should accomplish. Robertson Smith's theory of the evolution of religion is in effect a form of the pre-formation theory, and is liable to the same difficulties as dog the theory of pre-formation in all its applications. On the theory, if we cut open a seed we should find within it the plant pre-formed; if we analyse totemism, the seed from which, in Robertson Smith's view, all other forms of religion have grown in orderly succession one after the other, we find in it religion in all its stages pre-formed. In fact, however, if we cut open an acorn we do not find a miniature oak-tree inside. The presumption, therefore, is that neither in totemism, if we dissect it, shall we find religion pre-formed. Indeed, there is the possibility that totemism, on dissection, will be found to have no such content--that the hope or expectation of finding anything in it is as vain, is as much doomed to disappointment, as is the expectation of the child who cuts open his drum, thinking to find inside it something which produces the sound. It was, however, not on _a priori_ grounds like these that Sir James Frazer was led eventually to combat and deny the existence, 'in the heart of Australia, amongst the most primitive savages known to us' of 'that totem sacrament which', in 1899 he declared, 'Robertson Smith, with the intuition of genius' had divined years before it was actually observed. It was by the evidence of new facts, discovered by Messrs. Spencer and Gillen, that Sir James Frazer was compelled to abandon Robertson Smith's theory of the evolution of religion. Robertson Smith had seen, or had thought he saw, amongst the Australians sacramental rites and the worship of totem gods. Sir James Frazer is now compelled by the evidence of the facts to hold that in what he calls 'pure totemism', i.e., in totemism as we find it in Australia, 'there is nothing that can properly be described as worship of the totems. Sacrifices are not presented to them, nor prayers offered, nor temples built, nor priests appointed to minister to them. In a word, totems pure and simple are never gods, but merely species of natural objects, united by certain intimate and mystic ties to groups of men.' It seems, therefore, according to Frazer, that in totemism, when dissected, there is no religion, just as in the child's drum, when cut open, there is--nothing. Yet, we may reflect, on the battle-field from a drum proceeds a great and glorious sound, inspiring men to noble deeds. Whereas _ex nihilo nil fit_: from nothing naturally nothing comes. If, however, something does come, it is not from nothing that it comes. Amongst the most primitive savages known to us, men are united to their totems, as Frazer admits, by 'certain intimate and mystic ties'. What then is it in totemism from which, on Sir James Frazer's view, something comes? We might, perhaps, have expected that it was from the 'mystic' bond uniting man with the world which is not only around him but of which he is part, and in which he lives and moves and has his being. To say so, however, would be to admit that in totemism there was something not only 'mystic' but potentially religious. And Sir James Frazer does not follow that line of thought, so dangerous in his view. On the contrary, he maintains that 'the aspect of the totemic system, which we have hitherto been accustomed to describe as religious, deserves rather to be called magical'. The totem rites which Robertson Smith had interpreted as being sacramental and as being intended as a means of communion with the totem-gods Sir James Frazer regards as merely magical: 'totemism,' he says, 'is merely an organized system of magic intended to secure a supply of food.' We may remark, in passing, that if totemism is 'mere' magic, there is indeed (as Sir James holds) no worship in totemism, but in that case in totemism there can be no such 'intimate and mystic ties' between the totem and the totem-kin as Sir James at first maintained there was. But be that as it may, according to Sir James Frazer, 'in the heart of Australia, amongst the most primitive savages known to us,' we find totemism; and totemism on examination proves to be 'merely an organized system of magic'. If now we start by assuming these premisses, or by granting these postulates for the sake of argument, we can, indeed, erect on them a theory of the evolution of religion. But if we so start, we must do as Sir James Frazer did in the first edition of _The Golden Bough_: we must hold that religion is but a developed form of magic. _En route_ it may have changed considerably in appearance, but in fact and fundamentally it remains the same thing. In all the lower forms of religion, and in most of the higher, there are practices which are by common consent and beyond doubt magical. This indisputable fact lends colour to the view that religion was in its origin nothing but magic, and that religion is, to those who can see the facts as they are, nothing but magic to this day: the magician was but a priest, and the priest, claiming superhuman power, is but a magician still. Prayers were at first but spells, and even now are supposed, by simple repetition, to produce their effects. If against this view it be objected that one of the most constant facts in the history of all religions, from the lowest to the highest, is that religion has at all times carried on war against sorcery, witchcraft, and magic, that in the lowest stages of man's evolution witches have been 'smelt out' by the witch-finder, and that in the higher stages of civilization witches have been persecuted, tortured, and burnt, the reply made to the objection is that the war against witchcraft and magic is due simply to the jealousy and resentment which regular practitioners of any art, e.g., medicine, have ever displayed and do still display towards irregular, unprofessional practitioners. This reply, however, is now generally admitted to be one which it is impossible to accept in the case of religion for the simple reason that it does not account for the facts. The plain fact which wrecks this attempted explanation is that magic is punished and witches are burnt not because witch-finders or priests are jealous of them, but because the community dreads them and feels their very existence to be a danger. It is the community which feels the world of difference there is between magic and religion. The attraction of the view that religion is but magic under another name, that prayers are to the end but spells, that 'priest' is but 'magician' written differently, is that it is a simplicist theory. It simplifies things. It exhibits religion as evolved out of magic and as containing at the end nothing more or other than was present at the beginning in magic. It is but a variant of the pre-formation theory of the evolution of religion. In fine, the notion that in magic we have religion pre-formed is the counterpart of the idea that we can find religion pre-formed in totemism. In both cases we secure continuity in the process of evolution apparently, but the continuity secured is appearance merely and is gained only at the price of ignoring the facts. It is not surprising, therefore, that in the later, enlarged editions of _The Golden Bough_, Sir James Frazer has given up the view that religion evolved out of magic, being moved thereto by the fact, as he says, that there is 'a fundamental distinction and even opposition of principle between magic and religion'. There is, in Frazer's present view, no continuity between the magic which came first and the religion which came ages later: between them is an absolute breach of continuity, a fundamental distinction, an opposition of principle. 'The principles of thought on which magic is based,' Frazer says, 'resolve themselves into two: first, that like produces like; and, second, that things which have once been in contact with each other continue to act on each other.' These beliefs are due to the association of ideas: if two things are more or less like one another, or if two things have gone together in our experience of the past, the sight of the one will make us think of the other and expect to find it. So strong is the expectation which is thus created that in the savage it amounts to absolute belief; and magic consists in acting on that belief, in setting like to produce like, with the firm conviction that thus (by magic) man can obtain all that he desires. For long ages, according to Frazer, man acted on that belief, and only eventually did he discover that magic did not always act. This discovery set him thinking and led him to the inference that at work in the world there must be supernatural powers or beings, that the course of nature and of human life is controlled by personal beings superior to man. And that inference, according to Sir James Frazer's definition, constitutes religion. The fundamental distinction, then, and even opposition of principle between magic and religion, is that in the one case man thinks that he can gain all that he desires by means of magic, and that in the other he turns with offerings and supplication to the personal beings superior to man whom he imagines to control the course of nature and of human life. Whether the distinction which Sir James Frazer draws between magic and religion will hold depends partly on whether his definitions of magic and religion are acceptable. In his account of magic there at least appears to be some confusion of thought. On the one hand, he says, 'it must always be remembered that every single profession and claim put forward by the magician, as such, is false; not one of them can be maintained without deception, conscious or unconscious.' This pronouncement makes it easy for us to understand that even the savage would eventually find magic an unsatisfactory method of gratifying his desires, a deception in fact. On the other hand, Sir James apparently contradicts himself, that is to say, he denies that every single profession or claim put forward by the magician is false, and says, 'however justly we may reject the extravagant pretensions of magicians and condemn the deceptions which they have practised on mankind, the original institution of this class of man has, take it all in all, been productive of incalculable good to humanity.' The ground for this second pronouncement, so contradictory of the first, is that magicians, Sir James tells us, 'were the direct predecessors, not merely of our physicians and surgeons but of our investigators and discoverers in every branch of natural science.' Thus, though he no longer regards priests as transmogrified magicians, he does regard magicians as the earliest men of science, and does regard science, therefore, as a highly developed stage of magic. This view logically follows from the premisses from which it starts; and if it is felt to be unacceptable, we shall naturally be inclined to scrutinize the premisses once more and more carefully. When we do so scrutinize them, we see that the principles of thought on which Sir James Frazer assumes magic to be based are in effect the principles from which science started: they are the beliefs that like produces like--the basis of the law of causation--and that things which our experience shows to have gone together in the past tend always to go together--which is one way of stating our belief in the uniformity of nature. If then these principles of thought are the principles on which magic as well as science is based, then science and magic are the same thing, and we have only to choose whether we will say that magic is not magic but undeveloped science, or that science is not science but merely magic transmogrified. Thus, the pre-formation theory once more reasserts itself: magic is the seed in which science is prefigured or pre-formed. If we wish to escape from this conclusion, if we wish to maintain the validity of science and yet always to remember 'that every single profession and claim put forward by the magician, as such, is false--not one of them can be maintained without deception, conscious or unconscious', we must consider whether Sir James Frazer's account of magic, according to which the principles of magic are identical with those of science, is the only account that can be given of magic; and for that purpose we may contrast it with the view of Wilhelm Wundt. But before doing so, since Sir James Frazer holds that there is 'a fundamental distinction and even opposition of principle between magic and religion', it will be well to try to see not only what he means by magic, but also whether his description or definition of religion is acceptable. Whereas Robertson Smith held that religion, reduced to its very lowest terms, must imply at least belief in a god and communion with him, Frazer considers religion to be the belief that the course of nature and of human life is controlled by personal beings superior to man. By the one view stress is laid on the mystic side of religion, on the communion which is effected through sacrifice; by the other view stress is laid on the power which the gods may be induced by prayer and supplication to exercise for the benefit of man. Our first reflection, therefore, is that any view of religion, to be comprehensive, cannot confine itself to either of these aspects singly, but must find room for both--for both prayer and sacrifice. They cannot be mutually exclusive, nor can they be simply juxtaposed, as though they were atoms unrelated to one another, accidental neighbours in the same district. There must be a higher unity, not created by or subsequent to the coalescence of elements originally independent of each other, but a higher unity of which both prayer and sacrifice are manifestations. This higher unity, I venture to suggest, is the first principle of religion; and, if it is not explicitly recognized as the first principle of religion either by Robertson Smith or by Frazer, that may well be because their attention is concentrated on the earlier stages in the evolution of religion, when as yet it is not conspicuous and is, therefore, though in fact operative, liable to be overlooked. As Ferrier has said, 'first principles of every kind have their influence, and indeed operate largely and powerfully long before they come to the surface of human thought and are articulately expounded.' What then is the first principle of religion which only after long ages of evolution rose to the surface of human thought, and which, though it had been operative largely and powerfully, came only in the slow course of human evolution to be articulately expounded? The first principle of religion is love--love of one's neighbour and one's God. In the light of that first principle it is manifest that prayer and sacrifice are not fundamentally unrelated and accidentally juxtaposed: a sacrifice accompanied not even by unspoken prayer, prompted by no desire, no wish for anything whatever, is a meaningless concept. Equally unmeaning and unintelligible is the idea of a prayer which involves no sacrifice--whether by sacrifice we understand the offering of gifts or the sacrifice of self. But perhaps it may be said that, even though love alone can lead to sacrifice of self, still it is undeniable that prayers may be put up and sacrifices be offered by a man for the sake of what he is going to get by doing so; and that that is what Sir James Frazer means when he sees in religion the belief that beings superior to man may be induced by prayer so to order things that man may get his heart's desire. Then, indeed, we get a continuity of evolution, a continuity between magic and religion, which Frazer perhaps did not intend wholly to deny: that is to say the continuous thread running through both magic and religion and uniting them is desire. Desire is continuous, though the means of gratifying it change. In one stage of evolution magic is the means; in another, religion. But throughout we find the process of evolution to be continuous--change in continuity and continuity in change. Now it is indeed undeniable that prayer and sacrifice may be made by a man for the sake of what he is going to get, and may from the beginning have been made, partly at least, from that motive. But if evolution in one of its aspects is change, then one of the changes brought about by evolution in religion is precisely that prayer and sacrifice come to be regarded as no longer a means whereby a man can get his desires accomplished--his will done--but as the indispensable condition for doing God's will. Prayer then becomes communion with God, and the sacrifice of self the living exhibition of love--the first principle of religion, the principle which manifests itself now in prayer and now in sacrifice. From this point of view, then, Sir James Frazer's account of religion will be considered unacceptable: it makes religion and magic alike but means whereby man has--vainly--sought to satisfy desire. And the implication is that the day of both alike is over. But if Frazer's account of religion is unacceptable, his account of magic also is open to criticism. He wavers between two opinions about magic: at one time he regards it as all falsehood and deception, at another as the source from which science springs, just as at one time he considered magic fundamentally the same as religion and then again as fundamentally different from religion. When Frazer is bent upon identifying magic and science, he attributes to primitive man a theory of causation (that like produces like): magic is based, he says, upon 'the views of natural causation embraced by the savage magician'. On the other hand, according to Wilhelm Wundt in his _Völkerpsychologie_, primitive man has no notion whatever of natural causation: primitive man, Wundt says, has only one way of accounting for events--if something happens, somebody did it. If any one mysteriously falls ill and dies, the question at once presents itself to the savage mind, who did it? How any one could contrive to make the man fall ill and die is, to the man's relations, thoroughly and disquietingly mysterious. The one thing clear to them is that somebody possesses and has exercised this mysterious and horrible power. The person who, in the opinion not only of the relatives but also of all or most of the community, naturally would do this sort of thing differs in some way--in his appearance or habits--from the average member of the community, and accordingly is credited, or discredited, with this mysterious and dreadful power. Such a person, according to Wundt, is a magician. Such an event is a marvel: so long as it is supposed to be brought about by a man, it is a piece of magic; when it is ascribed (as, according to Wundt, it comes in later, though not in primitive times, to be ascribed) to a god, it is a miracle. If science then does not work magic, there must be a fundamental distinction between science and magic, an absolute opposition of principles. The principles of thought on which magic is based cannot be, as Frazer maintains, the same as those which give to science its validity. In fine, the belief in magic seems to be based not on any principle of thought, but upon the assumption that, if something happens, somebody must have done it, and therefore must have had the power to do it. Wundt, whilst differing from Frazer in his description of magic, is at one with him in believing that before religion existed there was an age of magic. But Wundt's view that marvels are magic when supposed to have been done by man, but miracles when supposed to have been done by a god or his priests, suggests the possibility that, as the belief in magic is found usually, if not always, to exist side by side with the belief in miracles, the two beliefs may from the beginning have co-existed, that the age of magic is not prior in the course of evolution to the age of religion. This possibility, it will be admitted, derives some colour at least from the way in which the theory of evolution is employed to account for the origin of species: different though reptiles are from birds, the serpent from the dove, both are descended from a common ancestor, the archaeopteryx. If this instance be taken as typical of the process of evolution in general, then the course of evolution is not, so to speak, linear or rectilinear, but--to use M. Bergson's word--'dispersive'. To suppose that religion is descended from magic would then be as erroneous as to suppose that birds are descended from reptiles or man from the monkey. The true view will be that the course of evolution is not linear, is not a line produced for ever in the same direction, not a succession of stages, but is 'dispersive', that from a common starting point many lines of evolution radiate in different directions. The course of evolution is not unilinear but multilinear; it runs on many lines which diverge, but all the diverging lines start from the same point. If we apply this conception of evolution in general to the evolution of religion in particular--and Bergson, I should say, does not--then the centre of dispersion, common to all religions, is the heart of man. The forms of religion evolving, emanating and radiating from that common centre are, let us say, fetishism, polytheism, and monotheism. If we wish to avoid, in the theory of religious evolution, an error analogous to that of supposing birds to be descended from reptiles, we must decline to suppose that monotheism is simply polytheism evolved, or that polytheism is descended from fetishism. We must consider that each of these three forms of religion is terminal, in the sense that no one of them leads on to, or passes into, either of the other two. All three forms of religious life may, and indeed do, exist side by side with one another, just as the countless forms of physical life may be found existing side by side. The foraminifera exist now, as they existed millions of years ago; but the fact that they co-exist with higher forms of physical life does not show that the higher forms of life are but foraminifera in a more highly evolved form. Similarly, the fact that fetishism exists side by side with polytheism, or polytheism with monotheism, does not show that one is but a higher form of another: we must consider each to be a terminal form, as incapable of producing another, as it is impossible to conceive that the serpent develops into the dove. The common centre and starting-point of fetishism, polytheism, and monotheism on this view (the 'dispersive' view) of the evolution of religion lies in the heart of man, in a consciousness, originally vague in the extreme, of the personality and superiority to man of the being or object worshipped. In all these three forms of religion there is worship, and in all three forms the being worshipped is personal. Further, a special tie is felt to exist between the worshipper and the personality worshipped: religion is the bond of union between them, and it is also a bond which unites the worshippers to one another. It is by its very nature a bond of union, a means of communion between persons, human and divine. That is the mystic aspect of religion which finds expression in the rite of sacrifice and in the sacramental meals which are felt somehow to bind together, or rather to reunite and keep together, the worshippers and their god. This communion however is not merely mystic: it has its practical effects inasmuch as it affects the conduct of the worshipper and enables him to do what without it he would not have had strength to do. If fetishism, polytheism, and monotheism radiate from a common centre, the heart of man, then the heart of man must also be regarded as the starting-point of magic. If they spring straight from the heart, though in different directions, dispersively, then magic must also start from the common centre; and, though its divergence from religion tends to become total, at first, and indeed it may be for long, the discrepancy between them is rather felt uneasily than recognized clearly. Categories, such as those of cause and effect, identity and difference, which are the common property of civilized thought, and which among us, Mr. L.T. Hobhouse says, 'every child soon comes to distinguish in practice, are for primitive thought interwoven in wild confusion.' Two categories, which in primitive thought are thus interwoven in wild confusion, are, it may be suggested, religion and magic; and only in the dispersive process of evolution do they tend to become discriminated. In ancient Egypt, in Babylon, in Brahminism, religion fails to disentangle itself from magic; and not even has Christianity always succeeded in throwing it off. Different as we may conceive magic and religion to be, the fact remains that at first they grow up intertwined together. In the lower forms of religion magic is worked not only by magicians but by priests as well; spells and prayers are hardly to be distinguished from one another. The idea that 'priest' is but 'magician' writ differently, that prayers are but spells under another name, is now obsolete. The truth may be that religion neither follows on, nor is evolved from magic, but that both radiate from a common centre, the heart of man; and that at first both are attempts made by man to secure the fulfilment of his desires, to do his will, though eventually he finds that the way to control nature is to obey her, not to try to command her by working magic; and that it is in endeavouring to do God's will, not his own, that man finds peace at the last. In the three forms of religion which thus far we have taken into account, fetishism, polytheism, monotheism, religion is felt to be a personal relation--a relation between the human personality and some personality more than human; and the human heart is reaching out and groping after some divine personality, if peradventure it may find Him. But there is yet another form of religion proceeding from the human heart in which this does not seem to be the case--and that is Buddhism. The Buddha definitely renounced the search after God and would not allow his disciples to engage in the pursuit. Practically the pursuit was useless, according to the Buddha: escape from suffering is all that man can want or strive or hope for. Escape from suffering is possible only by cessation from existence; and that cessation from existence, here and hereafter, can be attained by man himself, who can reach Nirvana without the aid of gods, if gods there be. From the point of view of metaphysics the idea that there is any relation between the human personality and the divine falls to the ground, according to the Buddha, because, whether there be gods or not, at any rate there is no human personality. As in a conflagration--and according to the Buddha the whole world, burning with desire, is in a state of conflagration--the flames leap from one house that is burning to the next, so in its transmigrations the self, or rather the character, _Karman_, like a flame, leaps from one form of existence to another. The flame indeed appears to be there all the time the fire is burning; but the flame has no permanence, it is changing all the time the process of combustion is going on; and 'I' have no more permanence than the flame. 'I' only appear to be there as long as the process of life goes on. And as the flame only continues so long as there is something for it to feed on, so the process of transmigration or re-birth continues only so long as the thirst for being continues: the escape from re-birth is conditional on the extinction of that thirst or desire; and the disciple who has succeeded in putting off lust and desire has attained to deliverance from death and re-birth, has attained to rest, to Nirvana. Thus, on the 'dispersive' view of the evolution of religion, Buddhism is a radiation from the common centre, from the heart of man, though it radiates in a direction very different from that followed by any other religion. The direction is indeed one which, as the history of religion shows, it has been impossible for man long to follow, for, wherever Buddhism has been established, it has relapsed; and the Buddha, who strove to divert man from prayer and from the worship of gods, has himself become a god to whom prayer and worship are addressed. Whether in the future the direction may be pursued more permanently than it has been by Buddhism up to now lies with the future to show. Buddhism, however, on the 'dispersive' view of the evolution of religion, is not the only radiation from the common centre, of which we have to take account, in addition to fetishism, polytheism, and monotheism. From the human heart also proceeds 'the religion of humanity', the Positivist Church. Here, as originally in Buddhism, the conception of a divine personality plays no part; but here the human personality, the very existence of which is denied by the Buddha, is raised to a high, indeed to the highest, level. There is no such thing as an individual, if by 'individual' is meant a man existing solely by himself, for a man can neither come into existence nor continue in existence by himself alone. It is an essential part of the conception of personality that it includes fellowship: a person to be a person must stand in some relation to other persons. They are presented to him, the subject, as objects of his awareness; and he, the subject, is also an object of their awareness. Humanity is thus a complex, in which alone persons are found and apart from which they have in fact no existence. Humanity thus plays in Positivism, as a religion, the part of 'the great Being', _le grand Être_, which in other religions is fulfilled by God, but with this difference, that humanity is human always and never divine. The ruler of a country steers the ship of state, but he is a pilot only metaphorically. Whether the terms worship and prayer are used more than metaphorically by the Positivist seems hard to decide. On the one hand, if it is felt that worship and prayer are indispensable to religion, it may be argued that in religions other than Positivism they prove not only on analysis, but in the course of history, to be, as by Positivism they are recognized to be, of purely subjective import. On the other hard, it may be that they provide merely a means of transition from the religions of the past to the religion of the future. Another matter of interest is the place of morality in Positivism as a religion. According to M. Alfred Loisy in his book _La Religion_, morality and religion are bound up together. They cannot exist apart from one another: they might, he says, 'be dissociated in fact and thought, were it not that they are inseparable in the life of humanity.' And in his view morality is summed up in the idea of duty. He says, 'in the beginning was duty, and duty was in humanity, and duty was humanity. Duty was at the beginning in humanity. By it all things were made, and without it nothing was made.' Thus, where duty is, there also is religion. Not only, according to Loisy, has that always been so in every stage through which the evolution of religion has passed, but it will also be the case with the religion of the future. Thus the conception of evolution which Loisy holds is the same as that entertained by Robertson Smith, the difference being that, whereas on the one view the idea of God and of communion with Him has been present from the beginning, and, much though it may have changed, it remains to the end the same thing; on the other view it is the idea of duty--the duty which is humanity--that was in the beginning and will continue to the end. Both views are applications of the 'pre-formation' theory of evolution. But Positivism perhaps is not necessarily tied to the 'pre-formation' theory. It seems equally capable of being fitted in to the 'dispersive' theory, and of being regarded as an emanation or radiation proceeding direct from the human heart. It may be so regarded, if we consider the essence of it to be found not in the concept of duty, which seems to imply the existence of some superior who imposes duties on man, but in that love of one's fellow-man which, to be love, must be given freely, and simply because one loves. The sense of obligation, the feeling of duty, obedience to the commandments of authority and to the prohibitions which the community both enforces and obeys, are, all of them, various expressions of the primitive feeling of taboo--a feeling of alarm and fear. If we confine our attention to this set of facts, we may say, with M. Loisy, 'in the beginning was duty, and duty was in humanity'. We may however hesitate to follow him when he goes on to say, 'by duty all things were made, and without it nothing was made'. We may hesitate and the Positivist may hesitate, because, primitive though the feeling of fear may be, the feeling of love is equally original: on it and in it the family and society have their base and their origin; and to it they owe not only their origin but their continuance. Love however is not a matter of duty and obedience; it is not subject to commandment or prohibition; nor does it strive by commands or authority to enforce itself. In the process by which duty--legal and moral obligation--evolves out of the primitive feeling of taboo, love is not implicated: love springs from its own source, the human heart, and runs its own course. Taboo may have existed from the beginning; but to the end, whatever its form--duty, obligation, obedience to authority--it remains in character what it was at first, prohibitive, negative. Love alone is creative: without it 'was not anything made that was made'. There seems, therefore, no necessity to regard the 'pre-formation' theory of evolution, rather than the 'dispersive theory, as essential to Positivism. Common to all the views about the evolution of religion that have been mentioned in this paper is the belief that, the more religion changes, the more it remains the same thing. If identified with duty, then duty it was in the beginning, and duty it will remain to the end. For those who conceive it to be merely magic, magic it was and magic it remains. Those who define it as belief in a god and communion with him find that belief in the earliest as well as the latest stages. All would agree in rejecting Bergson's view of evolution--that in evolution there is change, but nothing which changes. All would agree that in the evolution of religion there is something which, change though it may, remains the same thing, and that is religion itself. But on the question what religion is, there is no agreement: no definition of religion as yet--and there have been many attempts to define it--has gained general acceptance. We may even surmise, and admit, that no attempt ever will be successful. Such admission, indeed, may at first to some seem equivalent to admitting that religion is a nullity, and the admission may accordingly be welcomed or rejected. But a moment's reflection will show that the admission has no such consequence. None of our simple feelings can be defined: pleasure and pain can neither be defined; nor, when experienced, doubted. And some of our general terms, those at any rate which are ultimate, are beyond our power either to define or doubt: no one imagines that 'life' can be defined, but no one doubts its existence. And religion both as a term and as a fact of experience is ultimate, and, because ultimate, incapable of definition. It is not to be defined but only to be felt. It is an affair not merely of the intellect, but still more of the heart. In what sense, then, can we speak of the evolution of religion? Evolution implies change; and no one doubts that there have been changes in religion. No one can imagine that it has from the beginning till now remained identically the same. What seems conceivable is that throughout there has been, not identity but continuity--change indeed in continuity but also continuity in change. The child 'learns to speak the words and think the ideas, to reproduce the mode of thought, as he does the form of speech' of the community into which he is born. In the speech, thought, and feelings--even in the religious feelings--of the community, from generation to generation, there is continuity, but not identity. From generation to generation they are not identical but are continuously changing; and they change because each child who takes them over reproduces them; and, in reproducing them, changes them, not much in most cases, but very considerably in the case of men of genius and the great religious reformers. The heart is the treasure-house in which not only old things are stored, but from which also new things are brought forth. The process of evolution implies indeed that the old things, though not everlasting, persist for a time; but it also implies the manifestation of that which, though continuous with the old, is at the same time new. It is from the heart of man, of some one man, that what is new proceeds: the community it is which is conservative of the old. The heart of man, or man himself, exhibits both change in continuity and continuity in change. The acorn, the sapling, and the oak are different stages of one continuous process. But it is the same tree throughout the whole process. So, too, perhaps it may be said, religion is a term which includes or is applicable to all stages in the one process, and not to the stage of monotheism alone, or of polytheism alone, or even to those stages alone in which there is a reference to personal beings. Each of these stages is a stage in the process of religion but no stage is by itself the whole process. But this view of the evolution of religion regards religion as though it were an organism, self-subsistent, existing and evolving as independently of man as the oak-tree does; whereas in truth religion has no such independent existence or evolution. It is not from polytheism that monotheism proceeds; nor does polytheism proceed from fetishism: it is from the heart of man that they and all other forms of religion emanate and radiate. To conceive fetishism, polytheism, and monotheism as three successive stages in one process, to represent the evolution of religion by a straight line marked off into three parts, or any other number of parts, is to forget that they do not produce one another but that each emanates from the heart of man. The fact that they emanate in temporal succession does not prove that one springs from the other. Nor can we say that values--religious or aesthetic--are to be determined on the simple principle that the latest edition is the best. To say that an _editio princeps_ has value only for the bibliophile is to admit that all values are personal, as are all thoughts and all feelings, all goodness and all love. FOR REFERENCE Robertson Smith, _The Religion of the Semites_ (A. & C. Black, 1889). J.G. Frazer, _The Golden Bough_ (Macmillan & Co., 1890-1915). Grant Allen, _The Evolution of the Idea of God_ (Grant Richards, 1897). H. Bergson, _L'Évolution créatrice_ (F. Alcan, 1908). F.B. Jevons, _The Idea of God in Early Religions_ (1910), and _Comparative Religion_ (1913) (Cambridge University Press). G.F. Moore, _History of Religions_ (T. & T. Clark, 1914). A. Loisy, _La Religion_ (E. Nourry, 1917). IV RECENT TENDENCIES IN EUROPEAN POETRY WITH OCCASIONAL REFERENCES TO THE NOVEL, DRAMA, AND CRITICISM PROFESSOR C.H. HERFORD When Matthew Arnold declared that every age receives its best interpretation in its poetry, he was making a remark hardly conceivable before the century in which it was made. Poetry in the nineteenth century was, on the whole, more charged with meaning, more rooted in the stuff of humanity and the heart of nature, less a mere province of _belles-lettres_ than ever before. Consciously or unconsciously it reflected the main currents in the mentality of European man, and the reflection was often most clear where it was least conscious. Two of these main currents are: (1) The vast and steady enlargement of our knowledge of the compass, the history, the potencies, of Man, Nature, the World. (2) The growth in our sense of the _worth_ of every part of existence. Certain aspects of these two processes are popularly known as 'the advance of science', and 'the growth of democracy'. But how far 'science' reaches beyond the laboratory and the philosopher's study, and 'democracy' beyond political freedom and the ballot-box, is precisely what poetry compels us to understand; and not least the poetry of the last sixty years with which we are to-day concerned. How then does the history of poetry in Europe during these sixty years stand in relation to these underlying processes? On the surface, at least, it hardly resembles growth at all. In France above all--the literary focus of Europe, and its sensitive thermometer--the movement of poetry has been, on the surface, a succession of pronounced and even fanatical schools, each born in reaction from its precursor, and succumbing to the triumph of its successor. Yet a deeper scrutiny will perceive that these warring artists were, in fact, groups of successive discoverers, who each added something to the resources and the scope of poetry, and also retained and silently adopted the discoveries of the past; while the general line of advance is in the direction marked by the two main currents I have described. Nowhere else is the succession of phases so sharp and clear as in France. But since France does reflect more sensitively than any other country the movement of the mind of Europe, and since her own mind has, more than that of any other country, radiated ideas and fashions out over the rest of Europe, these phases are in fact traceable also, with all kinds of local and national variations, in Italy and Spain, Germany and England, and I propose to take this fact as the basis of our present very summary and diagrammatic view. The three phases of the sixty years are roughly divided by the years 1880 and 1900. The first, most clearly seen in the French Parnassians, is in close, if unconscious, sympathy with the temper of science. Poetry, brought to the limit of expressive power, is used to express, with the utmost veracity, precision, and impersonal self-suppression, the beauty and the tragedy of the world. It sought Hellenic lucidity and Hellenic calm--in the example most familiar to us, the Stoic calm and 'sad lucidity' of Matthew Arnold. The second, best seen in the French Symbolists, was directly hostile to science. But they repelled its confident analysis of material reality in the name of a part of reality which it ignored or denied, an immaterial world which they mystically apprehended, which eluded direct description, frustrated rhetoric, and was only to be come at by the magical suggestion of colour, music, and symbol. It is most familiar to us in the 'Celtic' verse of Mr. Yeats and 'A.E.'. The third, still about us, and too various and incomplete for final definition, is in closer sympathy with science, but, in great part, only because science has itself found accommodation between nature and spirit, a new ideality born of, and growing out of, the real. If the first found Beauty, the end of art, in the plastic repose of sculpture, and the second in the mysterious cadences of music, the poetry of the twentieth century finds its ideal in life, in the creative evolution of being, even in the mere things, the 'prosaic' pariahs of previous poetry, on which our shaping wills are wreaked. We know it in poets unlike one another but yet more unlike their predecessors, from D'Annunzio and Dehmel and Claudel to our Georgian experimenters in the poetry of paradox and adventure. I. POETIC NATURALISM The third quarter of the nineteenth century opened, in western Europe, with a decided set-back for those who lived on dreams, and a corresponding complacency among those who throve on facts. The political and social revolution which swept the continent in 1848 and 1849, and found ominous echoes here, was everywhere, for the time, defeated. The discoveries of science in the third and fourth decades, resting on calculation and experiment, were investing it with the formidable prestige which it has never since lost; and both metaphysics and theology reeled perceptibly under the blows delivered in its name. The world exhibition of 1851 seemed to announce an age of settled prosperity, peace, and progress. In literature the counterpart of these phenomena was the revolt from _Romanticism_, a movement, in its origins, of poetic liberation and discovery, which had rejuvenated poetry in Germany and Italy, and yet more signally in England and in France, but was now petering out in emotional incoherence, deified impulse, and irresponsible caprice. The revolt accordingly everywhere sought to bring literature into closer conformity with reality; with reality as interpreted by science; and to make art severe and precise. In the novel, Flaubert founded modern naturalism with his enthralling picture of dull provincials, _Mme Bovary_ (1857); two years later George Eliot tilted openly in _Adam Bede_ against the romancers who put you off with marvellous pictures of dragons, but could not draw the real horses and cattle before their eyes.[3] Realism, at once more unflinching and more profoundly poetic, and yet penetrated, especially in Tolstoy and Dostoievsky, with an intensity of moral conviction beside which the ethical fervour of George Eliot seems an ineffectual fire, was one of the roots of the Russian Novel; which also reached its climax in the third quarter of the century. But though it concurred with analogous movements in the West, it drew little of moment from them; even Turgenjev, a greater Maupassant in artistry, drew his inner inspiration from wholly alien springs of Slavonic passion and thought. And it was chiefly through them that the Russian novel later helped to nourish the radically alien movement of Symbolism in France. In drama, Ibsen broke away from the Romantic tradition of his country with the iconoclastic energy of one who had spent his own unripe youth in offering it a half-reluctant homage. The man of actuality in him denounced the drama built upon the legends of the Scandinavian past--the mark for him of a people of dreamers oblivious of the calls of the hour. On the morrow of the disastrous (and for Norway in his view ignominious) Danish war of 1864, his scorn rang out with prophetic intensity in the fierce tirade of _Brand_. Happily for his art, revolt against romance in him was united, more signally than in more than two or three of his contemporaries, with the power of seizing and presenting contemporary life. 'Realism' certainly expresses inadequately enough the genius of an art like his, enormously alive rather than fundamentally like life, and no less charged with purpose and idea than the work of the great Russians, though under cover of reticences and irony little known to them. The great series of prose dramas--from 1867 (_The League of Youth_) onwards--with their experimental prelude _Love's Comedy_ (1863)--were to be for all Europe the most considerable literary event of the fourth quarter of the century, and they generated affiliated schools throughout the West. They did not indeed themselves remain untouched by the general intellectual currents of the time, and it will be noticed below that the later plays (from _The Lady of the Sea_ onward) betray affinities, like the Russian novel, with what is here called the second phase of the European movement. In Criticism, the showy generalizations of Villemain gave place to Sainte-Beuve's series of essays towards a 'natural history of minds'[4] and Taine's more sweeping attempt to explain literature by environment.[5] Among ourselves, Meredith's _Essay on Comedy_ (1872) brilliantly restated Molière's dictum that the comic is founded on the real, and not on a fantastic distortion of it, while Matthew Arnold applied alike to literature and to theology a critical insight fertilized by his master Sainte-Beuve's delicate faculty for disengaging the native quality of minds from the incrustations of tradition and dogma. In poetry the French Parnassians created the most brilliant poetry that has, since Milton, been built upon erudition and impeccable art. Their leader, Leconte de Lisle, in the preface of his _Poèmes antiques_ (1853), scornfully dismissed Romanticism as a second-hand, incoherent, and hybrid art, compounded of German mysticism, reverie, and Byron's stormy egoism. Sully Prudhomme addressed a sterner criticism to the shade of Alfred de Musset--the Oscar Wilde of the later Romantics[6]--who had never known the stress of thought, and had filled his poetry with light love and laughter and voluptuous despairs; the new poets were to be no such gay triflers, but workers at a forge, beating the glowing metal into shape, and singing as they toiled.[7] Carducci, too, derisively contrasts the 'moonlight' of Romanticism--cold and infructuous beams, proper for Gothic ruins and graveyards--with the benignant and fertilizing sunshine he sought to restore; for him, too, the poet is no indolent caroller, and no gardener to grow fragrant flowers for ladies, but a forge-worker with muscles of steel.[8] Among us, as usual, the divergence is less sharply marked; but when Browning calls Byron a 'flat fish', and Arnold sees the poet of _Prometheus_ appropriately pinnacled in the 'intense inane', they are expressing a kindred repugnance to a poetry wanting in intellectual substance and in clear-cut form. If we turn from the negations of the anti-romantic revolt to consider what it actually sought and achieved in poetry, we find that its positive ideals, too, without being derived from science, reflect the temper of a scientific time. Thus the supreme gift of all the greater poets of this group was a superb vision of beauty, and of beauty--_pace_ Hogarth--there is no science. But their view of beauty was partly limited, partly fertilized and enriched, by the sources they discovered and the conditions they imposed, and both the discoveries and the limitations added something to the traditions and resources of poetry. Thus: (1) They exploited the aesthetic values to be had by knowledge. They pursued erudition and built their poetry upon erudition, not in the didactic way of the Augustans, but as a mine of poetic material and suggestion. Far more truly than Wordsworth's this poetry could claim to be the impassioned expression which is in the face of science; for Wordsworth's knowledge is a mystic insight wholly estranged from erudition; his celandine, his White Doe, belong to no fauna or flora. When Leconte de Lisle, on the other hand, paints the albatross of the southern sea or the condor of the Andes, the eye of a passionate explorer and observer has gone to the making of their exotic sublimity. The strange regions of humanity, too, newly disclosed by comparative religion and mythology, he explores with cosmopolitan impartiality and imaginative penetration; carving, as in marble, the tragedy of Hjalmar's heart and Angentyr's sword, of Cain's doom, and Erinnyes never, like those of Aeschylus, appeased. The Romantics had loved to play with exotic suggestions; but the East of Hugo's _Orientales_ or Moore's _Lalla Rookh_ is merely a veneer; the poet of _Qain_ has heard the wild asses cry and seen the Syrian sun descend into the golden foam. In the three commanding poets of our English mid-century, learning becomes no less evidently poetry's honoured and indispensable ally. Tennyson studies nature like a naturalist, not like a mystic, and finds felicities of phrase poised, as it were, upon delicate observation. Man, too, in Browning, loses the vague aureole of Shelleyan humanity, and becomes the Italian of the Renascence or the Arab doctor or the German musician, all alive but in their habits as they lived, and fashioned in a brain fed, like no other, on the Book of the histories of Souls. Matthew Arnold more distinctively than either, and both for better and for worse, was the scholar-poet; among other things he was, with Heredia and Carducci, a master of the poetry of critical portraiture, which focusses in a few lines (_Sophocles_, _Rahel_, _Heine_, _Obermann Once More_) the meaning of a great career or of a complex age. (2) In the elaboration of their vision of beauty from these enlarged sources, Leconte de Lisle and his followers demanded an impeccable artistry. 'A great poet', he said, 'and a flawless artist are convertible terms.' The Parnassian precision rested on the postulate that, with sufficient resources of vocabulary and phrase, everything can be adequately expressed, the analogue of the contemporary scientific conviction that, with sufficient resources of experiment and calculation, everything can be exhaustively explained. The pursuit of an objective calm, the repudiation of missionary ardour, of personal emotion, of the _cri du coeur_, of individual originality, involved the surrender of some of the glories of spontaneous song, but opened the way, for consummate artists such as these, to a profusion of undiscovered beauty, and to a peculiar grandeur not to be attained by the egoist. Leconte's temperament leads him to subjects which are already instinct with tragedy and thus in his hands assume this grandeur without effort. The power of sheer style to ennoble is better seen in Sully Prudhomme's _tours de force_ of philosophic poetry--when he unfolds his ideas upon 'Justice' or 'Happiness', for instance, under the form of a debate where masterly resources of phrase and image are compelled to the service of a rigorous logic; or in the brief cameo-like pieces on 'Memory', 'Habit', 'Forms', and similar unpromising abstractions, most nearly paralleled in English by the quatrains of Mr. William Watson. But the cameo comparison is still more aptly applied to the marvellously-chiselled sonnets of Heredia--monuments of a moment, as sculpture habitually is, but reaching out, as the finest sculpture does, to invisible horizons, and to the before and after--the old wooden guardian-god recalling his former career as a scarlet figure-head laughing at the laughter or fury of the waves; Antony seeing the flying ships of Actium mirrored in the traitorous azure of Cleopatra's eyes. In Italy the ideal of an austere simplicity and reserve, resting as it did on the immense prestige of Leopardi, asserted itself even in the naturally exuberant and impetuous genius of Carducci. Without it we should not have had those reticences of an abounding nature, those economies of a spendthrift, which make him one of the first poets of the sonnet in the land of its origin, and one of the greatest writers of Odes among the 'barbarians'. With reason he declared in 1891, when most of his poetry had been written, that 'all the apparent contradictions in my work are resolved by the triple formula: in politics Italy before all, in aesthetics classical poetry before all, in practice, frankness and force before all'. His two chief disciples, D'Annunzio and Pascoli, antithetical in almost all points, may be said to have divided his inheritance in this; Pascoli's Vergilian economy contrasting with the exuberance of D'Annunzio somewhat as with us the classicism of the present poet-laureate with that of Swinburne. In Germany the Parnassian reserve, concentration, and aristocratic exclusiveness was to reappear in the lyrical group of Stefan Georg. (3) Finally, the Parnassian poetry, like most contemporary science, was in varying degrees detached from and hostile to religion, and found some of its most vibrating notes in contemplating its empty universe. Leconte de Lisle offers the Stoic the last mournful joy of 'a heart seven-times steeped in the divine nothingness',[9] or calls him to 'that city of silence, the sepulchre of the vanished gods, the human heart, seat of dreams, where eternally ferments and perishes the illusory universe'.[10] Here, too, Leopardi had anticipated him. In the ebullient genius of Carducci and Swinburne this lofty disdain for theological illusions passes into the fierce derision of the Ode to Satan and the militant paganism of the Sonnet to Luther, and the _Hymn to Man_. In Matthew Arnold it became a half-wistful resignation, the pensive retrospect of the Greek 'thinking of his own gods beside a fallen runic stone', or listening to the 'melancholy long withdrawing roar' of the tide of faith 'down the vast edges drear and naked shingles of the world'; while in James Thomson resignation passed into the unrelieved pessimism of the _City of Dreadful Night_. In all these poets, what was of moment for poetry was not, of course, the anti-theological or anti-clerical sentiment which marks them all, but the notes of sombre and terrible beauty which the contemplation of the passing of the gods, and of man's faith in them, elicits from their art. Yet the supreme figure, not only among those who share in the anti-Romantic reaction but among all the European poets of his time, was one who had in the heyday of youth led the Romantic vanguard--Victor Hugo. Leconte de Lisle never ceased to own him his master, and Hugo's genius had since his exile, in 1851, entered upon a phase in which a poetry such as the Parnassian sought--objective, reticent, impersonal, technically consummate--was at least one of the strings of his many-chorded lyre. Three magnificent works--the very crown and flower of Hugo's production--belong to this decade, 1850-60,--the _Châtiments_, _Contemplations_, and _Légende des Siècles_. I said advisedly, one string in his lyre. Objective reticence is certainly not the virtue of the terrible indictment of 'Napoleon the Little'. On the other hand, the greatest qualities of Parnassian poetry were exemplified in many splendid pieces of the other two works, together with a large benignity which their austere Stoicism rarely permits, and I shall take as illustration of the finest achievement of poetry in this whole first phase the closing stanzas of his famous _Boaz Endormi_ in the _Légende_, whose beauty even translation cannot wholly disguise. Our decasyllable is substituted for the Alexandrine.[11] 'While thus he slumbered, Ruth, a Moabite, Lay at the feet of Boaz, her breast bare, Waiting, she knew not when, she knew not where, The sudden mystery of wakening light. Boaz knew not that there a woman lay, Nor Ruth what God desired of her could tell; Fresh rose the perfume of the asphodel, And tender breathed the dusk on Galgala. Nuptial, august, and solemn was the night, Angels no doubt were passing on the wing, For now and then there floated glimmering As it might be an azure plume in flight. The low breathing of Boaz mingled there With the soft murmur of the mossy rills. It was the month when earth is debonnaire; The lilies were in flower upon the hills. Night compassed Boaz' slumber and Ruth's dreams, The sheep-bells vaguely tinkled far and near; Infinite love breathed from the starry sphere; 'Twas the still hour when lions seek the streams. Ur and Jerimedeth were all at rest; The stars enamelled the blue vault of sky; Amid those flowers of darkness in the west The crescent shone; and with half open eye Ruth wondered, moveless, in her veils concealed, What heavenly reaper, when the day was done And harvest gathered in, had idly thrown That golden sickle on the starry field.' II. DREAM AND SYMBOL The rise of French symbolism towards the end of the 'seventies was a symptom of a changed temper of thought and feeling traceable in some degree throughout civilized Europe. Roughly, it marked the passing of the confident and rather superficial security of the 'fifties into a vague unrest, a kind of troubled awe. As if existence altogether was a bigger, more mysterious, and intractable thing than was assumed, not so easily to be captured in the formulas of triumphant science, or mirrored and analysed by the most consummate literary art. Political and social conditions contributed to the change. France stood on the morrow of a shattering catastrophe. The complacency of mid-Victorian England began to be disturbed by menaces from the workshops of industry. And it was precisely in triumphant Germany herself that revolutionary Socialism found, in Karl Marx, its first organizing mind and authoritative exponent. The millennium was not so near as it had seemed; the problems of society, instead of having been solved once for all, were only, it appeared, just coming into view. In the secluded workshops of Thought, subtler changes were silently going on. The dazzling triumphs of physical science, which had led poetry itself to emulate the marble impassivity of the scientific temper, were undiminished; but they were seen in a new perspective, their authority ceased to be exclusive, the focus of interest was slowly shifting from the physical to the psychical world. Lange, writing the history of _Materialism_ in 1874, virtually performed its obsequies; and Tyndall's brilliant effort, in 1871, to equip primordial Matter with the 'promise and the potency' of mind, unconsciously confessed that its cause was lost. Psychology, after Fechner, steadily advanced in prestige and importance from the outlying circumference of the sciences to their very centre and core. But it was not merely particular doctrines that lost ground; the scope and validity of scientific method itself began to be questioned. In the most varied fields of thought there set in that 'idealistic reaction against science' which has been described in one of the most penetrating books of our time. Most significant of all, science itself, in the person of Mach, and Pearson, has abandoned the claim to do more than provide descriptive formulas for phenomena the real nature of which is utterly beyond its power to discover. Of this changed outlook the growth of Symbolism is the most significant literary expression. It was not confined to France, or to poetry. We know how the drama of Ibsen became charged with ulterior meanings as the fiery iconoclast passed into the poet of insoluble and ineluctable doubt. But by the French symbolists it was pursued as a creed, as a religion. If the dominant poetry of the third quarter of the century reflected the prestige of science, the dominant poetry of the fourth reflected the idealistic reactions against it, and Villiers de l'Ile Adam, its founder, came forward proclaiming that 'Science was bankrupt'. And so it might well seem to him, the visionary mystic inhabiting, as he did, a world of strange beauty and invisible mystery which science could not unlock. The symbolists had not all an explicit philosophy; but they were all aware of potencies in the world or in themselves which language cannot articulately express, and which are yet more vitally real than the 'facts' which we can grasp and handle, and the 'respectable' people whom we can measure and reckon with. Sometimes these potencies are vaguely mysterious, an impalpable spirit speaking only by hints and tokens; sometimes they are felt as the pulsations of an intoxicating beauty, breaking forth in every flower, but which can only be possessed, not described; sometimes they are moods of the soul, beyond analysis, and yet full of wonder and beauty, visions half created, half perceived. Experiences like these might have been described, as far as description would go, by brilliant artificers like the Parnassians. Verlaine and Mallarmé did not discover, but they applied with new daring, the fact that an experience may be communicated by words which, instead of representing it, suggest it by their colour, their cadences, their rhythm, their verbal echoes and inchoate phrases. All the traditional artistry of French poetic speech was condemned as both inadequate and insincere. 'Take eloquence and wring her neck! Nothing but music and the nuance--all the rest is "Literature", mere writing--futile verbosity!' that was the famous watchword of Verlaine's creed.[12] The strength of symbolism lay in this demand for a complete sincerity of utterance. Its revolt against science was at the same time a vindication of truth, an effort to get nearer to reality both by shedding off the incrustations of habitual phrase and by calling into play the obscure affinities by which it can be magically evoked. In the subtleties of suggestion latent in sensations the symbolists were real discoverers. But the way had already been pointed in famous verses by Baudelaire: 'Earth is a Temple, from whose pillared mazes Murmurs confused of living utterance rise; Therein Man thro' a forest of symbols paces, That contemplate him with familiar eyes. As prolonged echoes, wandering on and on, At last in one far tenebrous depth unite, Impalpable as darkness, and as light, Scents, sounds, and colours meet in unison.' There Baudelaire had touched a chord that was to sound loud and long; for what else than this thought of all the senses meeting in union inspired the music drama of Wagner?--only one of his points of kinship, as we shall see, with symbolism. Thus the symbolists, in quest of reality, touched it only through the inner life. There they are, in their fashion, realists. 'A landscape', said Albert Samain, 'is a state of soul.' The landscape may be false, but the state of soul is veracious. What interests them in life is the image of life, not lucidly reflected but exquisitely transformed. Yet the vision of the world caught in that transforming mirror was not without strange revealing glimpses, invisible, like stars mirrored in a well, to the plain observer. They could hear the music of the spheres; or in the language of Samain's sonnet 'Feel flowing through them, like a pouring wave, The music-tide of universal Soul; Hear in their heart the beating pulse of heaven.'[13] In the earlier poetry of Maurice Maeterlinck, the inner life imposes a more jealous sway. The poet sits not before a transforming mirror, where the outer world is disguised, but in a closed chamber, where it is only dreamed of, and it fades into the incoherence and the irrelevance of a dream. But the chamber is of rare beauty, and in its hushed and perfumed twilight, dramas of the spirit are being silently and almost imperceptibly enacted, more tragic than the loud passion and violence of the stage. He has written an essay on Silence,--silence that, like humility, holds for him a 'treasure' beyond the reach of eloquence or of pride; for it is the dwelling of our true self, the spiritual core of us, 'more profound and more boundless than the self of the passions or of pure reason.' And so there is less matter for drama in 'a captain who conquers in battle or a husband who avenges his honour than in an old man, seated in his arm-chair waiting patiently with his lamp beside him, giving unconscious ear to all the eternal laws that reign about his house, interpreting without comprehending, the silence of door and window, and the quivering voice of the light; submitting with bent head to the presence of his soul and his destiny.' It is on this side that symbolism discloses its kinship with the Russian novel,--with the mystic quietism of Tolstoy and the religion of self-sacrifice in Dostoievsky; and its sharp antagonism to the Nietzschean gospel of daemonic will and ruthless self-assertion, just then being preached in Germany. The two faiths were both alive and both responded to deep though diverse needs of the time; but the immediate future, as we shall see, belonged to the second. They had their first resounding encounter when Nietzsche held up his once venerated master Wagner to scorn as the chief of 'decadents' because he had turned from the superhuman heroism of Siegfried and the boundless passion of Tristram to glorify the mystic Catholicism of the Grail and the loveliness of the 'pure fool' Parzifal. Outside France symbolism found eager response among young poets, but rather as a literary than as an ethical doctrine. In Germany Dehmel, the most powerful personality among her recent poets, began as a disciple of Verlaine; in Italy, D'Annunzio wove esoteric symbols into the texture of the more than Nietzschean supermanliness of his supermen and superwomen. More significant than these, however, was the symbolism of what we call the Celtic school of poets in Ireland. For here both their artistic impressionism and their mystic spirituality found a congenial soil. The principal mediating force was Mr. Arthur Symons, friend of Verlaine and of Yeats, and himself the most penetrating interpreter of Symbolism, both as critic and as poet.[14] And to the French influence was added that of Blake, a poet too great to be included in any school, but allied to symbolism by his scorn for 'intellect' and for rhetoric, and by his audacities of figured speech. But Mr. Yeats and 'A.E.', the leaders of the 'Celtic' group, are in no sense derivation voices. They had the great advantage over the French of a living native folklore and faery lore. Hence their symbolism, no less subtle, and no less steeped in poetic imagining, has not the same air of literary artifice, of studio fabrication, of cultured Bohemianism; it breathes of the old Irish hills, holy with old-world rites, and the haunted woods, and the magical twilight and dewy dawns. And beneath all the folklore, and animating it, is the passion for Ireland herself, the mother, deathless and ever young, whom neither the desolation of the time nor the decay of hope can touch: 'Out-worn heart in a time out-worn Come clear of the nets of wrong and right; Laugh, heart, again in the grey twilight; Sigh, heart, again in the dew of the morn. Your mother Eire is always young, Dew ever shining and twilight grey; Tho' hope fall from you and love decay Burning in fires of a slanderous tongue. Come, heart, where hill is heaped upon hill; For there the mystical brotherhood Of sun and moon and hollow and wood And river and stream work out their will.' For that, the French had only the Fauns of a literary neo-classicism. The passion for France was yet indeed to find a voice in poetry. But this was reserved for the more trumpet-tongued tones of the contemporary phase to which I now turn. III. 'CREATIVE EVOLUTION' 1. _Philosophic Analogies_ Nothing is more symptomatic of the incipient twentieth century than the drawing together of currents of thought and action before remote or hostile. The Parnassians were an exclusive sect, the symbolists an eccentric and often disreputable coterie; Claudel, D'Annunzio, Rudyard Kipling, speak home to throngs of everyday readers, are even national idols, and our Georgians contrive to be bought and read without the least surrender of what is most poetic in their poetry. And the analogies between philosophic thinking and poetic creation become peculiarly striking. Merely to name Friedrich Nietzsche, Henri Bergson, and Benedetto Croce is to become vividly aware of these analogies and of the common bent from which they spring. All three--whether with brilliant rhetoric, or iron logic, or a blend of both--use their thinking power to deride the theorizing intelligence in comparison with the creative intuition which culminates in poetry. To define the scope and province of this intuition is the purport of Croce's epoch-making _Aesthetics_, the basis and starting-point of his illumining work, in _Critica_, as a literary critic. Bergson is the dominant figure in a line of French thinkers possessed with the conviction that life, a perpetual streaming forth of creative energy, cannot be caught in the mechanism of law, adapted to merely physical phenomena, which at best merely gives us generalizations and lets the all-important particulars--the individual living thing--slip through the meshes; whereas intuition--the eye fixed on the object--penetrates to the very heart of this individual living thing, and only drops out the skeleton framework of abstract laws. Philosophy, in these thinkers, was deeply imbued with the analogies of artistic creation. 'Beauty,' said Ravaisson, 'and especially beauty in the most divine and perfect form, contains the secret of the world.'[15] And Bergson's _Creative Evolution_ embodied a conception of life and of the world profoundly congenial to the artistic and poetic temper of his time. For he restated, it has been well said, the two great surviving formulas of the nineteenth century, evolution and the will to live, in terms precisely suited to the temper of the age just dawning. The will to live became a formula of hope and progress; evolution became a formula of vital impulse, of creative purpose, not of mechanical 'struggle for existence'. The idea that aesthetic experience gives a profounder clue than logical thought to the inner meaning of things was as old as Plato. It was one of the crowning thoughts of Kant; it deeply coloured the metaphysics of Schelling. And Nietzsche developed it with brilliant audacity when in his _Birth of Tragedy_ (1872) he contrasted scornfully with the laboured and ineffectual constructions of the theoretic man, even of Socrates the founder of philosophy, the radiant vision of the artist, the lucid clarity of Apollo. 'His book gave the lie to a thousand years of orderly development', wrote the great Hellenist Wilamowitz, Nietzsche's old schoolfellow, indignant at his rejection of the labours of scholastic reason. But it affirmed energetically the passion of his own time for immediate and first-hand experience. And it did more. Beside and above Apollo, Nietzsche put Dionysus; beside vision and above it, _rage_. Of the union of these two Tragedy was born. And Nietzsche's glorification of this elemental creative force also responded to a wider movement in philosophy, here chiefly German. His Dionysiac rage is directly derived from that will in which Schopenhauer saw the master faculty of man and the hidden secret of the universe; and the beginning of Schopenhauer's fame, about 1850, coincides with a general rehabilitation of will as the dominant faculty in the soul and in the world, at the cost of the methodic orderly processes of understanding; a movement exhibited in the psychological innovations of Wundt and Münsterberg, in the growth of the doctrine that what a thing is is determined by what it _can_; that value is in fact the measure, and even the meaning, of existence; that will can arm impotence, create faith, and master disease; and in the call of the colossal will-power which created the German empire and launched her on the career of industrial greatness. Nietzsche's Superman is, above all, a being of colossal and masterful will, and Zarathustra, the prophet of superhumanity, is only an incarnation of the will that for Schopenhauer moved the world. The moment at which the prestige of will began definitely to overcome that of reasoning is marked, as Aliotta has pointed out, by the appearance of James's _Will to Believe_, just when agnosticism seemed triumphant. Nietzsche and Bergson thus, with all their obvious and immense divergences, concurred in this respect, important from our present point of view, that their influence tended to transfer authority from the philosophic reason to those 'irrational' elements of mind which reach their highest intensity in the vision and 'rage' of the poet. James's vindication of drunken exaltation as a source of religious insight was not the least symptomatic passage of his great book. And both concurred, however remote their methods or their speech, in conceiving reality as creation, creation in which we take part--a conception which again, in the hands of the constructive religious thinker, led directly to the type of faith announced in that last--the Jamesian--'Variety' of religious experience, which represents us as indispensable fellow-workers and allies of a growing and striving God. 2. _The New Freedom_ No reader of the poetry of our time can mistake the kinship of its prevailing temper with that which lies at the root of these philosophies. Without trying to fit its infinite variety to any finite formula, we may yet venture to find in it, as Mr. McDowall has found in our Georgian poetry in particular, a characteristic union of grip and detachment; of intense and eager grasp upon actuality as it breaks upon us in the successive moments of the stream of time, and yet an inner independence of it, a refusal to be obsessed by its sanctions and authorities, a tacit assumption that everything, by whatever length of tradition consecrated, must come before the bar of the new century to be judged by its new mind. 'Youth is knocking at the door,' as it is said of Hilda in the symbolical _Master Builder_, and doubtless in every generation the philistines or Victorians in possession have had occasion to make that remark. The difference in our time is rather that youth comes in without knocking, and that instead of having to work slowly up to final dominance against the inertia of an established literary household, it has spontaneously, like Hilda Wrangel, taken possession of the home, rinding criticism boundlessly eulogistic, the public inexhaustibly responsive, and philosophy interpreting the universe, as we have seen, precisely in sympathy with its own naïve intuitions. No wonder that youth at twenty is writing its autobiography or having its biography written, and that at twenty-five it makes a show of laying down the pen, like Max Beerbaum, with the gesture of one rising sated from the feast of life: 'I shall write no more.' The fact that youth finds itself thus at home in the world explains the difference in temper between the new poets of freedom and the old. The wild or wistful cry of Shelley for an ideal state emancipated from pain and death is as remote from their poetry as his spiritual anarchy from their politics; they can dream and see visions, in Scott's phrase, 'like any one going', but their feet are on the solid ground of actuality and citizenship, and the actuality comes into and colours their poetry no less than their vision. When Mr. Drinkwater looks out of his 'town window' he dreams of the crocus flaming gold in far-off Warwick woods; but he does not repudiate the drab inglorious street nor the tramway ringing and moaning over the cobbles, and they come into his verse. And I find it significant of the whole temper of the new poetry to ordinary life no less than that of ordinary men and women to the new poetry, that he has won a singularly intimate relationship with a great industrial community. He has not fared like his carver in stone. But then the eagles of his carving, though capable of rising, like Shelley's, to the sun, are the Cromwells and Lincolns who themselves brought the eagle's valour and undimmed eye into the stress and turmoil of affairs. No doubt a fiercer note of revolt may be heard at times in the poetry of contemporary France, and that precisely where devotion to some parts of the heritage of the past is most impassioned. The iconoclastic scorn of youth's idealism for the effeteness of the 'old hunkers', as Whitman called them, has rarely rung out more sharply than in the closing stanzas of Claudel's great Palm Sunday ode. All the pomp and splendour of bishops and cardinals is idle while victory yet is in suspense: that must be won by youth in arms. 'To-morrow the candles and the dais and the bishop with his clergy coped and gold embossed, But to-day the shout like thunder of an equal, unofficered host Who, led and kindled by the flag alone, With one sole spirit swollen, and on one sole thought intent, Are become one cry like the crash of walls shattered and gates rent: 'Hosanna unto David's son!' Needless the haughty steeds marble-sculptured, or triumphal arches, or chariots and four, Needless the flags and the caparisons, the moving pyramids and towers, and cars that thunder and roar,-- 'Tis but an ass whereon sits Christ; For to make an end of the nightmare built by the pedants and the pharisees, To get home to reality across the gulf of mendacities, The first she-ass he saw sufficed! Eternal youth is master, the hideous gang of old men is done with, we Stand here like children, fanned by the breath of the things to be, But victory we will have to-day! Afterwards the corn that like gold gives return, afterwards the gold that like corn is faithful and will bear, The fruit we have henceforth only to gather, the land we have henceforth only to share, But victory we will have to-day!' In the same spirit Charles Péguy--like Claudel, be it noted, a student of Bergson at the École Normale--found his ideal in the great story of the young girl of Domremy who saved France when all the pomp and wisdom of generals had broken down. And in our own poetry has not Mr. Bottomley rewritten the Lear story, with the focus of power and interest transferred from the old king--left with not an inch of king in him--to a glorious young Artemis-Goneril? But among our English Georgians this tense iconoclastic note is rare. Their detachment from what they repudiate is not fanatical or ascetic; it is conveyed less in invective than in paradox and irony; their temper is not that which flies to the wilderness and dresses in camel hair, but of mariners putting out to the unknown and bidding a not unfriendly good-bye at the shore. The temper of adventure is deeply ingrained in the new romance as in the old; the very word adventure is saturated with a sentiment very congenial to us both for better and worse; it quickens the hero in us and flatters the devil-may-care. In its simplest form the temper of adventure has given us the profusion of pleasant verses which we know as the poetry of 'vagabondage' and 'the open road'. The point is too familiar to be dwelt on, and has been admirably illustrated and discussed by Mr. McDowall. George Borrow, prince of vagabonds, Stevenson, the 'Ariel', with his 'Vagabond-song'-- 'All I seek the heaven above, And the road below me', and a few less vocal swallows, anticipated the more sustained flights and melodies of to-day, while Borrow's wonderful company of vagabond heroes and heroines is similarly premonitory of the alluring gipsies and circus-clowns of our Georgian poetry. Sometimes a traditional motive is creatively transformed; as when Father Time, the solemn shadow with admonitory hour-glass, appears in Mr. Hodgson's poem as an old gipsy pitching his caravan 'only a moment and off once again'. Elsewhere a deeper note is sounded. It is not for nothing that Jeanne d'Arc is the saint of French Catholic democracy, or that Péguy, her poet, calls the Incarnation the 'sublime adventure of God's Son'. That last adventure of the Dantesque Ulysses beyond the sunset thrills us to-day more than the Odyssean tale of his triumphant home-return, and D'Annunzio, greatly daring, takes it as the symbol of his own adventurous life. Francis Thompson's most famous poem, too, represents the divine effort to save the erring soul under the image of the hound's eager chase of a quarry which may escape; while Yeats hears God 'blowing his lonely horn' along the moonlit faery glades of Erin. And Meredith, who so often profoundly voiced the spirit of the time in which only his ripe old age was passed, struck this note in his sublime verses on revolutionary France-- 'soaring France That divinely shook the dead From living man; that stretched ahead Her resolute forefinger straight And marched toward the gloomy gate Of Earth's Untried.' It is needless to dwell upon the affinity between this temper of adventure in poetry and the teaching of Bergson. That the link is not wholly fortuitous is shown by the interesting _Art Poétique_ (1903) of his quondam pupil, Claudel, a little treatise pervaded by the idea of Creative-evolution. It was natural in such a time to assume that any living art of poetry must itself be new, and in fact the years immediately before and after the turn of the century are crowded with announcements of 'new' movements in art of every kind. Beside Claudel's _Art Poétique_ we have in England the _New Aestheticism_ of Grant Allen; in Germany the 'new principle' in verse of Arno Holz. And here again the English innovators are distinguished by a good-humoured gaiety, if also by a slighter build of thought, from the French or Nietzschean 'revaluers'. Rupert Brooke delightfully parodies the exquisite hesitances and faltering half-tones of Pater's cloistral prose; and Mr. Chesterton pleasantly mocks at the set melancholy of the aggressive Decadence in which he himself grew up: 'Science announced nonentity, and art adored decay, The world was old and ended, but you and I were gay.' Like their predecessors in the earlier Romantic school, the new adventurers have notoriously experimented with poetic _form_. France, the home of the most rigid and meticulous metrical tradition, had already led the way in substituting for the strictly measured verse the more loosely organized harmonies of rhythmical prose, bound together, and indeed made recognizable as verse, in any sense, solely by the rhyme. With the Symbolists 'free verse' was an attempt to capture finer modulations of music than the rigid frame of metre allowed. With their successors it had rather the value of a plastic medium in which every variety of matter and of mood could be faithfully expressed. But whether called verse or not, the vast rushing modulations of rhythmic music in the great pieces of Claudel and others have a magnificence not to be denied. And the less explicitly poetic form permits matter which would jar on the poetic instinct if conveyed through a metrical form to be taken up as it were in this larger and looser stride. In Germany, on the other hand, the rhythmic emancipation of Whitman was carried out, in the school of Arno Holz, with a revolutionary audacity beyond the example even of Claudel. Holz states with great clearness and trenchancy what he calls his 'new principle of lyric'; one which 'abandons all verbal music as an aim, and is borne solely by a rhythm made vital by the thought struggling through it to expression'. Rhyme and strophe are given up, only rhythm remains. Of our Georgian poetry, it must suffice to note that here, too, the temper of adventure in form is rife. But it shows itself, characteristically, less in revolutionary innovation than in attempts to elicit new and strange effects from traditional measures by deploying to the utmost, and in bold and extreme combinations, their traditional resources and variations, as in the blank verse of Mr. Abercrombie and Mr. Bottomley. This, and much beside in Georgian verse, has moods and moments of rare beauty. But, on the whole, verse-form is the region of poetic art in which Georgian poetry as a whole is least secure. 3. _The New Realism_ We see then how deeply rooted this new freedom is in the passion for actuality; not the dream but the waking and alert experience throbs and pulses in it. We have now to look more closely into this other aspect of it. Realism is a hard-worked term, but it may be taken to imply that the overflowing vitality of which poetry is one expression fastens with peculiar eagerness upon the visible and tangible world about us and seeks to convey that zest in words. Our poets not only do not scorn the earth to lose themselves in the sky; they are positive friends of the matter-of-fact, and that not in spite of poetry, but for poetry's sake; and Pegasus flies more freely because 'things' are 'in the saddle' along with the poet. That this matter-of-factness is loved by poets, for poetry's sake, marks it off once for all from the photographic or 'plain' realism of Crabbe. But it is also clearly distinct from the no less poetic realism of Wordsworth. Wordsworth's mind is conservative and traditional; his inspiration is static; he glorifies the primrose on the river brink by seeing its transience in the light of something far more deeply interfused which does not change nor pass away. Romance, in a high sense, lies about his greatest poetry. But it is a romance rooted in memory, not in hope--the 'glory of the grass and splendour of the flower' which he had seen in childhood and imaginatively re-created in maturity; a romance which change, and especially the intrusions of industrial man, dispelled and destroyed. Whereas the romance of our new realism rests, in good part, precisely in the sense that the _thing_ so vividly gripped is not or need not be permanent, may turn into something else, has only a tenancy, not a freehold, in its conditions of space and time, a 'toss-up' hold upon existence, as it were, full of the zest of adventurous insecurity. A pessimistic philosophy would dissipate this romance, or strip it of all but the mournful poetry of doom. Mr. Chesterton glorifies the dust which may become a flower or a face, against the Reverend Peter Bell for whom dust is dust and no more, and Hamlet who only remembers that it once was Caesar. If our realism is buoyant, if it had at once the absorbed and the open mind, this is, in large part, in virtue of the temper which finds reality a perpetual creation. Every moment is precious and significant, for it comes with the burden and meaning of something that has never completely been before; and goes by only to give place to another moment equally curious and new. This is the deeper ground of our present fashion of paradox; what Mr. Chesterton, its apostle, means when he says that 'the great romance is reality'; for paradox, the unexpected, is, in a reality so framed, the bare and sober truth. Hence the frequency, in our new poetry, of pieces founded deliberately upon, as Mr. McDowall points out, paradox: the breaking in of some utter surprise upon a humdrum society, as in Mr. de la Mare's _Three Jolly Farmers_, or Mr. Abercrombie's _End of the World_, or Mr. Munro's _Strange Meetings_. Moreover, in this incessantly created reality we are ourselves incessantly creative. That may seem to follow as a matter of course; but it corresponds with the most radical of the distinctions between our realism and that of Wordsworth. When Mr. Wells tells us that his most comprehensive belief about the universe is that every part of it is ultimately important, he is not expressing a mystic pantheism which feels every part to be divine, but a generous pragmatism which holds that every part _works_. The idea of shaping and adapting will, of energy in industry, of mere routine practicality in office or household, is no longer tabooed, or shyly evaded; not because of any theoretic exaltation of labour or consecration of the commonplace, but because merely to use things, to make them fulfil our purposes, to bring them into touch with our activities, itself throws a kind of halo over even very humble and homely members of the 'divine democracy of things'. Rupert Brooke draws up a famous catalogue of the things of which he was a 'great lover'. He loved them, he says, simply _as being_. And no doubt, the simple sensations of colour, touch, or smell counted for much. But compare them with the things that Keats, a yet greater lover of sensations, loved. You feel in Brooke's list that he liked doing things as well as feasting his passive senses; these 'plates', 'holes in the ground,' 'washen stones,' the cold graveness of iron, and so forth. One detects in the list the Brooke who, as a boy, went about with a book of poems in one hand and a cricket-ball in the other, and whose left hand well knew what his right hand did.[16] That takes us far from the dream of eternal beauty, which a Greek urn or a nightingale's song brought to Keats, and the fatal word 'forlorn', bringing back the light of common day, dispelled. The old ethical and aesthetic canons are submerged in a passion for life which finds a good beyond good and evil, and a beauty born of ugliness more vital than beauty's self. 'The worth of a drama is measured', said D'Annunzio, 'by its fullness of life', and the formula explains, if it does not justify, those tropical gardens, rank with the gross blooms of 'superhuman' eroticism and ferocity, to which he latterly gave that name. And we know how Maeterlinck has emerged from the mystic dreams and silences of his recluse chamber to unfold the dramatic pugnacities of Birds and Bees. Even the downright foulness and ugliness which some people find so puzzling in poets with an acute delight in beauty, like Mr. Masefield, come into it not from any aesthetic obtuseness, but because these uglinesses are full of the zest of drama, of things being done or made, of life being lived. When Masefield sounded his challenge to the old aesthetics: 'Others may sing of the wine and the wealth and the mirth, Mine be the dirt and the dross, the dust and scum of the earth', he knew well, as _The Everlasting Mercy_ and _The Widow of Bye Street_ showed, that dirt and dross, if wrought into tragedy, can win a higher beauty than the harmonies of idyll. Even the hideous elder women in Mr. Bottomley's _Lear's Wife_, or his Regan--an ill-conditioned girl, sidling among the 'sweaty, half-clad cook-maids' after pig-killing, 'smeary and hot as they', participate in this beauty and energy of doing. Poetry, in these cases, wins perhaps at most a Pyrrhic victory over reluctant matter. It is otherwise with the second of the great Belgian poets. In the work of Verhaeren, the modern industrial city, with its spreading tentacles of devouring grime and squalor, its clanging factories, its teeming bazaars and warehouses, and all its thronging human population, is taken up triumphantly into poetry. Verhaeren is the poet of 'tumultuous forces', whether they appear in the roar and clash of 'that furnace we call existence', or in the heroic struggles of the Flemish nation for freedom. And he exhibits these surging forces in a style itself full of tumultuous power, Germanic rather than French in its violent and stormy splendour, and using the chartered licence of the French 'free verse' itself with more emphasis than subtlety. 4. _The Cult of Force_ In Verhaeren, indeed, we are conscious of passing into the presence of power more elemental and unrestrained than the civil refinement of our Georgians, at their wildest, allows us to suspect. The tragic and heroic history of his people, and their robust art, the art of Rembrandt, and of Teniers, vibrates in the Flemish poet. He has much of the temperament of Nietzsche, and if not evidently swayed by his ideas, or even aware of them, and with a generous faith in humanity which Nietzsche never knew, he thinks and imagines with a kindred joy in violence: 'I love man and the world, and I adore the force Which my force gives and takes from man and the universe.' And it is no considerable step from him to the poets who in this third phase of our period have unequivocally exulted in power and burnt incense or offered sacrifice before the altar of the strong man. The joy in creation which, we saw, gives its romance to so much of the realism of our time, now appears accentuated in the fiercer romance of conflict and overthrow. Thanks largely to Nietzsche, this romance acquired the status of an authoritative philosophy--even, in his own country, that of an ethical orthodoxy. The German people was doubtless less deeply and universally imbued with this faith than our war-prejudice assumes. But phenomena such as the enormous success of a cheap exposition of it, _Rembrandt als Erzieher_ (1890) by a fervent Bismarckian, and of the comic journal _Simplicissimus_ (founded 1895) devoted to systematic ridicule of the old-fashioned German virtues of tenderness and sympathy, indicated a current of formidable power and compass, which was soon to master all the other affluents of the national stream. But older, and in part foreign, influences concurred to colour and qualify, while they sustained, the Nietzschean influence,--the daemonic power of Carlyle, the iron intensity and masterful reticence of Ibsen. This was the case especially, as is well known, in the drama. Gerhardt Hauptmann, who painted the tragedy of the self-emancipated superman,--as Mr. Shaw about the same time showed us his self-achieved apotheosis,--was no doubt the most commanding (as Mr. Shaw was the most original) figure in the European drama of the early century. In poetry, the contributory forces were still more subtly mingled, and the Nietzschean spirit, which blows where it listeth, often touched men wholly alien from Nietzsche in cast of genius and sometimes stoutly hostile to him. Several of the most illustrious were not Germans at all. Among the younger men who resist, while they betray, his spell, is the most considerable lyric poet of the present generation in Germany. Richard Dehmel's vehement inspiration from the outset provoked comparison with Nietzsche, which he warmly resented. He began, in fact, as a disciple of Verlaine, and we may detect in the unrestraint of his early erotics the example of the French poet's _fureur d'aimer_. But Dehmel's more strongly-built nature, and perhaps the downright vigour of the German language, broke through the tenuities of _la nuance_. It was not the subtle artistry of the Symbolists, but the ethical and intellectual force of the German character, which finally drew into a less anarchic channel the vehement energy of Dehmel. Nietzsche had imagined an ethic of superhuman will 'beyond good and evil'. The poet, replied Dehmel, had indeed to know the passion which transcends good and evil, but he had to know no less the good and evil themselves of the world in and by which common men live. And if he can cry with the egoism of lawless passion, in the _Erlösungen_, 'I will fathom all pleasure to the deepest depths of thirst, ... Resign not pleasure, it waters power',--he can add, in the true spirit of Goethe and of the higher mind of Germany, 'Yet since it also makes slack, turn it into the stuff of duty!' If Nietzsche provoked into antagonism the sounder elements in Dehmel, he was largely responsible for destroying such sanity as the amazing genius of Gabriele D'Annunzio had ever possessed. In D'Annunzio the sensuality of a Sybarite and the eroticism of a Faun go along with a Roman tenacity and hardness of nerve. The author of novels which, with all their luxurious splendour, can only be called hothouses of morbid sentiment, has become the apostle of Italian imperialism, and more than any other single man provoked Italy to throw herself into the great adventure of the War. Unapproached in popularity by any other Italian man of letters, D'Annunzio discovered Nietzsche, and hailed him--a great concession--as an equal. When Nietzsche died, in 1900, D'Annunzio indicted a lofty memorial ode to the Titanic Barbarian who set up once more the serene gods of Hellas over the vast portals of the Future. Nietzsche indeed let loose all the Titan, and all consequently that was least Hellenic, in the fertile genius of the Italian; his wonderful instinct for beauty, his inexhaustible resources of style are employed in creating orgies of superhuman valour, lust, and cruelty like some of his later dramas, and hymns intoxicated with the passion for Power, like the splendid Ode in which the City of the Seven Hills is prophetically seen once more the mistress of the world, loosing the knot of all the problems of humanity. His poetic autobiography, the first _Laude_ (1901)--counterpart of Wordsworth's _Prelude_ and its very antipodes--culminates in a prayer 900 lines long to Hermes, god of the energy which precipitates itself on life and makes it pregnant with invention and discovery, of the iron will 'which chews care as a laurel leaf'--the god of the Superman. And so he discovers the muse of the Superman, the Muse of Energy, a tenth Muse whose first poet he modestly disclaims to be, if he may only be, as he would have us interpret his name, her Announcer. If D'Annunzio emulates Nietzsche, the two great militant poets of Catholic France would have scorned the comparison. Charles Péguy's brief career was shaped from his first entrance, poor and of peasant birth, at a Paris Lycée, to his heroic death in the field, September 1914, by a daemonic force of character. His heroine, glorified in his first book, was Jeanne d'Arc, who attempted the impossible, and achieved it. In writing, his principle--shocking to French literary tradition--was to speak the brutal truth _brutalement_. As a poet he stood in the direct lineage of Corneille, whose _Polyeucte_ he thought the greatest of the world's tragedies. As a man, he embodied with naïve intensity the unsurpassed inborn heroism of the French race. Claudel, even more remote as a thinker from Nietzsche than Péguy, exhibits a kindred temper in the ingrained violence of his art. His stroke is vehement and peremptory; he is an absolutist in style as in creed. It is the style of one who apprehends the visible world with an intensity as of passionate embrace, such as the young Browning expresses in _Pauline_. 'I would fain have seen everything,' he cries, 'possessed and made it my own, not with eyes and senses only, but with mind and spirit.' And after he was converted he saw and painted supernatural things with the same carnal and robust incisiveness. The half-lights of Symbolist mysticism are remote from his hard glare. As a dramatist he drew upon and exaggerated that which in Aeschylus and Shakespeare seems to the countrymen of Racine nearest to the limit of the terrible and the brutal permissible in art: a princess nailed by the hands like a sparrow-hawk to a pine by a brutal peasant; the daughter of a noble house submitting to a loathed marriage with a foul-mouthed plebeian in order to save the pope. And if we look, finally, for corresponding phenomena at home, we find them surely in the masculine, militant, and in the French sense _brutal_ poetry of W.E. Henley and Rudyard Kipling. If any modern poets have conceived life in terms of will, and penetrated their verse with that faith, it is the author of 'I am the Captain of my Soul', the 'Book of the Sword', and 'London Voluntaries', friend and subject of the great kindred-minded sculptor Rodin, the poet over whose grave in St. Paul's George Wyndham found the right word when he said--marking him off from the great contemplative, listening poets of the past--'His music was not the still sad music of humanity; it was never still, rarely sad, always intrepid.' And we know how Kipling, after sanctioning the mischievous superstition that 'East and West can never meet', refuted it by producing his own 'two strong men'. 5. _The New Idealism_ (1) _Nationality_ We have now seen something of that power, at once of grip and of detachment with which the dominant poetry of this century faces what it thinks of as the adventure of experience, its plunge into the ever-moving and ever-changing stream of life. How then, it remains to ask, has it dealt with those ideal aspirations and beliefs which one may live intensely and ignore, which in one sense stand 'above the battle', but for which men have lived and died. With a generation which holds so lightly by tradition, which revises and revalues all accepted values, these aspirations and beliefs might well drop out of its poetry. On the other hand, these same aspirations and beliefs might overcome the indifference to tradition by ceasing to be merely traditional, by being immersed and steeped in that moving stream of life, and interwoven with the creative energies of men. The inherited faiths were put to this dilemma, either to become intimately alive and creative in poetry or to be of no concern for it. Some of them failed in the test. England has still devotees of Protestantism, but Protestant religion has hardly inspired noble poetry since Milton. Nationality, on the other hand, has during the last century inspired finer poetry than at any time since the sixteenth, and that because it has been brought down from the region of political abstractions and ideologies into intimate union with heart and brain, imagination and sense. This is true also of Catholicism and of Socialism, and, if fitfully and uncertainly yet, of the ideal of international fraternity, of humanity. And to all these ideals, to all ideals, came finally the terrific, the overwhelming test of the War,--a searching, annihilating, purifying flame, in which some shrivelled away, some were stripped of the illusive glitter that concealed their mass of alloy, and some, purged of their baser constituents, shone out with a lustre unapproached before. What is the distinctive note of this new poetry of nationality? And for the moment I speak of the years before the War. May we not say that in it the ideal of country is saturated with that imaginative grip of reality in all its concrete energy and vivacity which I have called the new realism? The nation is no abstraction, whether it be called Britannia, or _Deutschland über Alles_. It is seen, and felt; seen in its cities as well as in its mountains, in the workers who have made it, as well as in the heroes who have defended it; in its roaring forges as well as in its idyllic woodlands and its tales of battles long ago; and all these not as separate strands in a woven pattern, but as waters of different origin and hue pouring along together in the same great stream. Émile Verhaeren, six years before the invasion, had seen and felt his country, living body and living soul, with an intensity which made it seem unimaginable that she should be permanently subdued. He well called his book _Toute la Flandre_, for all Flanders is there. Old Flanders,--Artevelde and Charles Téméraire--whose soul was a forest of huge trees and dark thickets, 'A wilderness of crossing ways below, But eagles, over, soaring to the sun,'-- Van Eyck and Rubens--'a thunder of colossal memories'; then the great cities, with their belfries and their foundries, and their warehouses and laboratories, their antique customs and modern ambitions; and the rivers, the homely familiar Lys, where the women wash the whitest of linen, and the mighty Scheldt, the Escaut, the 'hero sombre, violent and magnificent', 'savage and beautiful Escaut', whose companionship had moulded and made the poet, whose rhythms had begotten his music and his best ideas[17]. None of our English poets have rendered England in poetry with the same lyric intensity in its whole compass of time and space, calling up into light and music all her teeming centuries and peopled provinces. Yet the present generation has in some respects made a nearer approach to such achievement than its predecessors. A century of growing historic consciousness has not passed over us in vain; and if any generic distinction is to be found between our recent, often penetrating and beautiful, poetry of the English countryside and the Nature description of Wordsworth or of Ruskin, it is in the ground-tone of passion and memory that pervades it for England herself. Wordsworth wrote magnificently of England threatened with invasion, and magnificently of the Lake Country, Nature's beloved haunt. But the War sonnets and the Lake and mountain poetry come from distinct strains in his genius, which our criticism may bring into relation, but our feeling insists on keeping apart. His Grasmere is a province of Nature--her favoured province--rather than of England; it is in the eye of Nature that the old Cumberland beggar lives and dies; England only provides the obnoxious workhouses to which these destitute vagrants were henceforth to be consigned. Is it not this that divides our modern local poetry from his? Mr. Belloc's Sussex is tenderly loved for itself; yet behind its great hills and its old-world harbours lies the half-mystic presence of historic England. And in Edward Thomas's wonderful old Wiltshireman, Lob, worthy I think to be named with the Cumberland Beggar, 'An old man's face, by life and weather cut And coloured,--rough, brown, sweet as any nut,-- A land face, sea-blue eyed,'-- you read the whole lineage of sterling English yeomen and woodlanders from whom Lob springs. This note is indeed relatively absent from the work of the venerable master who has made 'Wessex' the most vividly realized of all English provinces to-day, and whose prose Egdon Heath may well be put at the head of all the descriptive poetry of our time. But Mr. Hardy, in this respect, belongs to an earlier generation than that into which he happily survives. Sometimes this feeling is given in a single intense concentrated touch. When Rupert Brooke tells us of 'Some corner of a foreign field That is for ever England. There shall be In that rich earth a richer dust concealed; A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,' do we not feel that the solidarity of England with the English folk and of the English folk with the English soil, is burnt into our imaginations in a new and distinctive way? But the poetry of shires and provinces reacts too upon the poetry of nationality. It infuses something of the more instinctive and rudimentary attachments from which it springs into a passion peculiarly exposed to the contagion of rhetoric and interest. Some of the most strident voices among living nationalist poets have found an unexpected note of tenderness when they sang their home province. Mr. Kipling charms us when he tells, in his close-knit verse, of the 'wooded, dim, Blue goodness of the Weald'. And the more strident notes of D'Annunzio's patriotism are also assuaged by the tenderness and depth of his home feeling. We read with some apprehension his dedication of _La Nave_ to the god of seas: 'O Lord, who bringest forth and dost efface The ocean-ruling Nations, race by race, It is this living People, by Thy grace Who on the sea Shall magnify Thy name, who on the sea Shall glorify Thy name, who on the sea With myrrh and blood shall sacrifice to Thee At the altar-prow, Of all earth's oceans make our sea, O Thou! Amen! But he dedicated a noble drama, the _Figlia d'Iorio_, in a different tone, 'To the land of the Abruzzi, to my Mother, to my Sisters, to my brother in exile, to my father in his grave, to all my dead and all my race in the mountains and by the sea, I dedicate this song of the ancient blood.' (2) _Democracy_ The growth of democratic as of national feeling during the later century naturally produced a plentiful harvest of eloquent utterance in verse. With this, merely as such, I am not here concerned, even though it be as fine as the Socialist songs of William Morris or Edward Carpenter. But the Catholic Socialism of Charles Péguy,--itself an original and, for most of his contemporaries, a bewildering combination--struck out a no less original poetry,--a poetry of solidarity. Péguy's Socialism, like his Catholicism, was single-souled; he ignored that behind the one was a Party, and behind the other a Church. It was his bitterest regret that a vast part of humanity was removed beyond the pale of fellowship by eternal damnation. It was his sublimest thought that the solidarity of man includes the damned. In his first version of the Jeanne d'Arc mystery, already referred to, he tells how Jesus, crucified, Saw not his Mother in tears at the cross-foot Below him, saw not Magdalen nor John, But wept, dying, only for Judas' death. The Saviour loved this Judas, and though utterly He gave himself, he knew he could not save him. It was the dogma of damnation which for long kept Péguy out of its fold, that barbarous mixture of life and death, he called it, which no man will accept who has won the spirit of collective humanity. But he revolted not because he was tolerant of evil; on the contrary to damn sins was for him a weak and unsocial solution; evil had not to be damned but to be fought down. Whether this vision of Christ weeping because he could not save Judas was un-Christian, or more Christian than Christianity itself, we need not discuss here; but I am sure that the spirit of a Catholic democracy as transfigured in the mind of a great poet could not be more nobly rendered. (3) _Catholicism_ But Péguy's powerful personality set its own stamp upon whatever he believed, and though a close friend of Jaurès, he was a Socialist who rejected almost all the ideas of the Socialist school. As little was his Catholicism to the mind of the Catholic authorities. And his Catholic poetry is sharply marked off from most of the poetry that burgeoned under the stimulus of the remarkable revival of Catholic ideas in twentieth-century France. I say of Catholic ideas, for sceptical poets like Rémy de Gourmont played delicately with the symbols of Catholic worship, made 'Litanies' of roses, and offered prayers to Jeanne d'Arc, walking dreamily in the procession of 'Women Saints of Paradise', to 'fill our hearts with anger'.[18] The Catholic adoration of women-saints is one of the springs of modern poetry. At the close of the century of Wordsworth and Shelley, the tender Nature-worship of Francis of Assisi contributed not less to the recovered power of Catholic ideas in poetry, and this chiefly in the person of two poets, in France and in England, both of whom played half-mystically with the symbolism of their names, Francis Thompson and Francis Jammes. The child-like naïvete of S. Francis is more delicately reflected in Jammes, a Catholic W.H. Davies, who casts the idyllic light of Biblical pastoral over modern farm life, and prays to 'his friends, the Asses' to go with him to Paradise, 'For there is no hell in the land of the Bon Dieu.' But the most powerful creative imagination to-day in the service of Catholic ideas is certainly Paul Claudel. I pass by here the series of dramas, where a Catholic inspiration as fervent as Calderon's is enforced with Elizabethan technique and Elizabethan violence of terror, cruelty, and pity.[19] From the ferocious beauty of _L'Ôtage_ turn rather to the intense spiritual hush before the altar of some great French church at noon, where the poet, not long after the first decisive check of the invaders on the Marne, finds himself alone, before the shrine of Marie. Here too, his devotion finds a speech not borrowed from the devout or from their poetry: 'It is noon. I see the Church is open. I must enter. Mother of Jesus Christ, I do not come to pray. I have nothing to offer and nothing to ask. I come only, Mother, to gaze at you. To gaze at you, to weep for happiness, to know That I am your son and that you are there. Nothing at all but for a moment when all is still, Noon! to be with you, Marie, in this place where you are. To say nothing, to gaze upon your face, To let the heart sing in its own speech.' There the nationalist passion of Claudel animates his Catholic religion, yet does not break through its confines. But sometimes the strain of suffering and ruin is too intense for Christian submission, and he takes his God to task truculently for not doing his part in the contract; we are his partner in running the world, and see, he is asleep! 'There is a great alliance, willy-nilly, between us henceforth, there is this bread that with no trembling hand We have offered you, this wine that we have poured anew, Our tears that you have gathered, our brothers that you share with us, leaving the seed in the earth, There is this living sacrifice of which we satisfy each day's demand, This chalice we have drunk with you!' Yet the devout passion emerges again, with notes of piercing pathos: 'Lord, who hast promised us for one glass of water a boundless sea, Who knows if Thou art not thirsty too? And that this blood, which is all we have, will quench that thirst in Thee, We know, for Thou hast told us so. If indeed there is a spring in us, well, that is what is to be shown, If this wine of ours is red, If our blood has virtue, as Thou sayest, how can it be known Otherwise than by being shed?' (4) _Effects of the War upon Poetry_ Thus could the great Catholic poet sing under pressure of the supreme national crisis of his country. Poetry at such times may become a great national instrument--a trumpet whence Milton or Wordsworth, Arndt or Whitman, blow soul-animating strains. The war of 1914 was for all the belligerent peoples far more than a stupendous military event. It shattered the patterns of our established mentality, and compelled us to seek new adjustments and support in the chaotically disorganized world. The psychical upheaval was most violent in the English-speaking peoples, where the military shock was least direct; for here a nation of civilians embraced suddenly the new and amazing experience of battle. Here too, the imaginatively sensitive minds who interpret life through poetry, and most of all the youngest and freshest among them, themselves shared in the glories and the throes of the fight as hardly one of the signers of our most stirring battle poetry had ever done before. How did this new and amazing experience react upon their poetry? This, our final question, is perhaps the crucial one in considering the tendencies of recent European poetry. In the first place it enormously stimulated and quickened what was deepest and strongest in the energies and qualities which had been apparent in our latter day poetry before. They had sought to clasp life, to live, not merely to contemplate, experience; and here indeed was life, and death, and both to be embraced. Here was adventure indeed, but one whose grimness made romance cheap, so that in this war-poetry, for the first time in history, the romance and glamour of war, the pomp and circumstance of military convention, fall entirely away, and the bitterest scorn of these soldier-poets is bestowed not on the enemy, but on those contemplators who disguised its realities with the camouflage of the pulpit and the editorial arm-chair. Turn, I will not say from Campbell or from Tennyson, but from Rudyard Kipling or Sir H. Newbolt, to Siegfried Sassoon, and you feel that you have got away from a literary convention, whether conveyed in the manners of the barrack-room or of the public-school, to something intolerably true, and which holds the poet in so fierce a grip that his song is a cry. But if the war has brought our poets face to face with intense kinds of real experience, which they have fearlessly grasped and rendered, its grim obsession has not made them cynical, or clogged the wings of their faith and their hope. I will not ask how the war has affected the idealism of others, whether it has left the nationalism of our press or the religion of our pulpits purer or more gross than it found them. But of our poetry at least the latter cannot be said. In Rupert Brooke the inspiration of the call obliterated the last trace of dilettante youth's pretensions, and he encountered darkness like a bride, and greeted the unseen death not with a cheer as a peril to be boldly faced, but as a great consummation, the supreme safety. How his poetry would have reacted to the actual experience of war we can only guess. But in others, his friends and comrades, the fierce immersion in the welter of ruin and pain and filth and horror and death brought only a more superb faith in the power of man's soul to rise above the hideous obsession of his own devilries, to retain the vision of beauty through the riot of foul things, of love through the tumult of hatreds, of life through the infinity of death. True this was not a new power: poetry to be poetry must always in some measure possess it. What was individual to the poets was that this power of mastering actuality went along in them with the fierce and eager immersion in it; the thrill of breathing the 'calm and serene air Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot Which men call earth,' with the thrill of seeing and painting in all its lurid colouring the volcanic chaos of this 'stir and smoke' itself. Thus the same Siegfried Sassoon who renders with so much close analytic psychology the moods that cross and fluctuate in the dying hospital patient, or the haunted fugitive, as he flounders among snags and stumps, to feel at last the strangling clasp of death, can as little as the visionary Shelley overcome the insurgent sense that these dead are for us yet alive, made one with Nature. He visits the deserted home of his dead friend-- 'Ah, but there was no need to call his name, He was beside me now, as swift as light ... For now, he said, my spirit has more eyes Than heaven has stars, and they are lit by love. My body is the magic of the world, And dark and sunset flame with my spilt blood.' And so the undying dead 'Wander in the dusk with chanting streams, And they are dawn-lit trees, with arms upflung, To hail the burning heaven they left unsung.' Further, this war poetry, while reflecting military things with a veracity hardly known before, is yet rarely militant. We must not look for explicit pacifist or international ideas; but as little do we find jingo patriotism or hymns of hate. The author of the German hymn of hate was a much better poet than anyone who tried an English hymn in the same key, and the English poets who could have equalled its form were above its spirit. Edith Cavell's dying words 'Patriotism is not enough' cannot perhaps be paralleled in these poets, but they are continually suggested. They do not say, in the phrase of the old cavalier poet, that we should love England less if we loved not something else more, or that something is wanting in our love for our country if we wrong humanity in its name. But the spirit which is embodied in these phrases breathes through them; heroism matters more to them than victory, and they know that death and sorrow and the love of kindred have no fatherland. They 'stand above the battle' as well as share in it, and they share in it without ceasing to stand above it. The German is the enemy, they never falter in that; and even death does not convert him into a friend. But for this enemy there is chivalry, and pity, and a gleam, now and then, of reconciling comradeship. 'He stood alone in some queer sunless place Where Armageddon ends,'-- the Englishman whom the Germans had killed in fight, to be themselves slain by his friend, the speaker. Their ghosts throng around him,-- 'He stared at them, half wondering, and then They told him how I'd killed them for his sake, Those patient, stupid, sullen ghosts of men: At last he turned and smiled; smiled--all was well Because his face would lead them out of hell.' Finally, the poet himself glories in his act; he knows that he can beat into music even the crashing discords that fill his ears; he knows too that he has a music of his own which they cannot subdue or debase: 'I keep such music in my brain No din this side of death can quell, Glory exulting over pain, And beauty garlanded in hell.' To have found and kept and interwoven these two musics--a language of unflinching veracity and one of equally unflinching hope and faith--is the achievement of our war-poetry. May we not say that the possession together of these two musics, of these two moods, springing as they do from the blended grip and idealism of the English character, warrants hope for the future of English poetry? For it is rooted in the greatest, and the most English, of the ways of poetic experience which have gone to the making of our poetic literature--the way, ultimately, of Shakespeare, and of Wordsworth. But that temper of catholic fraternity which finds the stuff of poetry everywhere does not easily attain the consummate technique in expression of a rarer English tradition, that of Milton, and Gray, and Keats. Beauty abounds in our later poets, but it is a beauty that flashes in broken lights, not the full-orbed radiance of a masterpiece. To enlarge the grasp of poetry over the field of reality, to apprehend it over a larger range, is not at once to find consummate expression for what is apprehended. The flawless perfection of the Parnassians--of Heredia's sonnets--is nowhere approached in the less aristocratically exclusive poetry of to-day. But the future, in poetry also, is with the spirit which found the aristocracy of noble art not upon exclusions, negations, and routine, but upon imagination, penetration, discovery, and catholic openness of mind. SOME BOOKS FOR CONSULTATION Pellissier, _Le Mouvement Littéraire au XIXme Siècle_. Brunetière, _La Poésie Lyrique au XIXme Siècle_. Eccles, F.Y., _A Century of French Poets_. Vigié-Lecocq, _La Poésie Contemporaine_. Phelps, _Advance of English Poetry in the Twentieth Century_. Muret, _La Littérature Italienne d'aujourd'hui_. Ladenarde, _G. Carducci_. Symons, _The Symbolist Movement in Literature_. Jackson, _The Eighteen Nineties_. McDowall, _Realism_. Aliotta, _The Idealist Reaction against Science_. Soergel, _Die deutsche Litteratur unserer Zeit_. Bithell, _Contemporary German Poetry_ (Translated). Halévy, _Charles Péguy_. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 3: The temper of the two realists was no doubt widely different. 'C'est en haine du réalisme', wrote Flaubert, 'que j'ai entrepris ce roman. Mais je n'en déteste pas moins la fausse idéalité, dont nous sommes bercés par le temps qui court' (_Corresp._ 3, 67).] [Footnote 4: _Causeries du Lundi_, 1850 f.] [Footnote 5: _Histoire de la littérature anglaise_, 1863.] [Footnote 6: But a Wilde who wrote no _De Profundis_ and no _Ballad of Reading Gaol_.] [Footnote 7: _La Forge_: dedicated to Gaston Paris, the greatest _forgeron_ of his generation in the love of Old French.] [Footnote 8: _Rime Nuove_: Classicismo e Romantismo.] [Footnote 9: _Midi_.] [Footnote 10: _La Paix des Dieux_.] [Footnote 11: For this and the other verse-translations the writer is responsible.] [Footnote 12: Even the 'music' was far removed from the simplicity of pure song. The song of these poets was an incantation. Nay, painting itself witnessed a corresponding revolt against the 'eloquence' of the pseudo-realists--the 'far away dirty reasonableness', as Manet dubbed it, which missed the essential vision by using the worn-down accepted phrases of the public.] [Footnote 13: _Au jardin de l'Infante: Veillée_.] [Footnote 14: To some types of Irish imagination French Naturalism, it is true, was no less congenial; hence the rift between the realist and the spiritual Irishmen delightfully played on in Max Beerbaum's cartoon of Yeats presenting the _Faery Queene_ to George Moore.] [Footnote 15: Aliotta, _The Idealistic Revolt_, p. 116. Cf. the account of the analogous views of Boutroux and Renouvier in the same chapter.] [Footnote 16: Keats, no doubt, also aspired to the life of action. But in him the two moods were disparate, even in conflict; in Brooke they were seemingly fused.] [Footnote 17: Eighteenth-century observation, in the person of Goldsmith, had found no worthier epithet for the great Flemish river than 'lazy', and the modern tourist is likely to find this by far the more 'characteristic'. But which had the best chance of seeing truly, the life-long companion and lover, or the stranger, sad, lonely, and longing for home?] [Footnote 18: _Les Saintes du Paradis_.] [Footnote 19: Cf. for instance the situation of Signe, in the grip of the brutal _préfet_, with that of Beatrice, in _The Changeling_, in the hands of De Flores.] V HISTORICAL RESEARCH G.P. GOOCH The scientific study of history began a hundred years ago in the University of Berlin. Preparatory work of the highest importance had been accomplished by laborious collectors like Baronius and Muratori, keen-sighted critics such as Mabillon and Wolf, and brilliant narrators like Gibbon and Voltaire. But it was not till Niebuhr, Böckh, and above all Ranke preached and practised the critical use of authorities and documentary material that historical scholarship entered on the path which it has pursued with ever-increasing success for the last three generations. It is my task to-day to direct your attention to some of its main achievements during the last half-century. The outstanding feature of our time has been the immense increase in the material available for the knowledge and interpretation of every stage and chapter in the life of humanity. Primitive civilization has been definitely brought within the circle of historical study. The discoveries of Boucher des Perthes, Pitt-Rivers, and their successors have thrown back the opening of the human drama tens if not hundreds of thousands of years, and we recreate prehistoric man from skull and weapon, language and legend. Anthropology has become a science, and the habits and beliefs of our savage ancestors have been rendered intelligible by the piercing insight of Tylor and Sir James Frazer. In its boundless erudition, its constructive imagination, and its wealth of suggestion, the _Golden Bough_ stands forth as perhaps the most notable contribution of the age to our knowledge of the evolution of the human race. Among the most sensational events of the nineteenth century was the resurrection of the Ancient East. We now know that Greece and Rome, far from standing near the beginning of recorded history, were the heirs of a long series of civilizations. Our whole perspective has been changed or should be changed by the discovery. The ancient world thus revealed by the partnership of philology and archaeology ceases to be merely the vestibule to Christian Europe, and becomes in point of duration the larger part of human history. The story opens with Champollion's decipherment of the bilingual tablet discovered more than a century ago at the Rosetta mouth of the Nile. The key once fitted to the lock, the whole civilization of ancient Egypt lay open to the explorer. A secure chronological basis was supplied by Lepsius, and systematic excavation was commenced by Mariette, who was named by the Khedive Director of Antiquities and established the Cairo Museum. The work of the three great founders of Egyptology has been carried forward during the last half-century by an international army of scholars. The interpretation of the ancient scripts has reached a technical mastery unknown to the pioneers, and the genius of Brugsch unlocked the door to demotic, which Champollion had never thoroughly mastered. But the triumphs of philology have been surpassed by the conquests of the spade. The closest friend of Mariette's later years was Maspero, who succeeded him as Director of Antiquities, and whose most sensational find was the tombs of the Kings near Thebes. Equally eminent as excavator, philologist, and historian, Maspero was the first to popularize Egyptology in France, as Flinders Petrie, the greatest excavator since Mariette, has popularized it in England. Until twenty years ago the curtain rose on the pyramid-builders of the Fourth dynasty. We have now not only recovered the earlier dynasties, but neolithic and palaeolithic Egypt emerges from the primitive cemeteries. The immense accession of new material has enabled Eduard Meyer to construct something like a definite chronology; but though marvellous progress has been made in our knowledge of the Early, Middle, and New Empires, a great gap remains between the sixth and the eleventh dynasties, and the period of the Hyksos is still tantalizingly obscure. Egyptian history in the light of the latest discoveries may be best studied in the judicial pages of Breasted, the foremost of American Egyptologists. The revelation of Assyrian civilization through Rawlinson's decipherment of cuneiform and the excavations of Botta and Layard in the middle of the nineteenth century was followed by a concerted attack on Babylonia. It was clear from the Nineveh tablets that most of the literary treasures of Assyria were merely copies of Babylonian originals; and when in 1877 de Sarzec, French Vice-Consul at Basra, bored into the mounds at Tello, the ancient Lagash, in Southern Babylonia, the most eager anticipations were surpassed. Texts had been found which Rawlinson pronounced to be pre-Semitic; but for the purpose of history the Sumerians were discovered at Tello. When de Sarzec died in 1901 he had opened a new chapter of history. The palaces of Sargon and Sennacherib, at which the world had marvelled in the 'forties, appeared relatively modern beside the vast antiquity of the Chaldean city. The chain of human experience lengthened before our eyes when it was realized that as Assyrian culture derived from Babylonia, so a large part of Babylonian culture, including the art of writing, was inherited by the Semites from the Sumerians. While de Sarzec was busy at Tello, an American expedition was sent to Nippur under the lead of Peters and Hilprecht; and the long array of magnificent volumes which embody the results of the mission, including the thousands of tablets found in the temple library, constitutes the most important source of our knowledge of Northern Babylonia. Still more recently a German mission under Koldewey commenced the systematic excavation of Babylon itself; but its operations were interrupted by the outbreak of the Great War. Though no monuments have been brought to light in Babylonia comparable in magnificence to those of Khorsabad and Nineveh, Babylonian culture towers above its neighbour. Since the discovery in the royal library of Nineveh of a cylinder containing the story of the Flood, no find has aroused such world-wide interest as that of the Code of Hammurabi, unearthed by de Morgan at Susa in 1901. The massive block of diorite, eight feet high, containing 282 paragraphs of laws, revealed in a flash a complex, refined, and orderly civilization. After expelling the Elamites about 2250 B.C. Hammurabi united North and South Babylonia into a single State, and, desiring that uniform laws should prevail, issued the code which bears his name. During the last decade the exploration of Assyria has been resumed after a long interval, and the city of Assur, the first capital, has been unearthed by the German Oriental Society. We thus learn of Assyria before the days of its greatness, when it was still a subject province under Babylonian Viceroys. The history of the lands watered by the Tigris and the Euphrates, which was almost a blank half a century ago, may now be tentatively reconstructed. The vast mass of official correspondence, judicial decisions, and legal documents, taken in conjunction with the evidences of religion, science, and art, reveal a startlingly modern society a thousand years before Rameses and two thousand years before Pericles. Babylonia proves to have been to the ancient East what Rome was one day to be to Europe. The Tel-el-Amarna letters prove the unchallenged supremacy of its culture over vast areas, and the revelation of the religious debt of the Jews sets the Old Testament in a new frame. So rapid is the pace of excavation and interpretation that all but the most recent narratives of the Ancient East are out of date. If we master Leonard King's sumptuous volumes on Babylonia and the latest edition of the first volume of Eduard Meyer's incomparable _History of Antiquity_, we need go no farther afield. Scarcely if at all less remarkable has been the discovery of an advanced civilization in Crete in the second and third millenniums before Christ. While in Egypt and Mesopotamia the frontiers of knowledge were pushed back, in Crete an unknown world was brought to light. Its romantic interest was intensified by the establishment of an historic foundation for one of the most celebrated legends of the ancient world. How the Minotaur devoured the tribute of youths and maidens in the labyrinth, how Ariadne, daughter of Minos, fell in love with Theseus and gave him a sword to slay the Minotaur and a thread to retrace his steps, was known to every Greek child and has thrilled the imagination of the centuries. The exploration of the city called by Homer 'Great Knossus' was among the ambitions of Schliemann; but it was carried out by Sir Arthur Evans, whose labours have outlined a series of chapters in Cretan history extending two thousand years before the destruction of the palace about the year 1400. Though the Minoan language still defies attack, the frescoes, sculptures, and objects of art tell their tale of a luxurious and peace-loving community, closely connected with Egypt and forming one of the main sources of the Greek culture of a later age. Most of us are old enough to remember the thrill of excitement when Susa and Knossus, if not Tello or Thebes, yielded up their romantic secrets; but the generation now growing to manhood may experience similar emotions as it watches the ghost of the Hittite Empire materialize before its eyes. The meagre references in the Old Testament have been supplemented by Assyrian and Egyptian inscriptions, revealing an important Power in Northern Syria and Asia Minor for a thousand years before it was swallowed up by Assyria. During the last twenty years Hittite remains, marked by crude vigour rather than by a sense of beauty, have been discovered all over Asia Minor and in the northern reaches of the great Mesopotamian plain. In 1911 the British Museum undertook the excavation of Carchemish on the Euphrates, the capital of the North Syrian sector of the Empire; but the most precious results have been achieved by Winckler at Boghaz Keui, the capital of the Cappadocian portion of the Hittite dominions, which yielded a library of 20,000 tablets of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, now stored in the museum at Constantinople. A few bilingual inscriptions have furnished valuable clues; but the world still eagerly awaits the coming of a new Champollion to unlock the doors of the treasure-house. Winckler himself died in 1913; but in 1915 the Austrian Professor Hrozny startled the world by proclaiming his conviction that Hittite was an Indo-European language. Whether or no his contention is confirmed, orientalists of both hemispheres are hot in pursuit, and it is no rash prophecy that within a decade scholars will read Hittite as they now read cuneiform and hieroglyphics, and new chapters of incalculable importance will be added to the story of the Ancient East. The recovery of the political and religious history of the empires surrounding Palestine has run parallel with the application of critical methods to the Jewish scriptures. To read Ewald's _History of the People of Israel_, which was regarded as dangerous by pious folk in the middle of last century, is to realize the progress of Semitic studies. The great revolution in our conception of the Old Testament which rendered Ewald out of date was accomplished by Wellhausen's _Prolegomena to the History of Israel_. That the arrangement of the Canon was utterly misleading, that the Prophets were earlier than the priestly code and that the Psalms for the most part were later than both, was proclaimed in the writings and lectures of Vatke and Graf, Kuenen and Reuss; but it was not till their discoveries were confirmed and elaborated by Wellhausen that they won their way, and it was generally recognized that their reconstruction alone rendered the religious development of the Jews intelligible. This outline was shortly after filled in by Stade in the first critical history of Israel; but his emphasis on the falsity of tradition was overdone, and subsequent critics, while accepting the late redaction of the law, have argued that parts of it are far older, in substance if not in form, than Wellhausen and his disciple were prepared to allow. The history of the Jews owes much less to archaeological research on the arena of their historic life than Egypt or Mesopotamia. No splendid buildings or sculptures have been brought to light, and the inscriptions are few. But British, American, and German excavators have flashed light far back into the third millennium, and a partial excavation of Jerusalem has revealed a network of prehistoric tunnels and aqueducts. The historic life of Gezer has been minutely revealed by Macalister, with the strata of seven cities reaching back to the neolithic age. The most piquant result of his excavations has been to rehabilitate the Philistines, the makers of the most artistic objects found in the debris of two thousand years. Far more light, however, has been thrown on the religious customs and beliefs of the Jews by discoveries beyond their borders. The notion firmly held by our fathers that Israel was one of the oldest of civilizations and formed a world by itself has vanished into thin air; for an older and vaster civilization has been discovered to which she owed not only her science but the larger part of her religion. The dimension of the debt to Babylonia has been and continues to be fiercely argued by conservative and radical critics; but its recognition has sufficed to revolutionize the study of early Israel and to provide a new background for the religious history of the world. The relation of the beliefs and practices of the Jews to those of other branches of the Semitic family was boldly explored by Robertson Smith, and has lately been illuminated by the epoch-making volumes of Sir James Frazer on the _Folklore of the Old Testament_. The history of Greece, like the history of the Jews, presents a very different aspect to that which was offered to the readers of Grote, Thirlwall, and even Curtius. Schliemann's discoveries at Troy, Tiryns, and Mycenae unearthed Mycenaean civilization and gave an incalculable impetus to archaeological research; but the brilliant amateur was almost pathetically incompetent to interpret the treasures he had brought to light, and much of his work has had to be done again by Dörpfeld. Despite the achievements of archaeology, however, the period before Solon remains very dark. Barely second in importance to the discoveries of Schliemann was the Aristotelian treatise on the Constitution of Athens, which was given to the world in 1891 by Sir Frederick Kenyon and has been most authoritatively interpreted by Wilamowitz, the greatest of living Hellenists. With the growing mass of new literary material, inscriptions, coins, and papyri, the exploration of sites, the recovery of innumerable objects of art and fresh light streaming from Asia Minor and Crete, new attempts to write the history of Greece have been made. Professor Bury's narrative, at once scientific and popular, has summarized for English readers the assured results of research; but the most authoritative survey is that contained in the Greek volumes of Eduard Meyer's vast survey of antiquity. 'For the great tasks of history', he writes, 'salvation is only to be found when it becomes conscious of its universal character, in ancient as well as in modern times. Only by treating Greece in connection with the Mediterranean peoples can its real nature be seized.' This colossal task, which proved beyond the strength of Duncker, has been performed by the Berlin Professor, the only scholar of our time who could have accomplished it single-handed. The dazzling picture of Athenian democracy painted by Grote has faded away; and Beloch, following in the footsteps of Droysen, dwells with greater satisfaction on the diffusion of Greek influence through the conquests of Alexander. Greek culture has received no less attention than Greek politics. The Homeric problem continues to exert an irresistible attraction. Every expert from Wilamowitz to Gilbert Murray and Walter Leaf adds to our comprehension of the epic; but no positive results have been established, and Holm uttered the gloomy prophecy that we shall never know whether Homer existed, who he was, or what he wrote. On the other hand we have gained a deeper insight into the early mind and soul of Greece, thanks in large measure to a group of English scholars with Jane Harrison at their head. Rohde's _Psyche_, the most illuminating treatise on any branch of Greek religion, has traced the conception of immortality through the ages. The later editions of Zeller's _Philosophy of the Greeks_, first published in 1851, kept pace with the progress of scholarship, and remains one of the glories of German scholarship. The more recent work of the Austrian Gomperz has won almost equal popularity, without placing its predecessor on the shelf. In the realm of literature the most interesting event has been the recovery of the poems of Bacchylides and Herondas, fragments of Sappho and Pindar, Euripides and Sophocles and Menander; and the Oxyrhynchus Papyri, which have already produced undreamed-of treasures, may well have in store for us further glad surprises. The attempt to assess the influence of economic factors, courageously undertaken by Böckh and somewhat neglected after his death, has in recent years been renewed, with the fruitful results familiar to us in Zimmern's realistic picture of Athens in the fifth century. The history of Roman studies since Niebuhr is largely the record of the activity of a single man. The most personal and popular of Mommsen's works, the _Roman History till the death of Caesar_, the greatest effort of his genius though not of his scholarship, was published as far back as 1854, and carried his name all over the world. He next turned to special departments of research, pouring forth in rapid succession his treatises on Chronology, Coinage, the Digest, and above all the _Staatsrecht_, the largest and in his opinion the most important of his works, and perhaps the greatest constitutional treatise in historical literature. Meanwhile the _Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum_, which he edited for the Berlin Academy, was the main occupation and the most enduring monument of his life. He had devoted himself to Latin epigraphy and had edited the Sammite and Neapolitan inscriptions before the publication of the Roman History. The first instalment of the Corpus appeared in 1863, and the great scholar lived to hail the appearance of nearly twenty volumes, half of them edited by himself. The Inscriptions rendered possible a history of the Empire, and the whole world hoped that the master would write it; but he contented himself with a survey of the provinces. The closing years of his life were devoted to a gigantic treatise on Roman Criminal Law, and to editions of Jordanes, Cassiodorus, the Theodosian Code and the Liber Pontificalis, thus enlarging the sphere of his operations till Rome was swallowed up in the Middle Ages. His publications extended over sixty years. There is no immaturity in his early works and no decline in the later. The imaginative and critical faculties met and balanced, large vision mating with a genius for detail. The complete assimilation and reproduction of a classical civilization of which scholars have dreamed ever since Scaliger has been achieved by Mommsen alone. Rome before Mommsen was like modern Europe before Ranke. We may truly say of him, as was said of Augustus, that he found it of brick and left it of marble. Mommsen, like Ranke, was the founder of a school; and his inspiration has been felt by every worker in the field of Roman studies. His successors naturally confine themselves to some special province or period. Gaetano de Sanctis is far advanced in the most ambitious history of the Republic that has been attempted in the last half-century. Ferrero's _Greatness and Decline of Rome_, though frowned on by scholars, aroused world-wide interest by interpreting the fall of the Republic in terms of economics and psychology. The political and social crises which fill the century from Sulla to Augustus, he argues, were due to the change of customs caused by the augmentation of wealth, expenditure, and needs. Of greater value are the attempts to fill in different sections of the vast canvas of Imperial Rome, such as Gardthausen's monumental survey of the reign of Augustus, Camille Jullian's volumes on Gaul, and Professor Haverfield's slender monographs on Britain. Roman life and culture have been diligently explored; but the extreme paucity of materials makes the recovery of the atmosphere of the early Republic almost impossible. The most daring attempt was made by Fustel de Coulanges in _La Cité Antique_, which offered a complete interpretation of early society in terms of religion. Less harmonious but more convincing pictures of religious life have been painted by Warde Fowler, while the civilization of the Empire has been successively analysed in the fascinating and authoritative works of Friedländer, Boissier, and Dill. Meanwhile archaeology contributes a steady stream of new material. Boni's excavations in the Forum and on the Palatine have produced sensational results. The unveiling of Pompeii moves slowly forward, and that of Ostia, the port of Rome, has begun. The resurrection of Herculaneum should be witnessed by the next generation if not by our own. A more difficult because a more controversial problem than the Roman Empire is its contemporary, the early Christian Church. In the middle decades of last century Baur treated the rise of Christianity as an historical phenomenon, leaving his hearers to determine for themselves whether it was human or divine; but his influence proved more enduring than his writings. Weiszäcker, his successor at Tübingen, in his _Apostolic Age_, described with consummate scholarship and passionless serenity the life and organization of the early Christian communities. The necessity of a careful study of the soil out of which Christianity has grown is now generally recognized, and great scholars such as Schürer and Pfleiderer have re-created the religious atmosphere into which Christ was born. The constitution of the primitive Church, too long hotly discussed by the champions of rival sects, has been studied with welcome impartiality by Lightfoot and Hatch. But no man, alive or dead, can boast of such achievements as Harnack. His History of Dogma, his vast survey of Christian Literature till Eusebius, his narrative of the Expansion of Christianity before the conversion of Constantine, are inseparable companions of the student who means business. The treasures of the catacombs have been revealed by De Rossi, to whom we also owe the publication of the Christian Inscriptions of Rome. The history of the early Christian communities in the outlying provinces of the Empire has been enriched by Ramsay's explorations in Asia Minor. While the best work naturally goes into monographs, comprehensive narratives are occasionally attempted by scholars of the first class. Renan's sparkling volumes have enjoyed immense popularity, and some of them may still be read with profit; but, like his History of the Jews, they belong rather to literature than to science. If we desire a readable summary of the scholarship of the last half-century we may turn to the Volumes of the Catholic Duchesne or, better still, to those of the late Professor Gwatkin. Imperial Rome and the Christian Church meet and blend in the Byzantine Empire, the later history of which appeared to Gibbon 'a tedious and uniform tale of weakness and misery'. Its services to civilization and the greatness of many of its rulers were revealed to the world by Finlay, whose narrative was acclaimed by Freeman as the most considerable work of English historical literature since the _Decline and Fall_. In the half-century that has elapsed since its completion, the exploration of a thousand years has gone busily forward. The lead was taken in France by Rambaud, Schlumberger, and Diehl, the latter of whom was rewarded for his efforts by his appointment as first occupant of the Chair created in Paris in 1899. Greater than any of the three was Krumbacher, the prince of German Byzantinists, for whom a Chair was founded at Munich in 1892, and whose encyclopaedic survey of Byzantine literature is beyond comparison the most important single work in this field of historical study. England is worthily represented by Professor Bury, whose narrative of the Empire has already reached the ninth century. Byzantium has emerged from the scholarship of two generations no longer decadent and inert but the mother of great statesmen and soldiers, the home of culture while Central and Western Europe was plunged in darkness, the rampart of Christian Europe for a thousand years against the Arab and Turk, the educator of the Slavonic races. Freeman truly remarked that Constantinople was for ages the seat of the only regular and systematic Government in the world. Its administrative machine was the most elaborate yet invented by man, and the Court was to mediaeval Europe what Versailles was to the rulers of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. It was indeed a bureaucratic despotism in which liberty was unknown, and, except in art, its spirit was imitative; but to preserve Greek culture during the barbarism of the Middle Ages and to defend it against the repeated assaults of Islam was to deserve well of civilization. While the Byzantine Empire carried over important elements from the classical world, Western and Central Europe passed under the dominion of ideas which were as foreign to those of Greece and Rome as they are to the conceptions of to-day. We have outgrown the blind contempt of the eighteenth century and the gushing enthusiasm of the Romantic Movement; but it is still a difficult task to form a just estimate of the character of the thousand years that began with Augustine and ended with Macchiavelli. It is true that our materials grow from year to year; that the criticism of original authorities as taught in the École des Chartes has become something like an exact science; that thanks to Lord Bryce the Holy Roman Empire has become intelligible; that the structure and function of institutions have been patiently analysed by Waitz and Stubbs, Fustel de Coulanges and Vinogradoff, Maitland and Gierke; that literature and art, scholasticism and the Universities, have found their chroniclers and interpreters; that every ruler and every State, every treaty and every council, may be studied in monographs innumerable. But the Middle Ages were above all the reign of the Catholic Church; and we are still far from agreement as to the merits and influence of that venerable institution which, be it human or divine, occupies a unique place in the story of civilization. In the middle decades of last century the history of the mediaeval Church was related from very different standpoints in the widely-read works of Neander and Milman; but it was only with the opening of the Vatican archives by Pope Leo XIII in 1881 that it became possible to set forth the whole story of the Papacy and to understand the working of the machinery of Catholicism. So vast is the accumulation of official acts and documents, and such technical training is required for the task, that we shall have to wait many years till the material is surveyed in its entirety and its results made available for the use of the historian. Some idea of the value of the Registers may be gained from the Master of Balliol's pregnant lectures on Church and State in the Middle Ages, based on the 8,000 documents of the eleven years of the rule of Innocent IV in the middle of the thirteenth century. The study of these documents, he tells us, stirred him to admiration of the organization of the Papacy, and convinced him of its enormous superiority over its secular contemporaries as a centre not merely of religion but of law and government; but he adds that he derived an equally profound impression of the abuses which ate into the heart of the system, of the growing bitterness which it inspired, and of the devastating effects of the passion to erect a powerful principality in the heart of Italy. No Protestant historian is tempted to glorify the record of the Papacy in the last two centuries before the Reformation; but it is generally agreed that in the earlier half of the Middle Ages the example and influence of the Church were a bright light shining in a dark world. This notion has been recently challenged by Mr. Coulton, who, angered by the special pleading of Cardinal Gasquet and other professional apologists, hotly denounces the exaltation of the Ages of Faith. The Middle Ages, he complains, are the one domain of history into which, in England at any rate, the scientific spirit has not yet penetrated. Taking as his text the autobiography of the Franciscan Fra Salimbene, the most precious authority for the ordinary life of Catholic folk at the high-water mark of the Middle Ages, he draws a sombre picture of manners and morals and maintains that hideous vices existed in all the Orders long before the thirteenth century. 'Imagination', he cries, 'staggers at the moral gulf that yawns between that age and ours.' His condemnation of the life and influence of the Church re-echoes in somewhat shrill tones the verdict of Henry Charles Lea, whose massive treatise on the Inquisition was rightly described by Lord Acton as the most important contribution of the New World to the religious history of the old, and whose volumes on Sacerdotal Celibacy constitute a formidable indictment of mediaeval Catholicism. Next to the origins of Christianity the most controversial of the larger problems of history is the Reformation; and here Protestants of all schools are ranged in a solid phalanx against Catholics. That the Church was in need of reform is agreed by both sides; but the Catholic contends that the evils to be remedied have been fantastically exaggerated, that there was no need for a revolt, and that the revolution inaugurated by Luther left Germany far worse than it found her. Realizing that the Protestant view most authoritatively presented in Ranke's classical work on the Reformation held the field, Janssen compiled a cultural history of the German people from the end of the Middle Ages to the outbreak of the Thirty Years War. Based throughout on original sources, and illustrating his thesis from every angle, his eight massive volumes were hailed with gratitude and enthusiasm by Catholics all over the world. No Catholic historical work of the nineteenth century, and certainly no attack on the Reformation since Bossuet's _Variations of Protestantism_, obtained such resounding success or led to so much controversy. Janssen's object was to show that the fifteenth century was not a period of moral or intellectual decrepitude, with a few 'Reformers before the Reformation' crying like voices in the wilderness, but an era of healthy activity and abounding promise. He describes the flourishing state of religious and secular education, the vitality of art, the comfort of the peasantry, and the prosperity of the towns. On reaching the sixteenth century, he denounces the paganism of the Humanists and paints a terrible picture of the material and moral chaos into which Germany was plunged by the Lutheran revolt. The later volumes are devoted to the era of the Counter-Revolution and present a canvas of unrelieved gloom, immorality and drunkenness, ignorance, superstition and violence. Thus the story which opened with the bright colours of the fifteenth century closes in deep shadows, and the moral is drawn that Germany was ruined not by the Thirty Years War but by the Reformation. Protestant historians fell upon the audacious iconoclast with fierce cries of anger, and had no difficulty in exposing his uncritical use of authorities, his habit of generalizing from isolated particulars, and his suppression of facts damaging to his own side. But though it was a dexterous polemic, not a work of disinterested science, Janssen's book has made it impossible for any self-respecting Protestant to write on the Reformation without knowing and weighing the Catholic side. Of similar tendency though of far higher value is the monumental work in which Pastor is narrating the story of the Renaissance and sixteenth-century Popes from the Vatican archives, which neither Ranke nor Creighton had been able to employ. No really objective picture of the Reformation can be painted by Catholic or Protestant; but a good deal of firm ground has been won, and the writings of Kawerau, the greatest of Lutheran scholars, inspire us with a confidence that no writings of the last generation deserved. Though Ranke's chief works had been published before the period to which this lecture is confined, his influence can be traced in almost every writer on modern history during the last half-century. His greatest service to scholarship was to divorce the study of the past from the passions of the present, and, to quote the watchword of his first book, to relate what actually occurred. A second was to establish the necessity of founding historical construction on strictly contemporary authorities. When he began to write in 1824 historians of high repute believed memoirs and chronicles to be trustworthy guides. When he laid down his pen in 1886 every scholar with a reputation to make had learned to content himself with nothing less than the papers and correspondence of the actors themselves and those in immediate contact with the events they describe. A third service was to found the science of evidence by the analysis of authorities, contemporary or otherwise, in the light of the author's temperament, affiliations, and opportunity of knowledge, and by comparison with the testimony of other writers. There can be no better preparation for the perils and responsibilities of authorship than to study the critical analyses of Guicciardini and Sarpi, Clarendon, Saint-Simon, and many another, scattered through the sixty volumes of the master. And finally he taught by precept and practice the necessity of exploring the relations of States to one another and of measuring the interaction of foreign and domestic policy. These sound principles have been applied by the scholars of all countries who have jointly built up the history of the last four centuries. We may study the Tudors under the guidance of Pollard, the Stuarts under Gardiner and Firth, the Hanoverians under Lecky, without fear that we are being misled or that essential facts are being withheld from our notice. We continue to admire the literary brilliance of Macaulay and Carlyle, Motley and Froude; but we are instinctively aware that their partisanship is out of date. The same cooling process has taken place in France, where the passions and tempers of Thiers and Michelet have tended to yield place to the calm lucidity of which Mignet and Guizot were the earliest masters. There is, it must be confessed, a good deal of the old Adam in Taine's elaborate study of Jacobinism, in Masson's innumerable volumes on Napoleon, and even in Aulard's priceless contributions to our knowledge of the French Revolution; but such works as Lavisse's full-length portrait of Louis XIV, Ségur's volumes on Turgot and Necker, Sorel's massive treatise on Europe and the Revolution, and Vandal's incomparable presentation of the Consulate rank as high in scholarship as in literature. The unification of Germany after fierce struggles within and without naturally deflected historical scholarship from the path marked out by Ranke, who had grown to manhood in the era of political stagnation following the downfall of Napoleon. The master's Olympian serenity was deplored by the group of hot-blooded scholars who are collectively known as the Prussian School, and who were firmly convinced that the principal duty of historians was to supply guidance and encouragement to their fellow-countrymen in the national and international problems of the time. In his gigantic work on the History of Prussian Foreign Policy, Droysen, the eldest of the Triumvirate, calls four centuries to witness that the Hohenzollerns alone, from their unswerving fidelity to German interests as a whole, were fitted to restore the Empire. He worked exclusively from Prussian archives, and history seen exclusively through Prussian spectacles was bound to be one-sided. No student of European history would contest the value of his researches; but his interpretation of Prussian policy in terms of German nationalism was at once recognized as a fundamental error, and has long been abandoned. The second member of the group, Sybel, himself one of the three favourite pupils of Ranke, revolted in middle life, and in his two great treatises on the era of the French Revolution and the foundation of the German Empire championed the policy of the Hohenzollerns and delivered slashing attacks on France and Austria, their rivals and antagonists. The last and greatest of the triumvirate, Treitschke, the Bismarck of the Chair, devoted his life to a history of Germany in the nineteenth century which occupies the same unique place in the affections of German readers as Macaulay's unfinished masterpiece enjoys throughout the English-speaking world. Unlike the works of Droysen and Sybel, the _German History_ was far more than a political narrative, and presented an encyclopaedic picture of national development. His theme was the conflict of the forces which were promoting and opposing the transformation of his country into a powerful Empire, and he judges men and states by the measure in which they promoted or obstructed that purpose. On the one side stands Prussia, feeling her way to the realization of her historic task, on the other the middle and smaller states, aided and abetted by the arch-enemy Austria and deeply infected with the doctrinaire liberalism of France. Treitschke's stage is a battlefield, with the historian looking down and encouraging his friends with loud cries of applause. Such methods could not survive the realization of the aim which they had done so much to assist, and with Treitschke's death in 1896 the Prussian School disappeared. Its members were the political schoolmasters of Germany at a time of uncertainty and discouragement, and they braced their countrymen to the efforts which culminated in the creation of a mighty Empire. If the purpose of history is to stir a nation to action, Droysen, Sybel, and Treitschke are among the greatest masters of the craft. If its supreme aim is to discover truth and to interpret the movement of humanity, they have no claim to a place in the first class. The stream, temporarily deflected by their powerful influence, began to return to the channel which Ranke had marked out for it. Such works as Moriz Ritter's narrative of the Counter-Reformation and the Thirty Years War, Koser's biography of Frederick the Great, Max Lehmann's biographies of Scharnhorst and Stein, and Erich Marcks' studies of Bismarck and his master are as notable for their judgement as for their erudition. The cooling process noted in the Old World has also occurred in the New, and America of the twentieth century smiles at Bancroft's complacent idealization of the Puritan colonies. Even the slavery struggle, the ashes of which are scarcely yet cold, has found in James Ford Rhodes a historian who can do justice to Jefferson Davis and Lee no less than to Lincoln and Grant. But no American scholar compares in world-wide influence with Mahan, whose study of Sea-Power in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, published in 1889, not only founded a school of naval history but was inwardly digested by distinguished pupils in both hemispheres, among them the Emperor William II and Theodore Roosevelt. The Admiral's writings owe their importance not to research, for few new facts are brought to light, but to the new angle from which familiar events are envisaged. Occasionally, perhaps, the element of sea-power in the determination of a particular result is over-emphasized at the expense of other factors; but he was the first to seize the wider bearings of naval history and to make the general reader aware of its momentous significance. The scope of history has gradually widened till it has come to include every aspect of the life of humanity. No one would now dare to maintain with my old master Seeley that history was the biography of States or with Freeman that it was merely past politics. The growth of nations, the achievements of men of action, the rise and fall of parties remain among the most engrossing themes of the historian; but he now casts his net wider and embraces the whole opulent record of civilization. The influence of nature, the pressure of economic factors, the origin and transformation of ideas, the contribution of science and art, religion and philosophy, literature and law, the material conditions of life, the fortunes of the masses--such problems now claim his attention in no less degree. He must see life steadily and see it whole. We must master such revealing works as Lecky's histories of Rationalism and Morals, Burckhardt's and Symonds' interpretations of the Italian Renaissance, Sainte-Beuve's full-length portrait of the Jansenists, Morley's studies of Voltaire, Rousseau and the Encyclopaedists, Dean Church's sketch of the Oxford Movement, and Merz's survey of European Thought in the nineteenth century, if we are to understand the throbbing life of the human spirit. We must measure the operation of economic factors and forces and profit by the faithful labours of Schmoller and Thorold Rogers, Cunningham and Kovalevsky, the Webbs and the Hammonds, if we are to visualize the life of the unnumbered and the unknown who have done the routine work of the world. The fifty years roughly sketched in this lecture witnessed an immense and almost immeasurable advance in historical studies. The technique needed to turn raw materials into the finished article kept pace with the supply, and men learned to write the history of their own country, their own party, and their own beliefs, as impartially as that of other lands and other creeds. But the Great War has ravaged the placid pastures of scholarship no less than the fields of France and Belgium. Too many historians in every belligerent country have lost their heads and degenerated into shrieking partisans. International co-operation in the pursuit of truth, which is the condition of progress in history no less than in science, has been rudely shattered by the clash of arms. With all but the calmest minds, national self-consciousness and national self-righteousness have rendered frankness in dealing with the record of our late allies and fairness in dealing with our late enemies difficult if not impossible. Many years will elapse before the European atmosphere regains the tranquillity in which alone the disinterested pursuit of truth can nourish. Meanwhile it is a source of legitimate satisfaction that while the world was rocking to its foundations two English historians, Sir Adolphus Ward and Mr. William Harbutt Dawson, were narrating the development of Germany in the nineteenth century with a steadiness of pulse unsurpassed in the piping times of peace. The historian is a man of flesh and blood and may love his country as ardently as other men; but, if he is to be worthy of his high calling, he must trample passion and prejudice under his feet and walk humbly and reverently in the temple of the Goddess of Truth. FOR REFERENCE Gooch, _History and Historians in the Nineteenth Century_ (Longmans). VI POLITICAL THEORY A.D. LINDSAY Political Philosophy or the philosophical theory of the State has closer relations with history than any other branch of philosophical inquiry. It is indeed distinguished from history in that it can disregard the success or failure, the historical development of this or that state. For it is concerned not with historical happenings but with ideals, not with the varying extent to which different states have approximated or fallen short of their purpose, but with that purpose itself, not, in short, with states but with _the_ State. Yet this need not involve that the ideal, _the_ State, is always and everywhere the same. Ideals are born of historical circumstances and fashioned to meet historical problems, and the would-be timeless ideals which political philosophers have put before us have always borne clear marks of the country and time of their origin. The ideal which men have set themselves in political organization has varied from time to time. That such variation is inevitable will be clear if we ask ourselves what we can possibly mean by an ideal state. That states fall short of their ideal because of the imperfections of their citizens is clear enough. All political life demands a certain standard of moral behaviour, of capacity to work for a common good, and an understanding of the results of our own and other people's actions. Were human selfishness completely overcome, the state would still be necessary to correct individual shortsightedness. The policeman, exempt from the cares of apprehending criminals, would still be needed to control traffic. But imagine, not that all citizens attained a certain standard of moral and intellectual behaviour, as the ideal demands, but that they were all perfectly good and perfectly wise, should we need any kind of government at all? Is not the supposition of perfection so far removed from any state of affairs we can really think of or plan for, that it cannot enter into our reckoning, ideal or practical? Every ideal takes certain facts of human life for granted whilst it tries to improve others. All ideal states, Plato's as well as others, assume certain facts about human nature and human society. These facts may and do vary. The Greek city state assumed that a state must be small, if it was to have the intensive life they demanded. The Roman Empire was a denial of the anarchy to which the Greek ideal had led, but it lost in intensity what it gained in extent. All political ideals assume a certain sociological background on which the state is based and from which spring the problems which the state is intended to solve. As this sociological background varies from time to time, _the_ State, the purpose which men set before themselves in political organization, will vary also. The Greek city state and the mediaeval state were not different approximations to the same ideal. They were the expressions of different ideals. They rested on different assumptions, e.g. as to the place of authority in society. With the disappearance at the Reformation of one of the great assumptions on which the mediaeval state had been based, a new theory of the state was inevitable. The national state of the seventeenth century was something new in history, and Hobbes differs from Aristotle, not because Hobbes is perverse and Aristotle right, though Hobbes often is perverse, but because the political problems which Hobbes and Aristotle had to face were not the same. Two great historical facts at the end of the eighteenth century, the French Revolution and the Industrial Revolution, profoundly modified the basis of political organization. The modern state in consequence differs in many important respects from any that have preceded it. It does not rest on the common acceptance of authority, either religious, as did the mediaeval state, or personal, as did the seventeenth-century state. Unlike the Greek city state, it is large. Its administration is concerned with millions who cannot be in personal relations to one another, or share the same intensive life. With the nineteenth century, then, a new chapter in the development of political theory begins as the peculiar problems of the modern state develop. Professor Dicey, in his _Law and Opinion in England_, has divided the century into two periods of political thought--Individualism and Collectivism--one marking the decrease, the other the increase of the power and authority of the state. When our period begins, the day of individualism was passing. Ever since the Reformation it had, in spite of Burke, dominated political theory. Two forces had given it strength--one idealistic, one scientific. It represented the revolt of the individual conscience against the claims of authority, and as such was a theory which attempted to limit the power of government over the individual, whether by an appeal to natural rights in Locke and Tom Paine, or to the greatest happiness of the greatest number in the Utilitarians, or to the super-eminent value of individual liberty as set forth in John Stuart Mill's noble panegyric. The French Revolution gave a notable impetus to this side of individualism, with its passionate assertion of the principle that political institutions exist for man, not man for political institutions, and that all government must be tested by the life which it enables each and every one of its citizens to live. Individualism in this sense is concerned with the discovery of principles by which the power of government over the lives of its members may be limited. It is not necessarily a theory of the nature of society. Hobbes, however, was an individualist as well as Locke, and for Hobbes the individual was the scientific unit from which societies and states were built up--the starting-point for a scientific treatment of society. As the French Revolution gave a fresh impulse to idealistic individualism, the Industrial Revolution reanimated the scientific, for it displayed the economic man, Hobbes's hero, come to life and a respectable member of society. With him came the growth of political economy, apparently the first really scientific study of man. From Political Economy Darwin borrowed the conception of the struggle for existence and the survival of the fittest, and from the new biology the doctrine of Evolution through individual competition returned to reinforce with the prestige of the new science the economists' conception of society. For the first half of the nineteenth century all the forces inspiring individualism seemed to work together, for economics and biology breathed a benevolent optimism which promised that if the scientific forces of individualism were left to work unchecked by state restriction, they would of themselves produce that individual liberty and free development which idealistic individualism desired. The development of the industrial revolution, however, soon made economic optimism impossible, and with its decay idealistic and scientific individualism parted company. The former retained its concern for individual liberty but came to see that its ideal was as much threatened by economic dependence as by state control, that the choice for most members of society was not one between state interference and no interference at all, but between the state controlling or not controlling the power of interference possessed by the economically superior members of society. On such principles Henry Sidgwick justified an extensive system of state control of industry, and for such reason the strongest supporters of the rights of the individual have been found among Socialists. Scientific individualism, which found its unit in the economic man and sought to absorb in economics both ethics and politics, was not in essence affected by the discrediting of economic optimism. It painted the struggle between individuals in gloomy instead of in attractive colours, its 'scientific' prepossessions inclined it to a determinism which led easily to the economic theory of history and even, by a curious conversion of opposites, to the 'scientific socialism' of Karl Marx. In its essence it is a denial of the real existence of politics. For it is a theory of society which denies the possibility of a will for the common good and therefore the possibility of political ideals. It was this powerful and malignant theory which was attacked and answered by the modern idealist school represented by Green, Wallace, and Ritchie, and, in the present day, by Dr. Bosanquet. These writers gave us a theory of the state based on the importance and reality of social purpose. They went back to the theory of the Greek city state expounded by Plato and Aristotle, finding modern reinforcement in the teaching of Rousseau and more especially of Hegel. Their destructive criticism of 'scientific' individualism was reinforced by the teaching of anthropology and of historical jurisprudence, which emphasized the part played in early forms of society by social solidarity and showed the inability of individualism to account for the development of society. Their destructive criticism was, however, the least part of their achievement. They exhibited convincingly the state as the product of will and purpose, based on man's moral nature and being in turn the form in which that moral nature expresses itself. In a notable phrase of Dr. Bosanquet's, a phrase to which he has given constant detailed amplification, 'institutions are ethical ideas'; moral purpose may seem to shine dimly enough in many actual institutions, but it is the only light which shines in them at all, and only in that light can their meaning and reality be understood. The main principles of this idealistic school may be safely said to have by this time established themselves against criticism. Of recent years Social Psychology has done much to explain the gap between the contemplated purpose and the actual working of institutions, and has given precision and definiteness to those elements in human nature which strengthen or weaken social solidarity. Economists have come to see that economic relations are possible only within the framework of a society which has its root in moral and political purpose, although within that framework they may be theoretically isolated and studied by themselves. Sociology, after many false starts, inspired by the mistaken belief that a scientific treatment of society should interpret higher forms in the light of lower, has now found it possible to study the manifold variety of institutional and social life on the basis provided by idealistic philosophy. As a theory of society, in short, this philosophy holds the field. It has been criticized of late years as a theory of the state, and as these criticisms show both where the idealistic theory was in some respects defective and also where the chief problems for political philosophy in the future are to be found, I shall devote the greater part of my lecture to these considerations. The idealistic school drew their inspiration from the theory of the Greek city state, and in their conception of the function of the state they assumed an essential identity between the Greek city state and the modern nation state. In so far as these two types of state have been the most self-conscious types of society that have existed, and have therefore displayed explicitly the purpose that is implicit in all society, the identification has been sound and fruitful; in so far, however, as the identity is pressed to imply that in the modern state the definite political or governmental organization should play the same function as it did in the Greek city state, the identification has been mistaken. The Greek city state failed conspicuously to solve the problem of inter-state relations, and its philosophers, instead of recognizing the failure and trying to remedy it, made their ideal state even more self-centred and autonomous than the existing states around them. Modern Idealism, just because it glorifies the state as the necessary upholder of moral relations, has often found it hard to regard the state as in its turn a member of a moral world. Again, the Greek city state, just because it was small, could take up into itself all the various social activities of its members. The state, in the sense of the Community in its political organization, directed and inspired Society, and the distinction between society and the state was not of great importance. In the modern world the boundaries of political organization are not nearly as definite boundaries in society as are the boundaries of the Greek city state. There are all manner of associations whose members are of different states and whose purposes are but to a small degree inspired or controlled by political organizations. Modern states are not all or completely nation states, and the nation is not as pervading and dominating an entity as was the Greek _polis_. This is not to say that the non-political associations could do without the state, as some recent writers have contended. Churches, e.g., could not exist were there not law and government. Yet it is impossible to maintain that in any real sense they are upheld by the state. They clearly get their inspiration from other sources. The difficulty is not evaded if we go behind both political and non-political organization to the community in which both exist and which upholds them both. For what in this reference is 'the community'? In regard to the political association it is the special solidarity of people living in a certain area; in regard to the non-political organization it is the solidarity of a section of the world-wide society, marked off from the rest on a non-territorial basis. The community in the two cases is not the same. Hence there arises in the modern state, as there arose in the mediaeval, a conflict of loyalties between the state and non-political associations. If we divide the world into states whose lines of division follow the divisions of the organization of force, we are faced with a host of problems concerning the proper place in society of these force-bearing organizations, and their relation to other associations. In considering both sets of problems, international and internal, we may either begin with the division of the world into states, each of which will be an approximation of _the_ State which we are studying, or we may regard the whole world as in some sort one society, covered with a network of overlapping associations of all kinds. On the former view the world is thought of as consisting of a number of independent communities, each shaping and controlling the various forms of social life within its own borders, upholding their moral world, and each being as a whole single entity a member of the community of states. On the latter we start with the solidarity and will to co-operate which pervades in all manner of degrees the whole world society, and regard the organization of force which marks the state as being the mark of a settled and determined form of that will to co-operate which is characteristic of all forms of human association. How dominant and determinant over other forms of association is that special form which controls organized force--that is the problem before us. We are concerned in technical language with the problem of sovereignty. Let us consider first the problem of international relations. The doctrine of sovereignty, formulated in the seventeenth century and crystallized by Austin at the beginning of the nineteenth, made sovereignty the hallmark of the state. The person or persons, to whom the bulk of a given society render habitual obedience, either do or do not render habitual obedience in turn to some other person or persons. If they do not, the society constitutes a sovereign state; if they do, it is only part of a sovereign state. The world therefore was regarded as containing a number of sovereign independent states. As sovereignty and law necessarily went hand in hand, there could be no law between sovereign states. There could only be world-wide law if there were one world-wide state. So long as there are more states than one, there are communities between whom there is no law. The doctrine of sovereignty was in its inception individualist, but in so far as concerns the implications, though not the basis of sovereignty, it was taken over by Hegel and by the English idealist school with the exception of T.H. Green. Idealism, indeed, always insisted that will, not force, was the basis of the state, but whereas in Green the state is constituted by the moral willing of individuals for a general good, in Hegel and in Bosanquet the conflicting willings of individuals are reconciled by their being taken up into the supra-personal will of the state. With the former therefore the morality of individuals is the primary fact, the existence of the state the secondary; with the latter on the whole the existence of the state is the primary moral fact, the moral willing of individuals secondary. Just because the wills of individuals are reconciled, not by each recognizing certain abstract principles of duty, but by being taken up into the supra-personal will of the state, where there is no such supra-personal will there is no reconciliation of conflicting wills and no morality beyond and outside the boundaries of communities. Hence arises a conception of the state which fits into the absolutist doctrine of sovereignty which we have described. The first thing to be said about this doctrine of the independent sovereign state is that political facts have obviously outrun it. It was derived from a study of the unitary state and will hardly fit any federal state. It is manifestly absurd when applied to the British Empire. If we disregard, as we must, the superficial legal facts and look at the real nature of the British Empire, we must admit that the Dominions are neither separate sovereign states nor parts of one sovereign state, and that the unity of the Empire is a unity of will--a willingness to co-operate which has not yet clothed itself in legal forms, and which is not, for geographical and other reasons, as intense as that will to co-operate which must be at the basis of a unitary sovereign state. This must suggest to us that the willingness to co-operate admits of degrees, and the relations of communities to one another to have stability must reflect these degrees. The importance of these considerations is obvious if we think of the problems with which we are confronted at the present moment, when we are attempting to form an international organization. The problems which have confronted the Peace Conference have brought two things clearly to light. The first, that the nation state is far too simple a solution of modern difficulties. Self-determination will not carry us very far. There are many cases where the boundaries dictated by nationality on the one hand and by the need for common organization on the other do not coincide, and where the only solution is one which impairs sovereignty in the old sense. The second is that the League of Nations, if it is to mean anything at all, will have to impair the sovereignty of the states which join it without thereby constituting in itself a world state. Much of the opposition to the League of Nations is concerned with this implied impairment of sovereignty. Whether this opposition will weigh with us will depend on whether we regard the independent sovereign state as the be-all and end-all of political theory, or see that the fundamental fact to be taken into account is man's readiness to co-operate for common purposes. If we take the latter view, we shall still be holding to what was the fundamental contribution of the idealist school, the teaching that the basis of all political questions is moral. The essence of the matter is how we are prepared to treat other people, for what purposes we are prepared to act with them, how far we are prepared to recognize and give settled organized recognition to our mutual obligations. The political organization is the vehicle and not the creator of these moral facts. As the facts vary, so will its forces. We may learn from the Hegelian school to recognize the enormous importance of the state, the great achievement of the human spirit which its organization represents, and the folly of light-heartedly endangering its existence, without making one form which it has taken in the nation state sacrosanct and absolute. Let us turn now to the second of our problems, the relation of the state to associations, such as churches and trade unions, within its borders. Here again we find a principle, originating in earlier individualist theory, taken up into idealism. In the beginnings of modern political theory in the seventeenth century, the absolutist doctrine of the state was the outcome of the need of the times for strong government. A state that was not master in its own house was felt to be incapable of the hard task these troublous times set before it. The French Revolution made no change in the attitude of the state to associations. New-born democracy was not inclined to look favourably on the independence of religious non-democratic associations, and the fact that Leviathan had become democratic was thought to have transformed him into a monster within whose capacious maw any number of Jonahs might live at ease or liberty. Association against a tyrant might be a sacred duty; against the people it could only be a suspicious superfluity. In a very different way the Prussian state, centralized, efficient, and Erastian, organizing the whole resources of the community under the guidance of the state, enforced the same principle. The state is a moral institution, it cannot surrender the inculcation and upholding of morality to an alien or independent body. From all the sources of modern idealistic political theory, Plato, Rousseau, Hegel, comes the same principle of state absolutism over associations within the state. The principle was put in idealistic form in the doctrine that the state is a supra-personal will, absorbing in itself the activities of its members. Of late years dissatisfaction with this doctrine has been making itself more and more loudly expressed. Along with an increasing belief in the extension of the state's administrative capacities has gone an increasing disinclination to leave men's moral and cultural activities to the political organization. The ideal of the _Kulturstaat_ is now sufficiently discredited. Men are coming more and more to recognize the part played in life by non-political organizations and to insist on the importance of preserving the independence and freedom from state control of such associations as churches. The loyalty of individuals to their associations, churches or trade unions, has been conflicting with their loyalty to the state, and men are not prepared to admit that in all such cases of conflict loyalty to the state ought to be paramount. Curiously enough, the central doctrine of the later idealistic school, the personality of the state, lent a force to the criticism of the doctrine of state absolutism. If the state can be described as a person, may not also a church and a trade union? We have begun to learn from Gierke, interpreted and reinforced to us by Maitland, that what is sauce for the state goose is also sauce for the corporation gander, and that associations within the state may claim from the state a greater independence and a recognition of their intrinsic worth because they, as it, embody in some sense a real will over and above the wills of their members. This doctrine of corporate personality is of great interest and complexity, and has not yet been satisfactorily worked out. But I shall not discuss it now because it will not help us far towards a solution of the problem of what are the proper relations between associations and the state, be they personalities or not. Recent writers have mainly attempted to solve the problem by the principle of differentiation of function. This will certainly help us in considering the relation of church and state. For we can say that the task of the political organization is to maintain the conditions of the good life, leaving the work of developing the meaning of the good life, the fostering and inculcation of ideals, to voluntary associations. The state will then maintain a certain minimum of moral behaviour, while the more delicate and freer work of inspiration is left to individuals and voluntary associations. This will not always provide a clean-cut and sufficient differentiation. The state must make up its own mind what is essential to the maintenance of the good life, the voluntary associations may hold that what the state ordains is flatly evil, as the state may hold that what a voluntary association teaches is subversive of all that makes a common ordered life possible, and both must be true to the facts as they see them. When such conflict arises, as it has arisen lately, if the only answer we can give at present is the old answer given by Dr. Johnson, 'The state had a right to martyr the Early Christians, and they had a right to be martyred,' yet at least we are farther on if each side honestly recognizes the importance of the work that the other has to do. When we come to the problem raised by the present position and claims of Trade Unions, differentiation of functions is less satisfactory. Let us first look at the problem as it confronts us to-day. There was a time when the state was doubtful whether it should allow trade unions to exist. The Political Economy prevalent in the earlier part of the nineteenth century taught that trade unions were either unnecessary or useless--unnecessary in so far as economic relations, if unhindered by regulations from the state or from combinations, were regarded by economic optimism as themselves producing satisfactory social conditions; useless where Political Economy had substituted for optimism a belief in 'iron laws' whose results no combination or government regulation could affect. We now see that economic relations, just because they are possible between men who have no common purpose, need regulation inspired by a common purpose, and can be affected by such regulation. The growth of governmental interference with industry and of trade unionism are part of the same movement to control the working of economic relations with a view to maintaining the conditions of the good life. Trade unions have grown and are still steadily growing in size and importance. For a large portion of the nation loyalty to a trade union has become the most obvious form of collective loyalty or general will. This has been accompanied by an inevitable decrease in what we may call territorial loyalty. The result of the increase in means of communication and the growth of large towns has been that men's common interests as members of the same trade or as employees in the same workshop are coming to mean more and to constitute a greater common bond between men than their common interests as dwellers in the same locality. The trade union has often a more live and real general will than the Parliamentary constituency. Men's aspirations and ideals for their common life are being expressed more truly through trade union organizations than through Parliament. The growth in the prestige of organized labour is therefore coincident with a decay in the prestige of Parliament. Parliament, however, based on a local sub-division of the nation, is at present the only political organization of the nation. Trade union organization, as a political organization, has no constitutional authority, and all the general will which it represents can find no regular national expression. The result is that it either uses the territorial organization by getting men who really represent their Trade Union elected as members for Parliamentary local constituencies, to the detriment of both the territorial and the trade union organization, or acts as an _imperium in imperio_ by making demands on and issuing ultimata to Parliament. We seem to be approaching a crisis where the trade unions are asking whether they will allow the state to exist. This is obviously an unsatisfactory state of affairs. What is the cure for it? Differentiation of functions, as I have said, will not help us here. Some writers have maintained that vocational organization should concern itself with industrial or economic matters, the state, as we know it, with political matters. But can we possibly distinguish between industrial and political matters? If the aim of politics is to regulate men's actions in the light of men's common interests, the action of a trade union is in its essence political. Its differentiation from government is that it is concerned with the common interests of a few rather than the common interests of all. The difference between a trade union and a parliamentary constituency is that the sub-division of the general common interest which each represents rests on a different basis of division. The whole community might as well be organized by vocations as it now is by localities. There would seem to be certain advantages in both principles of differentiation, and one obvious practical solution of our present difficulties is that the supreme organ of government should in its two chambers represent the nation as organized on both principles, vocational and territorial. We seem to have come now to the discussion of political machinery, but, as in our discussion of the League of Nations, we can see that our attitude to such questions of machinery will vary as we regard the force-bearing organization with its national and territorial basis as the primary fact in the community, to be distinguished sharply from all other organizations, or regard the possession of organized force as the expression of men's settled and permanent will to maintain their common interests and safeguard the conditions of the good life. If we consistently follow out Green's dictum that will, not force, is the basis of the state, we shall be anxious that the political organization to which we render obedience shall follow the actual ramifications of common interests and of men's willingness to co-operate, and shall recognize that the national state with its territorial basis represents only one form of such ramification. The view that political action is not confined to constitutional and governmental channels will not imply that we must give up the distinction between society and the state. For, on the one hand, trade unions have only arisen because of the special need for a _common_ safeguarding of common interests produced by economic relations. Economic relations need to be controlled by, but cannot be superseded by, politics. On the other hand, as we have seen, the work of such associations as churches is different in kind from the work done by political organizations. The inculcation and development of moral ideals and the safeguarding of the conditions of the good life are complementary functions. Each is impossible without the other. But that does not make them identical, however closely interfused they may be. If, then, we accept the political theory of idealism as a theory of society, we must recognize in social life the distinction between ethical, economic, and political relations, and the task before Political Theory is to define the relations between politics and economic activities on the one side and ethical activities on the other, and that in a society which is not confined within the bounds of a single nation state. The intricate ramifications of vast economic undertakings and the common aspirations and ideals of humanity are but signs of a solidarity of mankind that political philosophy must recognize in all the problems it has to face. FOR REFERENCE Green, _Principles of Political Obligation_. Bosanquet, _Philosophical Theory of the State_. Barker, _Political Thought in England from Spencer to to-day_. Hobhouse, _The Metaphysical Theory of the State_. Figgis, _Churches in the Modern State_. Cole, _Labour in the Commonwealth_. Cole, _Self Government in Industry_. Delisle Burns, _The Morality of Nations_. VII ECONOMIC DEVELOPMENT[20] C.R. FAY I. THE INDUSTRIAL SCENE, 1842 1. Let us hover in fancy over the industrial scene in 1842, and photograph a stage of the economic conflict which the people of England were waging then with the forces which held them in thrall. Our photograph shows us great white lines, continuous or destined to become continuous; they are numerous in Durham and Lancashire, and the newest lead up to and away from London. These white lines are the new railroads of England, and the myriad ant-heaps along them are the navvies. In the year 1848 their numbers had risen to 188,000.[21] What is a navvy and how does he live? The navvy is an inland navigator who used to dig dykes and canals and now constructs railroads. In the forties the navvies are getting 5_s._ a day, and for tunnelling and blasting even more, but they are a rowdy crowd, and many of them are Irish. Said the Sheriff substitute of Renfrewshire in 1827: 'If an extensive drain, or canal, or road were to make that could be done by piecework, I should not feel in the least surprised to find that of 100 men employed at it, 90 were Irish.'[22] In 1842 they are building railroads, and when they and the Highlanders are on the same job, it is necessary to segregate them in order to avoid a breach of the peace. The Irish sleep in huts and get higher pay than the natives who are lodged in the neighbouring cottages. The English navvy too keeps out the Irishman if he can. On a track in Northamptonshire, 'There is only one Irishman on the work, for they would not allow any other Irishman.'[23] In the South of England wages are lower and the navvies are less expert. In South Devon 'very few North countrymen; they are men who have worked down the line of the Great Western; that have followed it from one portion to another'.[24] The riff-raff from the villages cannot work stroke for stroke with the navvy. 'In tilting the waggons they could, but in the barrow runs it requires practice and experience.'[25] The high wages of the navvy are offset by the disadvantages of his employment. He is lucky if he gets the whole of his earnings in cash. In the Trent Valley they are paid once a month, 'but every fortnight they receive what is called "sub" that is subsistence money, and between the times of subsistence money and times of the monthly payment, they may have tickets by applying to the time-keeper, or whoever is the person to give them out, for goods; and those tickets are directed to a certain person; they cannot go to any other shop.'[26] The huts in which they live are little better than pigsties, and especially bad for regular navvies, who take their families about with them. In South Devon, 'man, woman, and child all sleep exposed to one another.'[27] On a section of the London and Birmingham Railway fever and small-pox broke out. 'I have seen', says an eye-witness, 'the men walking about with the small-pox upon them as thick as possible and no hospitals to go to.'[28] The country people, the witness continues, make money by letting rooms double. When one lot came out, another lot went in. Such is the navvy's life at work and at rest. 2. If we can suppose that our camera is capable of distinguishing centres of industrial activity, then our picture will give us 'vital' patches, which stand out against a background of deadness. This deadness is rural England. What is the condition of the rural counties of Wessex? 'Everywhere the cottages are old, and frequently in a state of decay.' 'Ignorance of the commonest things, needle-work, cooking, and other matters of domestic economy, is ... nearly universally prevalent.'[29] To make both ends meet the wife has abandoned her now useless spinning-wheel and hired herself out to hoe turnips or pick stones. On the little farms inside the factory districts of Lancashire and Yorkshire, on which the country hand-loom weavers eke out a miserable livelihood by cultivating patches of grass land, there is distress more acute than ever was known in a Dorset village. But in Northumberland, by exception, there is a decent country life. 'What I saw of the northern peasantry impressed me very strongly in their favour; they are very intelligent, sober, and courteous in their manners.... The education in Northumberland is very good; the people are intelligent and cute, alive to the advantages of knowledge, and eager to acquire it; it is a rare thing to find a grown-up labourer who cannot read and write and who is not capable of keeping his own accounts.'[30] The same sort of thing was said of Northumberland in 1869: 'If all England had been like Northumberland, this commission ought never to have been issued.' The Commissioner found that though the labourers worked harder and longer than in the South they were not working against starvation. They were enjoying a rough plenty, which included fresh milk. The rest of the family earned sufficient to leave the married woman in her home and no children under twelve were employed in field labour.[31] Here then in Northumberland there is a decent country life, but elsewhere there is an atmosphere of deadness; and it is this deadness of the countryside which explains the horror that new comers to industrial regions frequently expressed at the prospect of a forcible return to the parish of their origin. 'I was told,' says a visitor to Lancashire in 1842, 'that there had been several instances of death by sheer starvation. On asking why application had not been made to the commissioner of the parish for relief, I was informed that they were persons from agricultural districts who, having committed an act of vagrancy, would be sent to their parishes, and that they had rather endure anything in the hope of some manufacturing revival, than return to the condition of farm labourers from which they had emerged. This was a fact perfectly new to me, and at the first blush, truly incredible, but I asked the neighbours in two of the instances quoted ... and they not only confirmed the story, but seemed to consider any appearance of scepticism a mark of prejudice or ignorance.'[32] 3. Though there is little peasant life in England, there is life of a feverish desperate order for many who live in country places. These people are not farm workers nor yet are they craftsmen who supply the industrial needs of the village. They are feeders to the towns, engaged in what is misnamed 'domestic industry'. The life they lead is a sordid replica of an all too sordid original. Cobbett in a tirade against the Lords of the Loom[33] idealized the old-time union of agriculture and manufacture. The men should work in the fields, while the women and children stayed at home at their spinning wheels, making homespun for the family garments. But the picture was a vanishing one even in his day. Domestic industry does not mean this. The rural distress revealed in the Hand-loom Weavers Commission is the distress of specialized hand-workers, male and female, who are clinging desperately to the worst-paid branch of a dying trade. The worsted industry of East Anglia is perishing, defeated by the resources of Yorkshire, of which the power-loom is only one. The cloth trade in the Valley of Stroud (Gloucester) is a shadow of its former self. It has lost the power of recovering from a depression. The next period of slackness that comes along may bankrupt the business and rob a village of specialized hand-workers of their main employment. In Devonshire, the serge trade, which used to give employment to looms in almost every town and village, has become so unremunerative that it has passed into the hands of the wives and daughters of mechanics and agricultural labourers. In Oxfordshire in 1834, we are told by the Poor Law Commissions of that year, glove and lace making were vanishing occupations. In the neighbourhood of Banbury 'some make lace and gloves in the villages. Formerly spinning was the work for women in the villages, now there is scarcely any done.'[34] Since 1834 the process of disintegration had proceeded apace. We must not, however, convey the impression that domestic industry in 1842 had all but vanished from the countryside. In its ancient strongholds it still endures, but it is in an unhealthy condition, and the towns are sucking its life-blood away. To illustrate this, let us describe the course of a boom in domestic industry and study how the trade boom of 1833-7 reached through to the country silk weavers in Essex and other places all around London. The terms which we usually apply to the cultivation of land are apposite. The town workers represent the intensive margin of cultivation, the country workers the extensive margin. First of all the Spitalfield weavers, who have been short of work, have more work given to them. The weavers' wives also get work, and their boys and girls who never were on a loom before are now put to the trade. Fresh hands are introduced. From the Metropolis the demand for labour pushes outwards over the country. Recourse is had to 'inferior soils'. Old weavers in the villages get work, together with their wives and families. Even farm labourers are impressed. Blemishes for which at other times deductions would be claimed are now over-looked. Carts are sent round to the villages and hamlets with work for the weavers, so that time may not be lost in going to the warehouses to take back or carry home work. Then comes the ebb: 'the immediate effect is that all the less skilful workmen, the dissolute and disorderly, are denied work; the third and fourth looms, those worked by the sons and daughters of the weavers, are all thrown out of use'. The intensiveness of cultivation has been reduced in the towns, the least remunerative no longer pays. The ebb of the tide, which reduces the quantity of employment in the towns, leaves the country districts high and dry. 'At such times the country towns and villages to which work is liberally sent, when there is a demand for goods, suffer still more. A staff or skeleton only is kept in pay, and that chiefly with a view to operations when a demand returns.'[35] A skeleton--well said. Occasional cultivation is bad for land, and worse for human beings. The ribbon-weaving villages north of Coventry are a disorderly eruption from the town. Coventry itself has the better-paid 'engine weaving'; the rural districts have the 'single hand trade'. The country workers, say the Commissioners, 'retain most of their original barbarism with an accession of vice'. The yokels who went out to the French wars innocent boys returned confirmed rogues. Bastardy is greater than ever, despite the new Poor Law. 'It may surprise the denouncers of the factory system to find all the vices and miseries which they attribute to it, flourishing so rankly in the midst of a population not only without the walls of a factory, but also beyond the contamination of a large town.'[36] It may have surprised such people, but it does not surprise us who are surveying the industrial scene and beginning to apprehend the rottenness of that worm-eaten structure which under the misnomer of domestic industry marks the half-way house to full capitalism. 4. Let us now journey to the factory districts of Lancashire and the West Riding of Yorkshire where town lies close upon town, and the tall chimneys envelop in smoke the cottages in which hand-loom weavers work and the children of hand-loom weavers sleep. Let us suppose that we have found our position by Leeds. We should like to follow the track of the new railroads, for we have in our pocket a small green book: 'Bradshaw's Railway Time Tables and Assistant to Railway Travelling'. '10th Mo. 19th, 1839. Price Sixpence.' Bradshaw tells us that we can get from Littleborough to Manchester in 11 hours--via Rochdale, Heywood, and Millshill--but it is not clear how we are to get to Littleborough. So we follow an alternative route, the canal. It is a fashionable method of transit for mineral traffic and paupers. Mr. Muggeridge, the emigration agent, tells us how he transported the southern paupers in 1836. 'The journey from London to Manchester was made by boat or waggon, the agents assisting the emigrants on their journey.'[37] When we got up our geography for the tour out of Thomas Dugdale's 'England and Wales' this is what we read at every turn: 'Keighley: in the deep valley of the Aire, its prosperity had been much increased by the Leeds and Liverpool Canal which passes within two miles.' 'Skipton: in a rough mountainous district. The trade has been greatly facilitated by the proximity of the town to the Leeds and Liverpool Canal.' So the Leeds and Liverpool canal shall be our guide. We leave Bradford, Halifax, and the worsted districts to the left of us, and passing by Shipley, approach the cotton district near the Lancashire border. 'The township of Shipley is the western-most locality of the Leeds clothing districts; it runs like a tongue into the worsted district. In like manner the worsted district blends with the cotton district at Steeton, Silsden, and Addingham.' We are passing, the Commissioner tells us, from high wages to low. 'The cloth weavers of Shipley work for wages little, if any, higher than those of the worsted weavers; while the worsted weavers north-west of Keighley are reduced down to the cotton standard.'[38] At Keighley we bend sharply south and soon reach Colne in Lancashire. Dr. Cook Taylor describes the conditions there in the early part of 1842: 'I visited eighty-eight dwellings, selected at hazard. They were destitute of furniture save old boxes for tables or stalls, or even large stones for chairs; the beds are composed of straw and shavings. The food was oatmeal and water for breakfast, flour and water, with a little skimmed milk for dinner, oatmeal and water again for a second supply.' He actually saw children in the markets grubbing for the rubbish of roots. And yet, 'all the places and persons I visited were scrupulously clean. Children were in rags, but they were not in filth. In no single instance was I asked for relief.... I never before saw poverty which inspired respect, and misery which demanded involuntary homage.' From Colne we journey to Accrington. Of its 9,000 inhabitants not more than 100 were fully employed. Numbers kept themselves alive by collecting nettles and boiling them. Some were entirely without food every alternate day, and many had but one meal in the day and that a poor one.[39] Our last stage is Burnley, where the weavers--to quote again from Dr. Cook Taylor--'were haggard with famine, their eyes rolling with that fierce and uneasy expression common to maniacs. "We do not want charity," they said, "but employment." I found them all Chartists, but with this difference, that the block-printers and hand-loom weavers united to their Chartism a hatred of machinery which was far from being shared by the factory operatives.' What a comment on England's industrial supremacy--England with her virtual monopoly of large-scale manufacture in Europe! It must have been a puzzle, too, for the Poor Law Commissioners, who were then building workhouses in these parts for the purpose of depauperizing hand-loom weavers on the less eligibility principle. But how was it, with such a Poor Law, that the hand-loom weavers did not die of starvation by the thousand? If we enter a cotton mill we shall see why. Within these gaunt walls, which are illumined at night by sputtering gas-light, the factory children work, earning twice as much as their parents, who were too old and too respectable to become factory hands. By this time, perhaps, it is evening, but this matters nothing to the 'melancholy mad engines', which feed on water or burning coals. The young people will still be there, with eight hours work to their credit and more to do--'kept to work by being spoken to or by a little chastisement'.[40] 'I have seen them fall asleep,' said an over-looker in 1833, 'and they have been performing their work with their hands while they were asleep, after the Billy had stopped. Put to bed with supper in their hands, they were clasping it next morning, when their parents dragged them out of bed. Half asleep they stumbled or were carried to the mill, to begin again the ceaseless round.' 'It keeps them out of mischief', said the opponents of shorter hours. Besides, the conditions were no worse than any other industries! Factory work, however, as the doctors show, was different from work in the mines. The heat and confinement of the mill caused precocious sexual development, whilst in the mines the result of exaggerated muscular development was to delay maturity. In 1842 conditions are better than they were in 1833--thanks to the factory inspectors. There is little positive cruelty, and the sight of deformity--enlarged ankle bones, bow legs, and knock knees, caused by excessive standing as a child--is rare. The problem now is one of industrial fatigue. The children are 'sick-tired'. 5. The Midlands of Leicestershire, Notts, and Derbyshire are a region of red bricks and pantiles, dotted over valleys of exquisite green. So let us leave the smoke of Lancashire and hover here for a while. Here dwell the stocking workers or frame-work knitters--the people who knit on frames stockings, gloves, and other articles of hosiery. It does not look like a region of industry. There are only a few towns, such as Nottingham, Leicester, and Loughborough; and except for a few lace factories in Nottingham, large buildings are rare. The town knitters either work in their own homes or in shops with standings for perhaps as many as fifty frames. In the villages the knitting is nearly all done in the cottages, opposite long low windows, or in a small out-house which might well be a fowl-house. But in the streets of Leicester we can see 'life' of a sort. We can watch the procession to the pawnbrokers. Some of the knitters pawn their blankets for the day, and most lodge their Sunday clothing during the week. Says a Leicester pawnbroker: 'We regularly pay away from £40 to £50 (to some 300 persons) every Monday morning or on the Tuesday. They will, perhaps, wash on the Monday and get their linen clean preparatory to the next Sunday, and in the course of the week they bring all the linen things they can spare. Friday is the worst; they will then bring their small trifling articles, such as are scarcely worth a penny, and we lend on them, to enable them to buy a bit of meat or a few trifles for dinner.'[41] They are too poor to indulge in church-going or alcohol. They have no clothes to go to church in. Their publican is the druggist, where they buy opium for themselves and Godfrey's cordial, a preparation from laudanum, for their children. In the whole of Leicester, with its population of 50,000, there are but nine gin-houses. And only on Sundays do they get a bit of schooling. 'We have only one bit of a cover lid to cover the five of us in winter ... we are all obliged to sleep in one bed.'[42] A frame smith, making his usual inspection of hosiers' frames at workmen's dwellings in Nottingham, after thus spending a fortnight, found his health had begun to suffer from the squalid wretchedness of their abodes. Thinking to improve it, he went on the same errand into the country, but found the frame-work knitters there in a still more deplorable state. From the bad air and other distressing influences in their condition and that of their dwellings, in another fortnight he returned, too ill to attend to his business for some weeks afterwards. This occurred in 1843.[43] Nottingham, however, with its up-to-date lace trade was usually better off than this. The lace factories, like the cotton mills in Lancashire, eased the position of the hand-workers. In Leicestershire the knitters had no such alternative. The more their earnings were reduced, the more helplessly they were bound to their only trade. 6. 1842 is a long while ago! Let us go to sleep for thirty years and wake up in 1871, when the Truck Commissioners are publishing their report. West of Birmingham lies the black country, an area of some twenty square miles. Here, if we have read the evidence of the Truck Commissioners, we can interpret a dumb-show in Dudley, where the nail-makers dwell. On Monday mornings the nail-maker emerges from a small hovel containing a smithy and walks into Dudley to call on a gentleman known as a fogger, a petty-fogger if he is a middleman, a market-fogger if he is a master. The nailer comes out with a bundle of metal which he takes to a second house and changes for a second bundle of metal, and with this he walks away. (The next nailer, not so lucky, hangs about till Wednesday morning, waiting for his metal.) On Saturday the nailer comes back with his nails, enters the fogger's shop, and emerges with 12_s._ in his hand. But he does not go home. He slips into a shop close by and parts company with the shillings. In return he gets a parcel, the contents of which are obviously displeasing to him. What has happened? The nailer is a Government servant. But the Government only employs him indirectly. It puts out contracts for rivets and nails to contractors who sublet their contract, so that the work reaches the nailer at third or fourth hand. The Government, in the interest of public economy (Victorian England is famous for retrenchment), gives its contract to the lowest tenderer; and the policy of the lowest tender is responsible for the dumb-show we have watched. To begin with, the nailer gets metal which does not suit him, so he has to change it, and this he does at the price of 2_d._ per 10_d._ bundle, at a metal changers, a relative of the fogger. (His friend who has to wait till Wednesday for his bundle is kept idling about in order that he may drink what is left of last week's earnings at a 'wobble shop' which is owned by yet another branch of the family of fogger.) When the nailer and his family have worked fourteen hours a day throughout the week, the nailer returns on Saturday with the nails, and receives 12_s._ for them. These shillings he takes to the fogger's store and exchanges for tea and other articles. The shillings are 'nimble'; we commend the rapidity of their circulation to Mr. Irving Fisher. A fogger who pays out the shillings from his warehouse receives them back again in a few minutes over the counter of his store. 'He will perhaps reckon with seven or eight at one time, and when he has reckoned with them, and perhaps paid them six, seven, or eight pounds, he will wait until they have gone to the shop and taken the money there as they leave the warehouse. Then he goes into the shop himself for it, as he cannot go on paying without it.'[44] But surely this is truck! Certainly not. There may be 'fearful cheating' with tea, but the nailer is not bound to go there. He is perfectly free. The only trouble is this: it is a case of tea or no work the week following. This is why, despite the Truck Act of 1831 and despite the known existence of the abuse, these practices are rife among the nailers as late as 1871, the year in which the Truck Commissioners issued the Report from which this scene is compiled. The plight of the nailers is not the plight of factory operatives or miners; it is the plight of the frame-work knitters, of men who are bound by the intangible fetters of economic need to the uncontrollable devil of 'semi-capitalism'. 2. MINING OPERATIONS 1. Coal was king of the nineteenth century. The first steam-engine was built to pump water out of coal mines, the first canal was cut to carry the Duke of Bridgwater's coal from Worsley to Manchester. The first railroads were laid around Newcastle to convey the coals from the pit mouth to the river. George Stephenson, the inventor of the locomotive, began life as a trapper on a Tyneside colliery. Where would English industry have been without its king? In 1780 (in round figures) 5,000,000 tons of coal were raised in the United Kingdom: in 1800, 10,000,000; in 1865, 100,000,000; and in 1897, 200,000,000. Coal enticed the cotton factories from the dales of the Pennines to the moist lowlands of West Lancashire. At every stage of their work the iron-makers depended on coal; and the great inventions in the iron and steel industry are land-marks in the expansion of the demand for coal--Cort's puddling process 1783, Watt's steam-engine 1785, Neilson's hot blast 1824, Naysmith's steam-hammer 1835, Bessemer's steel-converter 1855, Siemen's open hearth 1870, Thomas' basic process for the treatment of highly phosphoric ores 1878. The steamship, a novelty in 1820, ruled the seas in 1870; and ironclads followed steamships. The smokeless steam-coal of South Wales guarded the heritage of Trafalgar. By the end of the nineteenth century, coaling stations were an important item in international politics. Meanwhile, the people of England, heedless of Malthusian forebodings, multiplied exceedingly. They lighted their streets and buildings with coal-gas, and burnt coal in their grates. With coal they paid for the food and raw materials from other lands. Imports of food and raw materials were offset by exports of coal and of textiles and hardware produced by coal. The spirit of invention has pushed on to electricity and oil, but coal is still the pivot of English industry and commerce. And therefore, seeing that coal has meant all this to England, let us look at the men who raised the coal. How did they live, what did they think about, what did they count for then, what do they count for now? 2. In 1800 the miners stood for nothing in the nation's life. In Scotland they had just been emancipated from the status of villeinage. In Northumberland and Durham they were tied by yearly bonds. Elsewhere they were weak and isolated. In 1825 a 'Voice from the coal mines of the Tyne and Wear' cried: 'While working men in general are making 20_s._ to 30_s._ per week (_sic_) the pitmen here are only making 13_s._ 6_d._ and from this miserable pittance deductions are made.'[45] In 1839, during the Chartist disturbances, a Welsh M.P. wrote to the Home Secretary begging for barracks and troops: 'A more lawless set of men than the colliers and miners do not exist ... it requires some courage to live among such a set of savages.'[46] When the miners came out in 1844, there were thousands of cottages tenantless in Northumberland and Durham. For the colliery proprietors owned the cottages, and when the miners struck evicted them. So the miners set up house in the streets. 'In one lane ... a complete new village was built, chests-of-drawers, deck beds, etc., formed the walls of the new dwelling; and the top covered with canvas or bedclothes as the case might be.'[47] Yet, for all their griminess, they had human hearts and voices. During the strike they obtained permission to hold a meeting at Newcastle; and the wealthy citizens who made their fortunes out of the coal trade trembled before the invasion of black barbarians. But the meeting passed off in rain and peace. Thirty thousand miners marched in procession, 'for near a mile flags in breeze, men walking in perfect order'; and as they marched, they sang, as only miners sing, songs and hymns and topical ditties: 'Stand fast to your Union Brave sons of the mine, And we'll conquer the tyrants Of Tees, Wear, and Tyne!' Up and down the Durham coalfields tramped a misguided agitator (in after life the veteran servant of the Durham Miners' Association), by name Tommy Ramsey. With bills under his arm and crake in hand, he went from house-row to house-row calling the miners out. He had only one message: 'Lads, unite and better your condition. When eggs are scarce, eggs are dear; When men are scarce, men are dear.'[48] Such blasphemy appalled the Government's Commissioners. But the miners had a zest for religion as well as for strikes. During the strike of 1844, 'frequent meetings were held in their chapels (in general those of the Primitive Methodists or Ranters as they are commonly called in that part of the country), where prayers were publicly offered up for the successful result of the strike.' They attended their prayer meeting 'to get their faith strengthened'.[49] Such ignorance could only be cured by education. Some worthy members of society had already recognized the fact. In 1830 a Cardiff 'Society for the improvement of the working population in the county of Glamorgan' issued improving pamphlets: No. 9. Population, or Patty's Marriage. No. 10. The Poor's Rate, or the Treacherous Friend. No. 11. Foreign Trade, or the Wedding Gown.[50] But the northern miners were perverse people. In Scotland, according to one Wesleyan minister,[51] the miners read Adam Smith. In Northumberland, with still greater perversity, they preferred Plato. 'A translation of Plato's _Ideal Republic_ is much read among those classes, principally for the socialism and unionism it contains; in pure ignorance, of course, that Plato himself subsequently modified his principles and that Aristotle showed their fallacy.'[52] 3. The Royal Commission of 1842 on the Employment and Condition of Children and Young Persons in Mines disclosed facts which made Cobdenite England gasp. The worst evidence came from Lancashire, Cheshire, the West Riding of Yorkshire, East Scotland, and South Wales. In these districts juvenile labour was cheap and plentiful; and this was an irresistible argument for its employment, though the miners themselves disliked it. The meddlesome restrictions on the factories were a contributory cause. Parents, it was said in Lancashire, were pushing their children into colliery employment at an earlier age because of the legal restrictions upon sending them to the neighbouring factories. A Lancashire woman said in evidence: 'I have a belt round my waist and a chain passing between my legs, and I go on my hands and feet.... The pit is very wet where I work and the water comes over our clog tops always, and I have seen it up to my thighs.... I have drawn till I have had the skin off me; the belt and chain is worse when we are in the family way.'[53] The children's office was a lonesome one. Children hate the dark, but being little they fitted into a niche, and so they were used to open and close the trap-doors. A trapper lad from the county of Monmouth, William Richards, aged seven-and-a-half, said in evidence: 'I been down about three years. When I first went down, I could not keep my eyes open; I don't fall asleep now; I smokes my pipe, smokes half a quartern a week.'[54] Except in the northern mining districts, where there were good day and Sunday schools and Methodism was powerful, a pagan darkness prevailed. As a Derbyshire witness put it: 'When the boys have been beaten, knocked about, and covered with sludge all the week, they want to be in bed all day to rest on Sunday.'[55] In the hope of startling a religiously-minded England, the Commissioners reproduced examples of working-class ignorance. James Taylor, aged eleven, 'Has heard of hell in the pit, when the men swore; has never heard of Jesus Christ; has never heard of God; he has heard the men in the pit say, "God damn thee ".' A Yorkshire girl, aged eighteen, said: 'I do not know who Jesus Christ was; I never saw him, but I have seen Foster, who prays about him.'[56] 4. Just as in the East Midlands the frame-work knitters worked for middlemen or master middlemen, and just as the Dudley nailers worked for petty-foggers and market-foggers, so too the Staffordshire miners worked for 'butties'. Here again the workers were exposed to the petty tyrannies of semi-capitalism; and here again the middlemen, in this case the butties, incurred the odium of a system for which their superiors, the coal-owners and coal-masters, were responsible. Why the butty system prevailed in the Midlands--and in a modified form it prevails to-day--is not clear. In some places it seems to be connected with the smallness of the mining concerns or of the metal trades which they supplied. In South Staffordshire a contributing factor was the ancient and allied industry of nail-making. The conditions in South Staffordshire in 1843 are fully described in the Midland Mining Commission of that year. The butty was a contractor who engaged with the proprietor or lessee of the mine to deliver the coal or iron-stone at so much per ton, himself hiring the labourers, using his own horses, and supplying the tools requisite for the working of the mine. The contract price was known as the 'charter price' or 'charter'. Thus by a freak of language the Staffordshire miner knew by the same word the 'butty's charter' which was the symbol of his oppression, and the 'people's charter' which was the goal of his desire. 'The butties', said the miners and their wives, 'are the devil: they are negro drivers: they play the vengeance With the men.'[57] The men kicked when, after working a couple of hours, they were fetched up, without pay, on the excuse that there were no waggons to take away the coal. But the butty comforted them with a bottle of pit drink, and all was smooth again. A collier related a case where 'a pike man had worked only one half-day in the week and got 2_s._ for it, and because he did not spend 6_d._ of this at the butty's shop, the latter told the doggy (the under man) to let the man play for it.'[58] The miners recognized that often the butty was not to blame. In the district north and east of Dudley, the butties got their 'charter price' from the coal-owners in the form of tickets on the coal-owners' truck-shop. What else could they do but hand them on to the men? 'He used to be a very good butty,' said one miner's wife, 'till they haggled him and dropped his "charter", so that he cannot pay his men.'[59] West and south of Dudley the butties, though they did not truck their men, kept public-houses; and being employer and publican in one, they had a tight hold on the men. Was the compulsion to drink an oppression? To our minds, yes; as also to the minds of the teetotal Chartists whom the Government imprisoned, and of the strike leaders whom the Government's Commissioners denounced. But to the majority of the miners the abundance of beer was a delight. They objected to the butty's bullying, but they loved his beer, especially the feckless ones, for when wives were importunate the drunkards pleaded necessity. However, all the beer-drinking could not be charged to the butties. The miners themselves, in their own fellowships, were devoted to it; and the compulsion of friends was as severe as the compulsion of butties. Every approach to recreation, every act of mutual providence against accident or disease, began and ended in beer. The day a man entered the pit's company, he paid 1_s._ for footing-ale, and the doggy saw that no churl escaped. When a lad was old enough to have a sweetheart he was toasted with the 'nasty' shilling. The sins of the married men were washed away in half-a-crown's worth of ale. The beer-shop was the head-quarters of the Burial and Savings Clubs. The first charge on a Burial Club was a good oak coffin, the second charge drinks for the pall-bearers, and then a glass or two for the rest of the company. They had lotteries to which each man contributed 20 fortnightly shillings. Each week a name was drawn, and the lucky man stood a feast; while every member, in addition to a shilling for the box, produced 6_d._ for drinks. In all these festivities the butty was in the offing. When they would have him he presided; and so at his worst an obnoxious bully, at his best he was an accommodating landlord. Direct employment, such as prevailed in the north of England, would have averted much of this evil. There were no structural difficulties in the way of change. Direct employment would not have meant a change to another class of work (this is what direct employment meant for knitters and hand-loom weavers). The butty system existed and persisted through slackness and irresponsibility. The owners paid compensation for accidents, when they might have diminished the number of accidents. They paid commissions to middlemen with whom they might have dispensed. The system made temperance impossible for the individual; and the masters, with the full approval of the Government, did their best to destroy the 'pernicious combinations' by which alone a standard of sober decency could be promoted. 5. The Report of the Truck Commissioners (1871-2) enables us to complete the picture. It also enables us to understand why, at this late day, truck was still rife in certain districts. Truck and Tommy, truck-shop and Tommy-shop, are convertible terms. Truck is from the French 'troc' = barter. Cobbett tells us how the word 'Tommy' was used. In his soldiering days the rations of brown bread, 'for what reason God knows', went by the name of Tommy. 'When the soldiers came to have bread served out to them in the several towns in England, the name of Tommy went down by tradition, and, doubtless, it was taken up and adapted to the truck-system in Staffordshire and elsewhere.'[60] From the textile districts it had all but disappeared in 1871. When the cotton manufactures went to outlying dales for water power, they were almost compelled to open stores for their workpeople. Owen's store at New Lanark was, in effect, a well-managed truck-shop; and the Truck Commissioners of 1871 reported that the New Lanark Company of that day was breaking the law. But when the cotton industry was gathered in the towns, the need for company stores ceased. Consequently, after the passing of the Act of 1831, which prohibited truck altogether, the masters very generally abolished the stores of their own accord; and survivals were jealously watched. A collection of Factory Scraps, preserved at the Goldsmiths' Library in London, contains a copy of the Factory Bill of 1833, with some pencil notes in Ostler's handwriting which run: _Cragg Dale Facts_ _Truck System_: Little altered: men knew they were imposed. They pay in money now--but compel them to buy at their own shops.... Wholesale warehouses at Rochdale say, 'Oh! put it sideways: it will do for Cragg Dale masters to sell among their people.' _Song_: 'Lousy butter and burnt bread.' About 1842 a curious perversion of truck was prevalent in parts of Yorkshire. The trade depression in the Bradford district tempted disreputable woollen manufacturers to force on their operatives the products of the factory as part payment of wages. Combers were given pieces of cloth, workers in shoddy mills bundles of rags. But this utterly inexcusable fraud, no less than its more specious complement, the employer's store, was rooted out by inspectors and factory reformers. Therefore in 1854 the Government's Commissioner was able to say that in a factory district like Lancashire truck was not only non-existent but 'impossible'.[61] He was right as to the factory districts, but not quite right as to Lancashire. In Prescot, a small Lancashire town on the fringe of the factory district, the watchmakers in 1871 were being paid in watches. The masters alleged that they only gave watches to the workers when the latter had orders for them, but the evidence showed that these orders only came to hand when the men were asking for fresh work. The pawnbrokers explained what happened. 'Watches', said a pawnbroker's clerk, 'pass from hand to hand as a circulating medium until they get very low in the market and are pawned.'[62] The pawnshop in question had 700 watches on pledge, most of them belonging to workmen in the town. In railway contracting truck was prevalent in the forties. In roving employment of this type it is difficult to see how some form of contractor's shop could have been avoided. The navvy needed canteens or Y.M.C.A. huts, but such things had not been thought of then. However, when the big period of railway construction came to an end, the question lost its importance. South Staffordshire and the Black Country were the ancient strongholds of truck. The campaigns against truck originated here. The nailers, the cash-paying masters, and the respectable ratepayers joined together to promote the Truck Act of 1820. Lord Hatherton, a Staffordshire nobleman, after three years hammering at the House of Commons, obtained the Truck Act of 1831. But in 1843, the year of the Midland Mining Commission, truck was still rife in the coalfields. The well-known Tommy-shop scene in Disraeli's novel _Sybil_, which was published in 1845, is taken direct from the Commissioners' Report. Diggs, the butty of the novel, is Banks, the coal proprietor of the Report. In the novel the people say of Master Joseph Diggs, the son: 'He do swear at the women, when they rush in for the first turn, most fearful; they do say he's a shocking little dog.' In the Report, page 93, the miner's wife says: 'He swears at the women when the women are trying to crush in. He is a shocking little dog.' One touch is Disraeli's own. He makes the miners keen to purchase 'the young Queen's picture'. 'If the Queen would do something for us poor men, it would be a blessed job.' In the Report there is nothing about this, but there is a section dealing with Chartism. However, the truck-shop was gradually disappearing. Every year it became easier to expose evasions, and in good times the workers used their prosperity to slip away from the Company store. In 1850 a final campaign was initiated by five local Anti-Truck Associations, backed by the National Miners' Association under Alexander MacDonald. Truck-masters were prosecuted and truck was steadily dislodged from the coalfields and adjacent ironworks. Only in the nail trade did it survive, for the reason that the complete subjection of the nailers made it possible to practise the essentials of truck without a formal violation of the law. In the remaining colliery districts in 1871 truck was prevalent only in West Scotland and South Wales. In West Scotland it was yielding ground before the pressure of the unions. The companies only maintained it by active coercion. If a miner held out for money, they had to yield; and if they were malicious, they marked him as a sloper and dismissed him the first when a depression came. 'Black lists', said the Truck Commissioners, 'are often kept of slopers; threats of dismissal were repeatedly proved; and cases of actual dismissal for not dealing at the store are not rare.'[63] However, the masters themselves were getting tired of it, since it led so frequently to strikes. Truck in South Staffordshire was bound up with the butty system; in railway construction with the system of contracting and sub-contracting, and similarly in South Wales, as also in the west of Scotland, it was bound up with and dependent on the system of long pays. In order to carry on from one pay day to the next, the men got advances on the company's store. In this way many lived permanently ahead of their wages. The thriftless and drunkards were always 'advance men, but the provident miners hated it and only dealt there on compulsion'. The Commissioners drew a vivid picture of Turn Book morning in South Wales at the close of the pay month. At 1 or 2 a.m. the women and children begin to arrive with their Advance Books. Perhaps one hundred would be there, wet or fine, sleeping on the doorsteps or singing ballads until morning. At 5.30 a.m. the doors opened, and the waiters made a rush for the counter. Advance Books were produced, and goods handed over up to the amount of wages which would shortly fall due. Women took their pick of the articles, groceries, tobacco, occasionally a few shillings. 'It is quite usual', say the Commissioners, 'for shoemakers and other small tradesmen in the neighbourhood of Abersychan to be paid by the workmen in goods.... Tobacco in several districts of South Wales has become nothing less than a circulating medium. It is bought by the men and resold by them for drink, and finds its way back again to some of the Company's shops. Packets of tobacco pass unopened from hand to hand. An Ebbw Vale grocer who took the Company's tobacco at a discount declared: "For years, when they were selling it for 1_s._ 4_d._ a lb. I used to give 1_s._; but I was so much over-flooded with it that I was obliged to reduce the price to 11_d._ That would not do still, and I had to reduce it to 10_d._ I told the men to take it to some other shop if they could get 11_d._ or 1_s._ for it. I was obliged to do that many a time, in order to get rid of the large stocks I held in hand. Tobacco will not keep for many months without getting worse."' Weekly pays, therefore, were the constant demand of the miners' unions. In Northumberland and Durham, whence truck had disappeared long ago, pays were fortnightly, and the only objection advanced by the owners against weekly pays was the practical inconvenience of the pressure on the pay staff. In the North of England Iron Trade, weekly pays, the Commissioners found, had just been introduced. In West Scotland some of the coal-owners were trying to recoup themselves for the loss of their truck-shop by charging poundage on the men's wages. But this dodge, like the bigger grievance of truck, was stoutly resisted by the local union. Indeed, in one coalfield after another the disappearance of truck and kindred evils coincides with the appearance of strong County Unions. 6. We are given to understand that the miners of South Wales insist on economics written by sound labour men. We therefore offer them a few suggestions for a history of the currency in the nineteenth century from the worker's point of view. i. In 1800 London relied for small coin on private enterprise. Every week the Jews' boys collected from the shopkeepers their bad shillings, buying them at a heavy discount, with serviceable copper coin forged in Birmingham (_vide_ Patrick Colquhoun, _A Treatise on the Police of the Metropolis_, 1800, Chapter VII). The resumption of cash payments in 1819 was injurious; for owing to the shortage of small coin, the wage-earners were paid in bulk with large notes, which they had to split at the nearest public-house. The Truck Act of 1831 prohibited wage-payments in notes on Banks more than 15 miles distant, but said nothing about cheques--an oversight which the capitalists repeated in their Bank Act of 1844. ii. The general dissatisfaction with the state of the currency led to attempts to dispense with coin. About 1830 Labour Exchanges were opened in London for the exchange of goods against time notes, representing one or more hours of labour. The originator was Robert Owen, and the failure of the Exchanges was probably due to the fact that Owen was at heart a capitalist. The National Equitable Labour Exchange at one time was doing a business of over 20,000 hours per week, but very shortly after this, the President (Owen) had to report a serious deficiency of hours, many thousands having been mislaid or stolen. The Exchange in consequence had to close its doors. iii. In the 'forties the centre of interest is the Midlands, and the period may be termed the Staffordshire or beer period. The currency was very popular and highly liquid, but it was issued to excess and difficult to store. More solid surrogates were therefore tried. A Bilston pawnbroker[64] said that he had in pawn numerous batches of flour, which the men's wives had brought from the Truck Shops and turned into money, in order to pay their house-rents. Flour, however, was not so hard as a Prescot watch. iv. We come next to the Welsh or Tobacco period, when the currency was easily transferable, but liable to deterioration. v. Finally, in the last quarter of the nineteenth century, the world of labour attained to a cash basis, and there was no Cobbett to denounce the resumption. We shall not be guilty of serious exaggeration if we preface our history with the motto: '_In the nineteenth century the Trade Unions and the Trade Unions alone made the nominal earnings of the working man a cash reality_.' 3. THE SPIRIT OF ASSOCIATION 1. The student of Dicey's Law and Opinion in England is invited to distinguish three periods: i. The period of old Toryism or legislative quiescence (1800-38). ii. The period of Benthamism or individualism (1825-70). iii. The period of collectivism (1865-1900). Bentham lived during the first period and his name is rightly given to the second period. The student, therefore, comes to wonder if there is anything which is not Benthamism. Benthamism, he says to himself, stands for individualism. How then can the period of Benthamism include the humanitarian legislation which begins with the first Factory Act of 1802 and broadens out during the middle of the century into the elaborate code regulating from then onwards the conditions of employment in workshops, factories, and mines? How can a monster beget an angel? We may perhaps throw light on this difficulty by suggesting that the _social_ trend from 1825-70 cannot be compressed into a single word. Individualism may suffice to define the dominant _legal_ trend, but it conceals the influence exerted on the legislature from without and from below by the action of voluntary associations. The period of voluntary association coincides with and overlaps the period of individualism. 2. What Bentham was to individualism, Robert Owen was to voluntary association. Bentham himself was an admirer of Owen and supported his philanthropy, but, as expressions of a social attitude, Benthamism and Owenism were poles asunder. The contrast between the two is admirably displayed in the evidence given before the Factory Committee of 1816 by two representatives of the employing class, Josiah Wedgwood of pottery fame and Robert Owen himself. 'In the state of society,' said Wedgwood, 'in which there is evidently a progressive movement, it is much better to leave things as they are than to attempt to amend the general state of things in detail. The only safe way of securing the comfort of any people is to leave them at liberty to make the best use of their time, and to allow them to appropriate their earnings in such way as they think fit.'[65] Robert Owen thought otherwise. In a couple of answers he exposed the fallacy of enlightened self-interest. They seem obvious enough to-day, but in 1816 they were the voice of one crying in the wilderness. He was asked whether he believed that 'there is that want of affection and feeling on the part of parents, that would induce them to exact from their children more labour than they could perform without injury to their health;' and he replied: 'I do not imagine that there is the smallest difference between the general affection of the lower order of the people, except with regard to that which may be produced by the different circumstances in which they are placed.'[66] Another question was: 'Do you conceive that it is not injurious to the manufacturer to hazard, by overwork, the health of the people so employed?' He replied: 'If those persons were purchased by the manufacturers I should say decisively, yes; but as they are not purchased by the manufacturer and the country must bear all the loss of their strength and their energy{;} it does not appear, at first sight, to be the interest of the manufacturer to do so.'[67] Owen had grasped the meaning of social responsibility, and he devoted his life to social service. But he was too wayward to observe the conventions of society, and passed beyond the social pale. The factory reformer became the Socialist. Whether his disciples comprehended his philosophy we may doubt, but he understood better than any one else their instinct for association, and he gratified it. It is not contended that Owen was responsible for all the associative effort of his generation; for with political and religious associations he had no sympathy. But the spirit which infected him infected others after him, rousing them to associate now for this, and now for that social or religious or political purpose. 3. We may divide associations for social purposes into two classes. To the first class belong associations formed to secure the abolition of some abuse. These naturally disappear when their object is attained. For example, there was the Anti-slavery Campaign in which Joseph Sturge and other Quakers played so prominent a part. By an organized crusade of political education the Abolitionists induced an originally hostile Parliament to emancipate the West Indian negroes in 1833, and to shorten the period of semi-servile apprenticeship in 1838. Yorkshire was the home of the Short Time Committees, which organized the campaign against White Slavery at home. The Ten Hours Movement caused the Ten Hours Bill to become the law of the land. From Lancashire came the Anti-Corn Law League, whose story is told in another chapter. The second class of association was the association for economic betterment--the Friendly Society, the Co-operative Society, the Trade Union. Conceived in enthusiasm and self-inspired, these associations asked only of the State a legal framework in which to develop, but they did not win it without struggle and delay. The Government was anxious to encourage thrift, but the development of the Friendly Societies was impeded for a time by legislation aimed at political conspiracy. The Corresponding Societies Act of 1799 prevented the Friendly Societies from forming a central organization with branches, and the Dorchester Labourers of 1834 discovered the peril into which the ritual of oaths might lead innocent men. These deterrents were removed by enabling legislation. In 1829 a central authority, the Registrar of Friendly Societies, was appointed to supervise Friendly Societies, and between 1829 and 1875 further privileges and safeguards were conferred. But the Friendly Society Movement throughout the nineteenth century was wholly voluntary. In 1911 the situation was suddenly reversed by the passing of the National Insurance Act. The Co-operative Societies were more suspect. They crept into legal recognition as the children of the Friendly Society, under the 'frugal investments' clause of the Act of 1846, being compelled by the legal prejudice against association in restraint of trade to adopt this unnatural mother. Their real nature was recognized in 1852, when they were brought under the Industrial and Provident Societies Act, and in 1862, when they were granted the boon of limited liability. But the accident of their legal origin still survives; for they are regulated to-day by the Industrial and Provident Societies Act of 1893. The Co-operative Movement is now drawing closer to politics, following the lead of most of the continental countries, notably Belgium and Germany. Though we cannot say that there is any indication of the State taking over the movement, we may note that the growth of municipal trading in the 'nineties was, in principle, an application of the consumers' association to monopolies of distribution such as tramways, water, electricity, and gas. The State was altogether hostile to the growth of the Trade Union. The Charter of Emancipation, won by the guile of Francis Place in 1824, was severely curtailed in 1825. Huskisson[68] depicted in lurid terms the tyranny of a military trades unionism, 'representing a systematic union of the workers of many different trades'. It was a 'kind of federal republic', whose mischievous operations, if not checked, would keep the commercial classes 'in constant anxiety and fear about their interests and property'. Arnold, of Rugby, a decade later wrote of them in the same strain: 'you have heard, I doubt not, of the trades unions; a fearful engine of mischief, ready to riot or assassinate; and I see no counteracting power.'[69] The counteracting power was their own weakness. The early militancy burnt itself out, and was succeeded at the turn of the century by a 'New Spirit and a New Model'. The new spirit was anti-militant, and the new model was a trade union representing the _élite_ of the skilled trades. The Amalgamated Society of Engineers was founded in 1850 and served as a model to the Carpenters, Tailors, Compositors, Iron-founders, Brick-layers, and others. The Trades Unions were now respectable, and in 1867 the State recognized the fact. The period of collectivism is denoted by the growth of the Labour Party in Parliament, and the increasing part played by the State in industrial disputes and the regulation of wages. The nationalization of railways and the nationalization of mines are burning questions. 4. In all the movements we have described, the spiritual stimulus, the initial drive, and the solid successes have been provided by voluntary association. The State has not been the pioneer of social reform. Such a notion is the mirage of politicians. It has merely registered the insistent demands of organized voluntary effort or given legal recognition to accomplished facts. This is the distinctive note of English social development in the nineteenth century. FOR REFERENCE Dicey, _Law and Opinion_. Robinson, _The Spirit of Association_. Hovell, _The Chartist Movement_. Sombart (tr. Epstein), _Socialism and the Socialist Movement_. [Cd. 9236], _Report of Committee on Trusts_. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 20: From the writer's forthcoming book _Life and Labour in the Nineteenth Century_, to be published by the Cambridge University Press.] [Footnote 21: Tooke and Newmarch, _History of Prices_, v. 356.] [Footnote 22: _Commons Committee on Emigration_, 1827, Q. 1761.] [Footnote 23: _Commons Committee on the Condition of Labourers employed in the Construction of Railways_, 1846, Q. 866.] [Footnote 24: Ibid., Q. 217.] [Footnote 25: Ibid., Q. 897.] [Footnote 26: Ibid., Q. 733.] [Footnote 27: Ibid., Q. 193.] [Footnote 28: Ibid., Qs. 869-78.] [Footnote 29: _Report of Poor Law Commissioners on the Employment of Women and Children in Agriculture_ (1843), pp. 20, 25.] [Footnote 30: Ibid., pp. 299-300.] [Footnote 31: _Report of Commissioners on the Employment of Young Persons in Agriculture_, p. 64.] [Footnote 32: Dr. Cook Taylor, Letter to the _Morning Chronicle_, dated from Rossendale Forest (Lancashire), June 20, 1842.] [Footnote 33: _Rural Rides_, i. 219.] [Footnote 34: _Poor Law Commission of 1834_, Appendix.] [Footnote 35: _Hand-loom Weavers' Commission, Final Report, 1841_, p. 18.] [Footnote 36: _Hand-loom Weavers' Commission, Assistant-Commissioner's Report, 1840_, Part IV, pp. 76-81.] [Footnote 37: _Second Annual Report of the Poor Law Commissioners_, 1836.] [Footnote 38: _Hand-loom Weavers' Commission, Assistant-Commissioner's Report_, Part III, p. 551.] [Footnote 39: _Anti-bread Tax Circular_, No. 91, June 16, 1842.] [Footnote 40: _First Report of the Factory Commissioners_, 1833, p. 27.] [Footnote 41: _Report of Commissioner on the Condition of the Framework Knitters_ (1845), p. 109.] [Footnote 42: Ibid., p. 115.] [Footnote 43: William Felkin, _History of the Machine-wrought Hosiery and Lace Manufactures_ (1867), p. 458.] [Footnote 44: _Evidence before the Truck Commissioners_ (1871), Q. 37,500.] [Footnote 45: Pamphlet of 1825, p. 14.] [Footnote 46: _Home Office Papers_, 40, Letter from R.J. Blewitt, Esq., M.P., November 6, 1839.] [Footnote 47: Richard Fynes, _Miners of Northumberland and Durham_, p. 72.] [Footnote 48: John Wilson, _History of the Durham Miners' Association_ (1870-1904), p. 40.] [Footnote 49: _Report of Commissioner on the State of the Mining Population_ (1846).] [Footnote 50: These pamphlets are in the British Museum.] [Footnote 51: _Report of Commissioner on the State of the Mining Population_ (1850).] [Footnote 52: Ibid. (1852).] [Footnote 53: _Royal Commission, First Report_ (_Mines_), p. 27.] [Footnote 54: Ibid., p. 21.] [Footnote 55: _Royal Commission, Second Report_ (_Trades and Manufactures_), p. 147.] [Footnote 56: Ibid., pp. 155-6.] [Footnote 57: _Midland Mining Commission, First Report_, p. 34.] [Footnote 58: Ibid., p. 91.] [Footnote 59: Ibid., p. 44.] [Footnote 60: _Rural Rides_, ii. 353.] [Footnote 61: _Commons Committee, Stoppage of Wages_ (_Hosiery, 1854_). Evidence of Mr. Tremenheere.] [Footnote 62: _Evidence before the Truck Commissioners_, Q. 33,670.] [Footnote 63: _Truck Commission, 1871. Report_, p. 16.] [Footnote 64: _Commons Committee, Stoppage of Wages in the Hosiery Manufacture_ (1854), Q. 80.] [Footnote 65: _Commons Committee of_ 1816, pp. 64 and 73.] [Footnote 66: Ibid., p. 38.] [Footnote 67: Ibid., p. 28.] [Footnote 68: Speech, March 29, 1825.] [Footnote 69: Letter to the Chevalier Bunsen, 1834, quoted in Strachey, _Eminent Victorians_, p. 197.] VIII ATOMIC THEORIES PROFESSOR W.H. BRAGG, C.B.E., D.SC., F.R.S. When a lecture on the progress of Science is given before a conference concerned largely with historical subjects, it is not inappropriate to point out that Science has a history of its own and that its progress makes a connected story. The discovery of new facts is not made in an isolated fashion, nor is it a matter of pure chance, unaffected by what has gone before. On the contrary, scientific progress is made step by step, each new point that is reached forming a basis for further advances. Even the direction of discovery is not entirely in the explorer's control; there is always a next step to be taken and a limited number of possible steps forward from which a choice can be made. The scientific discoverer has to go in the direction in which his discoveries lead him. When discoveries have been made it is possible to think of uses to which they may be put, but in the first instance all discoveries are made without any knowledge whatever of what use may afterwards be made of them. Consequently scientific progress is a quite orderly advance, not a spasmodic collection of facts, and in the truest sense of the word it has a history. In order that opportunities for this steady progress may be provided it is very important that this point should be fully appreciated. Every one, for example, is vaguely conscious that science played a great part in the War. As a consequence the number of students of science has greatly increased; manufacturing firms are awakening to the fact that they must pay more attention to scientific development and are founding research laboratories. It is very important that this awakened attention should be well informed, and for that reason it cannot be pointed out too often that the scientific work which has been the basis of all material progress can only be turned to definite material ends in the last stages of its development. Fundamentally everything rests on the pure attempt to gain knowledge without any idea of the use to which it may subsequently be put. Without pure science there is no applied science at all. It is quite right in my opinion that the researcher in pure science should have with him the hope that what he does may one day be of direct benefit to others. But it is probable that he does not in his own mind confine the idea of possible uses to such material matters as I have mentioned above and as are so prominent at present. He believes that his work has a less material side whose value need not be explained to the present audience. In the general line of progress it is natural to find that there are certain broad roads along which the main advance has been directed. Students of physics and chemistry and the subjects which are allied to them find that they are in general considering either matter, or electricity, or energy. I make this classification, not from any philosophical point of view, but simply for present convenience. The first important principle to which I would like to draw your attention is that each of these things can be measured quantitatively. If we accept the weight of a substance as an indirect measure of the amount of matter present, then we all know we can express the amount of matter in any given body in terms of a fundamental unit, like a pound or a gramme; and the idea has been put to immemorial use. In later years we have learnt that electricity itself is also a quantity and that the amount of electricity which stands on an electrified body, or flows past a given point in an electric conductor, as for example the wire connected to an electric light, can be expressed arithmetically in terms of some unit. Instruments are made for the purpose of measuring quantities of electricity in terms of the legal standard. It is one of the functions of a Government Institution, like the National Physical Laboratory, to test such instruments and report on their accuracy. International conferences have been held for the purpose of reducing these units to as small a number as possible so that people may be able to trade less wastefully and more conveniently, so that also the barriers between peoples may be broken down and the interchange of ideas as well as of materials may be made more easily. Without an arrangement of this kind it would be impossible to carry on industrial life in which use is made of electricity. It would be as difficult as to hold a market without the use of weights and scales, more difficult, in fact, since anyone can estimate the size of a piece of cloth or the amount of corn in a sack, but no one has a natural sense by which he can estimate an amount of electricity. In just the same way energy can be measured as a quantity in terms of a fundamental unit. The discovery that this was so was made by Joule and others towards the middle of the nineteenth century, and lit the road for further advance as a dark street is lit by the sudden turning-up of the lamps. All modern industry rests on this principle. We are now so accustomed to the idea that energy is a quantity that we can hardly realize a time when it was merely a vague term. If we want an illustration of how thoroughly we have grasped this idea let us remember that when we pay our electric-light bill we pay so much money for so many units of energy supplied; for so much energy, let us note, not for so much electricity, since we take into account not only the actual amount of electricity driven through our house wires, but also the magnitude of the force which is there to drive it. Energy exists in many forms: energy of motion, heat, gravitational energy, chemical energy, radiation, and so on. In the transformations of energy which are continually occurring in all natural processes, there is never any change in the total amount of energy. This is the famous principle of the Conservation of Energy. Sometimes it is stated in the form 'Perpetual motion is impossible'. One of the most important forms of energy is radiation. The constant outpouring by the sun of energy in this form is vital to us. The fact was obvious long ago and that is one of the reasons why light and heat have interested students of science in all ages. There exist then three main subjects of study--matter, electricity, and energy. These themselves and their mutual relations have been, and are, the principal objects of interest to the scientific student, and from our strivings to understand them we have learnt most of what we know. All three are quantities and all are expressible in terms of units. Now there is one point which I have thought would especially interest you. A very remarkable tendency of modern discovery shows more and more clearly that not only are these things quantities which we can express in units of our own choosing, but that Nature herself has already chosen units for them. The natural unit does not, of course, bear any exact connexion with our own. This being so, it must be of the utmost importance that we should know what these natural units are and so be able to understand what Nature is ready to tell us. Nature has chosen to speak in a certain language; we must get to know that language. In the first place we know surely that there are natural units of matter. This was the great discovery made by Dalton in the beginning of the nineteenth century. When he found that each of the known elements, such as copper or oxygen or carbon, consisted ultimately of atoms, all the atoms of any one element being alike, he laid the foundation on which the huge structure of modern chemistry has been raised. The chemist takes one or more atoms of one element, one or more of another, and may be of a third or fourth, and he puts them together into a compound which we call a molecule. The molecule for example of ordinary salt contains always one atom of chlorine and one of sodium. Chlorine and sodium are elements, salt is a compound. Six atoms of carbon and six of hydrogen put together in a certain way make benzene. In the same way every substance that we meet is capable of analysis, showing ultimately the molecules as made up, according to a definite plan, of so many atoms of the various elements. In analytical chemistry molecules are dissected in order to discover the mode of their building; in synthetic chemistry the atoms are put together to make a molecule which is already known to have, or even may be anticipated to have, certain properties. This is the work of the chemist. Sometimes enormous forces are concerned in this pulling apart and putting together, witness the terrific power of modern explosives. But the same kind of handling by the chemist may be devoted to the delicate construction of a molecule which gives a certain colour to the dyer's vat and so pleases the eye that the great cloth industries feel the consequence, and nations themselves are affected by the flow of trade. After all, since the processes of the physical world operate ultimately through the power and properties of molecules, it is not surprising that the chemist's work in these and numberless other ways has such tremendous influence in the world. Here then by the recognition of the units of matter which Nature has chosen for herself it has been possible to do great things. It should be observed that the atom, in spite of its name, is not something which is incapable of all further division; it is only incapable of retaining its properties on division. When an atom of radium breaks down in the unique operation during which its singular properties are manifested, it dies as radium and becomes two atoms, one of helium, the other of a different and rare substance. It will interest you to know that the airships of the future are expected to be filled with this non-inflammable helium. The discovery of the atomic nature of electricity came later. Faraday established the fact that in certain processes there was more than a hint that electricity was always present in multiples of a definite unit. In the process called electrolysis the electric current is driven across a cell full of liquid containing molecules of some substance. When the electricity passes there is a loosening of the bonds that bind together the atoms of the molecule, and a separation; atoms of one kind travel with the electricity across the cell and are deposited where the current leaves the cell; the other kind travel the opposite way. In this way for example we deposit silver on metal objects in electro-plating processes, or separate out the purest copper for certain electrical purposes. The striking thing which Faraday discovered was that the number of atoms deposited always bore a very simple relation to the quantity of electricity that passes. The same current passing in succession through cells containing different kinds of molecules broke up the same number of molecules in each cell. It was as if in each electrolytic cell atoms of matter and atoms of electricity travelled together. The movement of an atom meant the simultaneous movement of a definite quantity of electricity. Electricity was, so to speak, done up in little equal parcels, and an atom of matter on the move, which was termed an ion, or wanderer, carried, not a vaguely defined amount of electricity, but one of these definite parcels. It was not, however, until the later years of the nineteenth century that the natural unit of electricity was manifested by itself and without a carrier. At a famous address to the British Association at York in 1881 Sir William Crookes described the first marvellous experiments in which this feat had been accomplished, though there was still to come a long controversy before the interpretation was clearly accepted. It is now definitely established that there is a fundamental atom of electricity which we now call the electron. As we all know electrification is of two kinds--a positive and a negative. The electron is of the negative kind. There does not appear to be a corresponding positive atom of electricity, or at least not one that is so singular in its properties as the electron. Electrons go to the making of all atoms, just as atoms go to the making of molecules. The atom which is neutral, that is, shows neither positive nor negative electrification, must contain positive electricity in some form to balance the electrons which we know it contains. When we strip an atom, as we know how to do, of one or more of these electrons, the remainder is positively charged. The positive ion is any sort of an atom or molecule which has become positively electrified in this way. An atom which has become positive by the loss of one or more of its electrons exercises a force on any spare electrons in its neighbourhood or on any atom carrying a spare electron. When there are large numbers of atoms seeking in this way to become neutral once more, as occurs often in Nature, the forces generated may be tremendous. They are shown, for example, in the lightning-stroke. But indeed it would seem that all the chemical forces of which we have already spoken depend ultimately upon the electric state of the atom concerned. It is because the force which a positively-charged atom exerts on an electron is so great and because the electron is so light and easily moved compared to an atom that the electron has not been isolated at will until recent years. The isolation in fact depends upon the electron being endowed with a sufficient speed to carry it through or past the action of an atom which is seeking to absorb it into its system. A lump of matter flying in space might enter our solar system with such speed as to be able to pass through and go on its way almost undeflected. Or again, it might have a much lower speed and go so much nearer the sun that it was seriously deflected in its course, as we see in the case of comet visitors. But if for some reason or other the lump of matter found itself inside the solar system without the endowment of high velocity it would certainly be absorbed. Just so an electron can pass through an atom with or without serious deviation from its line of motion, provided that motion is rapid enough. Only recently have we been able to exert electric forces of sufficient strength to set an electron in motion with the speed it must have if it is to maintain an individual existence Now we can gather electrons at will, dragging them from the interior of solid bodies, and hurl them with tremendous speed like a stream of projectiles. Since in the open air the speed is soon lost by innumerable collisions with the air-molecules, the effect can only be studied satisfactorily in a glass bulb from which the air has been evacuated. Crookes made great improvements in air-pumps during an investigation on thallium, and consequently was able to obtain the high vacuum required for the experiment with the electron streams. It was afterwards found by Röntgen that when an electron stream in an evacuated bulb was directed upon a target placed within the bulb, a remarkable radiation issued from the target. Thus arose the so-called X or Röntgen rays. As you all know they have for many years played a most important part in surgery and medicine. You may have heard that during the war they were also used to examine the interior of aeroplane constructions and to look for flaws invisible from without. Although X-Rays are of the same nature as light rays they can penetrate where light rays cannot, passing in greater or less degree through materials which are opaque to visible light and allowing us to examine the interior which is hidden from the eye. Every electric discharge is essentially a hurried rush of electrons. When we rub two bodies together and they become electrified we have in some way or other torn electrons from one of the bodies and piled them on the other. The former becomes the positively charged body and the latter the negative. A film of moisture stops this action. When wool is spun in factories it tends to become in certain stages of the process too dry and too free from grease; the yarn then becomes electrified as it passes over the leather rollers, and when the machine tries to spin the threads together they fly apart and refuse to join up the minute hooks with which the wool fibres are furnished. The spinning operation would come to an end were there not means provided by which the air can be so filled with moisture that the fibres become damp and the action ceases. So in some cases a stream of air filled with positive and negative ions is made to play upon the fibres; the fibres select what ions they want, and so neutralizing themselves, spinning can proceed again. When a current of electricity runs along a wire there is in fact nothing more than a procession of electrons. The stream of electrons that runs through the filaments in the lamps that light this room, raising the filaments to a white heat, are set in motion by the dynamos in the city. There is a complete wire circuit, including the dynamo, the conductors, and the lamps. When the dynamos are not working the electrons do not as a whole move either way, though they are always there. When the dynamo begins to turn, the electrons set out on their continuous journey. Electrons are involved in the emission of wireless signals, and in their receipt. The so-called 'valve', which multiplies minute electric signals and was so greatly improved during the war, depends entirely on the action of electrons, and the brilliant experimental work was based on the newly-acquired knowledge of their properties. I have told you that under certain circumstances a stream of electrons may generate X-Rays, in reality a form of light rays. This action is a very common one, and it is curious that the faster the electron goes the shorter is the wave-length of the radiation. A very fast electron generates an X-Ray of so short a wave-length that the penetrating power of the ray, which goes with the shortness of the wave, is excessive, and in this way we may have rays which go right through the human body or even through inches of steel. As the speed of the exciting electron becomes less, the X-Rays are less penetrating. With still slower electrons we may generate ordinary light, and it will take a slower electron to generate red than to generate blue. The slowest electrons we use in this way have a speed of many hundred miles per second; the fastest have a speed which nearly approaches that of light, or 186,000 miles a second. And conversely radiation can set electrons in motion. When X-Rays are driven into a patient's body electrons are set in motion within, and moving over certain minute distances, initiate chemical actions which are necessary to some cure. Or they may go right through the body and fall on a photographic plate, setting in operation chemical action which forms a picture on the plate. There is another occasion of an entirely different kind when the electron is greatly in evidence and displays effects which are most astonishing and significant. Every atom of radium or other radio-active substances sooner or later meets with the catastrophe in which its life as radium ends and atoms of other substances are formed. At that moment occurs the emission which is the characteristic property of the substance. One of the radiations emitted consists of high-velocity electrons, moving, some of them, nearly as fast as light. Now it is found that when the speed approaches that of light, 186,000 miles or 3 x 10^{10} centimetres per second, the energy is higher than it should be if it followed the usual rule, viz. energy is equal to half the mass multiplied by the square of the velocity. It would seem that an electron moving with the velocity of light would have infinite energy; or, to put the matter in another way, the experimenter in his laboratory can never hope to observe an electron moving so fast; it would be the end of his laboratory and of himself if ever it turned up. Linked up with this result is the very strange fact that no one has ever been able to find any direct evidence of the existence of the ether, which is postulated in order to carry light-waves. It has been pictured as a medium through which the heavenly bodies move, and to which their motions may be referred. But when light is launched into the ether, its apparent velocity must depend on whether it travels with or against the drift of the ether through the laboratory where the measurement is made. The experiment has been performed without the discovery of any such difference, although the method was amply accurate enough to detect the effect that might be expected. It was afterwards shown that the negative result might be explained by supposing that a measure of length varied in length according to whether it was travelling with or against the ether. But the continual failure of all such experiments has led to a remarkable hypothetical development with which the name of Einstein is firmly connected. It is supposed that some flaw must exist in our fundamental hypotheses, and that if this were corrected we should then find that we ought to get the same value for the velocity of light however and whenever we measured it, and at the same time we should find that no measurement of the velocity of a body moving relative to the observer would ever equal the velocity of light. The hypothesis denies the existence of an absolute standard to which motions can be referred, and insists that they must all be considered relatively to the observer. It is called the principle of relativity. Calculations of its consequences begin with the necessary changes in the fundamentals, such as Einstein has introduced.[70] Time does not allow me to say more of the innumerable ways in which electrons play an essential part in all the processes in the world. We have long believed that this is so, but the picture has never been so clear to us as it is now; and with our understanding our power is increased. Yet once more the illumination of our understanding comes from our recognition that Nature has preferred the discrete to the continuous and that electricity is not infinitely divisible but is, like matter, and even more simply than matter, of an atomic structure. And we have found the unit and learnt how to handle it. It is even more strange that it may now be said of energy that there are signs of atomicity. It may seem absurd to think that the energy which is transformed in any operation is transformed in multiples of a universal unit or units, so that the operation cannot be arrested at any desired stage but only at definite intervals. Indeed we have no right to assert that this is always true. But undoubtedly there are cases in which the atomicity of energy is clear enough, as for example in the interchange of energy between electrons in motion and radiation. It is remarkable that when radiation sets an electron in motion, the electron acquires a perfectly definite speed depending only on the wave-length of the radiation and not on its intensity, and has apparently absorbed from the radiation a definite unit of energy. Radiation of a particular wave-length cannot spend its energy in this way except in multiples of a certain unit, because each of the electrons which it sets in motion has the same initial energy, which it must have got from the radiation. In other words, energy of radiation of the particular wave-length can only be transformed into energy of movement of electrons in multiples of a certain 'quantum' peculiar to that wave-length. The intensity of the radiation, that is to say, the amount of energy moving along the beam, can only affect the number of electrons set in motion and not the speed of any one of them. During the last few years a very extraordinary theory has been developed on the basis of these and similar facts. I doubt if it would be more profitable to give further instances at present, but I have mentioned it because it seems to show looming on the horizon of our knowledge another tendency of Nature to make use of the atomic principle. I will only add that the whole position of physics is indeed at this time of extraordinary interest, and at any moment there may be some great discovery or illuminating thought which will explain the present startling difficulties and open up new worlds of thought. FOR REFERENCE Bragg, _Rays and Crystals_ (Ball & Sons). FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 70: Since this address was given, the results of the Eclipse Expedition to Brazil are considered to have confirmed in a satisfactory manner one of the most remarkable deductions made by Einstein from the principles which he maintains. The matter has roused so much interest that some of the leading exponents of the relativity principle have published careful accounts intended for students not familiar with it: it would therefore be superfluous to discuss the matter here.] IX PROGRESS IN BIOLOGY DURING THE LAST SIXTY YEARS PROFESSOR LEONARD DONCASTER, F.R.S. On November 24, 1859, _The Origin of Species_ was published, and this date marks the beginning of an epoch in every branch of biology. Before it, Biology had been almost entirely a descriptive science, but within a few years after the publication of the _Origin_ its effects began to colour all aspects of biological research. A co-ordinating and unifying principle had been found, and the leading idea of biologists ceased to be to describe living things as they are, and became transformed into the attempt to discover how they are related to one another. The first effect of this change of attitude was chiefly to turn biologists towards the task of tracing phylogenetic or evolutionary relationships between different groups of animals--the drawing up of probable or possible genealogical trees and the explanation of natural classification on an evolutionary basis. When once, however, the notion of cause and effect, or more correctly of relationship, between the phenomena seen in living beings had become familiar to biologists, it spread far beyond the limits of tracing genealogical connexions between different animals and plants. It made possible the conception of a true Science of Life, in which every phenomenon seen in a living organism should fall into its true place in relation to the rest, and in which also the phenomena of life should be correlated with those discovered in the inorganic sciences of Chemistry and Physics. The history of the various branches of biological science in the past sixty years reflects the general course of these tendencies. Until shortly after 1859, the study of morphology, or the comparative structure of animals (and of plants) was intimately related with that of physiology, that is, with the study of function. In the years following the appearance of the _Origin_, however, anatomists and morphologists were seized with a new interest. For the time at least, the chief aim in studying structure was no longer to explain function, but rather to explain how that structure had come into being in the course of evolution, and how it was related with homologous but different structures in other forms. The result was a tendency to a divorce between morphology and physiology, or at least between morphologists and physiologists, which led to the division into two more or less distinct sciences of what had hitherto been regarded as closely inter-related branches of one. The greater men of the early part of the period, such as Huxley, remained both morphologists and physiologists, but most of their followers fell inevitably into one or the other group, and in discussing the later phases of biological progress it will be necessary to keep them separate. Apart from its effect on the systematic and anatomical side of Biology, the idea of Evolution, and especially of Darwin's theory of Natural Selection, had important consequences on that side of the science which may be described as Natural History. Before the appearance of Darwin's work, Natural History consisted chiefly in the observation and collection of facts about the habits and life-history of animals and plants, which as a rule had no unifying principle unless they were used, as in the Bridgewater Treatises, to illustrate 'the power, wisdom, and goodness of God'. Now, however, a new motive was provided--that of discovering the uses to the organism of its various colours, structures, and habits, and the application of the principle of natural selection to show how these characters conduced to the preservation and further evolution of the species. And out of this interest in the theory of natural selection grew in the last twenty years of the nineteenth century the greatly increased attention to the facts and theories of heredity, which was stimulated by Darwin's hypothesis of Pangenesis and especially by Weismann's speculations about the nature and behaviour of the 'germ-plasm'. Before the appearance of Weismann's work, the germ-cells, which bear somehow or other the hereditary characters that appear in the offspring, were supposed to be produced directly from the body of the parent. Darwin provisionally suggested that every cell of every organism gives off minute particles which become congregated in the germ-cells, and that these cells thus contain representative portions of all parts of the parent's body. Weismann, on the basis of his work on the origin of the germ-cells in Medusae and Insects, maintained that these cells are not derived from the body, but only from pre-existing germ-cells stored within it--that, in fact, although an egg gives rise to a hen, a hen does not give rise to an egg, but only keeps inside her a store of embryonic eggs which mature and are laid as the time comes round. The theory had to be modified to suit the facts of regeneration and vegetative reproduction, but in essence it was accepted by the biological world and is the orthodox opinion (if such a word may be used in Science) at the present day. The difference between the two views is not only of theoretical interest, for it involves the whole question of whether characteristics acquired by an individual during its life in response to external conditions can or cannot be transmitted to offspring. If the germ-cells contain representatives of all parts of the body, modifications impressed on the body during its life may at least possibly be transmitted to offspring born after the modifications have taken place. If, however, the germ-cells are independent of the rest of the body, and only stored within it for safe-keeping like a deed-box in the vaults of a bank, it would seem impossible for any environmental influence, whether for good or ill, to take effect on the offspring. This controversy on the heritability of 'acquired characters' was one of the most important towards the end of last century, and although the majority of biologists now follow Weismann in so far as they deny that 'acquired' characters are transmissible, the question is not yet completely settled; all that can be said is that, in spite of many attempts to prove the contrary, there is no satisfactory evidence of the transmission to offspring of effects impressed on the body of the parent, unless the germ-cells themselves have been affected by the same cause--as for example in some cases of long-continued poisoning by alcohol or similar drugs. While the problem of the transmission of acquired characters, and of the cause of variation and its relation to evolution, was occupying much of the attention of biologists, the whole problem entered upon a new phase in the year 1900 with the re-discovery of Mendel's work on heredity. Mendel worked with plants, and published his results in 1865, but at that time the biological world was too much occupied with the fierce controversy which raged over _The Origin of Species_ to take much notice of a paper the bearing of which upon it was not appreciated. Mendel's discovery never came to the notice of Darwin, was buried in an obscure periodical, and remained unknown until many years after the death of its author. In 1900 it was unearthed, and, largely owing to the work of Bateson, it rapidly became known as one of the most important contributions to Biology made during the period under review. This is not the place to describe in detail the nature of Mendel's theory. Its essence is, firstly, that the various characteristics of an organism are in general inherited quite independently of one another; and, secondly, that the germ-cells of a hybrid are pure in respect of any one character, that is to say, that any one germ-cell can only transmit any unit character as it was received from one parent or the other, and not a combination of the two. This leads to a conception of the organism as something like a mosaic, in which each piece of the pattern is transmitted in inheritance independently of the rest, and in which any piece cannot be modified by association with a different but corresponding piece derived from another ancestor. It is impossible to say as yet whether this conception at all completely represents the nature of the living organism, but it is one which is exercising considerable influence in biological thought, and if established it will mark a revolution in Biology hardly inferior to that brought about in Physics and Chemistry by the discovery of radio-activity. An important consequence of the advance in our knowledge of heredity associated with the work of Mendel and his successors is a tendency to doubt whether natural selection is of such fundamental importance in shaping the course of evolution as was supposed in the years of the first enthusiasm which followed the publication of the _Origin_. Darwin based his theory of Natural Selection on the belief which he derived from breeders of plants and animals, that the kind of variation used by them to produce new breeds was the small and apparently unimportant differences which distinguish a 'fine' from a 'poor' specimen. He supposed that the skilled breeder picked out as parents of his stock those individuals which were slightly superior in one feature or another, and that by the accumulative effect of these successive selections not only was the breed steadily improved, but also, by divergent selection, new breeds were produced. Experience shows, however, that although this method is used to keep breeds up to the required standard, it is rarely, if ever, the means by which new breeds arise. New breeds commonly come into existence either by a 'sport' or mutation, or by crossing two already distinct races, and by selecting from among the heterogeneous descendants of the cross those individuals which show the required combination of characters. And it is further found that most of the distinguishing features of various breeds of domestic animals and plants are inherited according to Mendel's Law, suggesting that each of these characters is a unit, like one piece of a mosaic, independent of the rest. Now it is easy to see how the selection of small, continuously varying characters could take place in Nature by the destruction of all those individuals which failed to reach a certain standard, but it is much more difficult to understand how natural selection could act on comparatively large, sporadic, unco-ordinated 'sports'. There is thus a distinct tendency at present to regard natural selection as less omnipotent in directing the course of evolution than was formerly supposed, but it must be admitted that no very satisfactory alternative hypothesis has been suggested. Some have supposed that there is a kind of organic momentum which causes evolution to continue in those directions in which it has already proceeded, while others have postulated, like Bergson, an _élan vital_ as a kind of directive agency. Others again have reverted towards the older belief in the inherited effects of environment--a belief which, in spite of the arguments of Weismann and his followers, has never been without its supporters. The present condition of this part of biology, as of many others, is one of open-mindedness approaching agnosticism. There is dissatisfaction with the beliefs which satisfied the preceding generation, and which were held up almost as dogmas, but there is no clear vision of the direction in which a truer view may be sought. Before leaving this side of the subject, reference must be made to one important aspect of modern work on heredity--that of the inheritance of 'mental and moral' characteristics. As a result of the work of the biometric school founded by Galton and Pearson, it has been shown that the so-called mental and moral characteristics of man are inherited in the same manner and to the same extent as his physical features. Of the theoretical importance of this demonstration this is not the place to speak; its practical value is unquestionable, and may in the future have important effects on sociological problems. Another notable line of advance, entirely belonging to the period under review, and chiefly the product of the present century, is seen in the science of Cytology--the investigation of the microscopic structure of the cells of which the body is composed. The marvellous phenomena of cell and nuclear division have revealed much of the formerly unsuspected complexity of living things, while the universality of the processes shows how fundamentally alike is life in all its forms. In recent years great progress has been made in correlating the phenomena of heredity and of the determination of sex with the visible structural features of the germ-cells. Weismann attempted a beginning of this over thirty years ago, but the detailed knowledge of the facts was then insufficient. Since the discovery of Mendel's Law, a great amount of work has been done, chiefly in America, by E.B. Wilson and T.H. Morgan and their pupils, on tracing the actual physical basis of hereditary transmission. Although the matter is far from being completely known, the results obtained make it almost indubitable that inherited characters are in some way borne by the _chromosomes_ in the nuclei of the germ-cells. The work of Morgan and his school has shown that the actual order in which these inherited 'factors' are arranged in the chromosomes can almost certainly be demonstrated, and his results go far to support the conception of the organism, referred to above, as a combination or mosaic of independently inherited features. It was said at the beginning of this sketch that most of the more notable lines of advance in Biology could be traced back to the impetus given by the acceptance of the theory of Evolution, and the desire to test and prove that theory in every biological field. It is most convenient, therefore, to take this root-idea as a starting-point, and to see how the various branches of study have diverged from it and have themselves branched out in various ways, and how these branches have often again become intertwined and united in the later development of the science. Perhaps the most obvious method of testing the theory of evolution is by the study of fossil forms, and our knowledge of these has progressed enormously during the period under review. Not only have a number of new and strange types of ancient life come to light, but in some cases, e.g. in that of the horse and elephant, a very complete series of evolutionary stages has been discovered. In this branch, however, as in almost all others, the results have not exactly fulfilled the expectations of the early enthusiasts. On the one hand, evolution has been shown to be a much more complex thing than at first seemed probable; and on the other, many of the gaps which it was most hoped to fill still remain. A number of most remarkable 'missing links' have been discovered, such as, for example, _Archaeopteryx_, the stepping-stone between the Reptiles and the Birds, and the faith of the palaeontologist in the truth of evolution is everywhere confirmed. But the hope of finding all the stages, especially in the ancestry of Man, has not been realized, and it has been found that what at one time were regarded as direct ancestors are collaterals, and that the problem of human evolution is much less simple than was once supposed. A second important piece of evidence in favour of evolution is provided by the study of the geographical distribution of animals, on which much work was done in the earlier part of the period under review. And in this connexion mention must be made of the science of Oceanography, for our whole knowledge of life in the abysses of the ocean, and almost all that we know of the conditions of life in the sea in general, has been gained in the last fifty years. Another of the chief lines of evidence for the truth of the evolution theory is based on the study of embryology, and this also was followed with great vigour by the zoologists of the last thirty years of the nineteenth century. It is found that in many instances animals recapitulate in their early development the stages through which their ancestors passed in the course of evolution. Land Vertebrates, including man, have in their early embryonic life gill-clefts, heart and circulation, and in some respects skeleton and other organs of the type found in fishes, and this can only be explained on the assumption that they are descended from aquatic fish-like ancestors. On the basis of such facts as these, the theory was formulated that every animal recapitulates in ontogeny (development) the stages passed through in its phylogeny (evolution), and great hopes were founded upon this principle of discovering the systematic position and evolutionary history of isolated and aberrant forms. In many cases the search has led to brilliant results, but, as in the case of palaeontology, in many others the light that was hoped for has not been forthcoming. For it soon became evident that the majority of animals show adaptation to their environment not only in their adult stages but also in their larval or embryonic period, and these adaptations have led to modifications of the course of development which are often so great as to mask, or obscure altogether, the ancestral structure which may once have existed. Although, therefore, the results of embryological research have provided most convincing proof of the truth of the theory of evolution in general, they have not completely justified the hopes of the early embryologists that by this method all the outstanding phylogenetic problems might be solved. The detailed study of embryology, however, has led to most important results apart from the particular purpose for which most of the earlier investigations in this field were originally undertaken. For the study of embryology, at first purely descriptive and comparative, was soon found to involve fundamental problems concerning the factors which control development. An egg consists of a single cell, and it develops by the division of this cell into two, then into four, eight, and so forth, until a mass of cells is produced. In some cases all these cells are to all appearance alike, or nearly alike; in others the included yolk is from the first segregated more or less completely into some cells, leaving the other cells without it. But in any case, after this process of cell-division has proceeded for a certain time, differentiation begins to set in--some cells become modified in one way, others in another, and from what was a relatively homogeneous mass an organized embryo, with highly differentiated parts, appears. The problem immediately propounds itself--what are the factors which control this differentiation? This problem is essentially a physiological one, and yet, since it arises most conspicuously in a field which has been worked by professed zoologists rather than physiologists, it has been studied more by those trained in zoology and botany than by those who have specialized in physiology. In this way, as in many other directions, such as in the study of heredity, of sex, and of the effects of the environment on the colours and structure of animals, the trend of zoology in recent years has returned towards the physiological side, and the old division which separated the sciences (but which has never so seriously affected students of plant life) is being obliterated. Hence we are led back to consider the progress of Physiology as a whole--a subject with which the present writer hesitates to deal except in a very superficial manner. Physiology as an organized science has inevitably been deeply influenced by its close relation with medicine, with the result that through a large portion of the period under review it has concerned itself chiefly with the functions of the human body in particular, or at least chiefly with Vertebrates from which, by analogy, the human functions may be inferred. In this field it has made enormous progress, and a vast amount of knowledge has been gained with regard to the function and mechanism of all the parts and organs of the body. It may perhaps be suggested, however, that in the pursuit of this detailed (and in practice absolutely necessary) knowledge, physiologists have to some extent lost sight of the wood in their preoccupation with the trees. That is to say, while they have advanced an immense distance in their knowledge of organs, they have not yet got as far as might be hoped in the understanding of the organism--which is to say no more than that the great and fundamental problem of Biology, the nature and meaning of Life, is apparently almost as far from solution as ever. To this further reference will be made below. The progress of Physiology has been so great in all its branches that it is difficult to decide which most deserve mention; perhaps the most important advances are those connected with the nervous system and with internal secretions. Little or nothing was known fifty years ago of the minute structure of the nervous system, nor of the special functions of its different parts. Now the main functions of the various parts of the brain, and the relation of these parts to the activities of the other organs of the body, are well known, although much remains to be discovered with regard to the more detailed localization of function. The study of the microscopic structure of brain and nerve, and experiment on the conduction of nervous impulse, have given us some insight into the mechanism of the nervous system, but the fundamental nature of nervous action still remains unsolved. The nervous system is the chief co-ordinating link between the various organs of the body, but in recent years it has been discovered that the relations of the different parts to one another are greatly influenced by substances known as internal secretions or 'hormones'. These substances are produced by ductless glands (the thyroid, suprarenals, &c.), from which they diffuse into the blood-stream and exercise a remarkable influence either on particular organs or systems, or on the body as a whole. Some of these secretions act specifically on the involuntary muscles of the body, others control growth, others the development of the secondary sexual characters, such as the distinctive plumage of male birds, and also greatly influence the sexual instinct. Much still remains to be discovered with regard to them, but it seems clear that they are of immense importance in the economy of the body. It has been suggested, without much experimental support, however, that if a part of the body becomes modified by use or environment, it may produce a modified hormone, and that so, by the action of this on the germ-cells, the modification may be transmitted to subsequent generations. Before leaving the subject of physiology in the more special or technical application of the term, reference must be made to another science the growth of which has been largely under the influence of medicine. This is bacteriology, one of the newest branches of biology, and yet one which both from its practical importance and from the theoretical interest of its discoveries is rapidly taking a foremost place. Of its practical achievements in connexion with disease, and with the part played by bacteria and other minute organisms in the life and affairs of man, it is not necessary to speak. Every one knows the great advances that have been made in recent years in identifying (and to a less extent in controlling) disease-producing organisms, whether bacteria, protozoa (such as the organisms causing malaria, dysentery, etc.), or more highly organized parasites. The attempt, however, to combat these pathogenic bacteria has led to discoveries of the highest importance with regard to the production of immunity, not only against specific germs, but against many organic poisons such as snake venom and various vegetable toxins. That an attack of certain diseases leaves the patient immune to that disease for a longer or shorter time has of course been known for centuries, but it is a modern discovery that a specific poison induces the body to produce a specific antidote which neutralizes it, and the detailed working out of this principle and the study of the means by which the immunity is brought about promise to lead us a long way towards the central problem of the nature and activities of life itself. We have seen how zoology has been led back into physiological channels of research, and how the study of bacteria is opening up some of the deepest problems of the reaction of living things to environmental stimuli, and just as the various branches of these sciences interlace and influence one another, so all of them, in recent years, have been coming into contact with the inorganic sciences of chemistry and physics. One of the noteworthy features of science in all its branches in recent years has been the tendency of subjects which were at one time regarded as distinct to come together again and to find that the problems of each can only be successfully attacked by the co-operation of the others. In their earlier days the biological sciences were in most respects far removed from chemistry and physics; it was recognized, of course, that organisms were in one sense at least physico-chemical mechanisms, consisting of chemical elements and subject to the fundamental laws of matter and energy. With the advent of the theory of evolution this conception of the organism as a mechanism took more definite shape, and among many biologists the belief was held that in no very long time all the phenomena of life would be explicable by known physico-chemical laws. Hence arose the scientific materialism which was so widespread in the years following the general acceptance of Darwin's theory. It was recognized, of course, that our knowledge of organic chemistry was at the time entirely inadequate to place this belief upon a proved scientific basis, but the expectation of proving it gave a great impetus to the study of the physical and chemical phenomena of life. This attempt was still further stimulated by the investigation of the factors controlling development referred to in a preceding paragraph, for it is evident that to a great extent at least these factors are chemical and physical in nature. And concurrently, the great advances in organic chemistry, resulting in the analysis and in many cases in the artificial synthesis of substances previously regarded as capable of production only in the tissues of living organisms, made possible a much more thorough investigation of the chemical and physical basis of vital phenomena. The result of this has been that to a quite considerable extent the factors, hitherto mysterious, which control the fertilization, division, and differentiation of the egg, the digestion and absorption of food, the conduction of nervous impulses, and many of the changes undergone in the normal or pathological functioning of the organs and tissues, can be ascribed to chemical and physical causes which are well known in the inorganic world. As in other instances, however, some of which have been mentioned above, the elucidation of the organism from this point of view has turned out to be a much less simple process than the more sanguine of the early investigators supposed. The more knowledge has progressed, the more complex and intricate has even the simplest organism shown itself to be, and although the mechanism of the parts is gradually becoming understood, the fundamental mystery of life remains as elusive as ever. The chief reason for this failure to penetrate appreciably nearer to the central mystery of life appears to be the fact that an organism is something more than the sum of its various parts and functions. In tracing the behaviour of any one part or function, whether it be the conduction of a nervous impulse, the supply of oxygen to the tissues by the blood, or the transmission of inherited characters by the germ-cells, we may be able to give a more or less complete physico-chemical or mechanical account of the process. But we seem to get little or no nearer to an explanation of the fact that although every one of these processes may be explicable by laws familiar in the non-living, in the living organism they are co-ordinated in such a way that none of them is complete in itself; they are parts of a whole, but the whole is not simply a sum of its parts, but is in itself a unity, in which all the parts are subject to the controlling influence of the whole. An organism, alone among the material bodies which we know, is constantly and necessarily in a state of unstable equilibrium, and yet has a condition of _normality_ which is maintained by the harmonious interaction of all its parts. Every function of the body, if not thus co-ordinated with the rest, would very quickly destroy this condition of normality, but in consequence of the co-ordination each is subject to the needs of the whole, and normality is maintained. When the normality is artificially disturbed, all the functions of the body adapt themselves to the change, and, if the disturbance be not too great, co-operate in the restoration of the normal condition. It is in these phenomena of adaptation and organic unity and co-ordination that up to the present time the efforts to reduce the phenomena of living things to the operation of physico-chemical laws have most conspicuously failed. From what has been said it will be evident that, fundamentally, all biological research, whether its authors are conscious of it or not, is directed towards the solution of one central problem--the problem of the real and ultimate nature of life. And the main outcome of the work of sixty years has been that this problem has begun clearly to emerge as the central aim of the science. The theory of evolution made the problem a reality, for without evolution the mystery of life must for ever be insoluble, but whatever direction biological investigation has taken, it has led, often by devious paths, to the borderland between the living and the inorganic, and in that borderland the central problem inevitably faces us. Many suggestions for its solution have been made. On the one hand there is still, as there always has been, a considerable body of opinion that the solution will be a mechanical one--using the word mechanical in the widest sense--and that the living differs from the non-living not in kind, but only in degree of complexity. The upholders of the mechanistic or materialist theory, however, are perhaps less confident than their predecessors of the last century, for the solution in this direction has to face not only the problem of organic co-ordination already referred to, but also that of consciousness and mind. For although the study of psychology on physiological lines has made similar progress to that of other branches of physiology, it seems to approach little nearer to a discovery of the nature of the relation between consciousness in its various aspects and the material body with which it is associated. So long as this gulf remains unbridged, the possibility of a satisfactory mechanistic explanation of life seems far away. On the other hand, there has been a revival of the ancient tendency towards what is called a vitalistic solution. A certain number of biologists, impressed by the apparent similarity between the control and co-ordination exercised by the organism over its functions and the conscious control of voluntary activity with which we are familiar in ourselves, have supposed that these things are not merely superficially similar but have a real and fundamental affinity. This does not mean that organic control is always conscious, but that there is a controlling entity, non-material in nature, which is similar in kind to the 'ego' of a self-conscious human being. They suppose that the organism is not simply material, but is a material mechanism controlled by a non-material entity the nature of which is more akin to what we mean by the word spirit than anything else of which we are accustomed to think. They are in fact dualists, and divide reality into the material and spatial on the one hand, and non-material principle or entity which may fairly be called spiritual on the other. And, in the third place, there are those who seek a solution which denies the truth of both the preceding, and which is metaphysically idealist or monist in character. To them, if the present writer understands their attitude, matter and spirit are different aspects of one reality. In the inorganic and non-living, phenomena appear which are generalized under the laws of physics and chemistry, but the phenomena of life fall into a different category which includes the conception of co-ordination or individuality, while a still higher category is required to include the phenomena of consciousness and mind. It is evident from this brief review that Biology in the period considered has passed through three main stages. The first of these was the acceptance of a new illuminating and unifying idea, which led to enthusiastic research in many directions for the purpose of proving and amplifying it. Very rapidly new facts, or new interpretations of facts already known, were shown to fall into line, and the evolution theory became converted from a hypothesis into something approaching a dogma. Not only the idea of organic evolution itself, but all the current beliefs about the method of evolution, and the larger speculations to which it gave rise, were widely regarded as almost indisputable, and where difficulties and inconsistencies appeared, these were supposed to be due solely to the insufficiency of our knowledge, which would soon be remedied. Then, however, as detailed knowledge increased, the voice of criticism and doubt was more frequently heard. The various branches of Biology began once more to overlap, and to join hands with chemistry and physics, and it became clear that the interpretation of life was very far from being a simple problem. And so, as with the Atomic Theory in chemistry, the present position is one of dissolution of the older ideas and of hesitation to express a fixed belief, for while Biology has a clearer vision of the problem before it than ever it had, its wider knowledge reveals the fact that the problem is far from being solved. Perhaps one of the chief results of the great increase of knowledge during the past sixty years has been to show us the immensity of the field still remaining to be explored. FOR REFERENCE Centenary volume on Darwin (Cambridge University Press). X ART A. CLUTTON-BROCK My subject is art and thought about art. I deal with aesthetics only so far as they concern art, that is to say I shall not attempt any purely philosophic speculations about the nature of art and I shall speak of the speculations of others, such as Croce and Tolstoy, only so far as they seem to me likely to have a practical effect upon art. My subject is the art of to-day and our ideas about it. We are beginning at last to connect aesthetics with our own experience of art and to see that our beliefs about the nature and value of art will affect the art we produce. Hence a new aesthetic is very slowly appearing; but I have to confess it has not yet appeared. Indeed there are at present two conflicting theories of art, one or other of which is held consciously or unconsciously by most people who are interested in art at all, and both of which I think are not only imperfect but to some extent false. They are theories about the relation of the artist to the public, and because of the conflict between them and the falsity of each, we are confused in our ideas about art, and the artists are often confused in their practice of it. The first theory has been expressed, not philosophically but with great liveliness, by Whistler in his _Ten O'clock_, and has had great influence both upon the thought of many people who care about art and upon the practice of artists. It is, put shortly, that the artist has no concern with the public whatever, nor the public with the artist. There is no kind of necessary relation between them, but only an accidental one; and the less of that the better for the artist and his art. Whistler states it in the form of a New Testament of his own. 'Listen,' he says. 'There never was an artistic period. 'There never was an art-loving nation. 'In the beginning man went forth each day--some to do battle, some to the chase; others again to dig and to delve in the field--all that they might gain and live or lose and die. Until there was found among them one differing from the rest, whose pursuits attracted him not, and so he stayed by the tents with the women, and traced strange devices with a burnt stick upon a gourd. 'This man, who took no joy in the ways of his brethren--who cared not for conquest and fretted in the field--this designer of quaint patterns--this deviser of the beautiful--who perceived in nature about him curious curvings--as faces are seen in the fire--this dreamer apart, was the first artist.' 'And when from the field and from afar, there came back the people, they took the gourd--and drank from it.' Whistler means that they did not notice the patterns the artist had traced on it. 'They drank at the cup,' he says, 'not from choice, not from a consciousness that it was beautiful, but because forsooth there was none other.' So gradually there came the great ages of art. 'Then', he says, 'the people lived in marvels of art--and ate and drank out of masterpieces for there was nothing else to eat and drink out of, and no bad building to live in.' And, he says, the people questioned not, and had nothing to do or say in the matter. But then a strange thing happened. There arose a new class 'who discovered the cheap, and foresaw fortune in the facture of the sham. Then sprang into existence the tawdry, the common, the gewgaw, and what was born of the million went back to them and charmed them, for it was after their own heart.... And Birmingham and Manchester arose in their might--and Art was relegated to the curiosity shop.' I do not think this can be a true account of the matter; for, if the people were not aware of the existence of art and did not value it at all, how came they to imitate it? One imitates only that which one values. Imitation, as we know, is the sincerest form of flattery; and you cannot flatter that which you do not know to exist. But Whistler's account of the primitive artist is also wrong, so far as we can check it. We may be sure that, if the other primitive men had seen no value in his pursuits, they would have killed him or let him starve. And the artist, as he exists at present among primitive peoples, is not a dreamer apart. The separation between the artist and other men is modern and a result of modern specialization. In many primitive societies most men practise some art in their leisure, and for that reason are interested in each other's art. In fact they notice the cups they drink out of much more than we do. If we did notice the cups we drink out of, we should not be able to endure them. In primitive societies there are not star pianists or singers or dancers; they all dance and make music. Homer himself was a popular entertainer; he would have been very much surprised to hear that he was a dreamer apart. In fact Whistler made up this pretty story about the primitive artist because he assumed that all artists must be like himself. He read himself back into the past and saw himself painting primitive nocturnes in a primitive Chelsea, happily undisturbed by primitive critics. He is wrong in his facts, and I believe he is wrong in his theory. There is a relation, and a necessary relation, between the artist and his public; but what is the nature of it? That is a difficult question for us to answer because the relation now between the artist and the public is, in fact, usually wrong; and Tolstoy in his _What is Art?_ tried to put it right. _What is Art?_ is a most interesting book, full of incidental truth; but I believe that the main contention in it is false. I will give this contention as shortly as I can in his own words. 'Art', he says, 'is a human activity, consisting in this--that one man consciously, by means of certain external signs, hands on to others feelings he has lived through, and that other people are infected by these feelings and also experience them.' Now this is well enough as far as it goes, but it is not enough, and just because it is not enough it leads Tolstoy into error. Clearly, if art is nothing but the infection of the public with the feelings of the artist, it follows that a work of art is to be judged by the number of people who are infected. And Tolstoy with his usual sincerity accepts these conclusions; indeed, he wrote his book to insist upon them. He judges art entirely as a thing of use, moral use, and he says it can be of no use unless a large audience is infected by it. A work of art that few can enjoy fails as art, just as a railway from nowhere to nowhere fails as a railway. A railway exists to be travelled by and a work of art exists to be experienced by as many people as possible. Here are the actual words of Tolstoy: 'For a work to be esteemed good and to be approved of and diffused, it will have to satisfy the demands, not of a few people living in identical and often unnatural conditions, but it will have to satisfy the demands of all those great masses of people who are situated in the natural conditions of laborious life.' Now this sounds plausible; but consider the effect of it upon yourself. You listen to a symphony by Beethoven; and before you esteem it good, you must ask yourself, not whether it is good to you, but whether it will satisfy the demands of those great masses of people who are situated in the natural conditions of laborious life. Tolstoy does proceed to ask himself this question about Beethoven's Choral symphony and about King Lear, and condemns them both because, he says, a Russian peasant would not understand them. But if we all obeyed him and asked this question about all works of art, we should none of us ever experience any work of art at all; for, while we listened to a piece of music, we should be wondering whether other people understood it; that is to say we should not listen to it at all. And what is this Jury of people situated in the natural conditions of laborious life who are to decide not individually but as a Jury? Who can say whether he himself belongs to them? Who is to choose them? Tolstoy chose them as consisting of Russian peasants; he, like Whistler, believed in the primitive, but for him it was the primitive man, not the primitive artist, who was blessed. In his view there would be no Jury in all western Europe worthy of deciding upon a work of art, because we none of us are situated in the natural conditions of laborious life. So we must change all our way of life or despair of art altogether. Not one of the great ages of art would satisfy his conditions. Certainly not the Greeks of the age of Pericles, or the Chinese of the Sung dynasty, or the thirteenth century in France, or the Renaissance in Italy; and as a matter of fact he condemns most of the great art of the world, including his own. We can escape from the tyranny of Tolstoy's doctrine, as from the tyranny of Whistler's, only by considering the facts of our own experience of art. The fact that we _can_ enjoy and experience a work of art frees us from Whistler's doctrine, because, if we can enjoy and experience it, we are concerned with it. Because of our enjoyment, art is for us a social activity and not a game played by the artist for his own amusement. We know also that the artist likes us to enjoy his art, in fact complains loudly if we do not; and we do not believe that the primitive artist or man was different in this respect. There is now, and always has been, some kind of relation between the artist and the public, but not the relation which Tolstoy affirms. According to him the proper aim of art is to do good. 'The assertion that art may be good art and at the same time unintelligible to a great number of people is extremely unjust, and its consequences are ruinous to art itself.' The word _unjust_ implies that the aim of art is to do good. The artist sins if he does not try to do good to as many people as possible, and I sin if I am ready to enjoy and encourage a work of art which most people do not enjoy. But as a matter of fact a work of art is good to me, not morally good but good as a work of art, if I enjoy it. In my estimate of the work of art I can ask only if it is a work of art to me, not if it is one to other people. I may wish and try to make them enjoy it, but if I do that is as a result of my own enjoyment of it. I can't begin by asking whether other people enjoy it; I must begin with my own experience of it, for I have nothing else to go by. And so it is with the artist; he cannot begin by asking himself whether the mass of men will understand what he proposes to produce; he must produce it, and then trust in man, and God, for its effect. Art is produced by the individual artist and experienced by the individual man. Tolstoy holds that it is to be experienced by mankind in the mass, not by individuals; his audience is an abstraction. Whistler holds that it is produced by the individual, but for himself, and not experienced by mankind either in the mass or as individuals. Both are heretics. What is the truth? I will now turn for a moment to the high aesthetic doctrine of Benedetto Croce. He in his _Aesthetic_ tells us that all art is expression. True enough, as far as it goes; but what do we mean by expression? Croce's doctrine of expression is incomplete, he does not explain clearly what he means by expression, because he also avoids the question of the necessary relation between the artist and his audience; and this is the question which our thought about art has to deal with, just as we have to solve it in our practice of art and in our actual relation with the artist. Croce does not see that the question--What is expression? depends upon the question--What is the relation between the artist and his audience? He does see that the audience exists, which Whistler denies; he insists that the audience have the same faculties as the artist, though to a less degree--that the artist is not a dreamer apart. He says indeed that to experience a work of art we also must exercise our aesthetic faculty; our very experience of it is itself expression; and this is a most important point. But for Croce, as for Whistler, the artist, when he expresses himself, is concerned only with what he expresses, not with the people to whom he expresses himself. Croce does not see this obvious fact, that a work of art is a work of art _because it is addressed to some one_ and is not a private activity of the artist. That is why he fails to give a satisfying account of the nature of expression. Croce cannot distinguish between expression, or art, and day-dreaming; but the distinction is this, that as soon as I pass from day-dreaming to expression, I am speaking no longer to myself but to others. So the form of every work of art is conditioned by the fact that it is addressed to others. A story, for instance, is a story, it has a plot, because it is told. A play is a play, and also has a plot, because it is made to be acted before an audience. A piece of music has musical form, with its repetitions and developments, because it is made to be heard. A picture has composition, emphasis, because it is painted to be seen. The very process of pictorial art is a process of pointing out. When a man draws he makes a gesture of emphasis; he says--This is what I have seen and what I want you to see. And in each case the work of art is a work of art, expression is expression, because it implies an audience or spectators. Without that implication, without the effort of address, there could be no art, no expression, at all. In fact, art in its nature is a social activity, because man in his nature is a social being. Art does not exist in isolation because man does not exist in isolation. His very faculties are in their nature social always and whether for good or for evil. The individual in isolation is a figment of man's mind, and so is art in isolation. But although art is a social activity, it is not, as Tolstoy thinks, a moral activity. The artist does not address mankind with the object of doing them good. It is useless to say that he ought to have that object; if he had he would not be an artist. The aim of doing good is itself incompatible with the artistic aim. But that is not to say that art does not do good. It may do good all the more because the artist is not trying to do good. But what is it that really happens when the artist addresses us, and why does he wish to address us? To answer this, we must consider our own experience, not merely as an audience but also as artists, for we are, as Croce insists, all of us to some extent artists. You have all no doubt been aware of some failure and dissatisfaction in those of your experiences which seem to you the highest. Suppose, for instance, you see some extreme beauty, as of a sunset. It leaves you sad with a feeling of your own inadequacy. You have not been equal to it, and why? You will say in speaking of it to others--I wish I could tell you what I felt or what I saw, but I can't. That wish is itself natural and instantly stirred in you by the experience of extreme beauty. The experience seems incomplete, because you cannot tell anyone else what you felt and saw; and you are hurt by your effort and failure to do so. It is a fact of human nature that the experience of any beauty does arouse in us the desire to communicate our experience; and this desire is instinctive. It is not that we wish to do good to others by communicating it. It is simply that we wish to communicate it. The experience itself is incomplete for us until we communicate it. The happiness which it gives us is frustrated by our failure to communicate it. We should be utterly happy if we could make others see what we see and feel what we feel, but we fail of happiness because we cannot. Why? One can only conjecture and express conjectures in dull language. This beauty is itself a universal quality or virtue which makes particular things more real when they have it. It speaks to the universal in us, to the everyman in us, and, speaking so, it makes us aware of the universal in all men. We too wish to speak to that universal, we wish to find it and the more intense reality which is to be seen only where it is seen, we wish ourselves to be a part of it; and we can do that only when all other men also are a part of it. Beauty seems to speak not merely to us but to the whole listening earth, and we would be assured that all the earth is listening to it, not to us. But we ourselves have to play our part in the realizing of this universal; the sense of it comes and goes; for the most part we ourselves are not aware of it. We are merely particulars, like other men, and separated from them by the fact that we are all particulars. Only, when for a moment we are aware of it, then we are filled with a passion to make it real and permanent; and it is this passion which causes art and the blind instinctive effort at art, at communication, at expression, which we have all experienced. But it follows from this that the audience to which the artist addresses himself is not any particular men and women: it is mankind. The moment he addresses himself to any particular men and women and considers their particular wants and desires, he is giving up that very sense of the universal that impelled him to expression; he is ceasing to be an artist and becoming something else, a tradesman, a philanthropist, a politician. The artist as artist speaks to mankind, not to any particular set of men; and he speaks not of himself but of that universal which he has experienced. His effort is to establish that universal relation which he has seen, a universal relation of feeling. And to him, in his effort, there is neither time nor space. Mankind are not here or there or of this moment or of that; they are everywhere and for ever. The voice in Mozart's music is itself a universal voice speaking to the universe of universal things. And all art is an acting of the beauty that has been experienced, a perpetuation of it so that all men may share it for ever. The artist's effort is to be the sunset he has seen, to eternalize it in his art, but always so that he and all men may be part of this universal by their common experience of it. So, as I say, the artist must not speak to any particular audience with the aim of pleasing them--there is that amount of truth in Whistler's doctrine; and he does fail if he does not communicate, since his aim is communication--there is that amount of truth in Tolstoy's doctrine. But the next question that arises is the attitude of ourselves to the artist. We have to remember that he is speaking not to us in particular, but to all mankind, and that he speaks, not to please us or to satisfy any particular demand of ours, but to communicate to us that universal he has experienced so that we with him may become part of it. It follows then that we must not make any particular demands upon him. We must not come with our own ideas of what he ought to give us. If we do, we shall be an obstruction between him and that ideal universal audience to which he would address himself. We shall be tempting him, with our egotistical demands, to comply with them. But these demands we are always making; and that is why the relation between the artist and any actual public is usually nowadays wrong. I was once looking at Tintoret's 'Crucifixion' in the Scuola di San Rocco with a lady, and she said to me--'That isn't my idea of a horse.' 'No'--I answered--'it's Tintoret's. If it were your idea of a horse, why should you look at it? You look at a picture to get the artist's idea.' But that isn't the truth about art either. The artist doesn't try to substitute his own particular for yours. He tries to communicate to you that universal which he has experienced, because it is to him a universal, not his own, but all men's, and he wishes to realize it by sharing it with all men. His faith, though he may never have consciously expressed it to himself, is in this universal which, because it is a universal, can be communicated to all men. His effort is based on that faith. He speaks because he believes all men can hear, if they will. So the effort of the audience must be to hear and not to distract him with their particular demands. They must not, for instance, demand that he shall remind them of what they have found pleasant in actual life. They must not complain of him that he does not paint pretty women for them, or compose bright cheerful tunes. They are not to him particular persons to be tickled according to their particular tastes, but mankind to whom he wishes to communicate the universal he has experienced. So, if there is an actual audience listening for that universal and clearing their minds of their own egotistical demands, then art will flourish and the artist will be encouraged to communicate that universal which he has experienced. But if particular audiences demand this or that and are not happy until they get it, if they say to him--Tickle my senses--Persuade me that all is for the best in the world as I like it; that prosperous people like myself have a right to be prosperous; that I am a fine fellow because I once fell in love; that all who disagree with me are wicked and absurd--then you will have the kind of art you have now, in the theatre, in the picture gallery, in the cinema, in the novel; yes, and in your buildings, your cups and saucers, your pots and pans even. For in the very arts of use you demand that the craftsman shall provide you with what you demand, and as cheap as possible; because you do not understand that he should express himself, you do not understand also that his expression is worth having and that he ought to be paid for it. In the very pattern on a tea-cup, if it is worth having at all, there is the communication of that universal which the artist has experienced. It is there to remind you of itself whenever you drink tea, to bring the sacrament of the universal into everything as if it were music accompanying and heightening all our common actions; but if you want a fashionable tea-cup cheap, you will get that, and you will not get anything expressed or communicated with it. You will be shut up in yourself and your own particularity and ugliness. If we want art we must know how we should think and feel and act so as to encourage the artist to produce it. But why should we want art at all? I hope I have answered that question incidentally. It is so that we may have life more abundantly; for we can have life more abundantly only when we are in communication with each other, mind flowing into mind, the universal expressing itself in and through all of us. We all more or less blindly desire this communication, but we seldom know why we desire it or even what exactly it is we desire. We make the strangest, clumsiest efforts to communicate with each other--I am making one now--and we are constantly inhibited by false shame from real communication. We are afraid to be serious with each other, afraid of beauty, of the universal, when we see it. On this point I will tell a little story from Mr. Kirk's _Study of Silent Minds_. At a concert behind the front, an audience of soldiers had listened to the ordinary items, a performance, as Mr. Kirk says, 'clean, bright, and amusing', which means of course silly and ugly. Then the orchestra played the introduction to the _Keys of Heaven_, and a gunner remarked--'Sounds like a bloody hymn.' That was his fear of beauty, his false shame. But when the _Keys of Heaven_ was ended, the whole audience, including the gunner, gave a sigh of content; and after that they went to hear it time after time. Well, the beauty of that song, and of all art, is the 'Key of Heaven' itself. For Heaven is a state of being of which we all dream, however dully, in which all have the power of communication with each other; in which all are aware of the universal, possessed by it and a part of it, all members of one body, all notes in one tune, and therefore all the more intensely themselves, for a note is itself, finds itself, only in a tune; otherwise it is mere nonsense. Of course if you are to believe this, you must believe in the existence of a universal, independent of yourself, yet also in you and in all men. You must believe that beauty exists as a virtue, a quality, a relation of things, and that it is possible for you also to produce that virtue, to live in that relation. But no one can prove that to you. The only way to believe it is to see beauty with intensity and to make the effort of communication in some form or other. Tolstoy believes that the very word beauty is a useless one because, he says, all efforts to define beauty are vain. But that is true of the word life, yet we have to use the word because life exists. And all explanations of art which refuse to believe in beauty as a reality independent of us, yet one of which we may become a part, do fall into incredible nonsense. We are told that art is play; the only answer to which is that it isn't. Others say that it is an expression of the sexual instinct, which has forgotten itself. They discover that in some savage tribe the male beats a tom-tom to attract the female; and they conclude that Beethoven's Choral Symphony is only a more elaborate tom-tom beaten to attract a more sophisticated female. But again the only answer is that it isn't; and that if all our ancestors were, not Whistler's dreamers apart, but beaters of tom-toms to attract females, then there was something in the sound of the tom-tom that made them forget the female. The reality of art is to be found not in its origins but in what it is trying to be; and what it is trying to be is always a communication between mind and mind; what we aim at in art is a fellowship not for purposes of use but for its own sake, the fellowship we feel when we are all together singing a great tune. But now, since we have a hundred foolish ideas about art, its nature and value, it is of the greatest importance that we should attain to a right idea of it, not only as a matter of theory to be discussed, but as a religion to be practised. And, if we can grasp this right idea of it, we shall not think of art as consisting merely of the fine arts, painting, poetry, music, sculpture. We shall see that it is possible for men to be artists, to exercise this great activity of communication, in the work by which they earn their living, and that a happy society is one in which all men do so exercise it. We are very far from that happiness now, and that is why Ruskin and Morris became almost desperate rebels against our present society. What they said about art and its nature is still the best that has been said about it, far nearer to philosophic truth than all that the professed philosophers have said, and of the utmost moment to us now. For if we could believe them we should change most of our values; we should see that the ordinary man, now being deprived of all the joy of art in his work, is living a mutilated life; we should place art among the rights of man. Whereas Rousseau said--All men are born free and everywhere they are in chains--we should say--All men are born artists and everywhere they are drudges. With our curious English originality, which hits on so many momentous truths and then makes no use of them, it is we who have found the greatest truth about art, but neither we nor any other people is at present making much use of it. Because we lack art, lack the power of communication, we lack fellowship; and as Morris said--Fellowship is life and the lack of it is death. FOR REFERENCE W. Morris, _Hopes and Fears for Art_. XI A GENERATION OF MUSIC DR. ERNEST WALKER The general subject of this course is European Thought; and, to some, music may perhaps seem in this connexion rather like an intruder. Indeed, if the musician is, in William Morris's phrase, 'the idle singer of an empty day', if his business is to administer alternate stimulants and soporifics to the nerves or, at best, the surface emotions, or to serve in Cinderella-like fashion any passing, shallow needs of either the individual or the crowd, then, obviously, he has no place worth self-respecting mention in the world as it exists for philosophy. But widespread as some such conception of the function of music is, I hope you will agree with me in throwing it aside as, at any rate for our present purpose, no more worth the trouble of even approximately patient argument than that other less general but more objurgated conception of musical composition as something like a mechanically calculated spinning of bloodless formulae. By the conditions of its being, music has to express itself through non-intellectual channels, but may we not say that its essence is intellectual, that it is, in Combarieu's phrase, the art of thinking in sound--thinking in as precise a sense as the word can bear? It does not express itself verbally: it is self-dependent, with a language available only for the expression of its own ideas and not even indirectly translatable by nature into a verbal medium. Yet it is thought none the less; perhaps all the more. Words, we have often been told, serve for the concealment of thought; but the language of music is more subtle, more comprehensive. It has been said that where words end, music begins; and anyhow, for musicians, there stands on record the serenely proud claim of one of themselves. 'Only art and knowledge', said Beethoven, 'raise man to the divine; and music is a higher revelation than all wisdom and all philosophy.' But I must not allow this little preliminary apology to stray into the field of abstract aesthetics. The subject proposed to me, the correlation of the progress of specifically musical thought during the last generation with the progress of European thought in general, is so extensive that I cannot within the necessary limits attempt to deal with more than some of the most salient features, and even those I shall have to treat in very broad outlines, with a certain disregard of detail and nicely balancing qualifications. I shall only attempt to put before you what seem to me the most prominent considerations, and to throw out suggestions which I hope you may perhaps, if sufficiently interested, develop at leisure for yourselves. In several ways the correlation of the musician with the non-musical world is now more intimate and conscious than ever before. Forty or fifty years ago--in spite of brilliant individual exceptions--musicians were, in the main, self-centred craftsmen; they were inclined to drift into a backwater, away from the chief currents of the intellectual, or often indeed of the general artistic life of their day, and they seem on the whole to have been content to have it so. In England we were somewhat behindhand, no doubt, in our participation in the gradual but steady change. But men like Parry and Stanford brought their profession into close touch with the general culture of their contemporaries, and made the universities and music understand each other; Grove, the first director of the Royal College, himself a man whose professional career (not to mention his amateur interests) had ended in music after ranging through civil engineering, business organization, biblical archaeology, and the editorship of a great literary magazine, preached with infectious enthusiasm the new doctrine of the larger outlook; and for the last thirty years, even if our practice may have occasionally seemed somewhat to lag behind, at any rate our theory has not looked back. Musicians have been granted their claim to be judged by the same intellectual and moral standards as other reasonable people; it is a modest claim, but, especially in England, it has had to be fought for. And the entry on this wider heritage, which English musicians, apart from an exception or two such as Pierson and Bennett, won for the first time a generation ago, has had in every country a definite influence on composition, especially (as is only natural) on the composer's attitude towards the musical setting of literature. I should be far from saying that any modern is a greater song-writer than Schubert; but it is obvious that the followers of Wolf and Duparc and Moussorgsky are aiming at something different. They may not express the general mood of the poem more faithfully, but they certainly attach more importance to its lyrical structure and to flexibly expressive diction: they accept the poet as an equal colleague. The serious song-writer can hardly any longer, like Schumann in his setting of Heine's 'Das ist ein Flöten und Geigen', afford to stultify great poetry by quoting from memory and getting the adjectives deplorably wrong. Nor can he, like Beethoven in 'Adelaide' and the 'Entfernte Geliebte' cycle, let himself weave musical structures many sizes too large for the proper structure of the words, which have consequently to be repeated over and over again with very little regard for poetical or even common sense. Schumann and Beethoven, especially the former, were culturally very far from narrow-minded men; but there was not in their days any general cultural pressure sufficiently strong to influence them as composers. Now, the pressure is so strong that few can resist. Most composers have now fully learned their lesson of a fitting politeness towards their poet-colleagues--learned it in the main, so far as not intuitively, from the high examples set by Wolf and the modern French school--and have, moreover, come to recognize the duty of setting such words as may be fit not only to be sung but to be read, a duty shockingly neglected by many of the greatest geniuses in musical history. And the cultural pressure has gone farther than this. Not only has the increasing complexity of life broadened the musician's personal outlook, professional or unprofessional: it has also modified, whether for better or for worse, the outlook of the music itself. We may conveniently divide all music into two great classes: 'absolute' music, in which the composer appeals to the listener through the direct medium of the pure sound and that alone; and 'applied' music, in which the appeal is more or less conditioned by words, either explicit or implicit by association, or by bodily movement of some kind, dramatic or not, or by any other non-musical factor that affects the nature of the composer's thought and the method of its presentation. Up to the present generation, instrumental music, unconnected with the stage, has been virtually identifiable with absolute music; there are a handful of exceptions--sporadic pieces, usually though not invariably thrown off in composers' relatively easy-going moods, and an isolated figure or two of serious revolt, like Berlioz and Liszt--but they only serve to prove the rule. Now, this identification is far from holding good. More consciously than ever before, instrumental music is straining beyond its own special domain and asking for external spurs to creative activity. And it asks in various quarters. It may ask merely the hint of particular emotional moods conditioned by special circumstances; or it may vie with the poet and the novelist in analysis of character. The psychology, again, may pass into the illustration of incident, whether partially realistic or purely imaginative, or into the illustration of philosophical tenets, as in Strauss's version of Nietzsche's doctrines in his _Also sprach Zarathustra_ or Scriabin's of theosophy in his _Prometheus_. Or the composer may go directly to painting, whether actual as in Rachmaninoff's symphonic poem on Böcklin's picture of 'The island of the dead', or visionary as in Debussy's 'La cathédrale engloutie'. There is indeed no end to such instances. All this development of instrumental music into territories more or less adjacent makes a very imposing show; and it is so markedly a product of the last generation that we easily over-estimate the novelty of its essential results. As I have said, instrumental music is more and more asking for external spurs to creative activity; but this does not mean that music as a whole is, so to speak, breaking loose from its moorings and adventurously voyaging on to uncharted seas. What it means is, simply, that, under the stress of modern culture, the barriers between vocal and instrumental, dramatic and non-dramatic, music have been to a great extent abolished. We may consider music as normally involving three persons: the composer, the performer, and the listener. Until the present generation, the role of the listener was normally quite passive. All that he had to do was to keep his ears open to the music, and further, when required, his ears open to words and his eyes to dramatic presentation. The composer and the performers did everything for him. But now they do not. The modern composer urges that, just as vocal music demands from the listener a separate knowledge of the words, so instrumental music may demand, as a condition of full understanding, a separate knowledge of some verbally expressible signification. The parallel no doubt holds well enough even if we answer, as we certainly may, that in much vocal music the words are so unimportant that it really does not musically matter if they are unintelligible or inaudible. But this latter-day demand on the listener is considerable. The listener to Strauss's _Don Quixote_, for example, must, in order to appreciate in full measure any section of this long work, have a fairly close acquaintance with Cervantes' book--whether derived from an analytical programme or from personal reading: there are neither words nor acting to give a clue, nor does the printed music itself give the slightest assistance, except in so far that a couple of themes are labelled with the names of the 'Knight of the sorrowful countenance' himself and Sancho Panza. Sometimes, no doubt, a composer helps at any rate the purchaser of his music more; but to the listener he gives nothing, and leaves his thought, as embodied in the mere title, to be reached as best it may. The modern composer makes these demands on the listener continually; and he does so simply because the sphere of the music-lover's imaginativeness and general culture has become so greatly enlarged that he thinks he can fairly afford to take the risk. But we may well ask whether the music of suggestion has not, in its restless anxiety to correlate itself with non-musical culture, reached or perhaps even overstepped the limits of musical possibility. It is no question of a composer's rights: he has a right to do anything he can, provided that he preserves a due proportion between essentials and unessentials. And judicious criticism will turn, if not a blind, at any rate a short-sighted eye towards a great composer's occasional realistic escapades, which, however irritating they may perhaps be to others, are to him only a part of the general background of his texture; after all, in their different media, Bach and most of the other giants have occasionally allowed themselves similar little flings. It is a question not of rights, but of powers. The poet and the painter and the novelist, not to mention all the non-human agents in the universe, are bound to do a good many things much better than the composer can; and even if he may personally aspire to be a kind of spectator of all time and existence, he has no means of making his listeners see eye to eye with himself. The risk he runs may be too great. Realizing as we must that all this ferment of suggestion-seeking has undoubtedly vivified and enriched musical development in not a few aspects, we may nevertheless feel, and feel profoundly, that there is a cardinal weakness inherent in it. A composer may so easily be tempted to forget that it is after all by his music, and by his music alone, that he stands or falls. If he asks too much extra-musical sympathy from the listener, he defeats his own end. The listener will inevitably concentrate on the unessentials, and will as likely as not get them quite wrong; he may indeed indulge the habit of realistic suspicion to such an extent as to make him become thoughtlessly unfair and credit the composer with sins of taste, whether babyish or pathological, of which the objurgated culprit may be altogether innocent. If a composer plays with fire, he is fairly sure to burn some one's fingers, even if he successfully avoids burning his own. And anyhow it is waste of time, and worse, for us to cudgel our brains to fits of entirely unnecessary inventiveness when the composer has left his music unlabelled. We sometimes hear of children being encouraged to give verbal or dramatic expression of their own to instrumental music; that is not education--very much the reverse. It is merely the expense of spirit in a waste of fancifulness, the wilful murder of all feeling for music as such. The feeling for music as such, that is still the one thing needful. And by this canon, so it seems to me, we must judge all these alarums and excursions of modern composers. If we hold firmly by it, we shall not be unduly worried when we learn that the music which seems so perfectly to realize the composer's expressed meaning has been originally designed by him quite otherwise--as has happened oftener than is generally known; though this fact does not excuse wilful contradictions of a composer's definite intentions, as in the vulgar perversion of Rimsky-Korsakoff's _Scheherezade_ popularized by the latest fashionable toy, the Russian Ballet, which would do more musically unexceptionable service were it to confine itself to works specially designed for it, such as the fascinating and finely-wrought scores of Stravinsky, or concert works like Balakireff's _Thamar_, based on programmes that can be mimetically reproduced without unfaithfulness. And anyhow, in the midst of all these appeals to the eye or the literary memory or what not, we may call to mind the simple truth that music is something to be heard with either the inward or the outward ear, and if we are too much distracted otherwise, our hearing sense suffers. We shall pay too high a price for our latter-day correlation of music with literature and the other arts if the music itself has to play the part of Cinderella. 'We do it wrong, being so majestical.' Again, we may endeavour to correlate recent musical development with the development of the conceptions of nationality and race. With nationality in the strictly political sense music has, indeed, nothing to do: there is no inborn musical expression common to all the inhabitants of Switzerland, or the United States, or the British Empire (or indeed the British Islands). And if we abandon political nationality entirely and think of national music solely in terms of race, we still have to make very large deductions. Heredity counts, it would seem, for far less than environment in musical development--especially so in these days of free intercourse. Nevertheless, we may to some extent isolate the racial element; and within the last generation increasingly vigorous efforts have been made to do so--though they have perhaps neglected sufficiently to observe that racial ancestry is often an extremely mixed quantity. To the musician, this insistence on race is in the main a quite modern thing. It is true that, as the successive waves of Italian influence flowed northward in the sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth centuries, they met in England, France, and Germany, and, at the end, in Russia, native cross-currents; and there was plenty of controversy between the opposing parties. But this controversy was mainly concerned with matters of technique; whereas the whole force of the modern movement consists in its reliance on the simple folk-music which is supposed to be characteristic of the race as a whole, and about which hardly any composers of the past consciously troubled themselves at all. Haydn and Beethoven, no doubt, used folk-tunes in their own works to some extent, but the former's adaptations from the uncultivated tunes of his own Croatian people are polished nearly out of recognition, and when the latter commandeers from Ireland or Russia or elsewhere, nothing but pure Beethovenishness remains after his masterful hand has done its will. We may say, indeed, that nationality, as such, was never in their time a conscious factor in musical composition. The modern movement seems to owe its origin to several non-musical causes. For example, the spread of political democracy had no little influence in arousing interest in the music specifically characteristic of at any rate the non-urban sections of the newly enfranchised classes. But, in the main, it was caused by the modern rise into something like political prominence of the smaller nations, smaller either in size or in historical importance. The events of 1848, for example, brought Hungarian folk-music before the world; Bohemian claims against Austria produced the work of Smetana and Dvo[vr]ák, largely based on the general style of their own native melodies; the Irish Question made us know the Irish songs; and the dominating races followed those leads, at any rate in so far as to take interest in their own traditional music, and try to evaluate its differentiating factors. Conscious connexion between artistic composition and folk-music has varied very much: very strong in Russia and other Slavonic countries, it has been very weak in Italy and France; in Germany we find all stages between the work of Brahms, where the folk-element is very notable, and of Wolf, where it is non-existent; in our own islands it has been very weak, but is now becoming very strong. But, whether this connexion has been conscious or not, still, sooner or later, all the insisters on the importance of the element of nationality have joined hands with the enthusiasts for the folk-music of the people. In the work of preserving the knowledge of this folk-music England has been one of the last of all countries: even the last edition of Grove's _Dictionary_, our standard authority, gives many pages to Scotland and Ireland and Wales, and smuggles English folk-music into an appendix. Only indeed in the twentieth century has anything like an adequate study of the varied treasures of English folk-music become possible, and we have learned enough to realize that great folk-music is no monopoly of the races that have been either politically or socially decentralized. This advance of the conception of racialism has widened and intensified music in not a few ways. It has brought to our knowledge many splendid melodies, infinitely varied in design and emotional range, and, at their best, inspirations that the greatest composers would have been proud to sign. And, mixed as are the feelings with which we must contemplate the general course of our own musical history, we can anyhow boast of some of the finest folk-tunes in existence in these relics of the old world on its last western fringes, in Ireland and the Hebrides. We have come to see that this great mass of traditional music--only in part, of course, the outpouring of sheer genius, but at its worst sincere--is, with its appeal alike to the child and the adult, either in years or in musical culture, the most perfect educational weapon yet devised with which to combat all the forces that make for musical degradation. And, apart from all this half-unconsciously wrought music, we have been shown the value of the bypaths in art, of the work of the great men of the younger races like the Scandinavians and the Czechs and most of all the Russians, who do not speak the older classical tongues but have, all the same, abundance to say that is well worth the whole world's hearing. It is to our immense gain that we have now come, far more than ever before, to realize that in the house of music there are many mansions. And, once again, we have been taught the duty of being fair to the men of our own blood, past and present. Particularly in our own artistic history there has been visible a strongly marked tendency, such as no other nation has shown in equal measure, to neglect and depreciate native work in comparison with foreign, even when the latter might perhaps be worse. But I think we may say, without self-laudation, that British composition is now worth some considerable attention from ourselves and others; it was, not unnaturally, wellnigh forgotten during its sleep from the death of Purcell till the rise of Parry--a fairly sound sleep, during which it occasionally half-opened its eyes for a moment or two--but it is wide awake now. We are still slow to learn the lesson; but we have come to realize, at any rate theoretically, the duty of doing what we can, in the spirit not of favouritism but of justice and knowledge, to disprove the proverb that a prophet (and an artist also) has no honour in his own country and in his father's house. So much to the good. But to-day, more than ever before, many voices are urging us to go farther--and, I think, to fare worse. Artistic racialism has always been spontaneous, so far as the art is great. No composer who is worth anything can be dragooned into being patriotic: he will go his own way. Some are attracted more than others by the general types of phrase or the general emotional moods exemplified in the folk-music of their own race; but that is a matter for neither credit nor discredit. Individuality includes race as the greater includes the less. The only vital consideration is the value of the output in the general terms of all races; and indeed all great folk-music, like any other kind, speaks, for those who have ears to hear, a world-language and not a dialect. And there is still more at stake in this issue. Those who, as I do, hold that the best chance for the political future of the world lies in the weakening of national and racial as well as class consciousness, must needs regard very suspiciously any of these modern attempts to force music into channels which are deliberately designed for it by non-musical considerations: the fettering, by set purpose, of art is a very considerable step towards the fettering of life itself. England may sometimes have failed in kindness to her own artistic children, living and dead; but at any rate we have been free from the curse of a narrow jealousy and have steadfastly held to the proud faith of the open door and the open mind. The ideal--so violently dinned into our ears nowadays--of a national school of composers may very easily mean a wilful narrowing of our artistic heritage. If an English composer with nothing to say for himself imitates Brahms or Debussy, it is obviously regrettable; but he will not mend matters by imitating Purcell. And, after all, the musician who (save occasionally when seeking texts for his own individual discourses) borrows his material from his native folk-music stamps himself, just as much as if he borrowed from any other quarter, as a common plagiarist incapable of inventing material of his own. If we may adapt for the purpose Johnson's famous aphorism about patriotism and scoundrels, we may say that racial parochialism is the last refuge of composers who cannot compose. Let us assert once more the supreme beauty of folk-music at its best; but it is often childish, and, anyhow, childish or not, it is after all the work of children. And any of the world's activities would come to a strange pass if children--or any races or classes which, through lost opportunities or the oppression of others, are still virtually children--were to dictate principles of intolerance to those who, by no merit of their own but as a plain matter of fact, can possess the wider vision. Let a composer steep himself as much as he can in his native folk-music, as in all other great music, and then write in sincerity whatever is in his own marrow; but anything approximately like a chauvinistic attitude towards music, as towards any other of the things of the spirit, means either insensibility to spiritual ideals or unfaithfulness to them. Let me take an analogy. I have always felt that a philosophical and historical study of the idea of honour would throw more light than anything else on many great problems, notably the problem of war, and that in this investigation the conception of the duel would have a very prominent place. May we not say that, just as the individual honour of each of us, unless we are members of the self-styled upper classes of a few countries, is now supposed to be able to take care of itself, so the blood in a composer's veins will, if his music is worth anything, be able to take care of itself also? Neither honour nor artistic personality is affectable by external considerations which are on a different plane of value. And music indeed is the most specifically international, or supernational, of all the arts; it has not, like literature, any barriers of language, nor, like painting or sculpture or architecture, any local habitation. Musical separatism is not a natural quality; it needs careful and continuous fostering. And I know from personal experience that, all through the war, there was no difficulty at all in carrying on concerts in the programmes of which works by living German composers, and songs in the German language, were included in their due proportions just as before. Another great factor in modern European thought with which I would attempt to correlate music is the factor of religion. No one will deny that the last generation has seen profoundly important changes in religious thought: whatever may have been the eddies and backwaters, the main stream has run, and still runs, like a cataract. These changes may be very differently judged by different types of men, all of them equally firm believers in the supremacy of spiritual ideals: some may definitely regret, some may, with the help of such conceptions as that of progressive revelation, steer a middle course, some (among whom I would number myself) may definitely welcome. But in whatever light we may regard these radical refusals of the old allegiances, we shall naturally expect to find their influence in music, which has had in many ways so intimate a connexion with religion. Indeed, the conception of music as in some special way the handmaid of religion dies very hard. It is still possible, in April 1919, for distinguished musicians, when appealing for funds for the foundation of a professorship of ecclesiastical music, to put their names to the statement that 'the church will always be the chief home and school of music for the people'[71]: and this when the facts about attendances at places of worship have long been familiar. We must rate the influence of church music more modestly; it has a great influence in its own sphere, but its sphere is only one among many. We may, I think, envisage this religious development on its practical side as a process of differentiation by which the sincere standers in the old and the middle and the new paths have little by little drawn apart intellectually--but not, in societies that are happily able to take broad views of human nature, otherwise than intellectually--not only from each other but still more from those who, whatever their ostensible labels, are in reality followers of Gallio and routine. And something like the same process is observable in the religious music of the past generation. Many of its old conventions have silently dropped away, unregarded and unregretted: whatever the outlooks, and they are many and various, they are more clear-sighted, more sincere. Here in England we have somewhat lagged behind: we have had, not perhaps altogether fairly but indubitably, a reputation for national hypocrisy to sustain, and our religious music has only with difficulty shaken itself loose. Not very long ago, Saint-Saëns's _Samson and Delilah_, now one of the most popular of operas, could only be performed as an oratorio: it dealt with biblical incidents and characters, therefore it was religious music, therefore it could not be given stage presentation. Of course this kind of attitude is never logical: for a long time we closed Covent Garden to Strauss's _Salome_ for the same reason, but no one, so far as I know, ever proposed to endow it with a religious halo. Now, when Sunday secular music is everywhere, its origins seem lost in antiquity; but the chamber-music concerts at South Place in London and Balliol College in Oxford, which are, I think I am right in saying, the twin pioneers, are both little over thirty years old. In most other countries, however, music has suffered far fewer checks of this kind; and it is of more importance to correlate musical and religious development on more general lines. Particularly interesting, I think, is the history of the decline of the oratorio, which I should myself be inclined to date from the production of the German Requiem of Brahms about half a century ago, though the real impetus has become apparent only during the last generation. Brahms's Requiem was indeed something of a portent: it was a definite herald of revolt. The mere title, 'A German Requiem', involving the commandeering of the name hitherto associated exclusively with the ritual of the Roman Church and the practice of prayers for the dead, and its adaptation to entirely different words, was in itself of the utmost significance; and the significance was enhanced by the character of the words themselves. In the first place, they were self-selected on purely personal lines; in the second place, they were, theologically, hardly so much as Unitarian. Brahms claimed the right to express his own individual view of the problem, and at a length which involved the corollary that the problem was regarded in its completeness. The 'German Requiem' cannot be considered, as an anthem might be, as an expression of a mere portion of a complete conception of the particular religious problem: in an organic work of this length, what it does not assert it implicitly denies or at any rate disregards. And this was at once recognized, both by Brahms's opponents and by himself: he categorically refused to add any dogmatically Christian element to his scheme. Similarly with his _Ernste Gesänge_, written some thirty years later, at the end of his life: he balances the reflections on death taken from Ecclesiastes and similar sources with the Pauline chapter on faith, hope, and charity--not with any more definite consolation. And again, with the choral works, the settings of Hölderlin's _Schicksalslied_, Schiller's _Nänie_, Goethe's _Gesang der Parzen_ (the first-fruits of the essentially modern spirit which has impelled so many composers to choral settings of great poetry)--they deal with the ultimate things, but the expression is never, so to speak, orthodox: it is imaginative, sometimes perhaps ironical, but never anything but intensely non-ecclesiastical. Brahms's Requiem represents, as I have said, the beginning of the change in the conception of concert-room religious music, of the abandonment of the old type of oratorio in favour of something much more conscious and individual; and in refusing to take things for granted, religious music has been altogether in line with general religious development. The change can perhaps be observed in English music more markedly than elsewhere. Oratorio, in the sense in which we ordinarily use the term, is to all intents and purposes an invention of the genius of Handel reacting on his English environment: the form was of course older, but he gave it a specific shape that set the fashion for future times. It had its birth in a business speculation; it was a novelty designed to occupy the Lenten season when the theatres were not available for opera. Like the opera, it supplied narrative and incident and characterization though without scenery or action, and it dealt with biblical history. The history of the oratorio is the history of this loose compromise; it has afforded an attractive flavour of the theatre even to those to whom drama may in itself have seemed disreputable, and it has had the advantage of possessing subjects which combined unquestioningly accepted literal truth with unlimited possibilities for wholesale edification, and at the same time made no intimately personal claims. The libretto of Mendelssohn's _Elijah_ is perhaps at once the most familiar and the most skilfully compiled example of the type; but it is now, so far as great music is concerned, extinct. Here in England--where, for something like a century and a half, the demand was so large that composers, when tired of writing oratorios themselves, still went on producing them out of the mangled fragments of other music--Parry's _Judith_ of 1888 is the last of the old type from the pen of a great composer; and his subsequent works show, in striking fashion, the direction of the newer paths. There is no longer the assumption that everything in the Bible or the Apocrypha is at one and the same time literally true and somehow or other edifying. _Job_ and _King Saul_ are great literature and vivid drama; they stand on their own merits. And the long succession of smaller choral works, in which Parry mingled in curious but intensely personal fusion his own earnest but somewhat pedestrian poetry with fragments of the Old Testament prophets, represent a still further abandonment of the old routine; they form a connected exposition of his philosophy of life, on the whole theistic rather than specifically Christian, and always transparently individual. Individual--that is the real issue. According to their differing temperaments, different composers may swing towards either the right or the left wing of thought in these non-ecclesiastical expressions of ultimate things: Stanford may join with Whitman or Robert Bridges, Vaughan-Williams with Whitman or George Herbert, Frank Bridge with Thomas à Kempis, Walford Davies with a mediaeval morality-play, Gustav Hoist with the Rig-Veda, Bantock with Omar Khayyam. But the essentials, for any composer worth the name, are that his theme shall have its birth in personal vision and shall appeal to personal intelligence. The routine oratorio fulfilled neither of these conditions; and it is dead beyond recall. It was a curious illustration of foreign ignorance of British musical life that Saint-Saëns, when asked to write a choral work for the Gloucester Festival of 1913, should have imagined that he was meeting our national tastes with an oratorio on the most prehistoric lines. However, the unanimous chilliness with which _The Promised Land_ was received must have effectually disillusioned him. But the liberalisers, though the more numerous force, have no monopoly of sincerity: among the genuine conservatives also we can find, I think, signs of the correlation of musical with religious development. We have had, during the last generation, many works that are in the legitimate line of descent from the great classical settings of ritual words or (as with the Passions and Cantatas of Bach) words that are intended anyhow to appeal not as literature but as dogma. When Elgar prints on the title-pages of his oratorios the letters A.M.D.G.--_ad majorem Dei gloriam_--the personal note is, in these days, obvious. His own libretti to _The Apostles_ and its sequel _The Kingdom_ (and to the further sequels which had been sketched out twelve years ago, though none has as yet seen the light) resemble those of the older type of oratorio in so far as they include narrative and dramatic incident and religious moralizing; but there is not a trace of the old lethargic taking things for granted, it is all a ringing sacramental challenge to the individual soul. Elgar's work is indeed the typical musical expression of recent Roman Catholic developments; but there are others also. There was Perosi, the Benedictine priest, whose oratorios, tentative, childishly sincere mixtures of Palestrina and Wagner, were forced upon Europe in the late 'nineties with the full driving power of his Church, and who, when his musical insufficiency became palpable, was dropped in favour of Elgar himself, whose sudden rise into deserved fame coincides in time. There was again the allocution of Pius X, known as the _Motu proprio_, which sought to reform ecclesiastical music and has, however fruitless it may have been elsewhere, made the services in Westminster Cathedral, under Dr. Terry's direction, a Mecca for musicians of all faiths who are interested in the great sixteenth-century masterpieces. There are also the aristocratically Catholic composers of latter-day France, centring round Vincent d'Indy and the _Schola Cantorum_ and looking back for inspiration to César Franck. And again, in the English communion, there is the marked High-Church movement for the encouragement of dignified music, a movement that has had great influence in the purification of popular taste. And the pivot round which all this turns is the dogmatic faith that definitely Christian expression in music is the property, the exclusive property, of those who by temperament and conviction are Christians. The attitude, like the conditions which have brought it about, is, I think, new: but some of its adherents go surely too far when they urge that those whose minds work otherwise cannot really appreciate this music at its due worth. César Franck, that simple-minded childlike genius, once pronounced Kant's _Kritik der reinen Vernunft_ 'very amusing'--a surely unique criticism--simply, it would seem, because it was eccentric enough not to take Catholicism as a primary postulate: I do not myself happen to have any information about Kant's musicianship--perhaps, like too many great thinkers, he knew little about music and cared less--but I think we may venture to say, in the abstract, that his philosophy would have made him fairer to Franck than Franck was to him. And thus perhaps we may conclude that recent musical development has kept pace with religious development in concentrating more and more on individual sincerity, whether on the one side or the other, and abandoning the old easy-going haphazard routine. But, in reaction from the extreme right and the extreme left of the movement, we have also the sincere dislikers of stark thinking, whom their opponents call by dignified names of abuse, such as pragmatists or undenominationalists: and here again music keeps pace with religion. It is not the old routine again (though perhaps in practice it may at times come rather perilously near it); it is the more or less conscious adoption of a compromise. We can see its musical working best of all in the recent history of church music in England; it is true that the great mass of the younger musicians, here as in all other countries, stand outside these developments, and look both for ideals and practice elsewhere, but the developments have none the less been very significant. There have been three stages. A couple of generations ago there was no conflict and no call for compromise. The ecclesiastical musician of the time was expected, whether as composer, as organist, or as administrator, to do his best according to his lights: it was his accepted business, as presumably knowing more about the matter than the artistic laity, to lead their taste, not to follow. Then came the reign of men like Dykes and Stainer and Gounod, whose normal attitude involved the sacrifice by the musician of some of his musicianship in the supposed interests of religion. The supposed interests, I say; for the whole point of the third stage of development, the conflict in which English church music is now involved, is the denial by one of the opposing parties that the interests of religion are in any way served by such a sacrifice. It is a very keen conflict, in which the sympathies of the musician _qua_ musician naturally lean towards those who uphold the inalienable dignity of his art: and even if he feels that ecclesiastical music, _qua_ ecclesiastical, is outside his personal concern, influences from it are bound to radiate into the secular departments. But what I would more especially point out is that the religious and the musical developments proceed side by side. Just as the stricter purists in the one field are, in the other, generally inclined, even if themselves unmusical, to uphold plain-song and the Elizabethans and only such modern work as is inspired by something like a similar spirit, aloof and strong, so those whose religious mentality is of a more pliable type are, if musically indifferent, generally inclined to uphold the practical accommodation afforded by the inclusion of at any rate a certain quantity of music that is consciously adapted to the more immediately obvious emotions of the average worshipper. And, even if there is no question of a lowered artistic standard, we see, I think, the same spirit of compromise, of ready acceptance of the more immediately obvious as the average and proper norm for all people, elsewhere on the boundaries of musical and religious life. It is so easy to turn a blind eye to logic and minorities, or even to majorities if they have little pressure, social or other, to back them up. To illustrate from one or two English examples, the transformations of cathedrals into secular concert-rooms are as open to blame from the one side as are, from the other, such assumptions as that of the 'Union of Graduates in Music' to take rank as a definitely ecclesiastical, indeed an Anglican society. Again, it so happens that a somewhat exceptional proportion of English musicians hold, or have held, as conditions of livelihood, posts to which not all of them would have aspired had other channels, open to their foreign fellow-artists, been open to them also; and, as a necessary consequence, there is more probability here than elsewhere of the musical profession presenting practical problems for the intellectual conscience to solve. So far as the musician is a personal non-conformer and also a teacher (even if not a church organist), he is often compelled into a tacit agreement with the Cowper-Temple clause, at the least: and so far as he is a convinced conformer, he is often compelled to strain, far beyond the meaning of the parable, the principle of letting the wheat and the tares grow together. This is called a practical age: and the compromisers, in religion and in religious music, are a powerful force. But I would venture to think that the future lies, in the long run, in other hands than theirs. To the mediaeval musician, religion and science were the twin foundations of his art. But while the influence of religious development can without difficulty be traced in musical history, the influence of scientific development is much more contestable. It may indeed, I think, be said that post-mediaeval music has gone its own way without considering science at all. Theorists of course there have been, and still are, who try to discover scientific foundations for the art of music as we moderns know it: they do their best to correlate mathematical physics with practical composition. But during the past generation these attempts, never very hopeful, have become much less so. It is only too easy to play scientific havoc with the foundations of modern music: but, arbitrary and scientifically indefensible though they may be, they are our inheritance. Music has come to be what it is by methods that will not bear accurate investigation: our tonal systems are mere makeshifts, and no composer can completely express his thoughts in our clumsy notation. I doubt if, throughout all this last generation that has seen such overwhelming scientific advance, music has really been scientifically affected (in the strict sense of the word) in the slightest degree, if we exclude some interesting experiments in sympathetic resonances, primary and secondary, at which some recent composers for the piano have, at present rather tentatively, tried their hands. And whole-tone and duodecuple scales and modern harmony in general are taking us farther and farther away from those natural laws of the vibrating string upon which arm-chair theorists have sought to build a very top-heavy edifice. Of course, the vibrating string ultimately gives--mostly out of tune--all the notes of the chromatic scale, but composers employ them on principles the reverse of mathematical. The growth of music has not been scientific; but growth of some kind is evident enough, though it is none too easy to define it at all adequately. Some might say, with Romain Rolland in his _Musiciens d'autrefois_, that 'the efforts of the centuries have not advanced us a step nearer beauty since the days of St. Gregory and Palestrina'; but this is surely a narrow outlook. Beauty combines the many with the one: and plain-song and the _Missa Papae Marcelli_ show us only a few, a very few, of its manifestations. But artistic progress is, anyhow, very subtle and evasive; and musical progress, in particular, is hardly correctable with any other. Above all, we must recollect that, to us Europeans, music--which, in the only sense worth our present consideration, is an exclusively European product--is incalculably the youngest of the great arts; if we exclude some monophonic conceptions that have still their value for us, it is barely five hundred years old at the most. During the last generation an advance in material complexity is obvious, even though the complexity may often enough be one of accidentals rather than essentials. An orchestral score of Wagner is relatively simple in comparison with one of Delius or Ravel or Scriabin or Stravinsky or Schönberg; and the demands on performers' technique and also on their intelligence have steadily increased to heights altogether unknown before. The composer has at his present disposal a vastly enlarged medium; the possibilities of sound have developed incalculably more than those of paint or stone or marble. Pheidias could, we may imagine, have appreciated Rodin across a gulf of over two thousand years; but it is difficult to see the points of contact, after little over three hundred years, between Palestrina and any twentieth-century work that would claim to be 'in the movement'. And it is not only in complexity that we have advanced. We have extended the limits of musical style. We have adopted in sober earnest methods forecasted at rare intervals in the past by adventurous explorers, and employ musical notes not as elements in any harmonic scheme but purely as points of colour, exactly as if the definite notes were mere clangs of indefinite instruments like cymbals or triangles. Wordless vocal tone, moreover, of several different types, is pressed into the same service. Varied tonal and harmonic colour, and structural freedom: those are the two battle-cries of the young generation. Little by little the old tonalities, based as they were on fixed centres, are slipping away; all the notes of the chromatic scale are acquiring even status; the principles of structure are newborn with every new work. And advance of this kind has been extraordinarily accelerated during the last twenty years. At no time in musical history have there been such express-speed modifications of manner as those which divide, let us say, the latest piano pieces of Brahms (1893) and the latest of Scriabin (1914). It is possible, indeed, that our standard system of keyboard tuning may require modification in the not very distant future. Once again, as three hundred years ago, music seems to be in the throes of a new birth. On the former occasion, the process of convalescence lasted rather more than a century, from Monteverde through Carissimi and Schütz and Purcell to Bach; and it may perhaps take as long now. But it is plain enough that mere novelty does not involve progress; if it were so, the music of the casually strumming baby would demand high recognition. Nor is progress to be found in merely quantitative, Brobdingnagian expansion. And when we have taken our stand on what seems a sufficiently sound definition of musical progress in its material aspect--the combination of novelty with expansion, the new thought with its appropriately enlarged medium--we have yet to remember that many very fine composers still can, and do, express their natural and full selves in older idioms, and that progress of this kind, however widespread it may become, is not necessarily advance in the scale of values. There is, somewhere or other, a limit to the cubic capacity of things: they cannot increase indefinitely in depth and breadth at once. We may confidently hope that we have not yet musically come within hailing distance of the limit: but nevertheless it is becoming more and more difficult to see music steadily and see it whole, and it is useful to take stock of our position. Our musical minds are very much broader than they were: in that sense we can well, like the heroes of Homer, boast that we are much better than our fathers. But are they also deeper? We have gained access to many new rooms in the house of art, rooms full of strange and beautiful things, for the knowledge of which we must needs be profoundly and lastingly grateful; but some of the rooms seem rather small and their windows do not seem to have been opened very often, while others seem liable to be swept by hurricanes which upset the furniture right and left. Veterans there are, musicians not to be named except with high honour, who fall back for nutriment on the great classics and pessimism; but our notions of beauty cannot stand still, and in all ages of music one of the most vital tasks of criticism has been to distinguish between the relatively non-beautiful which has character and truth and its superficial imitation which has neither. All musicians very well recollect their first bewilderment at what has afterwards become as clear as daylight. But we must retain our standards of judgement. We have no right to criticize without familiarity, but we must remember that over-familiarity, mere dulled habitual acceptance, means equal incapacity for criticism. If, after trying our utmost, we still cannot see any sense in some of these modernist pages, there is no reason why we should not say so; it is quite possible that there really is no sense in them, and that the composer is perfectly aware of the fact. Odd stories float about the artistic world. And if the anarchists call us philistines and the philistines call us anarchists, it is fairly likely that we are seeing things pretty much as they are. Moreover, it is worth remembering that a good deal of what is loosely called modernism is in reality very much the reverse. There is nothing progressive in the confusion of processes with principles, in the breathless disregard of the larger issues. Take the ideal of 'direct expression of emotion', the attempt to give, as Pater said half a century ago, 'the highest quality to our moments as they pass and simply for those moments' sake'. Musically, it is a return to the childhood of our race, to the natural savage. If a musical composition is to consist of anything more than one isolated noise, it must inevitably have a form of some kind, its component parts must look backward and forward. The latter-day composers who speak of Form as a kind of bogey that they have at last exorcized remind us of those latter-day thinkers who boast that they have abolished metaphysics. We cannot leap off our shadows; if we try, we shall only find that we are left with a residuum of bad metaphysics or bad musical form--as thoroughly bad as the metaphysics and the musical form that have resulted from the confusion of the one with empty word-spinning and of the other with hide-bound pedantry. Again, much of the modern rhythmical complexity strongly resembles, in essence, the machine-made experiments of mediaeval times; and the peculiarly fashionable trick of shifting identical chords up and down the scale--the clothes'-peg conception of harmony, so to speak--is a mere throw-back still farther, to Hucbald and the diaphony of a thousand years ago. And the insistence, now so common, on the decorative side of music, the conscious preference of the sensuous to the intellectual or emotional elements, brings us back to our own infancy, with its unreflecting delight in things that sparkle prettily or are soft to the touch or sweet to the taste. It is a reaction from sentimentality, no doubt, but is a reaction to an equal extreme, a perversion of the truth that great art never wholly gives itself away. As Vincent d'Indy has justly pointed out, the 'sensualist formula'--'all for and by harmony'--is as much an aberration of good sense as the parallel formula of the ultra-melodic schools of Rossini and Donizetti: in either case it means the sacrifice of spaciousness to immediate effect, the supremacy of sensation over the equilibrium of the heart and the intelligence. Not of course that any music lacks the sensuous element; but it is a matter of proportion. And very distinguished as are many of the modern exponents of this side of things, history tells us, I think, that they are working in a blind alley. They have their supporters, no doubt. M. Jean-Aubry, in his very suggestive and valuable book on modern French musicians, has used a phrase that seems to me worth remembering; he speaks of the 'obsession of intellectual chastity' which, to his mind, disfigures the work of César Franck and other great composers whom he therefore rejects from his latter-day Pantheon. I am glad to think that Franck would have gloried in this shame. He, and a very goodly company with him, knew that music was, at its highest, something better than an entertainment, however thrilling or however refined. But, whatever critics and composers may feel about musical progress, it is, as Wagner said, in the home of the amateur that music is really kept alive, and the amateur's music depends very largely on the schools. A generation ago music was certainly sociologically selfish. Musicians had not realized that all classes of the community were open to the influences of fine music, if only they had the opportunities for knowing it. But since then there have been very great advances, both quantitative and qualitative, in musical education. We have spread it broadcast, in the increasing faith that appreciation depends, not on technical knowledge or executive skill, but on the responsive temperament and the will to understand. Familiarity, familiarity at home if possible, is the key to this understanding; and in this connexion there is, I believe, an enormous educational future before pianolas and gramophones, if only the preparation of their records can be taken in hand on artistic rather than narrowly commercial lines. And our standards of judgement have risen: we do not worship quite so blindly mere names, whether of the past or of the present, nor exalt the performer quite so dizzily above what is performed. Nor do we quite so glibly disguise our indifference to vital distinctions by talking about differences of taste: we know that, however catholic we may rightly be within the limits of the good, whether grave or gay, there comes sooner or later, in our judgement of musical as of all other spiritual values, a point where we must put our foot down. We are going on, and our theories are sound enough: but the path of a democratically widened, and rightly so widened, art is by no means easy. The principle of levelling up slides so readily into the practice of levelling down: and the book of music is closed once for all if we are to accept the plenary inspiration of majorities. But here in England the greatest danger to musical progress is, I venture to think, the self-styled practical Englishman--fortified as he is by the consciousness that, for at any rate a couple of centuries or more, we have as a nation taken a low view of the arts and have been rather proud of it than otherwise. It is so obvious that no profession is economically more unsound than that of the serious composer: it is not so obvious that we owe all the great things of the spirit by which we chiefly live to those whom the world calls dreamers, among whom the great musicians have had, and, I hope and believe, will always have, no mean place. Against the 'practical Englishman', and all that his attitude to music involves, we can all of us fight in our respective spheres: and I would commend to you for useful weapons three very different books by very different men--Sir Hubert Parry's great book on _Style in Musical Art_, Mr. C.T. Smith's account of his artistic work in an elementary school in the East End of London which he calls _The Music of Life_, and a pamphlet _Starved Arts mean Low Pleasures_ recently written by Mr. Bernard Shaw for the British Music Society. And one particular line of indirect attack, easily open to all of us, is, I am inclined to think, specially promising. In the third and fourth verses of the thirty-fifth chapter of the book of Ecclesiasticus we shall find these injunctions, which I translate as literally as Greek epigrams can be translated: 'Do not hinder music: do not pour out chatter during any artistic performance: and do not argue unseasonably.' In other words, conversation, however valuable, prevents complete listening to music; and music that is not meant to be listened to in its completeness is not worth calling music, and had much better not be there at all. Musical progress will be spiritually well on its way when we all realize this axiomatic truth as firmly as this Hebrew sage of two thousand years and more ago. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 71: _The Times_, April 17, 1919.] XII THE MODERN RENASCENCE F. MELIAN STAWELL To understand in any degree the modern outlook on life it seems necessary to go back to the time of the French Revolution. For at that stirring epoch there flamed up in the minds of enthusiasts an ideal of man's life larger than had ever yet been known, and one that has dominated us all ever since. If we give, as I think we should give, a wide sense to the word 'Liberty' and make it mean all that stands for self-development, then one may say that this ideal was fairly well summed-up in the famous Revolutionary watchword, 'Liberty, Equality, Fraternity'. It is impossible at any rate to read the idealists of that time and its sequel--say from 1793 to 1848--whether in France, Germany, England, or Italy, whether inside or outside the Revolutionary ranks, without feeling their buoyant hope that a fresh era was opening in which man, casting aside old shackles and prejudices, could advance at once towards knowledge, joy, splendour, both for himself and all his fellows. Shelley, perhaps, is most typical of what I mean. Hogg laughed at him for his belief in the 'perfectibility' of the race, but Hogg knew the belief was vital to the poet. To Shelley it was a damnable doctrine that the many should ever be sacrificed to the few: yet neither was the ultimate vision that inspired him the vision of the few being sacrificed for the many. He was anything but an ascetic seeking martyrdom. The martyrdom of his Prometheus is a prelude to the Unbinding when happiness shall flood the world:-- 'The joy, the triumph, the delight, the madness! The boundless, overflowing, bursting gladness, The vaporous exultation not to be confined!' And not only happiness and love, but knowledge also: the Earth calls to the Sky: 'Heaven, hast thou secrets? Man unveils me; I have none.' Soberer spirits shared this poet's ecstasy. Wordsworth sang 'Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive, But to be young was very heaven.' And that heaven was exactly this foretaste of the Spirit of Man entering undisturbed into his full inheritance at last: Science welcomed as a dear and honoured guest, Poetry known as 'the breath and finer spirit that is in the countenance of all knowledge'. It is scarcely necessary even to mention the high hopes of the French themselves, the confident anticipation of an Age of Reason when all men should be brothers and the earth bring forth all her treasures, but it is well worth noting the attitude of Goethe, an attitude the more significant because, in a sense, Goethe always stood outside the French Revolution. But he, like the best of its votaries--and this is less known than it should be--desired the development of all men every whit as much as he desired the high culture of a few. It was for the double goal that he worked. 'Only through all men,' he writes in a notable passage, 'only through all men, can mankind be made.'[72] All good lies in Man, he tells us again, and must be developed, 'only not in one man, but in many'. Goethe, the so-called aristocrat, has given us here as true a formula for the democratic faith as could well be found. And to him, as to Shelley and to Wordsworth, Poetry and Science were not enemies but friends dearer than sisters. Those three, Shelley, Wordsworth, and Goethe, foreshadowed a new poetry of science that has never yet been achieved, though fine work has been done by Tennyson, Whitman, Sully Prudhomme, and Meredith. Goethe, moreover, again like Shelley and the French, broke with all ideals of mere self-abnegation. In his poem, 'General Confession', he makes his disciples repent of ever having missed an opportunity for enjoyment and resolve never so to offend again. Here, as often, Goethe comes into the closest touch with our modern feeling. We, too, can never return to the Franciscan ideal of poverty, celibacy, and obedience as the highest life for man on earth. We have done with self-denial except as the means to a human end. We are still in the tide of what I would call the Modern Renascence; we claim the whole garden of the world for our own, the tree with the knowledge of good and evil included, reacting even from Christian ideals if they can make no room for that. But, after all, the characteristic of the belief dominant a century ago was exactly that such room could be made, that Hellenism could be combined with Christianity, and self-development with self-denial. And this belief is, I think, reflected in the music of the time. Schubert, that sweetest soul of tears and laughter, understands every shade of wistfulness, and yet again and again in his music it seems as though the universe had become, to quote a lover of his, one immense and glorious blackbird. Mozart, in 'The Magic Flute', as Goethe seems to have recognized, sings the very song of union between the unreflecting joy of the natural man and the strenuous self-devotion of the awakened spirit. Beethoven, greatest of them all, plumbs the lowest depths of suffering and then astounds and comforts us by ineffable vistas of happiness. After years of personal misery he crowns the glorious series of his symphonies by the one that ends in a hymn of joy, freedom, and faith, embracing the whole world--'Diese Kuss der ganzen Welt'--that majestic open melody, clear as the morning, fresh as though it came from far oversea, greater even than any of the great harmonies that have gone before, larger than the tortured human heart, steadier than the sudden ecstasy of the spirits set free, stronger than the swansong of the dying, a melody content with earth because it is conscious of heaven. I offer no apology for weaving my own fairy-tales round such music: I see no harm in the practice, but only good, so long as we understand what we are about. Music, it is true, is something other than, in a sense more than, either thought or feeling or even poetry, and cannot be reduced to any of them (nor any of them to it). The universe would be poor indeed if it could be so. But none the less the truth may be, as Spinoza thought, that the universe is at once a unity and a unity with many facets, so that any one facet, while for ever unique, can bring to our minds all the mysteries of the rest. In any case, the high confidence that breathes in the music of a hundred years ago meets us again in the philosophers. Hegel, born in the same year as Beethoven and Wordsworth (1770), is sure that nothing can resist the onslaught of man's spirit. 'Stronger than the gates of Hell are the gates of Thought.' Fichte is convinced that there waits in man, only to be developed, a power that will unite him with all other men and at the same time develop his own personality to the full. In a sense, the deepest, each man _is_ his fellow-men, and they are he. How much this conception has affected modern thought can be seen in a recent and very remarkable book, _The New State_,[73] where the very basis of democracy is shown to be the faith in this essential unity, a unity to be worked out, not yet realized, but capable of realization, a faith stirring all through the modern world, in ways expected and unexpected, from Syndicalism to the League of Nations. Later than Hegel and Fichte, the great Positivist conception of life preached by Comte is instinct with this belief that man united with his fellows, and only as so united, can attain heights undreamt-of and unlimited. The flood-tide of this faith flowed far into the nineteenth century. The Italian Mazzini, leader of revolt in 1848, was filled with it. Prophet of the most generous political gospel ever preached, he lived on the hope that, if freedom were given to the nations and duty set before them, they would prove worthy of their double mission, and peace would come to pass between all peoples. But even Mazzini had his moments of agonizing doubt. And others beside him, men of lesser intellect as well as greater, were soon to raise, or had already raised, voices, stern or fretful, of protest and criticism. It became clear at last that this joyous confidence rested on a very definite view of life and one that might easily be challenged, the view, namely, that at bottom the universe meant well to man, that his greatest aspirations were compatible with each other and nowise beyond attainment. Almost from the first there were men of the modern world who did challenge this. Byron and Schopenhauer are significant figures, both born in the same year, only eighteen years later than the great Three of 1770, Wordsworth, Hegel, and Beethoven. Byron is full of moody questionings, Schopenhauer of much more than questionings. Against the dauntless optimism of Hegel, he flatly denies that the universe is good, or happiness possible for man. On the contrary, at the heart of it and of him there lies an infinite unrest, never to be quieted until man himself gives up the Will to Live and sinks back into the Unconscious from which he came. Now after Schopenhauer came Nietzsche, and though Nietzsche's influence may have been exaggerated, yet undeniably it has been of immense importance both for Germany and Europe. He is typical of the change that begins to appear about the middle of the century. Reacting from the optimism of the idealists (which seemed to him both smug and false), Nietzsche welcomed Schopenhauer's more Spartan view with a kind of fierce delight. But his criticism of Schopenhauer was fierce too, and he gave a strangely different turn to such parts of the doctrine as he did accept. To Schopenhauer, since it was folly to hope for real happiness in this life or any other, the wise course would be to kill outright, so far as possible, the Will to Live itself. To Nietzsche the wise course was to assert life, to claim it more and more abundantly, to face this tragic show with a courage so high that it could be gay, a courage that could do without happiness, and yet that turned aside from none of life's joys simply because they were fleeting, that was more than content to 'live dangerously', picking flowers, as it were, clear-eyed, on the edge of the precipice. And this not merely in the temper of 'Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die.' For him the motto would have run, 'Let us be up and doing, for to-morrow we die', sustained by the belief that the heroic struggle now would lead inevitably to the production of a nobler type of man, a man who would be something more than man--the Super-man, to give him the name that every reader knows, if he knows nothing else about Nietzsche. Even this short statement shows how Nietzsche shared the admiration for life and power characteristic of what I have called the Modern Renascence, and how deeply he was influenced by the doctrine of Evolution, and that in a not unhopeful form, the hope for an advance in the race at least, if not in the individuals now living. And it shows too how mistaken those are who see in him nothing but a preacher of brutal egotism. If he had been only that, he would never have won the influence he possessed and possesses. Yet there is important truth in the cursory popular judgement. If his teaching has its heroic side, a side that has enabled him to give succour to many when other and sweeter gospels are spurned as flattering unctions, he has also a most ruthless element. And this partly because of his very sincerity. Accept the doctrine that men and women perish like candles blown out in the night, accept it really and fully, with intellect, imagination, and feeling, and then see how much light-heartedness can be got out of life, if we still allow ourselves to pity men. Nietzsche had intellect, imagination, and feeling, and he saw plainly enough that, while even in such a universe there could be a grim happiness for the lives of heroes, there could be nothing but infinite sadness for the countless failures who have never been either happy or heroic. There was no immortality; these wretched beings would never have another chance. If joy was to be kept (and Nietzsche was avid for joy), if the universe was to be accepted (and Nietzsche desired above all to say Yes! to the universe), then he must root out pity from his heart as an unmanly weakness. In this way was sharpened the ruthlessness and savage arrogance latent in the man, a ruthlessness and an arrogance that have done so much harm both to his country and the world. In fairness, we must add that Nietzsche could not succeed in his own attempt; the struggle tore him to pieces and he died in madness. But it is above all instructive to contrast him here with several of his contemporaries and successors. Browning in England, Walt Whitman in America, facing the same problems of joy and struggle, of life and death, of the few great and the many commonplace, of Man himself and the Nature that seems at once his mother and his enemy, refused to give up the hope of a solution, nay, they were sure they had found a solution, and for them it was bound up with the hope of immortality. They go even beyond the earlier men in their insistence on the double ideal of Paganism and Christianity, but they have an insistence of their own on the belief in unending life as alone giving man elbow-room, so to speak, for working out his destiny. Browning claims eternity as the due of every man, however mean; and if Whitman feels his foothold 'tenon'd and mortised in granite', it is because he can 'laugh at dissolution' and knows 'the amplitude of time'. But in such insistence and such conviction they have not been followed, speaking broadly, by our leading writers since. On the other hand, they have been so followed, again speaking broadly, in their loyalty to the twofold ideal. Here and there, no doubt, as I have said, writers like Nietzsche, on the one hand, have tried to be satisfied with the splendid development of a Few, or, on the other hand, like Tolstoy, have flung back in a kind of despair to the old ideal of abnegation, of sheer brotherly love and nothing else, turning their backs on all splendours of art, knowledge, or delight, that do not directly minister to the one thing they hold needful. But the earlier and wider ideal, the ideal of our Renascence, once envisaged by man, that has not been lost, and I believe never can be lost. Its own greatness will keep the foremost men true to it. Meredith is one of the men I mean. He is full of pity, but he does not only pity men and women--he wants them to grow, and to grow for themselves. His whole attitude towards Woman shows this: for the women's movement is nothing more and nothing less, as Ibsen also felt, than one big stream of the general movement towards liberty and self-determination. So far Meredith marches with Browning and Whitman. But he will never commit himself about immortality. It seems enough for him to take part in the struggle for a finer life, at once heroic and tender, not caring overmuch whether we reach it or no. 'Spirit raves not for a goal' is one of his hard and characteristic sayings, and here he seems to me typical both of modern thought in general and especially of English thought, and that both for good and ill. We see in him the want of precision, the lack of logical coherence, that have prevented us from ever producing a philosopher of the first rank. At the same time there is something true and profound in his instinct that the moment has not yet come in which to formulate our faith. We all feel that we are on the brink of tremendous, perhaps terrifying, discoveries; we resent any cut-and-dried solution, however pleasant, perhaps all the more if it is pleasant, and we resent it because we feel that at bottom our hopes would be travestied by any conception we, with our little intellect and minute knowledge, could at present frame. It was once said to me by a far-seeing friend[74] that the modern dislike of church-going, the modern incapacity to write a long coherent poem, the modern passion for music and for realism, even for sordid realism, all sprang from the same roots, from the thirst for an infinite harmony, the belief that everything was somehow involved in that harmony, and the conviction that all systems, as yet made or makeable, were entirely inadequate. And to the list we may add, I think, the modern passion for history and for science. We study history not merely to be warned by failures or inspired by shining examples: at bottom we have a belief that somehow the lives and struggles of those men in the distant past are still quite as important as our own. We follow the discoveries of science not only for their commercial value or because we share the excitement of the chase, but because, deeper than all, we suspect that the universe is a glorious thing. And there is another matter, perhaps the most important of all, on which I would dwell as I draw to a close, where Meredith leads directly to the dominant thought of the present day. I mean his feeling that, if the universe is to be proved acceptable to man's conscience, it will be through the effort of man himself struggling towards his own ideal. It is as though the world itself had to be redeemed by man. This hope is the real hope of our time. So far as the modern world believes the doctrine of the Incarnation, it is in this sense that it believes. And this belief we find everywhere in all hopeful writers, great or small. It gives dignity to the latest writings of H.G. Wells, this faith in a spirit moving in man greater than man himself, worthy to fight and fit to overcome all that is wrong in the universe. Bernard Shaw's creed is just the same, sometimes thinly disguised under respect for 'the Life-Force', sometimes coming boldly forward in audacious, profound assertions that God needs Man to accomplish His own will and is helpless without him. 'There is something I want to do,' Shaw imagines his God as saying, 'and I don't know what it is; I must make a brain, the human brain, to find it out.' Rodin modelled a mighty hand, the Hand of God, holding within it Man and Woman. Shaw, it is reported, asked the sculptor: 'I suppose you meant your own hand after all?' 'Yes,' said Rodin, 'as the tool.' The same idea is at the base of what is most stimulating in Bergson, the idea of what he calls Creative Evolution, an undefined splendour not yet fully existing, but, as it were, crying out to be born, and only to be born through the struggle of man's spirit with matter. This is one function of matter, perhaps the supreme function, to be the material through which alone man's vague ideal can become definite and actual, just as an artist can only get close to his own conception through the effort to embody it in visible form or audible sound. From this point of view, the world is conceived as anything but ready-made, rather it is in the process of making, and we ourselves are among the makers. Or, to take a metaphor that perhaps appeals more to the modern world, it is a fight, and an unfinished fight. To quote William James, 'It _feels_ like a real fight--as if there were something really wild in the universe which we, with all our idealities and faithfulnesses, are needed to redeem; and first of all to redeem our own hearts from atheisms and fears.' He goes on to confess that he himself does not know, and certainly cannot prove scientifically, that the redemption will surely be accomplished. Such proof, he admits, 'may not be clear before the day of judgement (or some stage of being which that expression may serve to symbolize)'. 'But the faithful fighters of this hour, or the beings that then and there will represent them, may turn to the faint-hearted, who here decline to go on, with words like those with which Henry IV greeted the tardy Crillon after a great battle had been gained: "Hang yourself, brave Crillon! We fought at Arques, and you were not there!"'[75] Thus, if the idea of the splendour and perfection of the universe has sunk into the background, if the sense of worship and the feeling of ecstasy have been dimmed (and I think they have), at least the reverence for heroism and for tenderness has not been impaired, and there after all lies the root of human majesty. There is deep pathos in the change, but maybe, paradoxical as it sounds, deep hope as well. The world may grow the stronger for having to live now by what Carlyle called 'desperate hope' as distinct from 'hoping hope'. The triumphant harmony that seemed attained a century ago by certain poets and thinkers may have been, after all, too cheap and easy, if not for their own large spirits, at least for us, their lesser readers. Mystics have spoken of 'The Dark Night of the Soul' as the stage inevitable before the crowning glory, and to-day some of those who call to us out of great darkness are among our greatest leaders. Of such certainly is a living writer, now beginning to be acclaimed as he deserves, the writer Conrad. In some ways this noble novelist might stand as the special representative of modern feeling. A Pole by birth and more than half an Englishman by sympathy, his view of life is as wide as it is profound and grave. It has all the sternness of temper of which I have spoken, the determination to look facts in the face whatever the consequences. Conrad would echo Sartor's noble cry for Truth--'Truth! though the Heavens crush me for following her;--no Falsehood! though a whole celestial Lubberland were the price of Apostasy!' This determination is fierce enough to be taken for cynicism, but Conrad is far too tender ever to be a cynic. So also does his pitifulness prevent him from ever falling into the errors of a Nietzsche, but none the less he has all Nietzsche's ardour for heroism. That to him is the core of life:--'to face it.' 'Keep on facing it,' so the old skipper tells the young mate in _Typhoon_. And facing the mysterious universe, peering into the Darkness with steady alert eyes, Conrad has at once an endless wistfulness and, or so it seems to me, a secret unquenchable hope. Doubt certainly he has in plenty. The sea of which he is always dreaming is terrible and cruel in his eyes as well as august and ennobling. But he is sure of one thing: it is through the struggle with it and such as it that man alone can become Man. It is through facing the horrors of a dead calm, with a sick crew on board and no medicine, that the young master of the sailing-vessel in the Pacific crosses successfully the Shadow Line that divides youth from manhood. And it is through facing the unleashed fury of the tornado that the old captain of the 'full-powered steam-ship' in _Typhoon_ shows what he has in him, compassion and kindness as well as shrewd knowledge of men, expert seamanship, and indomitable heroism. The whole thing is driven home with a power, an incisiveness, and a delicate irradiating humour which I should despair of conveying by mere criticism. The book must be read for itself, and read again and again. It is told, in one way, simply as a sailor's yarn, but it awakes in us the feeling that the struggle is a symbol of man's life. Threatened by the advancing cyclone, Captain MacWhirr, 'the stupid man' of no imagination, decides, almost instinctively, that the only thing to be done is to keep up steam and face the wind. By sheer force of personality he holds the crew together and carries the ship through. And in the desperate struggle, every nerve on the strain for hours that seem unending, MacWhirr finds time to care for the miserable pack of terrified coolies on board, who have given way to panic and are fighting madly in the hold. MacWhirr stops this, brings about order and a chance for the Chinese, when the rest of his men, fine men as most of them are, can think of nothing but the safety of the ship. 'Had to do what's fair for all,' he mumbles stolidly to his clever grumbling mate, Jukes, during a dead lull in the storm--'they are only Chinamen. Give them the same chance with ourselves' ... 'Couldn't let that go on in my ship, if I knew she hadn't five minutes to live. Couldn't bear it, Mr. Jukes.' He does not know whether the ship will be lost or not--(and we do not know whether mankind will be lost or not)--what he does know is how he must act. But also he never loses hope. 'She may come out of it yet': that is the kind of answer the taciturn man gives when driven to speech. The chief mate, locked in his captain's arms to brace himself against the hurricane, scarcely able to make the other hear in the terrific gale though he shouts close to his head, gets back such answers, and with them the power to endure. He tells him the boats are gone: the captain yells back sensibly, 'Can't be helped.' And so noble is the power with which Conrad uses our tongue, the tongue he has made his own by adoption and genius, that I must let him speak for himself, and can find no better close for my own lame words. Jukes has been shouting to his captain again: 'And again he heard that voice, forced and ringing feebly, but with a penetrating effect of quietness in the enormous discord of noises, as if sent out from some remote spot of peace beyond the black wastes of the gale; again he heard a man's voice--the frail and indomitable sound that can be made to carry an infinity of thought, resolution, and purpose, that shall be pronouncing confident words on the last day, when heavens fall and justice is done--again he heard it, and it was crying to him, as if from very, very far--"All right."' FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 72: _Wilhelm Meister's Lehrjahre_, Bk. 8, c. 5.] [Footnote 73: By M.P. Follett (Longmans).] [Footnote 74: Professor A.C. Bradley, to whom also is due the passage about Schubert and the parallel drawn between Beethoven, Hegel, and Wordsworth.] [Footnote 75: From _The Will to Believe_, quoted in Bridges' _The Spirit of Man_, No. 425.] 
4557	----	THE IDEA OF PROGRESS AN INQUIRY INTO ITS ORIGIN AND GROWTH By J. B. Bury Regius Professor Of Modern History, And Fellow Of King's College, In The University Of Cambridge Dedicated to the memories of Charles Francois Castel de Saint-Pierre, Marie Jean Antoine Nicolas Caritat de Condorcet, Auguste Comte, Herbert Spencer, and other optimists mentioned in this volume. Tantane uos generis tenuit fiducia uestri? PREFACE We may believe in the doctrine of Progress or we may not, but in either case it is a matter of interest to examine the origins and trace the history of what is now, even should it ultimately prove to be no more than an idolum saeculi, the animating and controlling idea of western civilisation. For the earthly Progress of humanity is the general test to which social aims and theories are submitted as a matter of course. The phrase CIVILISATION AND PROGRESS has become stereotyped, and illustrates how we have come to judge a civilisation good or bad according as it is or is not progressive. The ideals of liberty and democracy, which have their own ancient and independent justifications, have sought a new strength by attaching themselves to Progress. The conjunctions of "liberty and progress," "democracy and progress," meet us at every turn. Socialism, at an early stage of its modern development, sought the same aid. The friends of Mars, who cannot bear the prospect of perpetual peace, maintain that war is an indispensable instrument of Progress. It is in the name of Progress that the doctrinaires who established the present reign of terror in Russia profess to act. All this shows the prevalent feeling that a social or political theory or programme is hardly tenable if it cannot claim that it harmonises with this controlling idea. In the Middle Ages Europeans followed a different guiding star. The idea of a life beyond the grave was in control, and the great things of this life were conducted with reference to the next. When men's deepest feelings reacted more steadily and powerfully to the idea of saving their souls than to any other, harmony with this idea was the test by which the opportuneness of social theories and institutions was judged. Monasticism, for instance, throve under its aegis, while liberty of conscience had no chance. With a new idea in control, this has been reversed. Religious freedom has thriven under the aegis of Progress; monasticism can make no appeal to it. For the hope of an ultimate happy state on this planet to be enjoyed by future generations--or of some state, at least, that may relatively be considered happy--has replaced, as a social power, the hope of felicity in another world. Belief in personal immortality is still very widely entertained, but may we not fairly say that it has ceased to be a central and guiding idea of collective life, a criterion by which social values are measured? Many people do not believe in it; many more regard it as so uncertain that they could not reasonably permit it to affect their lives or opinions. Those who believe in it are doubtless the majority, but belief has many degrees; and one can hardly be wrong in saying that, as a general rule, this belief does not possess the imaginations of those who hold it, that their emotions react to it feebly, that it is felt to be remote and unreal, and has comparatively seldom a more direct influence on conduct than the abstract arguments to be found in treatises on morals. Under the control of the idea of Progress the ethical code recognised in the Western world has been reformed in modern times by a new principle of far-reaching importance which has emanated from that idea. When Isocrates formulated the rule of life, "Do unto others," he probably did not mean to include among "others" slaves or savages. The Stoics and the Christians extended its application to the whole of living humanity. But in late years the rule has received a vastly greater extension by the inclusion of the unborn generations of the future. This principle of duty to posterity is a direct corollary of the idea of Progress. In the recent war that idea, involving the moral obligation of making sacrifices for the sake of future ages, was constantly appealed to; just as in the Crusades, the most characteristic wars of our medieval ancestors, the idea of human destinies then in the ascendant lured thousands to hardship and death. The present attempt to trace the genesis and growth of the idea in broad outline is a purely historical inquiry, and any discussion of the great issue which is involved lies outside its modest scope. Occasional criticisms on particular forms which the creed of Progress assumed, or on arguments which were used to support it, are not intended as a judgment on its general validity. I may, however, make two observations here. The doubts which Mr. Balfour expressed nearly thirty years ago, in an Address delivered at Glasgow, have not, so far as I know, been answered. And it is probable that many people, to whom six years ago the notion of a sudden decline or break-up of our western civilisation, as a result not of cosmic forces but of its own development, would have appeared almost fantastic, will feel much less confident to-day, notwithstanding the fact that the leading nations of the world have instituted a league of peoples for the prevention of war, the measure to which so many high priests of Progress have looked forward as meaning a long stride forward on the road to Utopia. The preponderance of France's part in developing the idea is an outstanding feature of its history. France, who, like ancient Greece, has always been a nursing-mother of ideas, bears the principal responsibility for its growth; and if it is French thought that will persistently claim our attention, this is not due to an arbitrary preference on my part or to neglect of speculation in other countries. J. B. BURY. January, 1920. CONTENTS INTRODUCTION CHAPTER I SOME INTERPRETATIONS OF UNIVERSAL HISTORY: BODIN AND LE ROY CHAPTER II UTILITY THE END OF KNOWLEDGE: BACON CHAPTER III CARTESIANISM CHAPTER IV THE DOCTRINE OF DEGENERATION: THE ANCIENTS AND MODERNS CHAPTER V THE PROGRESS OF KNOWLEDGE: FONTENELLE CHAPTER VI THE GENERAL PROGRESS OF MAN: ABBE DE SAINT-PIERRE CHAPTER VII NEW CONCEPTIONS OF HISTORY: MONTESQUIEU, VOLTAIRE, TURGOT CHAPTER VIII THE ENCYCLOPAEDISTS AND ECONOMISTS CHAPTER IX WAS CIVILISATION A MISTAKE? ROUSSEAU, CHASTELLUX CHAPTER X THE YEAR 2440 CHAPTER XI THE FRENCH REVOLUTION: CONDORCET CHAPTER XII THE THEORY OF PROGRESS IN ENGLAND CHAPTER XIII GERMAN SPECULATIONS ON PROGRESS CHAPTER XIV CURRENTS OF THOUGHT IN FRANCE AFTER THE REVOLUTION CHAPTER XV THE SEARCH FOR A LAW OF PROGRESS: I. SAINT-SIMON CHAPTER XVI SEARCH FOR A LAW OF PROGRESS: II. COMTE CHAPTER XVII "PROGRESS" IN THE FRENCH REVOLUTIONARY MOVEMENT (1830-1851) CHAPTER XVIII MATERIAL PROGRESS: THE EXHIBITION OF 1851 CHAPTER XIX PROGRESS IN THE LIGHT OF EVOLUTION EPILOGUE APPENDIX: NOTES TO THE TEXT [Proofreaders note: these notes have been interspersed in the main text as Footnotes] INTRODUCTION When we say that ideas rule the world, or exercise a decisive power in history, we are generally thinking of those ideas which express human aims and depend for their realisation on the human will, such as liberty, toleration, equality of opportunity, socialism. Some of these have been partly realised, and there is no reason why any of them should not be fully realised, in a society or in the world, if it were the united purpose of a society or of the world to realise it. They are approved or condemned because they are held to be good or bad, not because they are true or false. But there is another order of ideas that play a great part in determining and directing the course of man's conduct but do not depend on his will--ideas which bear upon the mystery of life, such as Fate, Providence, or personal immortality. Such ideas may operate in important ways on the forms of social action, but they involve a question of fact and they are accepted or rejected not because they are believed to be useful or injurious, but because they are believed to be true or false. The idea of the progress of humanity is an idea of this kind, and it is important to be quite clear on the point. We now take it so much for granted, we are so conscious of constantly progressing in knowledge, arts, organising capacity, utilities of all sorts, that it is easy to look upon Progress as an aim, like liberty or a world-federation, which it only depends on our own efforts and good-will to achieve. But though all increases of power and knowledge depend on human effort, the idea of the Progress of humanity, from which all these particular progresses derive their value, raises a definite question of fact, which man's wishes or labours cannot affect any more than his wishes or labours can prolong life beyond the grave. This idea means that civilisation has moved, is moving, and will move in a desirable direction. But in order to judge that we are moving in a desirable direction we should have to know precisely what the destination is. To the minds of most people the desirable outcome of human development would be a condition of society in which all the inhabitants of the planet would enjoy a perfectly happy existence. But it is impossible to be sure that civilisation is moving in the right direction to realise this aim. Certain features of our "progress" may be urged as presumptions in its favour, but there are always offsets, and it has always been easy to make out a case that, from the point of view of increasing happiness, the tendencies of our progressive civilisation are far from desirable. In short, it cannot be proved that the unknown destination towards which man is advancing is desirable. The movement may be Progress, or it may be in an undesirable direction and therefore not Progress. This is a question of fact, and one which is at present as insoluble as the question of personal immortality. It is a problem which bears on the mystery of life. Moreover, even if it is admitted to be probable that the course of civilisation has so far been in a desirable direction, and such as would lead to general felicity if the direction were followed far enough, it cannot be proved that ultimate attainment depends entirely on the human will. For the advance might at some point be arrested by an insuperable wall. Take the particular case of knowledge, as to which it is generally taken for granted that the continuity of progress in the future depends altogether on the continuity of human effort (assuming that human brains do not degenerate). This assumption is based on a strictly limited experience. Science has been advancing without interruption during the last three or four hundred years; every new discovery has led to new problems and new methods of solution, and opened up new fields for exploration. Hitherto men of science have not been compelled to halt, they have always found means to advance further. But what assurance have we that they will not one day come up against impassable barriers? The experience of four hundred years, in which the surface of nature has been successfully tapped, can hardly be said to warrant conclusions as to the prospect of operations extending over four hundred or four thousand centuries. Take biology or astronomy. How can we be sure that some day progress may not come to a dead pause, not because knowledge is exhausted, but because our resources for investigation are exhausted--because, for instance, scientific instruments have reached the limit of perfection beyond which it is demonstrably impossible to improve them, or because (in the case of astronomy) we come into the presence of forces of which, unlike gravitation, we have no terrestrial experience? It is an assumption, which cannot be verified, that we shall not soon reach a point in our knowledge of nature beyond which the human intellect is unqualified to pass. But it is just this assumption which is the light and inspiration of man's scientific research. For if the assumption is not true, it means that he can never come within sight of the goal which is, in the case of physical science, if not a complete knowledge of the cosmos and the processes of nature, at least an immeasurably larger and deeper knowledge than we at present possess. Thus continuous progress in man's knowledge of his environment, which is one of the chief conditions of general Progress, is a hypothesis which may or may not be true. And if it is true, there remains the further hypothesis of man's moral and social "perfectibility," which rests on much less impressive evidence. There is nothing to show that he may not reach, in his psychical and social development, a stage at which the conditions of his life will be still far from satisfactory, and beyond which he will find it impossible to progress. This is a question of fact which no willing on man's part can alter. It is a question bearing on the mystery of life. Enough has been said to show that the Progress of humanity belongs to the same order of ideas as Providence or personal immortality. It is true or it is false, and like them it cannot be proved either true or false. Belief in it is an act of faith. The idea of human Progress then is a theory which involves a synthesis of the past and a prophecy of the future. It is based on an interpretation of history which regards men as slowly advancing--pedetemtim progredientes--in a definite and desirable direction, and infers that this progress will continue indefinitely. And it implies that, as The issue of the earth's great business, a condition of general happiness will ultimately be enjoyed, which will justify the whole process of civilisation; for otherwise the direction would not be desirable. There is also a further implication. The process must be the necessary outcome of the psychical and social nature of man; it must not be at the mercy of any external will; otherwise there would be no guarantee of its continuance and its issue, and the idea of Progress would lapse into the idea of Providence. As time is the very condition of the possibility of Progress, it is obvious that the idea would be valueless if there were any cogent reasons for supposing that the time at the disposal of humanity is likely to reach a limit in the near future. If there were good cause for believing that the earth would be uninhabitable in A.D. 2000 or 2100 the doctrine of Progress would lose its meaning and would automatically disappear. It would be a delicate question to decide what is the minimum period of time which must be assured to man for his future development, in order that Progress should possess value and appeal to the emotions. The recorded history of civilisation covers 6000 years or so, and if we take this as a measure of our conceptions of time-distances, we might assume that if we were sure of a period ten times as long ahead of us the idea of Progress would not lose its power of appeal. Sixty thousand years of HISTORICAL time, when we survey the changes which have come to pass in six thousand, opens to the imagination a range vast enough to seem almost endless. This psychological question, however, need not be decided. For science assures us that the stability of the present conditions of the solar system is certified for many myriads of years to come. Whatever gradual modifications of climate there may be, the planet will not cease to support life for a period which transcends and flouts all efforts of imagination. In short, the POSSIBILITY of Progress is guaranteed by the high probability, based on astro-physical science, of an immense time to progress in. It may surprise many to be told that the notion of Progress, which now seems so easy to apprehend, is of comparatively recent origin. It has indeed been claimed that various thinkers, both ancient (for instance, Seneca) and medieval (for instance, Friar Bacon), had long ago conceived it. But sporadic observations--such as man's gradual rise from primitive and savage conditions to a certain level of civilisation by a series of inventions, or the possibility of some future additions to his knowledge of nature--which were inevitable at a certain stage of human reflection, do not amount to an anticipation of the idea. The value of such observations was determined, and must be estimated, by the whole context of ideas in which they occurred. It is from its bearings on the future that Progress derives its value, its interest, and its power. You may conceive civilisation as having gradually advanced in the past, but you have not got the idea of Progress until you go on to conceive that it is destined to advance indefinitely in the future. Ideas have their intellectual climates, and I propose to show briefly in this Introduction that the intellectual climates of classical antiquity and the ensuing ages were not propitious to the birth of the doctrine of Progress. It is not till the sixteenth century that the obstacles to its appearance definitely begin to be transcended and a favourable atmosphere to be gradually prepared. [Footnote: The history of the idea of Progress has been treated briefly and partially by various French writers; e.g. Comte, Cours de philosophie positive, vi. 321 sqq.; Buchez, Introduction a la science de l'histoire, i. 99 sqq. (ed. 2, 1842); Javary, De l'idee de progres (1850); Rigault, Histoire de la querelle des Anciens et des Modernes (1856); Bouillier, Histoire de la philosophie cartesienne (1854); Caro, Problemes de la morale sociale (1876); Brunetiere, La Formation de l'idee de progres, in Etudes critiques, 5e serie. More recently M. Jules Delvaille has attempted to trace its history fully, down to the end of the eighteenth century. His Histoire de l'idee de progres (1910) is planned on a large scale; he is erudite and has read extensively. But his treatment is lacking in the power of discrimination. He strikes one as anxious to bring within his net, as theoriciens du progres, as many distinguished thinkers as possible; and so, along with a great deal that is useful and relevant, we also find in his book much that is irrelevant. He has not clearly seen that the distinctive idea of Progress was not conceived in antiquity or in the Middle Ages, or even in the Renaissance period; and when he comes to modern times he fails to bring out clearly the decisive steps of its growth. And he does not seem to realise that a man might be "progressive" without believing in, or even thinking about, the doctrine of Progress. Leonardo da Vinci and Berkeley are examples. In my Ancient Greek Historians (1909) I dwelt on the modern origin of the idea (p. 253 sqq.). Recently Mr. R. H. Murray, in a learned appendix to his Erasmus and Luther, has developed the thesis that Progress was not grasped in antiquity (though he makes an exception of Seneca),--a welcome confirmation.] I It may, in particular, seem surprising that the Greeks, who were so fertile in their speculations on human life, did not hit upon an idea which seems so simple and obvious to us as the idea of Progress. But if we try to realise their experience and the general character of their thought we shall cease to wonder. Their recorded history did not go back far, and so far as it did go there had been no impressive series of new discoveries suggesting either an indefinite increase of knowledge or a growing mastery of the forces of nature. In the period in which their most brilliant minds were busied with the problems of the universe men might improve the building of ships, or invent new geometrical demonstrations, but their science did little or nothing to transform the conditions of life or to open any vista into the future. They were in the presence of no facts strong enough to counteract that profound veneration of antiquity which seems natural to mankind, and the Athenians of the age of Pericles or of Plato, though they were thoroughly, obviously "modern" compared with the Homeric Greeks, were never self-consciously "modern" as we are. 1. The indications that human civilisation was a gradual growth, and that man had painfully worked his way forward from a low and savage state, could not, indeed, escape the sharp vision of the Greeks. For instance, Aeschylus represents men as originally living at hazard in sunless caves, and raised from that condition by Prometheus, who taught them the arts of life. In Euripides we find a similar recognition of the ascent of mankind to a civilised state, from primitive barbarism, some god or other playing the part of Prometheus. In such passages as these we have, it may be said, the idea that man has progressed; and it may fairly be suggested that belief in a natural progress lay, for Aeschylus as well as for Euripides, behind the poetical fiction of supernatural intervention. But these recognitions of a progress were not incompatible with the widely-spread belief in an initial degeneration of the human race; nor did it usually appear as a rival doctrine. The old legend of a "golden age" of simplicity, from which man had fallen away, was generally accepted as truth; and leading thinkers combined it with the doctrine of a gradual sequence of social and material improvements [Footnote: In the masterly survey of early Greek history which Thucydides prefixed to his work, he traces the social progress of the Greeks in historical times, and finds the key to it in the increase of wealth.] during the subsequent period of decline. We find the two views thus combined, for instance, in Plato's Laws, and in the earliest reasoned history of civilisation written by Dicaearchus, a pupil of Aristotle. [Footnote: Aristotle's own view is not very clear. He thinks that all arts, sciences, and institutions have been repeatedly, or rather an infinite number of times (word in Greek) discovered in the past and again lost. Metaphysics, xi. 8 ad fin.; Politics, iv. 10, cp. ii. 2. An infinite number of times seems to imply the doctrine of cycles.] But the simple life of the first age, in which men were not worn with toil, and war and disease were unknown, was regarded as the ideal State to which man would lie only too fortunate if he could return. He had indeed at a remote time ill the past succeeded in ameliorating some of the conditions of his lot, but such ancient discoveries as fire or ploughing or navigation or law-giving did not suggest the guess that new inventions might lead ultimately to conditions in which life would be more complex but as happy as the simple life of the primitive world. But, if some relative progress might be admitted, the general view of Greek philosophers was that they were living in a period of inevitable degeneration and decay--inevitable because it was prescribed by the nature of the universe. We have only an imperfect knowledge of the influential speculations of Heraclitus, Pythagoras, and Empedocles, but we may take Plato's tentative philosophy of history to illustrate the trend and the prejudices of Greek thought on this subject. The world was created and set going by the Deity, and, as his work, it was perfect; but it was not immortal and had in it the seeds of decay. The period of its duration is 72,000 solar years. During the first half of this period the original uniformity and order, which were impressed upon it by the Creator, are maintained under his guidance; but then it reaches a point from which it begins, as it were, to roll back; the Deity has loosened his grip of the machine, the order is disturbed, and the second 36,000 years are a period of gradual decay and degeneration. At the end of this time, the world left to itself would dissolve into chaos, but the Deity again seizes the helm and restores the original conditions, and the whole process begins anew. The first half of such a world-cycle corresponds to the Golden Age of legend in which men lived happily and simply; we have now unfortunately reached some point in the period of decadence. Plato applies the theory of degradation in his study of political communities. [Footnote: Plato's philosophy of history. In the myth of the Statesman and the last Books of the Republic. The best elucidation of these difficult passages will be found in the notes and appendix to Book viii. in J. Adam's edition of the Republic (1902).] He conceives his own Utopian aristocracy as having existed somewhere towards the beginning of the period of the world's relapse, when things were not so bad, [Footnote: Similarly he places the ideal society which he describes in the Critias 9000 years before Solon. The state which he plans in the Laws is indeed imagined as a practicable project in his own day, but then it is only a second-best. The ideal state of which Aristotle sketched an outline (Politics, iv. v.) is not set either in time or in place.] and exhibits its gradual deterioration, through the successive stages of timocracy, oligarchy, democracy, and despotism. He explains this deterioration as primarily caused by a degeneration of the race, due to laxity and errors in the State regulation of marriages, and the consequent birth of biologically inferior individuals. The theories of Plato are only the most illustrious example of the tendency characteristic of Greek philosophical thinkers to idealise the immutable as possessing a higher value than that which varies. This affected all their social speculations. They believed in the ideal of an absolute order in society, from which, when it is once established, any deviation must be for the worse. Aristotle, considering the subject from a practical point of view, laid down that changes in an established social order are undesirable, and should be as few and slight as possible. [Footnote: Politics, ii. 5.] This prejudice against change excluded the apprehension of civilisation as a progressive movement. It did not occur to Plato or any one else that a perfect order might be attainable by a long series of changes and adaptations. Such an order, being an embodiment of reason, could be created only by a deliberate and immediate act of a planning mind. It might be devised by the wisdom of a philosopher or revealed by the Deity. Hence the salvation of a community must lie in preserving intact, so far as possible, the institutions imposed by the enlightened lawgiver, since change meant corruption and disaster. These a priori principles account for the admiration of the Spartan state entertained by many Greek philosophers, because it was supposed to have preserved unchanged for an unusually long period a system established by an inspired legislator. 2. Thus time was regarded as the enemy of humanity. Horace's verse, Damnosa quid non imminuit dies? "time depreciates the value of the world," expresses the pessimistic axiom accepted in most systems of ancient thought. The theory of world-cycles was so widely current that it may almost be described as the orthodox theory of cosmic time among the Greeks, and it passed from them to the Romans. [Footnote: Plato's world-cycle. I have omitted details not essential; e.g. that in the first period men were born from the earth and only in the second propagated themselves. The period of 36,000 years, known as the Great Platonic Year, was probably a Babylonian astronomical period, and was in any case based on the Babylonian sexagesimal system and connected with the solar year conceived as consisting of 360 days. Heraclitus seems to have accepted it as the duration of the world between his periodic universal conflagrations. Plato derived the number from predecessors, but based it on operations with the numbers 3, 4, 5, the length of the sides of the Pythagorean right-angled triangle. The Great Year of the Pythagorean Philolaus seems to have been different, and that of the Stoics was much longer (6,570,000 years). I may refer here to Tacitus, Dialogus c. 16, as an appreciation of historical perspective unusual in ancient writers: "The four hundred years which separate us from the ancients are almost a vanishing quantity if you compare them with the duration of the ages." See the whole passage, where the Magnus Annus of 12,954 years is referred to.] According to some of the Pythagoreans [Footnote: See Simplicius, Phys. 732, 26.] each cycle repeated to the minutest particular the course and events of the preceding. If the universe dissolves into the original chaos, there appeared to them to be no reason why the second chaos should produce a world differing in the least respect from its predecessor. The nth cycle would be indeed numerically distinct from the first, but otherwise would be identical with it, and no man could possibly discover the number of the cycle in which he was living. As no end seems to have been assigned to the whole process, the course of the world's history would contain an endless number of Trojan Wars, for instance; an endless number of Platos would write an endless number of Republics. Virgil uses this idea in his Fourth Eclogue, where he meditates a return of the Golden Age: Alter erit tum Tiphys, et altera quae uehat Argo Delectos heroas; erunt etiam altera bella, Atque iterum ad Troiam magnus mittetur Achilles. The periodic theory might be held in forms in which this uncanny doctrine of absolute identity was avoided; but at the best it meant an endless monotonous iteration, which was singularly unlikely to stimulate speculative interest in the future. It must be remembered that no thinker had any means of knowing how near to the end of his cycle the present hour might be. The most influential school of the later Greek age, the Stoics, adopted the theory of cycles, and the natural psychological effect of the theory is vividly reflected in Marcus Aurelius, who frequently dwells on it in his Meditations. "The rational soul," he says, "wanders round the whole world and through the encompassing void, and gazes into infinite time, and considers the periodic destructions and rebirths of the universe, and reflects that our posterity will see nothing new, and that our ancestors saw nothing greater than we have seen. A man of forty years, possessing the most moderate intelligence, may be said to have seen all that is past and all that is to come; so uniform is the world." [Footnote: xi. I. The cyclical theory was curiously revived in the nineteenth; century by Nietzsche, and it is interesting to note his avowal that it took him a long time to overcome the feeling of pessimism which the doctrine inspired.] 3. And yet one Stoic philosopher saw clearly, and declared emphatically, that increases in knowledge must be expected in the future. "There are many peoples to-day," Seneca wrote, "who are ignorant of the cause of eclipses of the moon, and it has only recently been demonstrated among ourselves. The day will come when time and human diligence will clear up problems which are now obscure. We divide the few years of our lives unequally between study and vice, and it will therefore be the work of many generations to explain such phenomena as comets. One day our posterity will marvel at our ignorance of causes so clear to them. "How many new animals have we first come to know in the present age? In time to come men will know much that is unknown to us. Many discoveries are reserved for future ages, when our memory will have faded from men's minds. We imagine ourselves initiated in the secrets of nature; we are standing on the threshold of her temple." [Footnote: The quotations from Seneca will be found in Naturales Quaestiones, vii. 25 and 31. See also Epist. 64. Seneca implies continuity in scientific research. Aristotle had stated this expressly, pointing out that we are indebted not only to the author of the philosophical theory which we accept as true, but also to the predecessors whose views it has superseded (Metaphysics, i. ii. chap. 1). But he seems to consider his own system as final.] But these predictions are far from showing that Seneca had the least inkling of a doctrine of the Progress of humanity. Such a doctrine is sharply excluded by the principles of his philosophy and his profoundly pessimistic view of human affairs. Immediately after the passage which I have quoted he goes on to enlarge on the progress of vice. "Are you surprised to be told that human knowledge has not yet completed its whole task? Why, human wickedness has not yet fully developed." Yet, at least, it may be said, Seneca believed in a progress of knowledge and recognised its value. Yes, but the value which he attributed to it did not lie in any advantages which it would bring to the general community of mankind. He did not expect from it any improvement of the world. The value of natural science, from his point of view, was this, that it opened to the philosopher a divine region, in which, "wandering among the stars," he could laugh at the earth and all its riches, and his mind "delivered as it were from prison could return to its original home." In other words, its value lay not in its results, but simply in the intellectual activity; and therefore it concerned not mankind at large but a few chosen individuals who, doomed to live in a miserable world, could thus deliver their souls from slavery. For Seneca's belief in the theory of degeneration and the hopeless corruption of the race is uncompromising. Human life on the earth is periodically destroyed, alternately by fire and flood; and each period begins with a golden age in which men live in rude simplicity, innocent because they are ignorant not because they are wise. When they degenerate from this state, arts and inventions promote deterioration by ministering to luxury and vice. Interesting, then, as Seneca's observations on the prospect of some future scientific discoveries are, and they are unique in ancient literature, [Footnote: They are general and definite. This distinguishes them, for instance, from Plato's incidental hint in the Republic as to the prospect of the future development of solid geometry.] they were far from adumbrating a doctrine of the Progress of man. For him, as for Plato and the older philosophers, time is the enemy of man. [Footnote: The quotations and the references here will be found in Nat. Quaest. i. Praef.; Epist. 104, Sec. 16 (cp. 110, Sec. 8; 117, Sec. 20, and the fine passage in 65, Sec. 16-21); Nat. Quaest. iii. 28-30; and finally Epist. 90, Sec. 45, cp. Sec. 17. This last letter is a criticism on Posidonius, who asserted that the arts invented in primitive times were due to philosophers. Seneca repudiates this view: omnia enim ista sagacitas hominum, non sapientia inuenit. Seneca touches on the possibility of the discovery of new lands beyond the ocean in a passage in his Medea (374 sqq.) which has been often quoted: uenient annis secula seris, quibus oceanus uincula rerum laxet et ingens pateat tellus Tiphysque novos detegat orbes,... nec sit terris ultima Thule.] 4. There was however a school of philosophical speculation, which might have led to the foundation of a theory of Progress, if the historical outlook of the Greeks had been larger and if their temper had been different. The Atomic theory of Democritus seems to us now, in many ways, the most wonderful achievement of Greek thought, but it had a small range of influence in Greece, and would have had less if it had not convinced the brilliant mind of Epicurus. The Epicureans developed it, and it may be that the views which they put forward as to the history of the human race are mainly their own superstructure. These philosophers rejected entirely the doctrine of a Golden Age and a subsequent degeneration, which was manifestly incompatible with their theory that the world was mechanically formed from atoms without the intervention of a Deity. For them, the earliest condition of men resembled that of the beasts, and from this primitive and miserable condition they laboriously reached the existing state of civilisation, not by external guidance or as a consequence of some initial design, but simply by the exercise of human intelligence throughout a long period. [Footnote: Lucretius v. 1448 sqq. (where the word PROGRESS is pronounced): Usus et impigrae simul experientia mentis Paulatim docuit pedetemtim progredientis. Sic unum quicquid paulatim protrahit aetas In medium ratioque in luminis erigit oras. Namque alid ex alio clarescere et ordine debet Artibus, ad summum donee uenere cacumen.] The gradual amelioration of their existence was marked by the discovery of fire and the use of metals, the invention of language, the invention of weaving, the growth of arts and industries, navigation, the development of family life, the establishment of social order by means of kings, magistrates, laws, the foundation of cities. The last great step in the amelioration of life, according to Lucretius, was the illuminating philosophy of Epicurus, who dispelled the fear of invisible powers and guided man from intellectual darkness to light. But Lucretius and the school to which he belonged did not look forward to a steady and continuous process of further amelioration in the future. They believed that a time would come when the universe would fall into ruins, [Footnote: Ib. 95.] but the intervening period did not interest them. Like many other philosophers, they thought that their own philosophy was the final word on the universe, and they did not contemplate the possibility that important advances in knowledge might be achieved by subsequent generations. And, in any case, their scope was entirely individualistic; all their speculations were subsidiary to the aim of rendering the life of the individual as tolerable as possible here and now. Their philosophy, like Stoicism, was a philosophy of resignation; it was thoroughly pessimistic and therefore incompatible with the idea of Progress. Lucretius himself allows an underlying feeling of scepticism as to the value of civilisation occasionally to escape. [Footnote: His eadem sunt omnia semper (iii. 945) is the constant refrain of Marcus Aurelius.] Indeed, it might be said that in the mentality of the ancient Greeks there was a strain which would have rendered them indisposed to take such an idea seriously, if it had been propounded. No period of their history could be described as an age of optimism. They were never, by their achievements in art or literature, in mathematics or philosophy, exalted into self-complacency or lured into setting high hopes on human capacity. Man has resourcefulness to meet everything--[words in Greek],--they did not go further than that. This instinctive pessimism of the Greeks had a religious tinge which perhaps even the Epicureans found it hard entirely to expunge. They always felt that they were in the presence of unknown incalculable powers, and that subtle dangers lurked in human achievements and gains. Horace has taken this feeling as the motif of a criticism on man's inventive powers. A voyage of Virgil suggests the reflection that his friend's life would not be exposed to hazards on the high seas if the art of navigation had never been discovered--if man had submissively respected the limits imposed by nature. But man is audacious: Nequiquam deus abscidit Prudens oceano dissociabili Terras. In vain a wise god sever'd lands By the dissociating sea. Daedalus violated the air, as Hercules invaded hell. The discovery of fire put us in possession of a forbidden secret. Is this unnatural conquest of nature safe or wise? Nil mortalibus ardui est: Man finds no feat too hard or high; Heaven is not safe from man's desire. Our rash designs move Jove to ire, He dares not lay his thunder by. The thought of this ode [Footnote: i. 3.] roughly expresses what would have been the instinctive sense of thoughtful Greeks if the idea of Progress had been presented to them. It would have struck them as audacious, the theory of men unduly elated and perilously at ease in the presence of unknown incalculable powers. This feeling or attitude was connected with the idea of Moira. If we were to name any single idea as generally controlling or pervading Greek thought from Homer to the Stoics, [Footnote: The Stoics identified Moira with Pronoia, in accordance with their theory that the universe is permeated by thought.] it would perhaps be Moira, for which we have no equivalent. The common rendering "fate" is misleading. Moira meant a fixed order in the universe; but as a fact to which men must bow, it had enough in common with fatality to demand a philosophy of resignation and to hinder the creation of an optimistic atmosphere of hope. It was this order which kept things in their places, assigned to each its proper sphere and function, and drew a definite line, for instance, between men and gods. Human progress towards perfection--towards an ideal of omniscience, or an ideal of happiness, would have been a breaking down of the bars which divide the human from the divine. Human nature does not alter; it is fixed by Moira. 5. We can see now how it was that speculative Greek minds never hit on the idea of Progress. In the first place, their limited historical experience did not easily suggest such a synthesis; and in the second place, the axioms of their thought, their suspiciousness of change, their theories of Moira, of degeneration and cycles, suggested a view of the world which was the very antithesis of progressive development. Epicurean, philosophers made indeed what might have been an important step in the direction of the doctrine of Progress, by discarding the theory of degeneration, and recognising that civilisation had been created by a series of successive improvements achieved by the effort of man alone. But here they stopped short. For they had their eyes fixed on the lot of the individual here and now, and their study of the history of humanity was strictly subordinate to this personal interest. The value of their recognition of human progress in the past is conditioned by the general tenor and purpose of their theory of life. It was simply one item in their demonstration that man owed nothing to supernatural intervention and had nothing to fear from supernatural powers. It is however no accident that the school of thought which struck on a path that might have led to the idea of Progress was the most uncompromising enemy of superstition that Greece produced. It might be thought that the establishment of Roman rule and order in a large part of the known world, and the civilising of barbarian peoples, could not fail to have opened to the imagination of some of those who reflected on it in the days of Virgil or of Seneca, a vista into the future. But there was no change in the conditions of life likely to suggest a brighter view of human existence. With the loss of freedom pessimism increased, and the Greek philosophies of resignation were needed more than ever. Those whom they could not satisfy turned their thoughts to new mystical philosophies and religions, which were little interested in the earthly destinies of human society. II 1. The idea of the universe which prevailed throughout the Middle Ages, and the general orientation of men's thoughts were incompatible with some of the fundamental assumptions which are required by the idea of Progress. According to the Christian theory which was worked out by the Fathers, and especially by St. Augustine, the whole movement of history has the purpose of securing the happiness of a small portion of the human race in another world; it does not postulate a further development of human history on earth. For Augustine, as for any medieval believer, the course of history would be satisfactorily complete if the world came to an end in his own lifetime. He was not interested in the question whether any gradual amelioration of society or increase of knowledge would mark the period of time which might still remain to run before the day of Judgment. In Augustine's system the Christian era introduced the last period of history, the old age of humanity, which would endure only so long as to enable the Deity to gather in the predestined number of saved people. This theory might be combined with the widely-spread belief in a millennium on earth, but the conception of such a dispensation does not render it a theory of Progress. Again, the medieval doctrine apprehends history not as a natural development but as a series of events ordered by divine intervention and revelations. If humanity had been left to go its own way it would have drifted to a highly undesirable port, and all men would have incurred the fate of everlasting misery from which supernatural interference rescued the minority. A belief in Providence might indeed, and in a future age would, be held along with a belief in Progress, in the same mind; but the fundamental assumptions were incongruous, and so long as the doctrine of Providence was undisputedly in the ascendant, a doctrine of Progress could not arise. And the doctrine of Providence, as it was developed in Augustine's "City of God," controlled the thought of the Middle Ages. There was, moreover, the doctrine of original sin, an insuperable obstacle to the moral amelioration of the race by any gradual process of development. For since, so long as the human species endures on earth, every child will be born naturally evil and worthy of punishment, a moral advance of humanity to perfection is plainly impossible. [Footnote: It may be added that, as G. Monod observed, "les hommes du moyen age n'avaient pas conscience des modifications successives que le temps apporte avec lui dans les choses humaines" (Revue Historique, i. p. 8).] 2. But there are certain features in the medieval theory of which we must not ignore the significance. In the first place, while it maintained the belief in degeneration, endorsed by Hebrew mythology, it definitely abandoned the Greek theory of cycles. The history of the earth was recognised as a unique phenomenon in time; it would never occur again or anything resembling it. More important than all is the fact that Christian theology constructed a synthesis which for the first time attempted to give a definite meaning to the whole course of human events, a synthesis which represents the past as leading up to a definite and desirable goal in the future. Once this belief had been generally adopted and prevailed for centuries men might discard it along with the doctrine of Providence on which it rested, but they could not be content to return again to such views as satisfied the ancients, for whom human history, apprehended as a whole, was a tale of little meaning. [Footnote: It may be observed that Augustine (De Civ. Dei, x. 14) compares the teaching (recta eruditio) of the people of God, in the gradual process of history, to the education of an individual. Prudentius has a similar comparison for a different purpose (c. Symmachum, ii. 315 sqq.): Tardis semper processibus aucta Crescit vita hominis et longo proficit usu. Sic aevi mortalis habet se mobilis ordo, Sic variat natura vices, infantia repit, etc. Floras (Epitome, ad init.) had already divided Roman history into four periods corresponding to infancy, adolescence, manhood, and old age.] They must seek for some new synthesis to replace it. Another feature of the medieval theory, pertinent to our inquiry, was an idea which Christianity took over from Greek and Roman thinkers. In the later period of Greek history, which began with the conquests of Alexander the Great, there had emerged the conception of the whole inhabited world as a unity and totality, the idea of the whole human race as one. We may conveniently call it the ecumenical idea--the principle of the ecumene or inhabited world, as opposed to the principle of the polis or city. Promoted by the vast extension of the geographical limits of the Greek world resulting from Alexander's conquests, and by his policy of breaking down the barriers between Greek and barbarian, the idea was reflected in the Stoic doctrine that all men are brothers, and that a man's true country is not his own particular city, but the ecumene. [Footnote: Plutarch long ago saw the connection between the policy of Alexander and the cosmopolitan teaching of Zeno. De Alexandri Magni virtute, i. Sec. 6.] It soon became familiar, popularised by the most popular of the later philosophies of Greece; and just as it had been implied in the imperial aspiration and polity of Alexander, so it was implied, still more clearly, in the imperial theory of Rome. The idea of the Roman Empire, its theoretical justification, might be described as the realisation of the unity of the world by the establishment of a common order, the unification of mankind in a single world-embracing political organism. The term "world," orbis (terrarum), which imperial poets use freely in speaking of the Empire, is more than a mere poetical or patriotic exaggeration; it expresses the idea, the unrealised ideal of the Empire. There is a stone from Halicarnassus in the British Museum, on which the idea is formally expressed from another point of view. The inscription is of the time of Augustus, and the Emperor is designated as "saviour of the community of mankind." There we have the notion of the human race apprehended as a whole, the ecumenical idea, imposing upon Rome the task described by Virgil as regere imperio populos, and more humanely by Pliny as the creation of a single fatherland for all the peoples of the world. [Footnote: Pliny, Nat. Hist. iii. 6. 39.] This idea, which in the Roman Empire and in the Middle Ages took the form of a universal State and a universal Church, passed afterwards into the conception of the intercohesion of peoples as contributors to a common pool of civilisation--a principle which, when the idea of Progress at last made its appearance in the world, was to be one of the elements in its growth. 3. One remarkable man, the Franciscan friar Roger Bacon, [Footnote: c. A.D. 1210-92. Of Bacon's Opus Majus the best and only complete edition is that of J. H. Bridges, 2 vols. 1897 (with an excellent Introduction). The associated works, Opus Minus and Opus Tertium, have been edited by Brewer, Fr. Rogeri Bacon Opera Inedita, 1859.]who stands on an isolated pinnacle of his own in the Middle Ages, deserves particular consideration. It has been claimed for him that he announced the idea of Progress; he has even been compared to Condorcet or Comte. Such claims are based on passages taken out of their context and indulgently interpreted in the light of later theories. They are not borne out by an examination of his general conception of the universe and the aim of his writings. His aim was to reform higher education and introduce into the universities a wide, liberal, and scientific programme of secular studies. His chief work, the "Opus Majus," was written for this purpose, to which his exposition of his own discoveries was subordinate. It was addressed and sent to Pope Clement IV., who had asked Bacon to give him an account of his researches, and was designed to persuade the Pontiff of the utility of science from an ecclesiastical point of view, and to induce him to sanction an intellectual reform, which without the approbation of the Church would at that time have been impossible. With great ingenuity and resourcefulness he sought to show that the studies to which he was devoted--mathematics, astronomy, physics, chemistry--were indispensable to an intelligent study of theology and Scripture. Though some of his arguments may have been urged simply to capture the Pope's good-will, there can be no question that Bacon was absolutely sincere in his view that theology was the mistress (dominatrix) of the sciences and that their supreme value lay in being necessary to it. It was, indeed, on this principle of the close interconnection of all branches of knowledge that Bacon based his plea and his scheme of reform. And the idea of the "solidarity" of the sciences, in which he anticipated a later age, is one of his two chief claims to be remembered. [Footnote: Cp. Opus Tertium, c. iv. p. 18, omnes scientiae sunt connexae et mutuis se fovent auxiliis sicut partes ejusdem totius, quarum quaelibet opus suum peragit non solum propter se sed pro aliis.] It is the motif of the Opus Majus, and it would have been more fully elaborated if he had lived to complete the encyclopaedic work, Scriptum Principale, which he had only begun before his death. His other title to fame is well-known. He realised, as no man had done before him, the importance of the experimental method in investigating the secrets of nature, and was an almost solitary pioneer in the paths to which his greater namesake, more than three hundred years later, was to invite the attention of the world. But, although Roger Bacon was inspired by these enlightened ideas, although he cast off many of the prejudices of his time and boldly revolted against the tyranny of the prevailing scholastic philosophy, he was nevertheless in other respects a child of his age and could not disencumber himself of the current medieval conception of the universe. His general view of the course of human history was not materially different from that of St. Augustine. When he says that the practical object of all knowledge is to assure the safety of the human race, he explains this to mean "things which lead to felicity in the next life." [Footnote: Opus Majus, vii. p. 366.] It is pertinent to observe that he not only shared in the belief in astrology, which was then universal, but considered it one of the most important parts of "mathematics." It was looked upon with disfavour by the Church as a dangerous study; Bacon defended its use in the interests of the Church itself. He maintained, like Thomas Aquinas, the physiological influence of the celestial bodies, and regarded the planets as signs telling us what God has decreed from eternity to come to pass either by natural processes or by acts of human will or directly at his own good pleasure. Deluges, plagues, and earthquakes were capable of being predicted; political and religious revolutions were set in the starry rubric. The existence of six principal religions was determined by the combinations of Jupiter with the other six planets. Bacon seriously expected the extinction of the Mohammedan religion before the end of the thirteenth century, on the ground of a prediction by an Arab astrologer. [Footnote: Ib. iv. p. 266; vii. p. 389.] One of the greatest advantages that the study of astrological lore will bring to humanity is that by its means the date of the coming of Anti-Christ may be fixed with certainty, and the Church may be prepared to face the perils and trials of that terrible time. Now the arrival of Anti-Christ meant the end of the world, and Bacon accepted the view, which he says was held by all wise men, that "we are not far from the times of Anti-Christ." Thus the intellectual reforms which he urged would have the effect, and no more, of preparing Christendom to resist more successfully the corruption in which the rule of Anti-Christ would involve the world. "Truth will prevail," by which he meant science will make advances, "though with difficulty, until Anti-Christ and his forerunners appear;" and on his own showing the interval would probably be short. The frequency with which Bacon recurs to this subject, and the emphasis he lays on it, show that the appearance of Anti-Christ was a fixed point in his mental horizon. When he looked forward into the future, the vision which confronted him was a scene of corruption, tyranny, and struggle under the reign of a barbarous enemy of Christendom; and after that, the end of the world. [Footnote: (1) His coming may be fixed by astrology: Opus Majus, iv. p. 269 (inveniretur sufficiens suspicio vel magis certitudo de tempore Antichristi; cp. p. 402). (2) His coming means the end of the world: ib. p. 262. (3) We are not far from it: ib. p. 402. One of the reasons which seem to have made this view probable to Bacon was the irruption of the Mongols into Europe during his lifetime; cp. p. 268 and vii. p. 234. Another was the prevalent corruption, especially of the clergy, which impressed him deeply; see Compendium studii philosophiae, ed. Brewer, p. 402. (4) "Truth will prevail," etc.: Opus Majus, i. pp. 19, 20. He claimed for experimental science that it would produce inventions which could be usefully employed against Antichrist: ib. vii. p. 221.] It is from this point of view that we must appreciate the observations which he made on the advancement of knowledge. "It is our duty," he says, "to supply what the ancients have left incomplete, because we have entered into their labours, which, unless we are asses, can stimulate us to achieve better results"; Aristotle corrected the errors of earlier thinkers; Avicenna and Averroes have corrected Aristotle in some matters and have added much that is new; and so it will go on till the end of the world. And Bacon quotes passages from Seneca's "Physical Inquiries" to show that the acquisition of knowledge is gradual. Attention has been already called to those passages, and it was shown how perverse it is, on the strength of such remarks, to claim Seneca as a teacher of the doctrine of Progress. The same claim has been made for Bacon with greater confidence, and it is no less perverse. The idea of Progress is glaringly incongruous with his vision of the world. If his programme of revolutionising secular learning had been accepted--it fell completely dead, and his work was forgotten for many ages,--he would have been the author of a progressive reform; but how many reformers have there been before and after Bacon on whose minds the idea of Progress never dawned? [Footnote: Bacon quotes Seneca: See Opus Majus, i. pp. 37, 55, 14. Much has been made out of a well-known passage in his short Epistle de secretis operibus artis et naturae et de militate magiae, c. iv. (ed. Brewer, p. 533), in which he is said to PREDICT inventions which have been realised in the locomotives, steam navigation, and aeroplanes of modern times. But Bacon predicts nothing. He is showing that science can invent curious and, to the vulgar, incredible things without the aid of magic. All the inventions which he enumerates have, he declares, been actually made in ancient times, with the exception of a flying-machine (instrumentum volandi quod non vidi nec hominem qui vidisset cognovi, sed sapientem qui hoc artificium excogitavit explere cognosco). Compare the remarks of S. Vogl, Die Physik Roger Bacos (1906), 98 sqq.] 4. Thus Friar Bacon's theories of scientific reform, so far from amounting to an anticipation of the idea of Progress, illustrate how impossible it was that this idea could appear in the Middle Ages. The whole spirit of medieval Christianity excluded it. The conceptions which were entertained of the working of divine Providence, the belief that the world, surprised like a sleeping household by a thief in the night, might at any moment come to a sudden end, had the same effect as the Greek theories of the nature of change and of recurring cycles of the world. Or rather, they had a more powerful effect, because they were not reasoned conclusions, but dogmas guaranteed by divine authority. And medieval pessimism as to man's mundane condition was darker and sterner than the pessimism of the Greeks. There was the prospect of happiness in another sphere to compensate, but this, engrossing the imagination, only rendered it less likely that any one should think of speculating about man's destinies on earth. III 1. The civilised countries of Europe spent about three hundred years in passing from the mental atmosphere of the Middle Ages into the mental atmosphere of the modern world. These centuries were one of the conspicuously progressive periods in history, but the conditions were not favourable to the appearance of an idea of Progress, though the intellectual milieu was being prepared in which that idea could be born. This progressive period, which is conveniently called the Renaissance, lasted from the fourteenth into the seventeenth century. The great results, significant for our present purpose, which the human mind achieved at this stage of its development were two. Self-confidence was restored to human reason, and life on this planet was recognised as possessing a value independent of any hopes or fears connected with a life beyond the grave. But in discarding medieval naivete and superstition, in assuming a freer attitude towards theological authority, and in developing a new conception of the value of individual personality, men looked to the guidance of Greek and Roman thinkers, and called up the spirit of the ancient world to exorcise the ghosts of the dark ages. Their minds were thus directed backwards to a past civilisation which, in the ardour of new discovery, and in the reaction against medievalism, they enthroned as ideal; and a new authority was set up, the authority of ancient writers. In general speculation the men of the Renaissance followed the tendencies and adopted many of the prejudices of Greek philosophy. Although some great discoveries, with far-reaching, revolutionary consequences, were made in this period, most active minds were engaged in rediscovering, elaborating, criticising, and imitating what was old. It was not till the closing years of the Renaissance that speculation began to seek and feel its way towards new points of departure. It was not till then that a serious reaction set in against the deeper influences of medieval thought. 2. To illustrate the limitations of this period let us take Machiavelli, one of the most original thinkers that Italy ever produced. There are certain fundamental principles underlying Machiavelli's science of politics, which he has indicated incidentally in his unsystematic way, but which are essential to the comprehension of his doctrines. The first is that at all times the world of human beings has been the same, varying indeed from land to land, but always presenting the same aspect of some societies advancing towards prosperity, and others declining. Those which are on the upward grade will always reach a point beyond which they cannot rise further, but they will not remain permanently on this level, they will begin to decline; for human things are always in motion and therefore must go up or down. Similarly, declining states will ultimately touch bottom and then begin to ascend. Thus a good constitution or social organisation can last only for a short time. [Footnote: Machiavelli's principle of advance and decline: Discorsi, ii. Introduction; Istorie fiorentine, v. ad init. For the cycle of constitutions through which all states tend to move see Discorsi, ii. 2 (here we see the influence of Polybius).] It is obvious that in this view of history Machiavelli was inspired and instructed by the ancients. And it followed from his premisses that the study of the past is of the highest value because it enables men to see what is to come; since to all social events at any period there are correspondences in ancient times. "For these events are due to men, who have and always had the same passions, and therefore of necessity the effects must be the same." [Footnote: Discorsi, iii. 43.] Again, Machiavelli follows his ancient masters in assuming as evident that a good organisation of society can be effected only by the deliberate design of a wise legislator. [Footnote: Ib. iii. 1. The lawgiver must assume for his purposes that all men are bad: ib. i. 3. Villari has useful remarks on these principles in his Machiavelli, Book ii. cap. iii.] Forms of government and religions are the personal creations of a single brain; and the only chance for a satisfactory constitution or for a religion to maintain itself for any length of time is constantly to repress any tendencies to depart from the original conceptions of its creator. It is evident that these two assumptions are logically connected. The lawgiver builds on the immutability of human nature; what is good for one generation must be good for another. For Machiavelli, as for Plato, change meant corruption. Thus his fundamental theory excluded any conception of a satisfactory social order gradually emerging by the impersonal work of successive generations, adapting their institutions to their own changing needs and aspirations. It is characteristic, and another point of resemblance with ancient thinkers that he sought the ideal state in the past--republican Rome. These doctrines, the sameness of human nature and the omnipotent lawgiver, left no room for anything resembling a theory of Progress. If not held afterwards in the uncompromising form in which Machiavelli presented them, yet it has well been pointed out that they lay at the root of some of the most famous speculations of the eighteenth century. [Footnote: Villari, loc. cit.] Machiavelli's sameness of human nature meant that man would always have the same passions and desires, weaknesses and vices. This assumption was compatible with the widely prevailing view that man had degenerated in the course of the last fifteen hundred years. From the exaltation of Greek and Roman antiquity to a position of unattainable superiority, especially in the field of knowledge, the degeneration of humanity was an easy and natural inference. If the Greeks in philosophy and science were authoritative guides, if in art and literature they were unapproachable, if the Roman republic, as Machiavelli thought, was an ideal state, it would seem that the powers of Nature had declined, and she could no longer produce the same quality of brain. So long as this paralysing theory prevailed, it is manifest that the idea of Progress could not appear. But in the course of the sixteenth century men began here and there, somewhat timidly and tentatively, to rebel against the tyranny of antiquity, or rather to prepare the way for the open rebellion which was to break out in the seventeenth. Breaches were made in the proud citadel of ancient learning. Copernicus undermined the authority of Ptolemy and his predecessors; the anatomical researches of Vesalius injured the prestige of Galen; and Aristotle was attacked on many sides by men like Telesio, Cardan, Ramus, and Bruno. [Footnote: It has been observed that the thinkers who were rebelling against the authority of Aristotle--the most dangerous of the ancient philosophers, because he was so closely associated with theological scholasticism and was supported by the Church--frequently attacked under the standard of some other ancient master; e.g. Telesio resorted to Parmenides, Justus Lipsius to the Stoics, and Bruno is under the influence of Plotinus and Plato (Bouillier, La Philosophie cartesienne, vol. i. p. 5). The idea of "development" in Bruno has been studied by Mariupolsky (Zur Geschichte des Entwicklungsbegriffs in Berner Studien, Bd. vi. 1897), who pointed out the influence of Stoicism on his thought.] In particular branches of science an innovation was beginning which heralded a radical revolution in the study of natural phenomena, though the general significance of the prospect which these researches opened was but vaguely understood at the time. The thinkers and men of science were living in an intellectual twilight. It was the twilight of dawn. At one extremity we have mysticism which culminated in the speculations of Bruno and Campanella; at the other we have the scepticism of Montaigne, Charron, and Sanchez. The bewildered condition of knowledge is indicated by the fact that while Bruno and Campanella accepted the Copernican astronomy, it was rejected by one who in many other respects may claim to be reckoned as a modern--I mean Francis Bacon. But the growing tendency to challenge the authority of the ancients does not sever this period from the spirit which informed the Renaissance. For it is subordinate or incidental to a more general and important interest. To rehabilitate the natural man, to claim that he should be the pilot of his own course, to assert his freedom in the fields of art and literature had been the work of the early Renaissance. It was the problem of the later Renaissance to complete this emancipation in the sphere of philosophical thought. The bold metaphysics of Bruno, for which he atoned by a fiery death, offered the solution which was most unorthodox and complete. His deification of nature and of man as part of nature involved the liberation of humanity from external authority. But other speculative minds of the age, though less audacious, were equally inspired by the idea of freely interrogating nature, and were all engaged in accomplishing the programme of the Renaissance--the vindication of this world as possessing a value for man independent of its relations to any supermundane sphere. The raptures of Giordano Bruno and the sobrieties of Francis Bacon are here on common ground. The whole movement was a necessary prelude to a new age of which science was to be the mistress. It is to be noted that there was a general feeling of complacency as to the condition of learning and intellectual pursuits. This optimism is expressed by Rabelais. Gargantua, in a letter to Pantagruel, studying at Paris, enlarges to his son on the vast improvements in learning and education which had recently, he says, been brought about. "All the world is full of savants, learned teachers, large libraries; and I am of opinion that neither in the time of Plato nor of Cicero nor of Papinian were there such facilities for study as one sees now." It is indeed the study of the ancient languages and literatures that Gargantua considers in a liberal education, but the satisfaction at the present diffusion of learning, with the suggestion that here at least contemporaries have an advantage over the ancients, is the significant point. [Footnote: Rabelais, Book ii. chap. 8.] This satisfaction shines through the observation of Ramus that "in one century we have seen a greater progress in men and works of learning than our ancestors had seen in the whole course of the previous fourteen centuries." [Footnote: Praefat. Scholarum Mathematicarum, maiorem doctorum hominum et operum proventum seculo uno vidimus quam totis antea 14 seculis maiores nostri viderent. (Ed. Basel, 1569.)] [Footnote 1. Guillaume Postel observed in his De magistratibus Atheniensium liber (1541) that the ages are always progressing (secula semper proficere), and every day additions are made to human knowledge, and that this process would only cease if Providence by war, or plague, or some catastrophe were to destroy all the accumulated stores of knowledge which have been transmitted from antiquity in books (Praef., B verso). What is known of the life of this almost forgotten scholar has been collected by G. Weill (De Gulielmi Postelli vita et indole, 1892). He visited the East, brought back oriental MSS., and was more than once imprisoned on charges of heresy. He dreamed of converting the Mohammedans, and of uniting the whole world under the empire of France.] In this last stage of the Renaissance, which includes the first quarter of the seventeenth century, soil was being prepared in which the idea of Progress could germinate, and our history of it origin definitely begins with the work of two men who belong to this age, Bodin, who is hardly known except to special students of political science, and Bacon, who is known to all the world. Both had a more general grasp of the significance of their own time than any of their contemporaries, and though neither of them discovered a theory of Progress, they both made contributions to thought which directly contributed to its subsequent appearance. CHAPTER I. SOME INTERPRETATIONS OF UNIVERSAL HISTORY: BODIN AND LE ROY 1. It is a long descent from the genius of Machiavelli to the French historian, Jean Bodin, who published his introduction to historical studies [Footnote: Methodus ad facilem historiarum cognitionem, 1566.] about forty years after Machiavelli's death. His views and his method differ widely from those of that great pioneer, whom he attacks. His readers were not arrested by startling novelties or immoral doctrine; he is safe, and dull. But Bodin had a much wider range of thought than Machiavelli, whose mind was entirely concentrated on the theory of politics; and his importance for us lies not in the political speculations by which he sought to prove that monarchy is the best form of government [Footnote: Les six livres de la Republique, 1576.], but in his attempt to substitute a new theory of universal history for that which prevailed in the Middle Ages. He rejected the popular conception of a golden age and a subsequent degeneration of mankind; and he refuted the view, generally current among medieval theologians, and based on the prophecies of Daniel, which divided the course of history into four periods corresponding to the Babylonian Persian, Macedonian, and Roman monarchies, the last of which was to endure till the day of Judgement. Bodin suggests a division into three great periods: the first, of about two thousand years, in which the South-Eastern peoples were predominant; the second, of the same duration, in which those whom he calls the Middle (Mediterranean) peoples came to the front; the third, in which the Northern nations who overthrew Rome became the leaders in civilisation. Each period is stamped by the psychological character of the three racial groups. The note of the first is religion, of the second practical sagacity, of the third warfare and inventive skill. This division actually anticipates the synthesis of Hegel. [Footnote: Hegel's division is (1) the Oriental, (2) a, the Greek, b, the Roman, and (3) the Germanic worlds.] But the interesting point is that it is based on anthropological considerations, in which climate and geography are taken into account; and, notwithstanding the crudeness of the whole exposition and the intrusion of astrological arguments, it is a new step in the study of universal history. [Footnote: Climates and geography. The fullest discussion will be found in the Republique, Book v. cap. i. Here Bodin anticipated Montesquieu. There was indeed nothing new in the principle; it had been recognised by Hippocrates, Plato, Aristotle, Polybius, and other Greeks, and in a later age by Roger Bacon. But Bodin first developed and applied it methodically. This part of his work was ignored, and in the eighteenth century Montesquieu's speculations on the physical factors in history were applauded as a new discovery.] I have said that Bodin rejected the theory of the degeneration of man, along with the tradition of a previous age of virtue and felicity. [Footnote: See especially Methodus, cap. v. pp. 124, 130, 136.] The reason which he alleged against it is important. The powers of nature have always been uniform. It is illegitimate to suppose that she could at one time produce the men and conditions postulated by the theory of the golden age, and not produce them at another. In other words, Bodin asserts the principle of the permanent and undiminishing capacities of nature, and, as we shall see in the sequel, this principle was significant. It is not to be confounded with the doctrine of the immutability of human things assumed by Machiavelli. The human scene has vastly changed since the primitive age of man; "if that so-called golden age could be revoked and compared with our own, we should consider it iron." [Footnote: Methodus, cap. VII. p. 353.] For history largely depends on the will of men, which is always changing; every day new laws, new customs, new institutions, both secular and religious, come into being, and new errors. [Footnote: Ib. cap. I. p. 12.] But in this changing scene we can observe a certain regularity, a law of oscillation. Rise is followed by fall, and fall by rise; it is a mistake to think that the human race is always deteriorating. [Footnote: Ib. cap. VII. p. 361: "cum aeterna quadam lege naturae conversio rerum omnium velut in orbem redire videatur, ut aeque vitia virtutibus, ignoratio scientiae, turpe honesto consequens sit, atque tenebrae luci, fallunt qui genus hominum semper deterius seipso evadere putant."] If that were so, we should long ago have reached the lowest stage of vice and iniquity. On the contrary, there has been, through the series of oscillations, a gradual ascent. In the ages which have been foolishly designated as gold and silver men lived like the wild beasts; and from that state they have slowly reached the humanity of manners and the social order which prevail to-day. [Footnote: Ib. p. 356.] Thus Bodin recognises a general progress in the past. That is nothing new; it was the view, for instance, of the Epicureans. But much had passed in the world since the philosophy of Epicurus was alive, and Bodin had to consider twelve hundred years of new vicissitudes. Could the Epicurean theory be brought up to date? 2. Bodin deals with the question almost entirely in respect to human knowledge. In definitely denying the degeneration of man, Bodin was only expressing what many thinkers of the sixteenth century had been coming to feel, though timidly and obscurely. The philosophers and men of science, who criticised the ancients in special departments, did not formulate any general view on the privileged position of antiquity. Bodin was the first to do so. Knowledge, letters, and arts have their vicissitudes, he says; they rise, increase, and nourish, and then languish and die. After the decay of Rome there was a long fallow period; but this was followed by a splendid revival of knowledge and an intellectual productivity which no other age has exceeded. The scientific discoveries of the ancients deserve high praise; but the moderns have not only thrown new light on phenomena which they had incompletely explained, they have made new discoveries of equal or indeed greater importance. Take, for instance, the mariner's compass which has made possible the circumnavigation of the earth and a universal commerce, whereby the world has been changed, as it were, into a single state. [Footnote: Cardan had already signalised the compass, printing, and gunpowder as three modern inventions, to which "the whole of antiquity has nothing equal to show." He adds, "I pass over the other inventions of this age which, though wonderful, form rather a development of ancient arts than surpass the intellects of our ancestors." De subtilitate, lib. 3 ad init. (Opera, iii. p. 609).] Take the advances we have made in geography and astronomy; the invention of gunpowder; the development of the woollen and other industries. The invention of printing alone can be set against anything that the ancients achieved. [Footnote: Methodus, cap. VII., pp. 359-61. Bodin also points out that there was an improvement, in some respects, in manners and morals since the early Roman Empire; for instance, in the abolition of gladiatorial spectacles (p. 359).] An inference from all this, obvious to a modern reader, would be that in the future there will be similar oscillations, and new inventions and discoveries as remarkable as any that have been made in the past. But Bodin does not draw this inference. He confines himself to the past and present, and has no word to say about the vicissitudes of the future. But he is not haunted by any vision of the end of the world, or the coming of Antichrist; three centuries of humanism lay between him and Roger Bacon. 3. And yet the influence of medievalism, which it had been the work of those three centuries to overcome, was still pervasively there. Still more the authority of the Greeks and Romans, which had been set up by the revival of learning, was, without their realising it, heavy even upon thinkers like Bodin, who did not scruple freely to criticise ancient authors. And so, in his thoughtful attempt to find a clew to universal history, he was hampered by theological and cosmic theories, the legacy of the past. It is significant of the trend of his mind that when he is discussing the periodic decline of science and letters, he suggests that it may be due to the direct action of God, punishing those who misapplied useful sciences to the destruction of men. But his speculations were particularly compromised by his belief in astrology, which, notwithstanding the efforts of humanists like Petrarch, Aeneas Sylvius, and Pico to discredit it, retained its hold over the minds of many eminent, otherwise emancipated, thinkers throughout the period of the Renaissance. [Footnote: Bodin was also a firm believer in sorcery. His La Demonomanie (1578) is a monument of superstition.] Here Bodin is in the company of Machiavelli and Lord Bacon. But not content with the doctrine of astral influence on human events, he sought another key to historical changes in the influence of numbers, reviving the ideas of Pythagoras and Plato, but working them out in a way of his own. He enumerates the durations of the lives of many famous men, to show that they can be expressed by powers of 7 and 9, or the product of these numbers. Other numbers which have special virtues are the powers of 12, the perfect number [Footnote: I.e. a number equal to the sum of all its factors.] 496, and various others. He gives many examples to prove that these mystic numbers determine the durations of empires and underlie historical chronology. For instance, the duration of the oriental monarchies from Ninus to the Conquest of Persia by Alexander the Great was 1728 (= 12 cubed) years. He gives the Roman republic from the foundation of Rome to the battle of Actium 729 (=9 cubed) years. [Footnote: Methodus, cap. v. pp. 265 sqq.] 4. From a believer in such a theory, which illustrates the limitations of men's outlook on the world in the Renaissance period, we could perhaps hardly expect a vision of Progress. The best that can be said for it is that, both here and in his astrological creed, Bodin is crudely attempting to bring human history into close connection with the rest of the universe, and to establish the view that the whole world is built on a divine plan by which all the parts are intimately interrelated. [Footnote: Cp. Baudrillart, J. Bodin et son temps, p. 148 (1853). This monograph is chiefly devoted to a full analysis of La Republique.] He is careful, however, to avoid fatalism. He asserts, as we have seen, that history depends largely on the will of men. And he comes nearer to the idea of Progress than any one before him; he is on the threshold. For if we eliminate his astrological and Pythagorean speculations, and various theological parentheses which do not disturb his argument, his work announces a new view of history which is optimistic regarding man's career on earth, without any reference to his destinies in a future life. And in this optimistic view there are three particular points to note, which were essential to the subsequent growth of the idea of Progress. In the first place, the decisive rejection of the theory of degeneration, which had been a perpetual obstacle to the apprehension of that idea. Secondly, the unreserved claim that his own age was fully equal, and in some respects superior, to the age of classical antiquity, in respect of science and the arts. He leaves the ancients reverently on their pedestal, but he erects another pedestal for the moderns, and it is rather higher. We shall see the import of this when we come to consider the intellectual movement in which the idea of Progress was afterwards to emerge. In the third place, he had a conception of the common interest of all the peoples of the earth, a conception which corresponded to the old ecumenical idea of the Greeks and Romans, [Footnote: See above, p. 23.] but had now a new significance through the discoveries of modern navigators. He speaks repeatedly of the world as a universal state, and suggests that the various races, by their peculiar aptitudes and qualities, contribute to the common good of the whole. This idea of the "solidarity" of peoples was to be an important element in the growth of the doctrine of Progress. [Footnote: Republique, Book v. cap. 1 (p. 690; ed. 1593); Methodus, cap. vi. p. 194; cap. vii. p. 360.] These ideas were in the air. Another Frenchman, the classical scholar, Louis Le Roy, translator of Plato and Aristotle, put forward similar views in a work of less celebrity, On the Vicissitude or Variety of the Things in the Universe. [Footnote: De la vicissitude ou variete des choses en l'univers, 1577, 2nd ed. (which I have used), 1584.] It contains a survey of great periods in which particular peoples attained an exceptional state of dominion and prosperity, and it anticipates later histories of civilisation by dwelling but slightly on political events and bringing into prominence human achievements in science, philosophy, and the arts. Beginning with the advance of man from primitive rudeness to ordered society--a sketch based on the conjectures of Plato in the Protagoras--Le Roy reviews the history, and estimates the merits, of the Egyptians, Assyrians and Persians, the Greeks, Romans and Saracens, and finally of the modern age. The facts, he thinks, establish the proposition that the art of warfare, eloquence, philosophy, mathematics, and the fine arts, generally flourish and decline together. But they do decline. Human things are not perpetual; all pass through the same cycle--beginning, progress, perfection, corruption, end. This, however, does not explain the succession of empires in the world, the changes of the scene of prosperity from one people or set of peoples to another. Le Roy finds the cause in providential design. God, he believes, cares for all parts of the universe and has distributed excellence in arms and letters now to Asia, now to Europe, again to Africa, letting virtue and vice, knowledge and ignorance travel from country to country, that all in their turn may share in good and bad fortune, and none become too proud through prolonged prosperity. But what of the modern age in Western Europe? It is fully the equal, he assevers, of the most illustrious ages of the past, and in some respects it is superior. Almost all the liberal and mechanical arts of antiquity, which had been lost for about 1200 years, have been restored, and there have been new inventions, especially printing, and the mariner's compass, and "I would give the third place to gunnery but that it seems invented rather for the ruin than for the utility of the human race." In our knowledge of astronomy and cosmography we surpass the ancients. "We can affirm that the whole world is now known, and all the races of men; they can interchange all their commodities and mutually supply their needs, as inhabitants of the same city or world-state." And hence there has been a notable increase of wealth. Vice and suffering, indeed, are as grave as ever, and we are afflicted by the trouble of heresies; but this does not prove a general deterioration of morals. If that inveterate complaint, the refrain chanted by old men in every age, were true, the world would already have reached the extreme limit of wickedness, and integrity would have disappeared utterly. Seneca long ago made the right criticism. Hoc maiores nostri questi sunt, hoc nos querimur, hoc posteri nostri querentur, eversos esse mores.... At ista stant loco eodem. Perhaps Le Roy was thinking particularly of that curious book the Apology for Herodotus, in which the eminent Greek scholar, Henri Estienne, exposed with Calvinistic prejudice the iniquities of modern times and the corruption of the Roman Church. [Footnote: L'Introduction au traite de la conformite des merveilles anciennes avec les modernes, ou traite preparatif a l'Apologie pour Herodote, ed. Ristelhuber, 2 vols., 1879. The book was published in 1566.] But if we are to judge by past experience, does it not follow that this modern age must go the same way as the great ages of the past which it rivals or even surpasses? Our civilisation, too, having reached perfection, will inevitably decline and pass away: is not this the clear lesson of history? Le Roy does not shirk the issue; it is the point to which his whole exposition has led and he puts it vividly. "If the memory of the past is the instruction of the present and the premonition of the future, it is to be feared that having reached so great excellence, power, wisdom, studies, books, industries will decline, as has happened in the past, and disappear--confusion succeeding to the order and perfection of to-day, rudeness to civilisation, ignorance to knowledge. I already foresee in imagination nations, strange in form, complexion, and costume, overwhelming Europe--like the Goths, Huns, Vandals, Lombards, Saracens of old--destroying our cities and palaces, burning our libraries, devastating all that is beautiful. I foresee in all countries wars, domestic and foreign, factions and heresies which will profane all things human and divine; famines, plagues, and floods; the universe approaching an end, world-wide confusion, and the return of things to their original chaos." [Footnote: It is characteristic of the age that in the last sentence the author goes beyond the issue and contemplates the possibility which still haunted men's minds that the end of the world might not be far off.] But having conducted us to this pessimistic conclusion Le Roy finds it repugnant, and is unwilling to acquiesce in it. Like an embarrassed dramatist he escapes from the knot which he has tied by introducing the deus ex machina. "However much these things proceed according to the fatal law of the world, and have their natural causes, yet events depend principally on Divine Providence which is superior to nature and alone knows the predetermined times of events." That is to say, it depends, after all, on Providence whether the argument from past experience is valid. Who knows whether the modern age may not prove the exception to the law which has hitherto prevailed? Let us act as if it would. This is the practical moral that Le Roy enforces in the last book of his dissertation. We must not allow ourselves to be paralysed or dismayed by the destinies of past civilisations, but must work hard to transmit to posterity all that has been achieved, and augment the discoveries of the past by new researches. For knowledge is inexhaustible. "Let us not be so simple as to believe that the ancients have known and said everything and left nothing to their successors. Or that nature gave them all her favours in order to remain sterile ever after." Here Le Roy lays down Bodin's principle which was to be asserted more urgently in the following century--the permanence of natural forces. Nature is the same now as always, and can produce as great intellects as ever. The elements have the same power, the constellations keep their old order, men are made of the same material. There is nothing to hinder the birth in this age of men equal in brains to Plato, Aristotle, or Hippocrates. Philosophically, Le Roy's conclusion is lame enough. We are asked to set aside the data of experience and act on an off-chance. But the determination of the optimist to escape from the logic of his own argument is significant. He has no conception of an increasing purpose or underlying unity in the history of man, but he thinks that Providence--the old Providence of St. Augustine, who arranged the events of Roman history with a view to the coming of Christ--may, for some unknown reason, prolong indefinitely the modern age. He is obeying the instinct of optimism and confidence which was already beginning to create the appropriate atmosphere for the intellectual revolution of the coming century. His book was translated into English, but neither in France nor in England had it the same influence as the speculations of Bodin. But it insinuated, as the reader will have observed, the same three views which Bodin taught, and must have helped to propagate them: that the world has not degenerated; that the modern age is not inferior to classical antiquity; and that the races of the earth form now a sort of "mundane republic." CHAPTER II. UTILITY THE END OF KNOWLEDGE: BACON 1. Among the great precursors of a new order of thought Francis Bacon occupies a unique position. He drew up a definite programme for a "great Renovation" of knowledge; he is more clearly conscious than his contemporaries of the necessity of breaking with the past and making a completely new start; and his whole method of thought seems intellectually nearer to us than the speculations of a Bruno or a Campanella. Hence it is easy to understand that he is often regarded, especially in his own country, as more than a precursor, as the first philosopher, of the modern age, definitely within its precincts. [Footnote: German critics have been generally severe on Bacon as deficient in the scientific spirit. Kuno Fischer, Baco van Verulam (1856). Liebig, Ueber Francis Bacon van Verulam und die Methode der Naturforschung (1863). Lange (Geschichte des Materialismus, i. 195) speaks of "die aberglaubische und eitle Unwissenschaftlichkeit Bacos."] It is not indeed a matter of fundamental importance how we classify these men who stood on the border of two worlds, but it must be recognised that if in many respects Bacon is in advance of contemporaries who cannot be dissociated from the Renaissance, in other respects, such as belief in astrology and dreams, he stands on the same ground, and in one essential point--which might almost be taken as the test of mental progress at this period--Bruno and Campanella have outstripped him. For him Copernicus, Kepler, and Galileo worked in vain; he obstinately adhered to the old geocentric system. It must also be remembered that the principle which he laid down in his ambitious programme for the reform of science--that experiment is the key for discovering the secrets of nature--was not a new revelation. We need not dwell on the fact that he had been anticipated by Roger Bacon; for the ideas of that wonderful thinker had fallen dead in an age which was not ripe for them. But the direct interrogation of nature was already recognised both in practice and in theory in the sixteenth century. What Bacon did was to insist upon the principle more strongly and explicitly, and to formulate it more precisely. He clarified and explained the progressive ideas which inspired the scientific thought of the last period of the European Renaissance, from which he cannot, I think, be dissociated. But in clearing up and defining these progressive ideas, he made a contribution to the development of human thought which had far-reaching importance and has a special significance for our present subject. In the hopes of a steady increase of knowledge, based on the application of new methods, he had been anticipated by Roger Bacon, and further back by Seneca. But with Francis Bacon this idea of the augmentation of knowledge has an entirely new value. For Seneca the exploration of nature was a means of escaping from the sordid miseries of life. For the friar of Oxford the principal use of increasing knowledge was to prepare for the coming of Antichrist. Francis Bacon sounded the modern note; for him the end of knowledge is utility. [Footnote; The passages specially referred to are: De Aug. Sc. vii. i; Nov. Org. i. 81 and 3.] 2. The principle that the proper aim of knowledge is the amelioration of human life, to increase men's happiness and mitigate their sufferings--commodis humanis inservire--was the guiding star of Bacon in all his intellectual labour. He declared the advancement of "the happiness of mankind" to be the direct purpose of the works he had written or designed. He considered that all his predecessors had gone wrong because they did not apprehend that the finis scientarum, the real and legitimate goal of the sciences, is "the endowment of human life with new inventions and riches"; and he made this the test for defining the comparative values of the various branches of knowledge. The true object, therefore, of the investigation of nature is not, as the Greek philosophers held, speculative satisfaction, but to establish the reign of man over nature; and this Bacon judged to be attainable, provided new methods of attacking the problems were introduced. Whatever may be thought of his daring act in bringing natural science down from the clouds and assigning to her the function of ministering to the material convenience and comfort of man, we may criticise Bacon for his doctrine that every branch of science should be pursued with a single eye towards practical use. Mathematics, he thought, should conduct herself as a humble, if necessary, handmaid, without any aspirations of her own. But it is not thus that the great progress in man's command over nature since Bacon's age has been effected. Many of the most valuable and surprising things which science has succeeded in doing for civilisation would never have been performed if each branch of knowledge were not guided by its own independent ideal of speculative completeness. [Footnote: This was to be well explained by Fontenelle, Preface sur l'utilite des mathematiques, in Oeuvres (ed. 1729), iii, I sqq.] But this does not invalidate Bacon's pragmatic principle, or diminish the importance of the fact that in laying down the utilitarian view of knowledge he contributed to the creation of a new mental atmosphere in which the theory of Progress was afterwards to develop. 3. Bacon's respect for the ancients and his familiarity with their writings are apparent on almost every page he wrote. Yet it was one of his principal endeavours to shake off the yoke of their authority, which he recognised to be a fatal obstacle to the advancement of science. "Truth is not to be sought in the good fortune of any particular conjuncture of time"; its attainment depends on experience, and how limited was theirs. In their age "the knowledge both of time and of the world was confined and meagre; they had not a thousand years of history worthy of that name, but mere fables and ancient traditions; they were not acquainted with but a small portion of the regions and countries of the world." [Footnote: Nov. Org. i. 84; 56, 72, 73, 74.] In all their systems and scientific speculation "there is hardly one single experiment that has a tendency to assist mankind." Their theories were founded on opinion, and therefore science has remained stationary for the last two thousand years; whereas mechanical arts, which are founded on nature and experience, grow and increase. In this connection, Bacon points out that the word "antiquity" is misleading, and makes a remark which will frequently recur in writers of the following generations. Antiquitas seculi iuventus mundi; what we call antiquity and are accustomed to revere as such was the youth of the world. But it is the old age and increasing years of the world--the time in which we are now living--that deserves in truth to be called antiquity. We are really the ancients, the Greeks and Romans were younger than we, in respect to the age of the world. And as we look to an old man for greater knowledge of the world than from a young man, so we have good reason to expect far greater things from our own age than from antiquity, because in the meantime the stock of knowledge has been increased by an endless number of observations and experiments. Time is the great discoverer, and truth is the daughter of time, not of authority. Take the three inventions which were unknown to the ancients-printing, gunpowder, and the compass. These "have changed the appearance and state of the whole world; first in literature, then in warfare, and lastly in navigation; and innumerable changes have been thence derived, so that no empire, sect, or star appears to have exercised a greater power or influence on human affairs than these mechanical discoveries." [Footnote: Nov. Org. 129. We have seen that these three inventions had already been classed together as outstanding by Cardan and Le Roy. They also appear in Campanella. Bodin, as we saw, included them in a longer list.] It was perhaps the results of navigation and the exploration of unknown lands that impressed Bacon more than all, as they had impressed Bodin. Let me quote one passage. "It may truly be affirmed to the honour of these times, and in a virtuous emulation with antiquity, that this great building of the world had never through-lights made in it till the age of us and our fathers. For although they [the ancients] had knowledge of the antipodes... yet that mought be by demonstration, and not in fact; and if by travel, it requireth the voyage but of half the earth. But to circle the earth, as the heavenly bodies do, was not done nor enterprised till these later times: and therefore these times may justly bear in their word... plus ultra in precedence of the ancient non ultra.... And this proficience in navigation and discoveries may plant also an expectation of the further proficience and augmentation of all sciences, because it may seem that they are ordained by God to be coevals, that is, to meet in one age. For so the prophet Daniel, speaking of the latter times foretelleth, Plurimi pertransibunt, et multiplex erit scientia: as if the openness and through-passage of the world and the increase of knowledge were appointed to be in the same ages; as we see it is already performed in great part: the learning of these later times not much giving place to the former two periods or returns of learning, the one of the Grecians, the other of the Romans." [Footnote: Advancement of Learning, ii. 13, 14.] In all this we have a definite recognition of the fact that knowledge progresses. Bacon did not come into close quarters with the history of civilisation, but he has thrown out some observations which amount to a rough synthesis. [Footnote: Advancement, ii. 1, 6; Nov. Org. i. 78, 79, 85.] Like Bodin, he divided, history into three periods--(1) the antiquities of the world; (2) the middle part of time which comprised two sections, the Greek and the Roman; (3) "modern history," which included what we now call the Middle Ages. In this sequence three particular epochs stand out as fertile in science and favourable to progress--the Greek, the Roman, and our own--"and scarcely two centuries can with justice be assigned to each." The other periods of time are deserts, so far as philosophy and science are concerned. Rome and Greece are "two exemplar States of the world for arms, learning, moral virtue, policy, and laws." But even in those two great epochs little progress was made in natural philosophy. For in Greece moral and political speculation absorbed men's minds; in Rome, meditation and labour were wasted on moral philosophy, and the greatest intellects were devoted to civil affairs. Afterwards, in the third period, the study of theology was the chief occupation of the Western European nations. It was actually in the earliest period that the most useful discoveries for the comfort of human life were made, "so that, to say the truth, when contemplation and doctrinal science began, the discovery of useful works ceased." So much for the past history of mankind, during which many things conspired to make progress in the subjugation of nature slow, fitful, and fortuitous. What of the future? Bacon's answer is: if the errors of the past are understood and avoided there is every hope of steady progress in the modern age. But it might be asked. Is there not something in the constitution of things which determines epochs of stagnation and vigour, some force against which man's understanding and will are impotent? Is it not true that in the revolutions of ages there are floods and ebbs of the sciences, which flourish now and then decline, and that when they have reached a certain point they can proceed no further? This doctrine of Returns or ricorsi [Footnote: Bodin's conversiones.] is denounced by Bacon as the greatest obstacle to the advancement of knowledge, creating, as it does, diffidence or despair. He does not formally refute it, but he marshals the reasons for an optimistic view, and these reasons supply the disproof The facts on which the fatalistic doctrine of Returns is based can be explained without resorting to any mysterious law. [Footnote: Nov. Org. i. 92 sqq.] Progress has not been steady or continuous on account of the prejudices and errors which hindered men from setting to work in the right way. The difficulties in advancing did not arise from things which are not in our power; they were due to the human understanding, which wasted time and labour on improper objects. "In proportion as the errors which have been committed impeded the past, so do they afford reason to hope for the future." 4. But will the new period of advance, which Bacon expected and strove to secure, be of indefinite duration? He does not consider the question. His view that he lived in the old age of the world implies that he did not anticipate a vast tract of time before the end of mankind's career on earth. And an orthodox Christian of that time could hardly be expected to predict. The impression we get is that, in his sanguine enthusiasm, he imagined that a "prudent interrogation" of nature could extort all her secrets in a few generations. As a reformer he was so engaged in the immediate prospect of results that his imagination did not turn to the possibilities of a remoter future, though these would logically follow from his recognition of "the inseparable propriety of time which is ever more and more to disclose truth." He hopes everything from his own age in which learning has made her third visitation to the world, a period which he is persuaded will far surpass that of Grecian and Roman learning. [Footnote: Advancement, ii. 24.] If he could have revisited England in 1700 and surveyed what science had performed since his death his hopes might have been more than satisfied. But, animated though he was with the progressive spirit, as Leonardo da Vinci had been before him, all that he says of the prospects of an increase of knowledge fails to amount to the theory of Progress. He prepares the way, he leads up to it; but his conception of his own time as the old age of humanity excludes the conception of an indefinite advance in the future, which is essential if the theory is to have significance and value. And in regard to progress in the past, though he is clearer and more emphatic than Bodin, he hardly adds anything to what Bodin had observed. The novelty of his view lies not in his recognition of the advance of knowledge and its power to advance still further, but in the purpose which he assigned to it. [Footnote: Campanella held its purpose to be the contemplation of the wisdom of God; cp., for instance, De sensu rerum, Bk. iv. epilogus, where the world is described as statua Dei altissimi (p. 370; ed. 1620).] The end of the sciences is their usefulness to the human race. To increase knowledge is to extend the dominion of man over nature, and so to increase his comfort and happiness, so far as these depend on external circumstances. To Plato or Seneca, or to a Christian dreaming of the City of God, this doctrine would seem material and trivial; and its announcement was revolutionary: for it implied that happiness on earth was an end to be pursued for its own sake, and to be secured by co-operation for mankind at large. This idea is an axiom which any general doctrine of Progress must presuppose; and it forms Bacon's great contribution to the group of ideas which rendered possible the subsequent rise of that doctrine. Finally, we must remember that by Bacon, as by most of his Elizabethan contemporaries, the doctrine of an active intervening Providence, the Providence of Augustine, was taken as a matter of course, and governed more or less their conceptions of the history of civilisation. But, I think, we may say that Bacon, while he formally acknowledged it, did not press it or emphasise it. [Footnote: See Advancement, iii. II. On the influence of the doctrine on historical writing in England at the beginning of the seventeenth century see Firth, Sir Walter Raleigh's History of the World (Proc. of British Academy, vol. viii., 1919), p. 8.] 5. Bacon illustrated his view of the social importance of science in his sketch of an ideal state, the New Atlantis. He completed only a part of the work, and the fragment was published after his death. [Footnote: In 1627. It was composed about 1623. It seems almost certain that he was acquainted with the Christianopolis of Johann Valentin Andreae (1586-1654), which had appeared in Latin in 1614, and contained a plan for a scientific college to reform the civilised world. Andreae, who was acquainted both with More and with Campanella, placed his ideal society in an island which he called Caphar Salama (the name of a village in Palestine). Andreae's work had also a direct influence on the Nova Solyma of Samuel Gott (1648). See the Introduction of F. E. Held to his edition of Christianopolis (1916). In Macaria, another imaginary state of the seventeenth century (A description of the famous Kingdoms of Macaria, 1641, by Hartlib), the pursuit of science is not a feature.] It is evident that the predominating interest that moved his imagination was different from that which guided Plato. While Plato aimed at securing a permanent solid order founded on immutable principles, the design of Bacon was to enable his imaginary community to achieve dominion over nature by progressive discoveries. The heads of Plato's city are metaphysicians, who regulate the welfare of the people by abstract doctrines established once for all; while the most important feature in the New Atlantis is the college of scientific investigators, who are always discovering new truths which may alter the conditions of life. Here, though only in a restricted field, an idea of progressive improvement, which is the note of the modern age, comes in to modify the idea of a fixed order which exclusively prevailed in ancient speculation. On the other hand, we must not ignore the fact that Bacon's ideal society is established by the same kind of agency as the ideal societies of Plato and Aristotle. It has not developed; it was framed by the wisdom of an original legislator Solamona. In this it resembles the other imaginary commonwealths of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. The organisation of More's Utopia is fixed initially once for all by the lawgiver Utopus. The origin of Campanella's Civitas Solis is not expressly stated, but there can be no doubt that he conceived its institutions as created by the fiat of a single lawgiver. Harrington, in his Oceana, argues with Machiavelli that a commonwealth, to be well turned, must be the work of one man, like a book or a building. [Footnote: Harrington, Oceana, pp. 77-8, 3rd ed. (1747).] What measure of liberty Bacon would have granted to the people of his perfect state we cannot say; his work breaks off before he comes to describe their condition. But we receive the impression that the government he conceived was strictly paternal, though perhaps less rigorous than the theocratic despotism which Campanella, under Plato's influence, set up in the City of the Sun. But even Campanella has this in common with More--and we may be sure that Bacon's conception would have agreed here--that there are no hard-and-fast lines between the classes, and the welfare and happiness of all the inhabitants is impartially considered, in contrast with Plato's scheme in the Laws, where the artisans and manual labourers were an inferior caste existing less for their own sake than for the sake of the community as a whole. [Footnote: This however does not apply to the Republic, as is so commonly asserted. See the just criticisms of A. A. Trever, A History of Greek Economic Thought (Chicago, 1916), 49 sqq.] It may finally be pointed out that these three imaginary commonwealths stand together as a group, marked by a humaner temper than the ancient, and also by another common characteristic which distinguishes them, on one hand, from the ideal states of Plato and, on the other, from modern sketches of desirable societies. Plato and Aristotle conceived their constructions within the geographical limits of Hellas, either in the past or in the present. More, Bacon, and Campanella placed theirs in distant seas, and this remoteness in space helped to create a certain illusion, of reality. [Footnote: Civitas Solis, p. 461 (ed. 1620). Expectancy of end of world: Ib. p. 455.] The modern plan is to project the perfect society into a period of future time. The device of More and his successors was suggested by the maritime explorations of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries; the later method was a result of the rise of the idea of Progress. [Footnote: Similarly the ideal communistic states imagined by Euemerus and Iambulus in the southern seas owed their geographical positions to the popular interest in seafaring in the Indian Ocean in the age after Alexander. One wonders whether Campanella knew the account of the fictitious journey of Iambulus to the Islands of the Sun, in Diodorus Siculus, ii. 55-60.] 6. A word or two more may be said about the City of the Sun. Campanella was as earnest a believer in the interrogation of nature as Bacon, and the place which science and learning hold in his state (although research is not so prominent as in the New Atlantis), and the scientific training of all the citizens, are a capital feature. The progress in inventions, to which science may look forward, is suggested. The men of the City of the Sun "have already discovered the one art which the world seemed to lack--the art of flying; and they expect soon to invent ocular instruments which will enable them to see the invisible stars and auricular instruments for hearing the harmony of the spheres." Campanella's view of the present conditions and prospects of knowledge is hardly less sanguine than that of Bacon, and characteristically he confirms his optimism by astrological data. "If you only knew what their astrologers say about the coming age. Our times, they assert, have more history in a hundred years than the whole world in four thousand. More books have been published in this century than in five thousand years before. They dwell on the wonderful inventions of printing, of artillery, and of the use of the magnet,--clear signs of the times--and also instruments for the assembling of the inhabitants of the world into one fold," and show that these discoveries were conditioned by stellar influences. But Campanella is not very sure or clear about the future. Astrology and theology cause him to hesitate. Like Bacon, he dreams of a great Renovation and sees that the conditions are propitious, but his faith is not secure. The astronomers of his imaginary state scrutinise the stars to discover whether the world will perish or not, and they believe in the oracular saying of Jesus that the end will come like a thief in the night. Therefore they expect a new age, and perhaps also the end of the world. The new age of knowledge was about to begin. Campanella, Bruno, and Bacon stand, as it were, on the brink of the dividing stream, tenduntque manus ripae ulterioris amore. CHAPTER III. CARTESIANISM If we are to draw any useful lines of demarcation in the continuous flux of history we must neglect anticipations and announcements, and we need not scruple to say that, in the realm of knowledge and thought, modern history begins in the seventeenth century. Ubiquitous rebellion against tradition, a new standard of clear and precise thought which affects even literary expression, a flow of mathematical and physical discoveries so rapid that ten years added more to the sum of knowledge than all that had been added since the days of Archimedes, the introduction of organised co-operation to increase knowledge by the institution of the Royal Society at London, the Academy of Sciences at Paris, Observatories--realising Bacon's Atlantic dream--characterise the opening of a new era. For the ideas with which we are concerned, the seventeenth century centres round Descartes, whom an English admirer described as "the grand secretary of Nature." [Footnote: Joseph Glanvill, Vanity of Dogmatising, p. 211, 64] Though his brilliant mathematical discoveries were the sole permanent contribution he made to knowledge, though his metaphysical and physical systems are only of historical interest, his genius exercised a more extensive and transforming influence on the future development of thought than any other man of his century. Cartesianism affirmed the two positive axioms of the supremacy of reason, and the invariability of the laws of nature; and its instrument was a new rigorous analytical method, which was applicable to history as well as to physical knowledge. The axioms had destructive corollaries. The immutability of the processes of nature collided with the theory of an active Providence. The supremacy of reason shook the thrones from which authority and tradition had tyrannised over the brains of men. Cartesianism was equivalent to a declaration of the Independence of Man. It was in the atmosphere of the Cartesian spirit that a theory of Progress was to take shape. 1. Let us look back. We saw that all the remarks of philosophers prior to the seventeenth century, which have been claimed as enunciations of the idea of Progress, amount merely to recognitions of the obvious fact that in the course of the past history of men there have been advances and improvements in knowledge and arts, or that we may look for some improvements in the future. There is not one of them that adumbrates a theory that can be called a theory of Progress. We have seen several reasons why the idea could not emerge in the ancient or in the Middle Ages. Nor could it have easily appeared in the period of the Renaissance. Certain preliminary conditions were required, and these were not fulfilled till the seventeenth century. So long as men believed that the Greeks and Romans had attained, in the best days of their civilisation, to an intellectual plane which posterity could never hope to reach, so long as the authority of their thinkers was set up as unimpeachable, a theory of degeneration held the field, which excluded a theory of Progress. It was the work of Bacon and Descartes to liberate science and philosophy from the yoke of that authority; and at the same time, as we shall see, the rebellion began to spread to other fields. Another condition for the organisation of a theory of Progress was a frank recognition of the value of mundane life and the subservience of knowledge to human needs. The secular spirit of the Renaissance prepared the world for this new valuation, which was formulated by Bacon, and has developed into modern utilitarianism. There was yet a third preliminary condition. There can be no certainty that knowledge will continually progress until science has been placed on sure foundations. And science does not rest for us on sure foundations unless the invariability of the laws of nature is admitted. If we do not accept this hypothesis, if we consider it possible that the uniformities of the natural world may be changed from time to time, we have no guarantee that science can progress indefinitely. The philosophy of Descartes established this principle, which is the palladium of science; and thus the third preliminary condition was fulfilled. 2. During the Renaissance period the authority of the Greeks and Romans had been supreme in the realm of thought, and in the interest of further free development it was necessary that this authority should be weakened. Bacon and others had begun the movement to break down this tyranny, but the influence of Descartes was weightier and more decisive, and his attitude was more uncompromising. He had none of Bacon's reverence for classical literature; he was proud of having forgotten the Greek which he had learned as a boy. The inspiration of his work was the idea of breaking sharply and completely with the past, and constructing a system which borrows nothing from the dead. He looked forward to an advancement of knowledge in the future, on the basis of his own method and his own discoveries, [Footnote: Cf. for instance his remarks on medicine, at the end of the Discours de la methode.] and he conceived that this intellectual advance would have far-reaching effects on the condition of mankind. The first title he had proposed to give to his Discourse on Method was "The Project of a Universal Science which can elevate our Nature to its highest degree of Perfection." He regarded moral and material improvement as depending on philosophy and science. The justification of an independent attitude towards antiquity, on the ground that the world is now older and more mature, was becoming a current view. [Footnote: Descartes wrote: Non est quod antiquis multum tribuamus propter antiquitatem, sed nos potius iis seniores dicendi. Jam enim senior est mundus quam tune majoremque habemus rerum experientiam. (A fragment quoted by Baillet, Vie de Descartes, viii. 10.) Passages to the same effect occur in Malebranche, Arnauld, and Nicole. (See Bouillier, Histoire de la philosophie cartesienne, i. 482-3.) A passage in La Mothe Le Vayer's essay Sur l'opiniatrete in Orasius Tubero (ii. 218) is in point, if, as seems probable, the date of that work is 1632-33. "Some defer to the ancients and allow themselves to be led by them like children; others hold that the ancients lived in the youth of the world, and it is those who live to-day who are really the ancients, and consequently ought to carry most weight." See Rigault, Histoire de la querelle des Anciens et des Modernes, p. 52. The passage of Pascal occurs in the Fragment d'un traite du vide, not published till 1779 (now included in the Pensees, Premiere Partie, Art. I), and therefore without influence on the origination of the theory of progress. It has been pointed out that Guillaume Colletet had in 1636 expressed a similar view (Brunetiere, Etudes critiques, v. 185-6).] Descartes expressed it like Bacon, and it was taken up and repeated by many whom Descartes influenced. Pascal, who till 1654 was a man of science and a convert to Cartesian ideas, put it in a striking way. The whole sequence of men (he says) during so many centuries should be considered as a single man, continually existing and continually learning. At each stage of his life this universal man profited by the knowledge he had acquired in the preceding stages, and he is now in his old age. This is a fuller, and probably an independent, development of the comparison of the race to an individual which we found in Bacon. It occurs in a fragment which remained unpublished for more than a hundred years, and is often quoted as a recognition, not of a general progress of man, but of a progress in human knowledge. To those who reproached Descartes with disrespect towards ancient thinkers he might have replied that, in repudiating their authority, he was really paying them the compliment of imitation and acting far more in their own spirit than those who slavishly followed them. Pascal saw this point. "What can be more unjust," he wrote, "than to treat our ancients with greater consideration than they showed towards their own predecessors, and to have for them this incredible respect which they deserve from us only because they entertained no such regard for those who had the same advantage (of antiquity) over them?" [Footnote: Pensees, ib.] At the same time Pascal recognised that we are indebted to the ancients for our very superiority to them in the extent of our knowledge. "They reached a certain point, and the slightest effort enables us to mount higher; so that we find ourselves on a loftier plane with less trouble and less glory." The attitude of Descartes was very different. Aspiring to begin ab integro and reform the foundations of knowledge, he ignored or made little of what had been achieved in the past. He attempted to cut the threads of continuity as with the shears of Atropos. This illusion [Footnote: He may be reproached himself with scholasticism in his metaphysical reasoning.] hindered him from stating a doctrine of the progress of knowledge as otherwise he might have done. For any such doctrine must take account of the past as well as of the future. But a theory of progress was to grow out of his philosophy, though he did not construct it. It was to be developed by men who were imbued with the Cartesian spirit. 3. The theological world in France was at first divided on the question whether the system of Descartes could be reconciled with orthodoxy or not. The Jesuits said no, the Fathers of the Oratory said yes. The Jansenists of Port Royal were enthusiastic Cartesians. Yet it was probably the influence of the great spiritual force of Jansenism that did most to check the immediate spread of Cartesian ideas. It was preponderant in France for fifty years. The date of the Discourse of Method is 1637. The Augustinus of Jansenius was published in 1640, and in 1643 Arnauld's Frequent Communion made Jansenism a popular power. The Jansenist movement was in France in some measure what the Puritan movement was in England, and it caught hold of serious minds in much the same way. The Jesuits had undertaken the task of making Christianity easy, of finding a compromise between worldliness and religion, and they flooded the world with a casuistic literature designed for this purpose. Ex opinionum varietate jugum Christi suavius deportatur. The doctrine of Jansenius was directed against this corruption of faith and morals. He maintained that there can be no compromise with the world; that casuistry is incompatible with morality; that man is naturally corrupt; and that in his most virtuous acts some corruption is present. Now the significance of these two forces--the stern ideal of the Jansenists and the casuistry of the Jesuit teachers--is that they both attempted to meet, by opposed methods, the wave of libertine thought and conduct which is a noticeable feature in the history of French society from the reign of Henry IV. to that of Louis XV. [Footnote: For the prevalence of "libertine" thought in France at the beginning of the seventeenth century see the work of the Pere Garasse, La Doctrine curieuse des beaux esprits de ce temps ou pretendus tels, etc. (1623). Cp. also Brunetiere's illuminating study, "Jansenistes et Cartesiens" in Etudes critiques, 4me serie.] This libertinism had its philosophy, a sort of philosophy of nature, of which the most brilliant exponents were Rabelais and Moliere. The maxim, "Be true to nature," was evidently opposed sharply to the principles of the Christian religion, and it was associated with sceptical views which prevailed widely in France from the early years of the seventeenth century. The Jesuits sought to make terms by saying virtually: "Our religious principles and your philosophy of nature are not after all so incompatible in practice. When it comes to the application of principles, opinions differ. Theology is as elastic as you like. Do not abandon your religion on the ground that her yoke is hard." Jansenius and his followers, on the other hand, fought uncompromisingly with the licentious spirit of the time, maintaining the austerest dogmas and denouncing any compromise or condescension. And their doctrine had a wonderful success, and penetrated everywhere. Few of the great literary men of the reign of Louis XIV. escaped it. Its influence can be traced in the Maximes of La Rochefoucauld and the Caracteres of La Bruyere. It was through its influence that Moliere found it difficult to get some of his plays staged. It explains the fact that the court of Louis XIV., however corrupt, was decorous compared with the courts of Henry IV. and Louis XV.; a severe standard was set up, if it was not observed. The genius of Pascal made the fortunes of Jansenism. He outlived his Cartesianism and became its most influential spokesman. His Provinciales (1656) rendered abstruse questions of theology more or less intelligible, and invited the general public to pronounce an opinion on them. His lucid exposition interested every one in the abstruse problem, Is man's freedom such as not to render grace superfluous? But Pascal perceived that casuistry was not the only enemy that menaced the true spirit of religion for which Jansenism stood. He came to realise that Cartesianism, to which he was at first drawn, was profoundly opposed to the fundamental views of Christianity. His Pensees are the fragments of a work which he designed in defence of religion, and it is easy to see that this defence was to be specially directed against the ideas of Descartes. Pascal was perfectly right about the Cartesian conception of the Universe, though Descartes might pretend to mitigate its tendencies, and his fervent disciple, Malebranche, might attempt to prove that it was more or less reconcilable with orthodox doctrine. We need not trouble about the special metaphysical tenets of Descartes. The two axioms which he launched upon the world--the supremacy of reason, and the invariability of natural laws--struck directly at the foundations of orthodoxy. Pascal was attacking Cartesianism when he made his memorable attempt to discredit the authority of reason, by showing that it is feeble and deceptive. It was a natural consequence of his changed attitude that he should speak (in the Pensees) in a much less confident tone about the march of science than he had spoken in the passage which I quoted above. And it was natural that he should be pessimistic about social improvement, and that, keeping his eyes fixed on his central fact that Christianity is the goal of history, he should take only a slight and subsidiary interest in amelioration. The preponderant influence of Jansenism only began to wane during the last twenty years of the seventeenth century, and till then it seems to have been successful in counteracting the diffusion of the Cartesian ideas. Cartesianism begins to become active and powerful when Jansenism is beginning to decline. And it is just then that the idea of Progress begins definitely to emerge. The atmosphere in France was favourable for its reception. 4. The Cartesian mechanical theory of the world and the doctrine of invariable law, carried to a logical conclusion, excluded the doctrine of Providence. This doctrine was already in serious danger. Perhaps no article of faith was more insistently attacked by sceptics in the seventeenth century, and none was more vital. The undermining of the theory of Providence is very intimately connected with our subject; for it was just the theory of an active Providence that the theory of Progress was to replace; and it was not till men felt independent of Providence that they could organise a theory of Progress. Bossuet was convinced that the question of Providence was the most serious and pressing among all the questions of the day that were at issue between orthodox and heretical thinkers. Brunetiere, his fervent admirer, has named him the theologian of Providence, and has shown that in all his writings this doctrine is a leading note. It is sounded in his early sermons in the fifties, and it is the theme of his most ambitious work, the Discourse on Universal History, which appeared in 1681. [Footnote; It has been shown that on one hand he controverts Spinoza's Tractatus theologico-politicus, and on the other the dangerous methods of Richard Simon, one of the precursors of modern biblical criticism. Brunetiere, op. cit. 74-85.] This book, which has received high praise from those who most heartily dissent from its conclusions, is in its main issue a restatement of the view of history which Augustine had worked out in his memorable book. The whole course of human experience has been guided by Providence for the sake of the Church; that is, for the sake of the Church to which Bossuet belonged. Regarded as a philosophy of history the Discourse may seem little more than the theory of the De Civitate Dei brought up to date; but this is its least important aspect. We shall fail to understand it unless we recognise that it was a pragmatical, opportune work, designed for the needs of the time, and with express references to current tendencies of thought. One main motive of Bossuet in his lifelong concern for Providence was his conviction that the doctrine was the most powerful check on immorality, and that to deny it was to remove the strongest restraint on the evil side of human nature. There is no doubt that the free-living people of the time welcomed the arguments which called Providence in question, and Bossuet believed that to champion Providence was the most efficient means of opposing the libertine tendencies of his day. "Nothing," he declared in one of his sermons (1662), "has appeared more insufferable to the arrogance of libertines than to see themselves continually under the observation of this ever-watchful eye of Providence. They have felt it as an importunate compulsion to recognise that there is in Heaven a superior force which governs all our movements and chastises our loose actions with a severe authority. They have wished to shake off the yoke of this Providence, in order to maintain, in independence, an unteachable liberty which moves them to live at their own fancy, without fear, discipline, or restraint." [Passage from Bossuet, quoted by Brunetiere, op. cit. 58.] Bossuet was thus working in the same cause as the Jansenists. He had himself come under the influence of Descartes, whose work he always regarded with the deepest respect. The cautiousness of the master had done much to disguise the insidious dangers of his thought, and it was in the hands of those disciples who developed his system and sought to reconcile it at all points with orthodoxy that his ideas displayed their true nature. Malebranche's philosophy revealed the incompatibility of Providence--in the ordinary acceptation--with immutable natural laws. If the Deity acts upon the world, as Malebranche maintained, only by means of general laws, His freedom is abolished, His omnipotence is endangered, He is subject to a sort of fatality. What will become of the Christian belief in the value of prayers, if God cannot adapt or modify, on any given occasion, the general order of nature to the needs of human beings? These are some of the arguments which we find in a treatise composed by Fenelon, with the assistance of Bossuet, to demonstrate that the doctrine of Malebranche is inconsistent with piety and orthodox religion. They were right. Cartesianism was too strong a wine to be decanted into old bottles. [Footnote: Fenelon's Refutation of Malebranche's Traite de la nature et de la grace was not published till 1820. This work of Malebranche also provoked a controversy with Arnauld, who urged similar arguments.] Malebranche's doctrine of what he calls divine Providence was closely connected with his philosophical optimism. It enabled him to maintain the perfection of the universe. Admitting the obvious truth that the world exhibits many imperfections, and allowing that the Creator could have produced a better result if he had employed other means, Malebranche argued that, in judging the world, we must take into account not only the result but the methods by which it has been produced. It is the best world, he asserts, that could be framed by general and simple methods; and general and simple methods are the most perfect, and alone worthy of the Creator. Therefore, if we take the methods and the result together, a more perfect world is impossible. The argument was ingenious, though full of assumptions, but it was one which could only satisfy a philosopher. It is little consolation to creatures suffering from the actual imperfections of the system into which they are born to be told that the world might have been free from those defects, only in that case they would not have the satisfaction of knowing that it was created and conducted on theoretically superior principles. Though Malebranche's conception was only a metaphysical theory, metaphysical theories have usually their pragmatic aspects; and the theory that the universe is as perfect as it could be marks a stage in the growth of intellectual optimism which we can trace from the sixteenth century. It was a view which could appeal to the educated public in France, for it harmonised with the general spirit of self-complacency and hopefulness which prevailed among the higher classes of society in the reign of Louis XIV. For them the conditions of life under the new despotism had become far more agreeable than in previous ages, and it was in a spirit of optimism that they devoted themselves to the enjoyment of luxury and elegance. The experience of what the royal authority could achieve encouraged men to imagine that one enlightened will, with a centralised administration at its command, might accomplish endless improvements in civilisation. There was no age had ever been more glorious, no age more agreeable to live in. The world had begun to abandon the theory of corruption, degeneration, and decay. Some years later the optimistic theory of the perfection of the universe found an abler exponent in Leibnitz, whom Diderot calls the father of optimism. [Footnote: See particularly Monadologie, ad fin. published posthumously in German 1720, in Latin 1728; Theodicee, Section 341 (1710); and the paper, De rerum originatione radicali, written in 1697, but not published till 1840 (Opera philosophica, ed. Erdmann, p. 147 sqq).] The Creator, before He acted, had considered all possible worlds, and had chosen the best. He might have chosen one in which humanity would have been better and happier, but that would not have been the best possible, for He had to consider the interests of the whole universe, of which the earth with humanity is only an insignificant part. The evils and imperfections of our small world are negligible in comparison with the happiness and perfection of the whole cosmos. Leibnitz, whose theory is deduced from the abstract proposition that the Creator is perfect, does not say that now or at any given moment the universe is as perfect as it could be; its merit lies in its potentialities; it will develop towards perfection throughout infinite time. The optimism of Leibnitz therefore concerns the universe as a whole, not the earth, and would obviously be quite consistent with a pessimistic view of the destinies of humanity. He does indeed believe that it would be impossible to improve the universal order, "not only for the whole, but for ourselves in particular," and incidentally he notes the possibility that "in the course of time the human race may reach a greater perfection than we can imagine at present." But the significance of his speculation and that of Malebranche lies in the fact that the old theories of degeneration are definitely abandoned. CHAPTER IV. THE DOCTRINE OF DEGENERATION: THE ANCIENTS AND MODERNS 1. Outside the circle of systematic thinkers the prevalent theory of degeneration was being challenged early in the seventeenth century. The challenge led to a literary war, which was waged for about a hundred years in France and England; over the comparative merits of the ancients and the moderns. It was in the matter of literature, and especially poetry, that the quarrel was most acrimonious, and that the interest of the public was most keenly aroused, but the ablest disputants extended the debate to the general field of knowledge. The quarrel of the Ancients and Moderns used commonly to be dismissed as a curious and rather ridiculous episode in the history of literature. [Footnote: The best and fullest work on the subject is Rigault's "Histoire de la querelle des Anciens et des Modernes" (1856).] Auguste Comte was, I think, one of the first to call attention to some of its wider bearings. The quarrel, indeed, has considerable significance in the history of ideas. It was part of the rebellion against the intellectual yoke of the Renaissance; the cause of the Moderns, who were the aggressors, represented the liberation of criticism from the authority of the dead; and, notwithstanding the perversities of taste of which they were guilty, their polemic, even on the purely literary side, was distinctly important, as M. Brunetiere has convincingly shown, [Footnote: See his "L'evolution des genres dans l'histoire de la litterature."] in the development of French criticism. But the form in which the critical questions were raised forced the debate to touch upon a problem of greater moment. The question, Can the men of to-day contend on equal terms with the illustrious ancients, or are they intellectually inferior? implied the larger issue, Has nature exhausted her powers; is she no longer capable of producing men equal in brains and vigour to those whom she once produced; is humanity played out, or are her forces permanent and inexhaustible? The assertion of the permanence of the powers of nature by the champions of the Moderns was the direct contradiction of the theory of degeneration, and they undoubtedly contributed much towards bringing that theory into discredit. When we grasp this it will not be surprising to find that the first clear assertions of a doctrine of progress in knowledge were provoked by the controversy about the Ancients and Moderns. Although the great scene of the controversy was France, the question had been expressly raised by an Italian, no less a person than Alessandro Tassoni, the accomplished author of that famous ironical poem, "La Secchia rapita," which caricatured the epic poets of his day. He was bent on exposing the prejudices of his time and uttering new doctrine, and he created great scandal in Italy by his attacks on Petrarch, as well as on Homer and Aristotle. The earliest comparison of the merits of the ancients and the moderns will be found in a volume of Miscellaneous Thoughts which he published in 1620. [Footnote: Dieci libri di pensieri diversi (Carpi, 1620). The first nine books had appeared in 1612. The tenth contains the comparison. Rigault was the first to connect this work with the history of the controversy.] He speaks of the question as a matter of current dispute, [Footnote: It was incidental to the controversy which arose over the merits of Tasso's Jerusalem Delivered. That the subject had been discussed long before may be inferred from a remark of Estienne in his Apology for Herodotus, that while some of his contemporaries carry their admiration of antiquity to the point of superstition, others depreciate and trample it underfoot.] on which he proposes to give an impartial decision by instituting a comprehensive comparison in all fields, theoretical, imaginative, and practical. He begins by criticising the a priori argument that, as arts are brought to perfection by experience and long labour, the modern age must necessarily have the advantage. This reasoning, he says, is unsound, because the same arts and studies are not always uninterruptedly pursued by the most powerful intellects, but pass into inferior hands, and so decline or are even extinguished, as was the case in Italy in the decrepitude of the Roman Empire, when for many centuries the arts fell below mediocrity. Or, to phrase it otherwise, the argument would be admissible only if there were no breaches of continuity. [Footnote: Tassoni argues that a decline in all pursuits is inevitable when a certain point of excellence has been reached, quoting Velleius Paterculus (i. 17): difficilisque in perfecto mora est naturaliterque quod procedere non potest recedit.] In drawing his comparison Tassoni seeks to make good his claim that he is not an advocate. But while he awards superiority here and there to the ancients, the moderns on the whole have much the best of it. He takes a wide enough survey, including the material side of civilisation, even costume, in contrast with some of the later controversialists, who narrowed the field of debate to literature and art. Tassoni's Thoughts were translated into French, and the book was probably known to Boisrobert, a dramatist who is chiefly remembered for the part he took in founding the Academie francaise. He delivered a discourse before that body immediately after its institution (February 26, 1635), in which he made a violent and apparently scurrilous attack on Homer. This discourse kindled the controversy in France, and even struck a characteristic note. Homer--already severely handled by Tassoni--was to be the special target for the arrows of the Moderns, who felt that, if they could succeed in discrediting him, their cause would be won. Thus the gauntlet was flung--and it is important to note this--before the appearance of the Discourse of Method (1637); but the influence of Descartes made itself felt throughout the controversy, and the most prominent moderns were men who had assimilated Cartesian ideas. This seems to be true even of Desmarets de Saint Sorlin, who, a good many years after the discourse of Boisrobert, opened the campaign. Saint Sorlin had become a fanatical Christian; that was one reason for hating the ancients. [Footnote: For the views of Saint Sorlin see the Preface to his Clovis and his Traite pour juger des poefes grecs, latins, et francais, chap. iv. (1670). Cp. Rigault, Hist. de la querelle, p. 106. The polemic of Saint Sorlin extended over about five years (1669-73).] He was also, like Boisrobert, a bad poet; that was another. His thesis was that the history of Christianity offered subjects far more inspiring to a poet than those which had been treated by Homer and Sophocles, and that Christian poetry must bear off the palm from pagan. His own Clovis and Mary Magdalene or the Triumph of Grace were the demonstration of Homer's defeat. Few have ever heard of these productions; how many have read them? Curiously, about the same time an epic was being composed in England which might have given to the foolish contentions of Saint Sorlin some illusory plausibility. But the literary dispute does not concern us here. What does concern us is that Saint Sorlin was aware of the wider aspects of the question, though he was not seriously interested in them. Antiquity, he says, was not so happy or so learned or so rich or so stately as the modern age, which is really the mature old age, and as it were the autumn of the world, possessing the fruits and the spoils of all the past centuries, with the power to judge of the inventions, experiences, and errors of predecessors, and to profit by all that. The ancient world was a spring which had only a few flowers. Nature indeed, in all ages, produces perfect works but it is not so with the creations of man, which require correction; and the men who live latest must excel in happiness and knowledge. Here we have both the assertion of the permanence of the forces of nature and the idea, already expressed by Bacon and others, that the modern age has advantages over antiquity comparable to those of old age over childhood. 2. How seriously the question between the Moderns and the Ancients--on whose behalf Boileau had come forward and crossed swords with Saint Sorlin--was taken is shown by the fact that Saint Sorlin, before his death, solemnly bequeathed the championship of the Moderns to a younger man, Charles Perrault. We shall see how he fulfilled the trust. It is illustrated too by a book which appeared in the seventies, Les Entretiens d'Ariste et Eugene, by Bouhours, a mundane and popular Jesuit Father. In one of these dialogues the question is raised, but with a curious caution and evasiveness, which suggests that the author was afraid to commit himself; he did not wish to make enemies. [Footnote: Rigault notes that he makes one contribution to the subject, the idea that the torch of civilisation has passed from country to country, in different ages, e.g. from Greece to Rome, and recently from Italy to France. In the last century the Italians were first in doctrine and politesse. The present century is for France what the last was for Italy: "We have all the esprit and all the science, all other countries are barbarous in comparison" (p. 239, ed. 1782, Amsterdam). But, as we shall see, he had been anticipated by Hakewill, whose work was unknown to Rigault.] The general atmosphere in France, in the reign of Louis XIV., was propitious to the cause of the Moderns. Men felt that it was a great age, comparable to the age of Augustus, and few would have preferred to have lived at any other time. Their literary artists, Corneille, and then Racine and Moliere, appealed so strongly to their taste that they could not assign to them any rank but the first. They were impatient of the claims to unattainable excellence advanced for the Greeks and Romans. "The ancients," said Moliere, "are the ancients, we are the people of to-day." This might be the motto of Descartes, and it probably expressed a very general feeling. It was in 1687 that Charles Perrault--who is better remembered for his collection of fairy-tales than for the leading role which he played in this controversy--published his poem on "The Age of Louis the Great." The enlightenment of the present age surpasses that of antiquity,--this is the theme. La docte Antiquite dans toute sa duree A l'egal de nos jours ne fut point eclairee. Perrault adopts a more polite attitude to "la belle antiquite" than Saint Sorlin, but his criticism is more insidious. Greek and Roman men of genius, he suggests, were all very well in their own times, and might be considered divine by our ancestors. But nowadays Plato is rather tiresome; and the "inimitable Homer" would have written a much better epic if he had lived in the reign of Louis the Great. The important passage, however, in the poem is that in which the permanent power of nature to produce men of equal talent in every age is affirmed. A former les esprits comme a former les corps La Nature en tout temps fait les mesmes efforts; Son etre est immuable, et cette force aisee Dont elle produit tout ne s'est point epuisee; ..... De cette mesme main les forces infinies Produisent en tout temps de semblables genies. The "Age of Louis the Great" was a brief declaration of faith. Perrault followed it up by a comprehensive work, his Comparison of the Ancients and the Moderns (Parallele des Anciens et des Modernes), which appeared in four parts during the following years (1688-1696). Art, eloquence, poetry the sciences, and their practical applications are all discussed at length; and the discussion is thrown into the form of conversations between an enthusiastic champion of the modern age, who conducts the debate, and a devotee of antiquity, who finds it difficult not to admit the arguments of his opponent, yet obstinately persists in his own views. Perrault bases his thesis on those general considerations which we have met incidentally in earlier writers, and which were now almost commonplaces among those who paid any attention to the matter. Knowledge advances with time and experience; perfection is not necessarily associated with antiquity; the latest comers have inherited from their predecessors and added new acquisitions of their own. But Perrault has thought out the subject methodically, and he draws conclusions which have only to be extended to amount to a definite theory of the progress of knowledge. A particular difficulty had done much to hinder a general admission of progressive improvement in the past. The proposition that the posterior is better and the late comers have the advantage seemed to be incompatible with an obvious historical fact. We are superior to the men of the dark ages in knowledge and arts. Granted. But will you say that the men of the tenth century were superior to the Greeks and Romans? To this question--on which Tassoni had already touched--Perrault replies: Certainly not. There are breaches of continuity. The sciences and arts are like rivers, which flow for part of their course underground, and then, finding an opening, spring forth as abundant as when they plunged beneath the earth. Long wars, for instance, may force peoples to neglect studies and throw all their vigour into the more urgent needs of self-preservation; a period of ignorance may ensue but with peace and felicity knowledge and inventions will begin again and make further advances. [Footnote: The passages in Perrault's Parallele specially referred to in the text will be found in vol. i. pp. 35-7, 60-61, 67, 231-3.] It is to be observed that he does not, claim any superiority in talents or brain power for the moderns. On the contrary, he takes his stand on the principle which he had asserted in the "Age of Louis the Great," that nature is immutable. She still produces as great men as ever, but she does not produce greater. The lions of the deserts of Africa in our days do not differ in fierceness from those the days of Alexander the Great, and the best men of all times are equal in vigour. It is their work and productions that are unequal, and, given equally favourable conditions, the latest must be the best. For science and the arts depend upon the accumulation of knowledge, and knowledge necessarily increases as time goes on. But could this argument be applied to poetry and literary art, the field of battle in which the belligerents, including Perrault himself, were most deeply interested? It might prove that the modern age was capable of producing poets and men of letter no less excellent than the ancient masters, but did it prove that their works must be superior? The objection did not escape Perrault, and he answers it ingeniously. It is the function of poetry and eloquence to please the human heart, and in order to please it we must know it. Is it easier to penetrate the secrets of the human heart than the secrets of nature, or will it take less time? We are always making new discoveries about its passions and desires. To take only the tragedies of Corneille you will find there finer and more delicate reflections on ambition, vengeance, and jealousy than in all the books of antiquity. At the close of his Parallel, however, Perrault, while he declares the general superiority of the moderns, makes a reservation in regard to poetry and eloquence "for the sake of peace." The discussion of Perrault falls far short of embodying a full idea of Progress. Not only is he exclusively concerned with progress in knowledge--though he implies, indeed, without developing, the doctrine that happiness depends on knowledge--but he has no eyes for the future, and no interest in it. He is so impressed with the advance of knowledge in the recent past that he is almost incapable of imagining further progression. "Read the journals of France and England," he says, "and glance at the publications of the Academies of these great kingdoms, and you will be convinced that within the last twenty or thirty years more discoveries have been made in natural science than throughout the period of learned antiquity. I own that I consider myself fortunate to know the happiness we enjoy; it is a great pleasure to survey all the past ages in which I can see the birth and the progress of all things, but nothing which has not received a new increase and lustre in our own times. Our age has, in some sort, arrived at the summit of perfection. And since for some years the rate of the progress is much slower and appears almost insensible--as the days seem to cease lengthening when the solstice is near--it is pleasant to think that probably there are not many things for which we need envy future generations." Indifference to the future, or even a certain scepticism about it, is the note of this passage, and accords with the view that the world has reached its old age. The idea of the progress of knowledge, which Perrault expounds, is still incomplete. 3. Independently of this development in France, the doctrine of degeneration had been attacked, and the comparison of the ancients with the moderns incidentally raised, in England. A divine named George Hakewill published in 1627 a folio of six hundred pages to confute "the common error touching Nature's perpetual and universal decay." [Footnote: An Apologie or Declaration of the Power and Providence of God in the Government of the World, consisting in an Examination and Censure of the common Errour, etc. (1627, 1630, 1635).] He and his pedantic book, which breathes the atmosphere of the sixteenth century, are completely forgotten; and though it ran to three editions, it can hardly have attracted the attention of many except theologians. The writer's object is to prove that the power and providence of God in the government of the world are not consistent with the current view that the physical universe, the heavens and the elements, are undergoing a process of decay, and that man is degenerating physically, mentally, and morally. His arguments in general are futile as well as tedious. But he has profited by reading Bodin and Bacon, whose ideas, it would appear, were already agitating theological minds. A comparison between the ancients and the moderns arises in a general refutation of the doctrine of decay, as naturally as the question of the stability of the powers of nature arises in a comparison between the ancients and moderns. Hakewill protests against excessive admiration of antiquity, just because it encourages the opinion of the world's decay. He gives his argument a much wider scope than the French controversialists. For him the field of debate includes not only science, arts, and literature, but physical qualities and morals. He seeks to show that mentally and physically there has been no decay, and that the morals of modern Christendom are immensely superior to those of pagan times. There has been social progress, due to Christianity; and there has been an advance in arts and knowledge. Multa dies uariusque labor mutabilis aeui Rettulit in melius. Hakewill, like Tassoni, surveys all the arts and sciences, and concludes that the moderns are equal to the ancients in poetry, and in almost all other things excel them. [Footnote: Among modern poets equal to the ancients, Hakewill signalises Sir Philip Sidney, Spenser, Marot, Ronsard, Ariosto, Tasso (Book iii. chap. 8, Section 3).] One of the arguments which he urges against the theory of degeneration is pragmatic--its paralysing effect on human energy. "The opinion of the world's universal decay quails the hopes and blunts the edge of men's endeavours." And the effort to improve the world, he implies, is a duty we owe to posterity. "Let not then the vain shadows of the world's fatal decay keep us either from looking backward to the imitation of our noble predecessors or forward in providing for posterity, but as our predecessors worthily provided, for us, so let our posterity bless us in providing for them, it being still as uncertain to us what generations are still to ensue, as it was to our predecessors in their ages." We note the suggestion that history may be conceived as a sequence of improvements in civilisation, but we note also that Hakewill here is faced by the obstacle which Christian theology offered to the logical expansion of the idea. It is uncertain what generations are still to ensue. Roger Bacon stood before the same dead wall. Hakewill thinks that he is living in the last age of the world; but how long it shall last is a question which cannot be resolved, "it being one of those secrets which the Almighty hath locked up in the cabinet of His own counsel." Yet he consoles himself and his readers with a consideration which suggests that the end is not yet very near. [Footnote: See Book i. chap. 2, Section 4, p. 24.] "It is agreed upon all sides by Divines that at least two signs forerunning the world's end remain unaccomplished--the subversion of Rome and the conversion of the Jews. And when they shall be accomplished God only knows, as yet in man's judgment there being little appearance of the one or the other." It was well to be assured that nature is not decaying or man degenerating. But was the doctrine that the end of the world does not "depend upon the law of nature," and that the growth of human civilisation may be cut off at any moment by a fiat of the Deity, less calculated to "quail the hopes and blunt the edge of men's endeavours?" Hakewill asserted with confidence that the universe will be suddenly wrecked by fire. Una dies dabit exitio. Was the prospect of an arrest which might come the day after to-morrow likely to induce men to exert themselves to make provision for posterity? The significance of Hakewill lies in the fact that he made the current theory of degeneration, which stood in the way of all possible theories of progress, the object of a special inquiry. And his book illustrates the close connection between that theory and the dispute over the Ancients and Moderns. It cannot be said that he has added anything valuable to what may be found in Bodin and Bacon on the development of civilisation. The general synthesis of history which he attempts is equivalent to theirs. He describes the history of knowledge and arts, and all things besides, as exhibiting "a kind of circular progress," by which he means that they have a birth, growth, nourishing, failing and fading, and then within a while after a resurrection and reflourishing. [Footnote: Book iii. chap. 6, Section i, p. 259.] In this method of progress the lamp of learning passed from one people to another. It passed from the Orientals (Chaldeans and Egyptians) to the Greeks; when it was nearly extinguished in Greece it began to shine afresh among the Romans; and having been put out by the barbarians for the space of a thousand years it was relit by Petrarch and his contemporaries. In stating this view of "circular progress," Hakewill comes perilously near to the doctrine of Ricorsi or Returns which had been severely denounced by Bacon. In one point indeed Hakewill goes far beyond Bodin. It was suggested, as we saw, by the French thinker that in some respects the modern age is superior in conduct and morals to antiquity, but he said little on the matter. Hakewill develops the suggestion at great length into a severe and partial impeachment of ancient manners and morals. Unjust and unconvincing though his arguments are, and inspired by theological motives, his thesis nevertheless deserves to be noted as an assertion of the progress of man in social morality. Bacon, and the thinkers of the seventeenth century generally, confined their views of progress in the past to the intellectual field. Hakewill, though he overshot the mark and said nothing actually worth remembering, nevertheless anticipated the larger problem of social progress which was to come to the front in the eighteenth century. 4. During the forty years that followed the appearance of Hakewill's book much had happened in the world of ideas, and when we take up Glanvill's Plus ultra, or the Progress and Advancement of Knowledge since the days of Aristotle, [Footnote: The title is evidently suggested by a passage in Bacon quoted above, p. 55.] we breathe a different atmosphere. It was published in 1668, and its purpose was to defend the recently founded Royal Society which was attacked on the ground that it was inimical to the interests of religion and sound learning. For the Aristotelian tradition was still strongly entrenched in the English Church and Universities, notwithstanding the influence of Bacon; and the Royal Society, which realised "the romantic model" of Bacon's society of experimenters, repudiated the scholastic principles and methods associated with Aristotle's name. Glanvill was one of those latitudinarian clergymen, so common in the Anglican Church in the seventeenth century, who were convinced that religious faith must accord with reason, and were unwilling to abate in its favour any of reason's claims. He was under the influence of Bacon, Descartes, and the Cambridge Platonists, and no one was more enthusiastic than he in following the new scientific discoveries of his time. Unfortunately for his reputation he had a weak side. Enlightened though he was, he was a firm believer in witchcraft, and he is chiefly remembered not as an admirer of Descartes and Bacon, and a champion of the Royal Society, but as the author of Saducismus Triumphatus, a monument of superstition, which probably contributed to check the gradual growth of disbelief in witches and apparitions. His Plus ultra is a review of modern improvements of useful knowledge. It is confined to mathematics and science, in accordance with its purpose of justifying the Royal Society; and the discoveries of the past sixty years enable the author to present a far more imposing picture of modern scientific progress than was possible for Bodin or Bacon. [Footnote: Bacon indeed could have made out a more impressive picture of the new age if he had studied mathematics and taken the pains to master the evidence which was revolutionising astronomy. Glanvill had the advantage of comprehending the importance of mathematics for the advance of physical science.] He had absorbed Bacon's doctrine of utility. His spirit is displayed in the remark that more gratitude is due to the unknown inventor of the mariners' compass "than to a thousand Alexanders and Caesars, or to ten times the number of Aristotles. And he really did more for the increase of knowledge and the advantage of the world by this one experiment than the numerous subtile disputers that have lived ever since the erection of the school of talking." Glanvill, however, in his complacency with what has already been accomplished, is not misled into over-estimating its importance. He knows that it is indeed little compared with the ideal of attainable knowledge. The human design, to which it is the function of the Royal Society to contribute, is laid as low, he says, as the profoundest depths of nature, and reaches as high as the uppermost storey of the universe, extends to all the varieties of the great world, and aims at the benefit of universal mankind. Such a work can only proceed slowly, by insensible degrees. It is an undertaking wherein all the generations of men are concerned, and our own age can hope to do little more than to remove useless rubbish, lay in materials, and put things in order for the building. "We must seek and gather, observe and examine, and lay up in bank for the ages that come after." These lines on "the vastness of the work" suggest to the reader that a vast future will be needed for its accomplishment. Glanvill does not dwell on this, but he implies it. He is evidently unembarrassed by the theological considerations which weighed so heavily on Hakewill. He does not trouble himself with the question whether Anti-Christ has still to appear. The difference in general outlook between these two clergymen is an indication how the world had travelled in the course of forty years. Another point in Glanvill's little book deserves attention. He takes into his prospect the inhabitants of the Transatlantic world; they, too, are to share in the benefits which shall result from the subjugation of nature. "By the gaining that mighty continent and the numerous fruitful isles beyond the Atlantic, we have obtained a larger field of nature, and have thereby an advantage for more phenomena, and more helps both for knowledge and for life, which 'tis very like that future ages will make better use of to such purposes than those hitherto have done; and that science also may at last travel into those parts and enrich Peru with a more precious treasure than that of its golden mines, is not improbable." Sprat, the Bishop of Rochester, in his interesting History of the Royal Society, so sensible and liberal--published shortly before Glanvill's book,--also contemplates the extension of science over the world. Speaking of the prospect of future discoveries, he thinks it will partly depend on the enlargement of the field of western civilisation "if this mechanic genius which now prevails in these parts of Christendom shall happen to spread wide amongst ourselves and other civil nations, or if by some good fate it shall pass farther on to other countries that were yet never fully civilised." This then being imagin'd, that there may some lucky tide of civility flow into those lands which are yet salvage, then will a double improvement thence arise both in respect of ourselves and them. For even the present skilful parts of mankind will be thereby made more skilful, and the other will not only increase those arts which we shall bestow upon them, but will also venture on new searches themselves. He expects much from the new converts, on the ground that nations which have been taught have proved more capable than their teachers, appealing to the case of the Greeks who outdid their eastern masters, and to that of the peoples of modern Europe who received their light from the Romans but have "well nigh doubled the ancient stock of trades delivered to their keeping." 5. The establishment of the Royal Society in 1660 and the Academy of Sciences in 1666 made physical science fashionable in London and Paris. Macaulay, in his characteristic way, describes how "dreams of perfect forms of government made way for dreams of wings with which men were to fly from the Tower to the Abbey, and of double-keeled ships which were never to founder in the fiercest storm. All classes were hurried along by the prevailing sentiment. Cavalier and Roundhead, Churchman and Puritan were for once allied. Divines, jurists, statesmen, nobles, princes, swelled the triumph of the Baconian philosophy." The seeds sown by Bacon had at last begun to ripen, and full credit was given to him by those who founded and acclaimed the Royal Society. The ode which Cowley addressed to that institution might have been entitled an ode in honour of Bacon, or still better--for the poet seized the essential point of Bacon's labours--a hymn on the liberation of the human mind from the yoke of Authority. Bacon has broke that scar-crow Deity. Dryden himself, in the Annus Mirabilis, had turned aside from his subject, the defeat of the Dutch and England's mastery of the seas, to pay a compliment to the Society, and to prophesy man's mastery of the universe. Instructed ships shall sail to rich commerce, By which remotest regions are allied; Which makes one city of the universe, Where some may gain and all may be supplied. Then we upon our globe's last verge shall go, And view the ocean leaning on the sky, From thence our rolling neighbours we shall know, And on the lunar world securely pry. [Footnote: It may be noted that John Wilkins (Bishop of Chester) published in 1638 a little book entitled Discovery of a New World, arguing that the moon is inhabited. A further edition appeared in 1684. He attempted to compose a universal language (Sprat, Hist. of Royal Society, p. 251). His Mercury or the Secret and Swift Messenger (1641) contains proposals for a universal script (chap. 13). There is also an ingenious suggestion for the communication of messages by sound, which might be described as an anticipation of the Morse code. Wilkins and another divine, Seth Ward, the Bishop of Salisbury, belonged to the group of men who founded the Royal Society.] Men did not look far into the future; they did not dream of what the world might be a thousand or ten thousand years hence. They seem to have expected quick results. Even Sprat thinks that "the absolute perfection of the true philosophy" is not far off, seeing that "this first great and necessary preparation for its coming"--the institution of scientific co-operation--has been accomplished. Superficial and transient though the popular enthusiasm was, it was a sign that an age of intellectual optimism had begun, in which the science of nature would play a leading role. CHAPTER V. THE PROGRESS OF KNOWLEDGE: FONTENELLE 1. Nine months before the first part of Perrault's work appeared a younger and more brilliant man had formulated, in a short tract, the essential points of the doctrine of the progress of knowledge. It was Fontenelle. Fontenelle was an anima naturaliter moderna. Trained in the principles of Descartes, he was one of those who, though like Descartes himself, too critical to swear by a master, appreciated unreservedly the value of the Cartesian method. Sometimes, he says, a great man gives the tone to his age; and this is true of Descartes, who can claim the glory of having established a new art of reasoning. He sees the effects in literature. The best books on moral and political subjects are distinguished by an arrangement and precision which he traces to the esprit geometrique characteristic of Descartes. [Footnote: Sur l'utilite des mathematiques el de la physique (Oeuvres, iii. p. 6, ed. 1729).] Fontenelle himself had this "geometrical mind," which we see at its best in Descartes and Hobbes and Spinoza. He had indeed a considerable aptitude for letters. He wrote poor verses, and could not distinguish good poetry from bad. That perhaps was the defect of l'esprit geometrique. But he wrote lucid prose. There was an ironical side to his temper, and he had an ingenious paradoxical wit, which he indulged, with no little felicity, in his early work, Dialogues of the Dead. These conversations, though they show no dramatic power and are simply a vehicle for the author's satirical criticisms on life, are written with a light touch, and are full of surprises and unexpected turns. The very choice of the interlocutors shows a curious fancy, which we do not associate with the geometrical intellect. Descartes is confronted with the Third False Demetrius, and we wonder what the gourmet Apicius will find to say to Galileo. 2. In the Dialogues of the Dead, which appeared in 1683, the Ancient and Modern controversy is touched on more than once, and it is the subject of the conversation between Socrates and Montaigne. Socrates ironically professes to expect that the age of Montaigne will show a vast improvement on his own; that men will have profited by the experience of many centuries; and that the old age of the world will be wiser and better regulated than its youth. Montaigne assures him that it is not so, and that the vigorous types of antiquity, like Pericles, Aristides, and Socrates himself, are no longer to be found. To this assertion Socrates opposes the doctrine of the permanence of the forces of Nature. Nature has not degenerated in her other works; why should she cease to produce reasonable men? He goes on to observe that antiquity is enlarged and exalted by distance: "In our own day we esteemed our ancestors more than they deserved, and now our posterity esteems us more than we deserve. There is really no difference between our ancestors, ourselves, and our posterity. C'est toujours la meme chose." But, objects Montaigne, I should have thought that things were always changing; that different ages had their different characters. Are there not ages of learning and ages of ignorance, rude ages and polite? True, replies Socrates, but these are only externalities. The heart of man does not change with the fashions of his life. The order of Nature remains constant (l'ordre general de la Nature a l'air bien constant). This conclusion harmonises with the general spirit of the Dialogues. The permanence of the forces of Nature is asserted, but for the purpose of dismissing the whole controversy as rather futile. Elsewhere modern discoveries, like the circulation of the blood and the motions of the earth, are criticised as useless; adding nothing to the happiness and pleasures of mankind. Men acquired, at an early period, a certain amount of useful knowledge, to which they have added nothing; since then they have been slowly discovering things that are unnecessary. Nature has not been so unjust as to allow one age to enjoy more pleasures than another. And what is the value of civilisation? It moulds our words, and embarrasses our actions; it does not affect our feelings. [Footnote: See the dialogues of Harvey with Erasistratus (a Greek physician of the third century B.C.); Galileo with Apicius; Montezuma with Fernando Cortez.] One might hardly have expected the author of these Dialogues to come forward a few years later as a champion of the Moderns, even though, in the dedicatory epistle to Lucian, he compared France to Greece. But he was seriously interested in the debated question, as an intellectual problem, and in January 1688 he published his Digression on the Ancients and Moderns, a short pamphlet, but weightier and more suggestive than the large work of his friend Perrault, which began to appear nine months later. 3. The question of pre-eminence between the Ancients and Moderns is reducible to another. Were trees in ancient times greater than to-day? If they were, then Homer, Plato, and Demosthenes cannot be equalled in modern times; if they were not, they can. Fontenelle states the problem in this succinct way at the beginning of the Digression. The permanence of the forces of Nature had been asserted by Saint Sorlin and Perrault; they had offered no proof, and had used the principle rather incidentally and by way of illustration. But the whole inquiry hinged on it. If it can be shown that man has not degenerated, the cause of the Moderns is practically won. The issue of the controversy must be decided not by rhetoric but by physics. And Fontenelle offers what he regards as a formal Cartesian proof of the permanence of natural forces. If the Ancients had better intellects than ours, the brains of that age must have been better arranged, formed of firmer or more delicate fibres, fuller of "animal spirits." But if such a difference existed, Nature must have been more vigorous; and in that case the trees must have profited by that superior vigour and have been larger and finer. The truth is that Nature has in her hands a certain paste which is always the same, which she is ever turning over and over again in a thousand ways, and of which she forms men, animals, and plants. She has not formed Homer, Demosthenes, and Plato of a finer or better kneaded clay than our poets, orators, and philosophers. Do not object that minds are not material. They are connected by a material bond with the brain, and it is the quality of this material bond that determines intellectual differences. But although natural processes do not change from age to age, they differ in their effects in different climates. "It is certain that as a result of the reciprocal dependence which exists between all parts of the material world, differences of climate, which so clearly affect the life of plants, must also produce some effect on human brains." May it not be said then that, in consequence of climatic conditions, ancient Greece and Rome produced men of mental qualities different from those which could be produced in France? Oranges grow easily in Italy; it is more difficult to cultivate them in France. Fontenelle replies that art and cultivation exert a much greater influence on human brains than on the soil; ideas can be transported more easily from one country to another than plants; and as a consequence of commerce and mutual influence, peoples do not retain the original mental peculiarities due to climate. This may not be true of the extreme climates in the torrid and glacial zones, but in the temperate zone we may discount entirely climatic influence. The climates of Greece and Italy and that of France are too similar to cause any sensible difference between the Greeks or Latins and the French. Saint Sorlin and Perrault had argued directly from the permanence of vigour in lions or trees to the permanence of vigour in man. If trees are the same as ever, brains must also be the same. But what about the minor premiss? Who knows that trees are precisely the same? It is an indemonstrable assumption that oaks and beeches in the days of Socrates and Cicero were not slightly better trees than the oaks and beeches of to-day. Fontenelle saw the weakness of this reasoning. He saw that it was necessary to prove that the trees, no less than human brains, have not degenerated. But his a priori proof is simply a statement of the Cartesian principle of the stability of natural processes, which he put in a thoroughly unscientific form. The stability of the laws of nature is a necessary hypothesis, without which science would be impossible. But here it was put to an illegitimate use. For it means that, given precisely the same conditions, the same physical phenomena will occur. Fontenelle therefore was bound to show that conditions had not altered in such a way as to cause changes in the quality of nature's organic productions. He did not do this. He did not take into consideration, for instance, that climatic conditions may vary from age to age as well as from country to country. 4. Having established the natural equality of the Ancients and Moderns, Fontenelle inferred that whatever differences exist are due to external conditions--(1) time; (2) political institutions and the estate of affairs in general. The ancients were prior in time to us, therefore they were the authors of the first inventions. For that, they cannot be regarded as our superiors. If we had been in their place we should have been the inventors, like them; if they were in ours, they would add to those inventions, like us. There is no great mystery in that. We must impute equal merit to the early thinkers who showed the way and to the later thinkers who pursued it. If the ancient attempts to explain the universe have been recently replaced by the discovery of a simple system (the Cartesian), we must consider that the truth could only be reached by the elimination of false routes, and in this way the numbers of the Pythagoreans, the ideas of Plato, the qualities of Aristotle, all served indirectly to advance knowledge. "We are under an obligation to the ancients for having exhausted almost all the false theories that could be formed." Enlightened both by their true views and by their errors, it is not surprising that we should surpass them. But all this applies only to scientific studies, like mathematics, physics, and medicine, which depend partly on correct reasoning and partly on experience. Methods of reasoning improve slowly, and the most important advance which has been made in the present age is the method inaugurated by Descartes. Before him reasoning was loose; he introduced a more rigid and precise standard, and its influence is not only manifest in our best works on physics and philosophy, but is even discernible in books on ethics and religion. We must expect posterity to excel us as we excel the Ancients, through improvement of method, which is a science in itself--the most difficult and least studied of all--and through increase of experience. Evidently the process is endless (il est evident que tout cela n'a point de fin), and the latest men of science must be the most competent. But this does not apply to poetry or eloquence, round which the controversy has most violently raged. For poetry and eloquence do not depend on correct reasoning. They depend principally on vivacity of imagination, and "vivacity of imagination does not require a long course of experiments, or a great multitude of rules, to attain all the perfection of which it is capable." Such perfection might be attained in a few centuries. If the ancients did achieve perfection in imaginative literature, it follows that they cannot be surpassed; but we have no right to say, as their admirers are fond of pretending, that they cannot be equalled. 5. Besides the mere nature of time, we have to take into account external circumstances in considering this question. If the forces of nature are permanent, how are we to explain the fact that in the barbarous centuries after the decline of Rome--the term Middle Ages has not yet come into currency--ignorance was so dense and deep? This breach of continuity is one of the plausible arguments of the advocates of the Ancients. Those ages, they say, were ignorant and barbarous because the Greek and Latin writers had ceased to be read; as soon as the study of the classical models revived there was a renaissance of reason and good taste. That is true, but it proves nothing. Nature never forgot how to mould the head of Cicero or Livy. She produces in every age men who might be great men; but the age does not always allow them to exert their talents. Inundations of barbarians, universal wars, governments which discourage or do not favour science and art, prejudices which assume all variety of shapes--like the Chinese prejudice against dissecting corpses--may impose long periods of ignorance or bad taste. But observe that, though the return to the study of the ancients revived, as at one stroke, the aesthetic ideals which they had created and the learning which they had accumulated, yet even if their works had not been preserved we should, though it would have cost us many long years of labour, have discovered for ourselves "ideas of the true and the beautiful." Where should we have found them? Where the ancients themselves found them, after much groping. 6. The comparison of the life of collective humanity to the life of a single man, which had been drawn by Bacon and Pascal, Saint Sorlin and Perrault, contains or illustrates an important truth which bears on the whole question. Fontenelle puts it thus. An educated mind is, as it were, composed of all the minds of preceding ages; we might say that a single mind was being educated throughout all history. Thus this secular man, who has lived since the beginning of the world, has had his infancy in which he was absorbed by the most urgent needs of life; his youth in which he succeeded pretty well in things of imagination like poetry and eloquence, and even began to reason, but with more courage than solidity. He is now in the age of manhood, is more enlightened, and reasons better; but he would have advanced further if the passion for war had not distracted him and given him a distaste for the sciences to which he has at last returned. Figures, if they are pressed, are dangerous; they suggest unwarrantable conclusions. It may be illuminative to liken the development of humanity to the growth of an individual; but to infer that the human race is now in its old age, merely on the strength of the comparison, is obviously unjustifiable. That is what Bacon and the others had done. The fallacy was pointed out by Fontenelle. From his point of view, an "old age" of humanity, which if it meant anything meant decay as well as the wisdom of experience, was contrary to the principle of the permanence of natural forces. Man, he asserts, will have no old age. He will be always equally capable, of achieving the successes of his youth; and he will become more and more expert in the things which become the age of virility. Or "to drop metaphor, men will never degenerate." In ages to come we may be regarded--say in America--with the same excess of admiration with which we regard the ancients. We might push the prediction further. In still later ages the interval of time which divides us from the Greeks and Romans will appear so relatively small to posterity that they will classify us and the ancients as virtually contemporary; just in the same way as we group together the Greeks and Romans, though the Romans in their own day were moderns in relation to the Greeks. In that remote period men will be able to judge without prejudice the comparative merits of Sophocles and Corneille. Unreasonable admiration for the ancients is one of the chief obstacles to progress (le progres des choses). Philosophy not only did not advance, but even fell into an abyss of unintelligible ideas, because, through devotion to the authority of Aristotle, men sought truth in his enigmatic writings instead of seeking it in nature. If the authority of Descartes were ever to have the same fortune, the results would be no less disastrous. 7. This memorable brochure exhibits, without pedantry, perspicuous arrangement and the "geometrical" precision on which Fontenelle remarked as one of the notes of the new epoch introduced by Descartes. It displays too the author's open-mindedness, and his readiness to follow where the argument leads. He is able already to look beyond Cartesianism; he knows that it cannot be final. No man of his time was more open-minded and free from prejudice than Fontenelle. This quality of mind helped him to turn his eyes to the future. Perrault and his predecessors were absorbed in the interest of the present and the past. Descartes was too much engaged in his own original discoveries to do more than throw a passing glance at posterity. Now the prospect of the future was one of the two elements which were still needed to fashion the theory of the progress of knowledge. All the conditions for such a theory were present. Bodin and Bacon, Descartes and the champions of the Moderns--the reaction against the Renaissance, and the startling discoveries of science--had prepared the way; progress was established for the past and present. But the theory of the progress of knowledge includes and acquires its value by including the indefinite future. This step was taken by Fontenelle. The idea had been almost excluded by Bacon's misleading metaphor of old age, which Fontenelle expressly rejects. Man will have no old age; his intellect will never degenerate; and "the sound views of intellectual men in successive generations will continually add up." But progress must not only be conceived as extending indefinitely into the future; it must also be conceived as necessary and certain. This is the second essential feature of the theory. The theory would have little value or significance, if the prospect of progress in the future depended on chance or the unpredictable discretion of an external will. Fontenelle asserts implicitly the certainty of progress when he declares that the discoveries and improvements of the modern age would have been made by the ancients if they exchanged places with the moderns; for this amounts to saying that science will progress and knowledge increase independently of particular individuals. If Descartes had not been born, some one else would have done his work; and there could have been no Descartes before the seventeenth century. For, as he says in a later work, [Footnote: Preface des elemens de la geometrie de l'infini (OEuvres, x. p. 40, ed. 1790).] "there is an order which regulates our progress. Every science develops after a certain number of preceding sciences have developed, and only then; it has to await its turn to burst its shell." Fontenelle, then, was the first to formulate the idea of the progress, of knowledge, as a complete doctrine. At the moment the import and far-reaching effects of the idea were not realised, either by himself or by others, and his pamphlet, which appeared in the company of a perverse theory of pastoral poetry, was acclaimed merely as an able defence of the Moderns. 8. If the theory of the indefinite progress of knowledge is true, it is one of those truths which were originally established by false reasoning. It was established on a principle which excluded degeneration, but equally excluded evolution; and the whole conception of nature which Fontenelle had learned from Descartes is long since dead and buried. But it is more important to observe that this principle, which seemed to secure the indefinite progress of knowledge, disabled Fontenelle from suggesting a theory of the progress of society. The invariability of nature, as he conceived it, was true of the emotions and the will, as well as of the intellect. It implied that man himself would be psychically always the same--unalterable, incurable. L'ordre general de la Nature a Fair bien constant. His opinion of the human race was expressed in the Dialogues of the Dead, [Footnote: It may be seen too in the Plurality of Worlds.] and it never seems to have varied. The world consists of a multitude of fools, and a mere handful of reasonable men. Men's passions will always be the same and will produce wars in the future as in the past. Civilisation makes no difference; it is little more than a veneer. Even if theory had not stood in his way, Fontenelle was the last man who was likely to dream dreams of social improvement. He was temperamentally an Epicurean, of the same refined stamp as Epicurus himself, and he enjoyed throughout his long life--he lived to the age of a hundred--the tranquillity which was the true Epicurean ideal. He was never troubled by domestic cares, and his own modest ambition was satisfied when, at the age of forty, he was appointed permanent Secretary of the Academy of Sciences. He was not the man to let his mind dwell on the woes and evils of the world; and the follies and perversities which cause them interested him only so far as they provided material for his wit. It remains, however, noteworthy that the author of the theory of the progress of knowledge, which was afterwards to expand into a general theory of human Progress, would not have allowed that this extension was legitimate; though it was through this extension that Fontenelle's idea acquired human value and interest and became a force in the world. 9. Fontenelle did a good deal more than formulate the idea. He reinforced it by showing that the prospect of a steady and rapid increase of knowledge in the future was certified. The postulate of the immutability of the laws of nature, which has been the indispensable basis for the advance of modern science, is fundamental with Descartes. But Descartes did not explicitly insist on it, and it was Fontenelle, perhaps more than any one else, who made it current coin. That was a service performed by the disciple; but he seems to have been original in introducing the fruitful idea of the sciences as confederate and intimately interconnected [Footnote: Roger Bacon, as we saw, had a glimpse of this principle.]; not forming a number of isolated domains, as hitherto, but constituting a system in which the advance of one will contribute to the advance of the others. He exposed with masterly ability the reciprocal relations of physics and mathematics. No man of his day had a more comprehensive view of all the sciences, though he made no original contributions to any. His curiosity was universal, and as Secretary of the Academy he was obliged, according to his own high standard of his duty, to keep abreast of all that was being done in every branch of knowledge. That was possible then; it would be impossible now. In the famous series of obituary discourses which he delivered on savants who were members of the Academy, Fontenelle probably thought that he was contributing to the realisation of this ideal of "solidarity," for they amounted to a chronicle of scientific progress in every department. They are free from technicalities and extraordinarily lucid, and they appealed not only to men of science, but to those of the educated public who possessed some scientific curiosity. This brings us to another important role of Fontenelle--the role of interpreter of the world of science to the world outside. It is closely related to our subject. For the popularisation of science, which was to be one of the features of the nineteenth century, was in fact a condition of the success of the idea of Progress. That idea could not insinuate itself into the public mind and become a living force in civilised societies until the meaning and value of science had been generally grasped, and the results of scientific discovery had been more or less diffused. The achievements of physical science did more than anything else to convert the imaginations of men to the general doctrine of Progress. Before the later part of the seventeenth century, the remarkable physical discoveries of recent date had hardly escaped beyond academic circles. But an interest in these subjects began to become the fashion in the later years of Louis XIV. Science was talked in the salons; ladies studied mechanics and anatomy. Moliere's play, Les Femmes savantes, which appeared in 1672, is one of the first indications. In 1686 Fontenelle published his Conversations on the Plurality of Worlds, in which a savant explains the new astronomy to a lady in the park of a country house. [Footnote: The Marquise of the Plurality of Worlds is supposed to be Madame de la Mesangere, who lived near Rouen, Fontenelle's birthplace. He was a friend and a frequent visitor at her chateau. See Maigron, Fontenelle, p. 42. The English translation of 1688 was by Glanvill. A new translation was published at Dublin as late as 1761.] It is the first book--at least the first that has any claim to be remembered--in the literature of popular science, and it is one of the most striking. It met with the success which it deserved. It was reprinted again and again, and it was almost immediately translated into English. The significance of the Plurality of Worlds is indeed much greater than that of a pioneer work in popularisation and a model in the art of making technical subjects interesting. We must remember that at this time the belief that the sun revolves round the earth still prevailed. Only the few knew better. The cosmic revolution which is associated with the names of Copernicus, Kepler, and Galileo was slow in producing its effects. It was rejected by Bacon; and the condemnation of Galileo by the Church made Descartes, who dreaded nothing so much as a collision with the ecclesiastical authorities unwilling to insist on it. [Footnote: Cp. Bouillier, Histoire de la philosophie cartesienne, i. p. 42-3.] Milton's Raphael, in the Eighth Book of Paradise Lost (published 1667), does not venture to affirm the Copernican system; he explains it sympathetically, but leaves the question open. [Footnote: Masson (Milton's Poetical Works, vol. 2) observes that Milton's life (1608-74) "coincides with the period of the struggle between the two systems" (p. 90). Milton's friends, the Smectymnians, in answer to Bishop Hall's Humble Remonstrance (1641), "had cited the Copernican doctrine as an unquestionable instance of a supreme absurdity." Masson has some apposite remarks on the influence of the Ptolemaic system "upon the thinkings and imaginations of mankind everywhere on all subjects whatsoever till about two hundred years ago."] Fontenelle's book was an event. It disclosed to the general public a new picture of the universe, to which men would have to accustom their imaginations. We may perhaps best conceive all that this change meant by supposing what a difference it would make to us if it were suddenly discovered that the old system which Copernicus upset was true after all, and that we had to think ourselves back into a strictly limited universe of which the earth is the centre. The loss of its privileged position by our own planet; its degradation, from a cosmic point of view, to insignificance; the necessity of admitting the probability that there may be many other inhabited worlds--all this had consequences ranging beyond the field of astronomy. It was as if a man who dreamed that he was living in Paris or London should awake to discover that he was really in an obscure island in the Pacific Ocean, and that the Pacific Ocean was immeasurably vaster than he had imagined. The Marquise, in the Plurality of Worlds, reacts to the startling illumination: "Voila l'univers si grand que je m'y perds, je ne sais plus ou je suis; je ne suis plus rien.--La terre est si effroyablement petite!" Such a revolution in cosmic values could not fail to exert a penetrating influence on human thought. The privileged position of the earth had been a capital feature of the whole doctrine, as to the universe and man's destinies, which had been taught by the Church, and it had made that doctrine more specious than it might otherwise have seemed. Though the Churches could reform their teaching to meet the new situation, the fact remained that the Christian scheme sounded less plausible when the central importance of the human race was shown to be an illusion. Would man, stripped of his cosmic pretensions, and finding himself lost in the immensities of space, invent a more modest theory of his destinies confined to his own little earth--si effroyablement petite? The eighteenth century answered this question by the theory of Progress. 10. Fontenelle is one of the most representative thinkers of that period--we have no distinguishing name for it--which lies between the characteristic thinkers of the seventeenth century and the characteristic thinkers of the eighteenth. It is a period of over sixty years, beginning about 1680, for though Montesquieu and Voltaire were writing long before 1740, the great influential works of the "age of illumination" begin with the Esprit des lois in 1748. The intellectual task of this intervening period was to turn to account the ideas provided by the philosophy of Descartes, and use them as solvents of the ideas handed down from the Middle Ages. We might almost call it the Cartesian period for, though Descartes was dead, it was in these years that Cartesianism performed its task and transformed human thought. When we speak of Cartesianism we do not mean the metaphysical system of the master, or any of his particular views such as that of innate ideas. We mean the general principles, which were to leave an abiding impression on the texture of thought: the supremacy of reason over authority, the stability of the laws of Nature, rigorous standards of proof. Fontenelle was far from accepting all the views of Descartes, whom he does not scruple to criticise; but he was a true Cartesian in the sense that he was deeply imbued with these principles, which generated, to use an expression of his own, "des especes de rebelles, qui conspiraient contre l'ignorance et les prejuges dominants." [Footnote: Eloge de M. Lemery.] And of all these rebels against ruling prejudices he probably did more than any single man to exhibit the consequences of the Cartesian ideas and drive them home. The Plurality of Worlds was a contribution to the task of transforming thought and abolishing ancient error; but the History of Oracles which appeared in the following year was more characteristic. It was a free adaptation of an unreadable Latin treatise by a Dutchman, which in Fontenelle's skilful hands becomes a vehicle for applying Cartesian solvents to theological authority. The thesis is that the Greek oracles were a sacerdotal imposture, and not, as ecclesiastical tradition said, the work of evil spirits, who were stricken silent at the death of Jesus Christ. The effect was to discredit the authority of the early Fathers of the Church, though the writer has the discretion to repudiate such an intention. For the publication was risky; and twenty years later a Jesuit Father wrote a treatise to confute it, and exposed the secret poison, with consequences which might have been disastrous for Fontenelle if he had not had powerful friends among the Jesuits themselves. Fontenelle had none of the impetuosity of Voltaire, and after the publication of the History of Oracles he confined his criticism of tradition to the field of science. He was convinced that "les choses fort etablies ne peuvent etre attaquees que par degrez." [Footnote: Eloge de M. Lemery.] The secret poison, of which Fontenelle prepared this remarkable dose with a touch which reminds us of Voltaire, was being administered in the same Cartesian period, and with similar precautions, by Bayle. Like Fontenelle, this great sceptic, "the father of modern incredulity" as he was called by Joseph de Maistre, stood between the two centuries and belonged to both. Like Fontenelle, he took a gloomy view of humanity; he had no faith in that goodness of human nature which was to be a characteristic dogma of the age of illumination. But he was untouched by the discoveries of science; he took no interest in Galileo or Newton; and while the most important work of Fontenelle was the interpretation of the positive advances of knowledge, Bayle's was entirely subversive. The principle of unchangeable laws in nature is intimately connected with the growth of Deism which is a note of this period. The function of the Deity was virtually confined to originating the machine of nature, which, once regulated, was set beyond any further interference on His part, though His existence might be necessary for its conservation. A view so sharply opposed to the current belief could not have made way as it did without a penetrating criticism of the current theology. Such criticism was performed by Bayle. His works were a school for rationalism for about seventy years. He supplied to the thinkers of the eighteenth century, English as well as French, a magazine of subversive arguments, and he helped to emancipate morality both from theology and from metaphysics. This intellectual revolutionary movement, which was propagated in salons as well as by books, shook the doctrine of Providence which Bossuet had so eloquently expounded. It meant the enthronement of reason--Cartesian reason--before whose severe tribunal history as well as opinions were tried. New rules of criticism were introduced, new standards of proof. When Fontenelle observed that the existence of Alexander the Great could not be strictly demonstrated and was no more than highly probable, [Footnote: Plurality des mondes, sixieme soir.] it was an undesigned warning that tradition would receive short shrift at the hands of men trained in analytical Cartesian methods. 11. That the issue between the claims of antiquity and the modern age should have been debated independently in England and France indicates that the controversy was an inevitable incident in the liberation of the human spirit from the authority of the ancients. Towards the end of the century the debate in France aroused attention in England and led to a literary quarrel, less important but not less acrimonious than that which raged in France. Sir William Temple's Essay, Wotton's Reflexions, and Swift's satire the Battle of the Books are the three outstanding works in the episode, which is however chiefly remembered on account of its connection with Bentley's masterly exposure of the fabricated letters of Phalaris. The literary debate in France, indeed, could not have failed to reverberate across the Channel; for never perhaps did the literary world in England follow with more interest, or appreciate more keenly the productions of the great French writers of the time. In describing Will's coffee-house, which was frequented by Dryden and all who pretended to be interested in polite letters, Macaulay says, "there was a faction for Perrault and the moderns, a faction for Boileau and the ancients." In the discussions on this subject a remarkable Frenchman who had long lived in England as an exile, M. de Saint Evremond, must have constantly taken part. The disjointed pieces of which Saint Evremond's writings consist are tedious and superficial, but they reveal a mind of much cultivation and considerable common sense. His judgement on Perrault's Parallel is that the author "has discovered the defects of the ancients better than he has made out the advantage of the moderns; his book is good and capable of curing us of abundance of errors." [Footnote: In a letter to the Duchess of Mazarin, Works, Eng. tr., iii. 418.] He was not a partisan. But his friend, Sir William Temple, excited by the French depreciations of antiquity, rushed into the lists with greater courage than discretion. Temple was ill equipped for the controversy, though his Essay on Ancient and Modern Learning (1690) is far from deserving the disdain of Macaulay, who describes its matter as "ludicrous and contemptible to the last degree." [Footnote: The only point in it which need be noted here is that the author questioned the cogency of Fontenelle's argument, that the forces of nature being permanent human ability is in all ages the same. "May there not," he asks, "many circumstances concur to one production that do not to any other in one or many ages?" Fontenelle speaks of trees. It is conceivable that various conditions and accidents "may produce an oak, a fig, or a plane-tree, that shall deserve to be renowned in story, and shall not perhaps be paralleled in other countries or times. May not the same have happened in the production, growth, and size of wit and genius in the world, or in some parts or ages of it, and from many more circumstances that contributed towards it than what may concur to the stupendous growth of a tree or animal?"] And it must be confessed that the most useful result of the Essay was the answer which it provoked from Wotton. For Wotton had a far wider range of knowledge, and a more judicious mind, than any of the other controversialists, with the exception of Fontenelle; and in knowledge of antiquity he was Fontenelle's superior. His inquiry stands out as the most sensible and unprejudiced contribution to the whole debate. He accepts as just the reasoning of Fontenelle "as to the comparative force of the geniuses of men in the several ages of the world and of the equal force of men's understandings absolutely considered in all times since learning first began to be cultivated amongst mankind." But this is not incompatible with the thesis that in some branches the ancients excelled all who came after them. For it is not necessary to explain such excellence by the hypothesis that there was a particular force of genius evidently discernible in former ages, but extinct long since, and that nature is now worn out and spent. There is an alternative explanation. There may have been special circumstances "which might suit with those ages which did exceed ours, and with those things wherein they did exceed us, and with no other age nor thing besides." But we must begin our inquiry by sharply distinguishing two fields of mental activity--the field of art, including poetry, oratory, architecture, painting, and statuary; and the field of knowledge, including mathematics, natural science, physiology, with all their dependencies. In the case of the first group there is room for variety of opinion; but the superiority of the Greeks and Romans in poetry and literary style may be admitted without prejudice to the mental equality of the moderns, for it may be explained partly by the genius of their languages and partly by political circumstances--for example, in the case of oratory, [Footnote: This had been noted by Fontenelle in his Digression.] by the practical necessity of eloquence. But as regards the other group, knowledge is not a matter of opinion or taste, and a definite judgement is possible. Wotton then proceeds to review systematically the field of science, and easily shows, with more completeness and precision than Perrault, the superiority of modern methods and the enormous strides which had been made. As to the future, Wotton expresses himself cautiously. It is not easy to say whether knowledge will advance in the next age proportionally to its advance in this. He has some fears that there may be a falling away, because ancient learning has still too great a hold over modern books, and physical and mathematical studies tend to be neglected. But he ends his Reflexions by the speculation that "some future age, though perhaps not the next, and in a country now possibly little thought of, may do that which our great men would be glad to see done; that is to say, may raise real knowledge, upon foundations laid in this age, to the utmost possible perfection to which it may be brought by mortal men in this imperfect state." The distinction, on which Wotton insisted, between the sciences which require ages for their development and the imaginative arts which may reach perfection in a short time had been recognised by Fontenelle, whose argument on this point differs from that of his friend Perrault. For Perrault contended that in literature and art, as well as in science, later generations can, through the advantage of time and longer experience, attain to a higher excellence than their predecessors. Fontenelle, on the other hand, held that poetry and eloquence have a restricted field, and that therefore there must be a time at which they reach a point of excellence which cannot be exceeded. It was his personal opinion that eloquence and history actually reached the highest possible perfection in Cicero and Livy. But neither Fontenelle nor Wotton came into close quarters with the problem which was raised--not very clearly, it is true--by Perrault. Is there development in the various species of literature and art? Do they profit and enrich themselves by the general advance of civilisation? Perrault, as we have seen, threw out the suggestion that increased experience and psychological study enabled the moderns to penetrate more deeply into the recesses of the human soul, and therefore to bring to a higher perfection the treatment of the character, motives, and passions of men. This suggestion admits of being extended. In the Introduction to his Revolt of Islam, Shelley, describing his own intellectual and aesthetic experiences, writes: The poetry of ancient Greece and Rome, and modern Italy, and our own country, has been to me like external nature, a passion and an enjoyment.... I have considered poetry in its most comprehensive sense; and have read the poets and the historians and the metaphysicians whose writings have been accessible to me--and have looked upon the beautiful and majestic scenery of the earth--as common sources of those elements which it is the province of the Poet to embody and combine. And he appends a note: In this sense there may be such a thing as perfectibility in works of fiction, notwithstanding the concession often made by the advocates of human improvement, that perfectibility is a term applicable only to science. In other words, all the increases of human experience, from age to age, all the speculative adventures of the intellect, provide the artist, in each succeeding generation, with more abundant sources for aesthetic treatment. As years go on, life in its widest sense offers more and more materials "which it is the province of the Poet to embody and combine." This is evidently true; and would it not seem to follow that literature is not excluded from participating in the common development of civilisation? One of the latest of the champions of the Moderns, the Abbe Terrasson, maintained that "to separate the general view of the progress of the human mind in regard to natural science, and in regard to belles-lettres, would be a fitting expedient to a man who had two souls, but it is useless to him who has only one." [Footnote: Abbe Terrasson, 1670-1750. His Philosophie applicable a tons les objets de l'esprit et de la raison was issued posthumously in 1754. His Dissertation critique sur l'Iliade appeared in 1715.]He put the matter in too abstract a way to carry conviction; but the nineteenth century was to judge that he was not entirely wrong. For the question was, as we shall see, raised anew by Madame de Stael, and the theory was finally to emerge that art and literature, like laws and institutions, are an expression of society and therefore inextricably linked with the other elements of social development--a theory, it may be observed, which while it has discredited the habit of considering works of art in a vacuum, dateless and detached, as they were generally considered by critics of the seventeenth century, leaves the aesthetic problem much where it was. Perrault's suggestion as to the enrichment of the material of the artist by new acquisitions would have served to bring literature and art into the general field of human development, without compromising the distinction on which Wotton and others insisted between the natural sciences and the aesthetic arts. But that distinction, emphatically endorsed by Voltaire, had the effect of excluding literature and art from the view of those who in the eighteenth century recognised progress in the other activities of man. 12. It is notable that in this literary controversy the Moderns, even Fontenelle, seem curiously negligent of the import of the theory which they were propounding of the intellectual progress of man. They treat it almost incidentally, as part of the case for the defence, not as an immensely important conclusion. Its bearings were more definitely realised by the Abbe Terrasson, whom I have just named. A geometer and a Cartesian, he took part in the controversy in its latest stage, when La Motte and Madame Dacier were the principal antagonists. The human mind, he said, has had its infancy and youth; its maturity began in the age of Augustus; the barbarians arrested its course till the Renaissance; in the seventeenth century, through the illuminating philosophy of Descartes, it passed beyond the stage which it had attained in the Augustan age, and the eighteenth century should surpass the seventeenth. Cartesianism is not final; it has its place in a development. It was made possible by previous speculations, and it will be succeeded by other systems. We must not pursue the analogy of humanity with an individual man and anticipate a period of old age. For unlike the individual, humanity "being composed of all ages," is always gaining instead of losing. The age of maturity will last indefinitely, because it is a progressive, not a stationary, maturity. Later generations will always be superior to the earlier, for progress is "a natural and necessary effect of the constitution of the human mind." CHAPTER VI. THE GENERAL PROGRESS OF MAN: ABBE DE SAINT-PIERRE The revolutionary speculations on the social and moral condition of man which were the outstanding feature of the eighteenth century in France, and began about 1750, were the development of the intellectual movement of the seventeenth, which had changed the outlook of speculative thought. It was one continuous rationalistic movement. In the days of Racine and Perrault men had been complacently conscious of the enlightenment of the age in which they were living, and as time went on, this consciousness became stronger and acuter; it is a note of the age of Voltaire. In the last years of Louis XIV., and in the years which followed, the contrast between this mental enlightenment and the dark background--the social evils and miseries of the kingdom, the gross misgovernment and oppression--began to insinuate itself into men's minds. What was the value of the achievements of science, and the improvement of the arts of life, if life itself could not be ameliorated? Was not some radical reconstruction possible, in the social fabric, corresponding to the radical reconstruction inaugurated by Descartes in the principles of science and in the methods of thought? Year by year the obscurantism of the ruling powers became more glaring, and the most gifted thinkers, towards the middle of the century, began to concentrate their brains on the problems of social science and to turn the light of reason on the nature of man and the roots of society. They wrought with unscrupulous resolution and with far-reaching effects. With the extension of rationalism into the social domain, it came about naturally that the idea of intellectual progress was enlarged into the idea of the general Progress of man. The transition was easy. If it could be proved that social evils were due neither to innate and incorrigible disabilities of the human being nor to the nature of things, but simply to ignorance and prejudices, then the improvement of his state, and ultimately the attainment of felicity, would be only a matter of illuminating ignorance and removing errors, of increasing knowledge and diffusing light. The growth of the "universal human reason"--a Cartesian phrase, which had figured in the philosophy of Malebranche--must assure a happy destiny to humanity. Between 1690 and 1740 the conception of an indefinite progress of enlightenment had been making its way in French intellectual circles, and must often have been a topic of discussion in the salons, for instance, of Madame de Lambert, Madame de Tencin, and Madame Dupin, where Fontenelle was one of the most conspicuous guests. To the same circle belonged his friend the Abbe de Saint-Pierre, and it is in his writings that we first find the theory widened in its compass to embrace progress towards social perfection. [Footnote: For his life and works the best book is J. Drouet's monograph, L'Abbe de Saint-Pierre: l'homme et l'oeuvre (1912), but on some points Goumy's older study (1859) is still worth consulting. I have used the edition of his works in 12 volumes published during his lifetime at Rotterdam, 1733-37.] 1. He was brought up on Cartesian principles, and he idealised Descartes somewhat as Lucretius idealised Epicurus. But he had no aptitude for philosophy, and he prized physical science only as far as it directly administered to the happiness of men. He was a natural utilitarian, and perhaps no one was ever more consistent in making utility the criterion of all actions and theories. Applying this standard he obliterated from the roll of great men most of those whom common opinion places among the greatest. Alexander, Julius Caesar, Charlemagne receive short shrift from the Abbe de Saint-Pierre. [Footnote: Compare Voltaire, Lettres sur les Anglais, xii., where Newton is acclaimed as the greatest man who ever lived.] He was superficial in his knowledge both of history and of science, and his conception of utility was narrow and a little vulgar. Great theoretical discoverers like Newton and Leibnitz he sets in a lower rank than ingenious persons who used their scientific skill to fashion some small convenience of life. Monuments of art, like Notre Dame, possessed little value in his eyes compared with a road, a bridge, or a canal. Like most of his distinguished contemporaries he was a Deist. On his deathbed he received the usual rites of the Church in the presence of his household, and then told the priest that he did not believe a word of all that. His real views are transparent in some of his works through the conventional disguises in which prudent writers of the time were wont to wrap their assaults on orthodoxy. To attack Mohammedanism by arguments which are equally applicable to Christianity was a device for propagating rationalism in days when it was dangerous to propagate it openly. This is what the Abbe did in his Discourse against Mohammedanism. Again, in his Physical Explanation of an Apparition he remarks: "To diminish our fanatical proclivities, it would be useful if the Government were to establish an annual prize, to be awarded by the Academy of Sciences, for the best explanation, by natural laws, of the extraordinary effects of imagination, of the prodigies related in Greek and Latin literature, and of the pretended miracles told by Protestants, Schismatics, and Mohammedans." The author carefully keeps on the right side of the fence. No Catholic authorities could take exception to this. But no intelligent reader could fail to see that all miracles were attacked. The miracles accepted by the Protestants were also believed in by the Catholics. He was one of the remarkable figures of his age. We might almost say that he was a new type--a nineteenth century humanitarian and pacifist in an eighteenth century environment. He was a born reformer, and he devoted his life to the construction of schemes for increasing human happiness. He introduced the word bienfaisance into the currency of the French language, and beneficence was in his eyes the sovran virtue. There were few departments of public affairs in which he did not point out the deficiencies and devise ingenious plans for improvement. Most of his numerous writings are projets--schemes of reform in government, economics, finance, education, all worked out in detail, and all aiming at the increase of pleasure and the diminution of pain. The Abbe's nimble intelligence had a weak side, which must have somewhat compromised his influence. He was so confident in the reasonableness of his projects that he always believed that if they were fairly considered the ruling powers could not fail to adopt them in their own interests. It is the nature of a reformer to be sanguine, but the optimism of Saint-Pierre touched naivete. Thousands might have agreed with his view that the celibacy of the Catholic clergy was an unwholesome institution, but when he drew up a proposal for its abolition and imagined that the Pope, unable to resist his arguments, would immediately adopt it, they might be excused for putting him down as a crank who could hardly be taken seriously. The form in which he put forward his memorable scheme for the abolition of war exhibits the same sanguine simplicity. All his plans, Rousseau observed, showed a clear vision of what their effects would be, "but he judged like a child of means to bring them about." But his abilities were great, and his actual influence was considerable. It would have been greater if he had possessed the gift of style. 2. He was not the first to plan a definite scheme for establishing a perpetual peace. Long ago Emeric Cruce had given to the world a proposal for a universal league, including not only the Christian nations of Europe, but the Turks, Persians, and Tartars, which by means of a court of arbitration sitting at Venice should ensure the settlement of all disputes by peaceful means. [Footnote: Le Nouveau Cynee (Paris, 1623). It has recently been reprinted with an English translation by T. W. Balch, Philadelphia (1909).] The consequence of universal peace, he said, will be the arrival of "that beautiful century which the ancient theologians promise after there have rolled by six thousand years. For they say that then the world will live happily and in repose. Now it happens that that time has nearly expired, and even if it is not, it depends only on the Princes to give beforehand this happiness to their peoples." Later in the century, others had ventilated similar projects in obscure publications, but the Abbe does not refer to any of his predecessors. He was not blinded by the superficial brilliancy of the reign of Louis XIV. to the general misery which the ambitious war-policy of that sovran brought both upon France and upon her enemies. His Annales politiques are a useful correction to the Siecle de Louis Quatorze. It was in the course of the great struggle of the Spanish Succession that he turned his attention to war and came to the conclusion that it is an unnecessary evil and even an absurdity. In 1712 he attended the congress at Utrecht in the capacity of secretary to Cardinal de Polignac, one of the French delegates. His experiences there confirmed his optimistic mind in the persuasion that perpetual peace was an aim which might readily be realised; and in the following year he published the memoir which he had been preparing, in two volumes, to which he added a third four years later. Though he appears not to have known the work of Cruce he did not claim originality. He sheltered his proposal under an august name, entitling it Project of Henry the Great to render Peace Perpetual, explained by the Abbe de Saint-Pierre. The reference is to the "great design" ascribed to Henry IV. by Sully, and aimed at the abasement of the power of Austria: a federation of the Christian States of Europe arranged in groups and under a sovran Diet, which would regulate international affairs and arbitrate in all quarrels. [Footnote: It is described in Sully's Memoires, Book XXX.] Saint-Pierre, ignoring the fact that Sully's object was to eliminate a rival power, made it the text for his own scheme of a perpetual alliance of all the sovrans of Europe to guarantee to one another the preservation of their states and to renounce war as a means of settling their differences. He drew up the terms of such an alliance, and taking the European powers one by one demonstrated that it was the plain interest of each to sign the articles. Once the articles were signed the golden age would begin. [Footnote: For Sully's grand Design compare the interesting article of Sir Geoffrey Butler in the Edinburgh Review, October 1919.] It is not to our present purpose to comment on this plan which the author with his characteristic simplicity seriously pressed upon the attention of statesmen. It is easy to criticise it in the light of subsequent history, and to see that, if the impossible had happened and the experiment had been tried and succeeded, it might have caused more suffering than all the wars from that day to this. For it was based on a perpetuation of the political status quo in Europe. It assumed that the existing political distribution of power was perfectly satisfactory and conformable to the best interests of all the peoples concerned. It would have hindered the Partition of Poland, but it would have maintained the Austrian oppression of Italians. The project also secured to the sovrans the heritage of their authority and guarded against civil wars. This assumed that the various existing constitutions were fundamentally just. The realisation of the scheme would have perpetuated all the evils of autocratic governments. Its author did not perceive that the radical evil in France was irresponsible power. It needed the reign of Louis XV. and the failure of attempts at reform under his successor to bring this home. The Abbe even thought that an increase of the despotic authority of the government was desirable, provided this were accompanied by an increase in the enlightenment and virtue of its ministers. In 1729 he published an abridgment of his scheme, and here he looks beyond its immediate results to its value for distant posterity. No one, he says, can imagine or foresee the advantages which such an alliance of European states will yield to Europe five hundred years after its establishment. Now we can see the first beginnings, but it is beyond the powers of the human mind to discern its infinite effects in the future. It may produce results more precious than anything hitherto experienced by man. He supports his argument by observing that our primitive ancestors could not foresee the improvements which the course of ages would bring in their rudimentary arrangements for securing social order. 3. It is characteristic that the Abbe de Saint-Pierre's ideas about Progress were a by-product of his particular schemes. In 1773 he published a Project to Perfect the Government of States, and here he sketched his view of the progressive course of civilisation. The old legend of the golden age, when men were perfectly happy, succeeded by the ages of silver, bronze, and iron, exactly reverses the truth of history. The age of iron came first, the infancy of society, when men were poor and ignorant of the arts; it is the present condition of the savages of Africa and America. The age of bronze ensued, in which there was more security, better laws, and the invention of the most necessary arts began. There followed the age of silver, and Europe has not yet emerged from it. Our reason has indeed reached the point of considering how war may be abolished, and is thus approaching the golden age of the future; but the art of government and the general regulation of society, notwithstanding all the improvements of the past, is still in its infancy. Yet all that is needed is a short series of wise reigns in our European states to reach the age of gold or, in other words, a paradise on earth. A few wise reigns. The Abbe shared the illusion of many that government is omnipotent and can bestow happiness on men. The imperfections of governments were, he was convinced, chiefly due to the fact that hitherto the ablest intellects had not been dedicated to the study of the science of governing. The most essential part of his project was the formation of a Political Academy which should do for politics what the Academy of Sciences did for the study of nature, and should act as an advisory body to ministers of state on all questions of the public welfare. If this proposal and some others were adopted, he believed that the golden age would not long be delayed. These observations--hardly more than obiter dicta--show that Saint-Pierre's general view of the world was moulded by a conception of civilisation progressing towards a goal of human happiness. In 1737 he published a special work to explain this conception: the Observations on the Continuous Progress of Universal Reason. He recurs to the comparison of the life of collective humanity to that of an individual, and, like Fontenelle and Terrasson, accentuates the point where the analogy fails. We may regard our race as composed of all the nations that have been and will be--and assign to it different ages. For instance, when the race is ten thousand years old a century will be what a single year is in the life of a centenarian. But there is this prodigious difference. The mortal man grows old and loses his reason and happiness through the enfeeblement of his bodily machine; whereas the human race, by the perpetual and infinite succession of generations, will find itself at the end of ten thousand years more capable of growing in wisdom and happiness than it was at the end of four thousand. At present the race is apparently not more than seven or eight thousand years old, and is only "in the infancy of human reason," compared with what it will be five or six thousand years hence. And when that stage is reached, it will only have entered on what we may call its first youth, when we consider what it will be when it is a hundred thousand years older still, continually growing in reason and wisdom. Here we have for the first time, expressed in definite terms, the vista of an immensely long progressive life in front of humanity. Civilisation is only in its infancy. Bacon, like Pascal, had conceived it to be in its old age. Fontenelle and Perrault seem to have regarded it as in its virility; they set no term to its duration, but they did not dwell on future prospects. The Abbe was the first to fix his eye on the remote destinies of the race and name immense periods of time. It did not occur to him to consider that our destinies are bound up with those of the solar system, and that it is useless to operate with millennial periods of progress unless you are assured of a corresponding stability in the cosmic environment. As a test of the progress which reason has already made, Saint-Pierre asserts that a comparison of the best English and French works on morals and politics with the best works of Plato and Aristotle proves that the human race has made a sensible advance. But that advance would have been infinitely greater were it not that three general obstacles retarded it and even, at some times and in some countries, caused a retrogression. These obstacles were wars, superstition, and the Jealousy of rulers who feared that progress in the science of politics would be dangerous to themselves. In consequence of these impediments it was only in the time of Bodin and Bacon that the human race began to start anew from the point which it had reached in the days of Plato and Aristotle. Since then the rate of progress has been accelerated, and this has been due to several causes. The expansion of sea commerce has produced more wealth, and wealth means greater leisure, and more writers and readers. In the second place, mathematics and physics are more studied in colleges, and their tendency is to liberate us from subjection to the authority of the ancients. Again, the foundation of scientific Academies has given facilities both for communicating and for correcting new discoveries; the art of printing provides a means for diffusing them; and, finally, the habit of writing in the vulgar tongue makes them accessible. The author might also have referred to the modern efforts to popularise science, in which his friend Fontenelle had been one of the leaders. He proceeds, in this connection, to lay down a rather doubtful principle, that in any two countries the difference in enlightenment between the lowest classes will correspond to the difference between the most highly educated classes. At present, he says, Paris and London are the places where human wisdom has reached the most advanced stage. It is certain that the ten best men of the highest class at Ispahan or Constantinople will be inferior in their knowledge of politics and ethics to the ten most distinguished sages of Paris or London. And this will be true in all classes. The thirty most intelligent children of the age of fourteen at Paris will be more enlightened than the thirty most intelligent children of the same age at Constantinople, and the same proportional difference will be true of the lowest classes of the two cities. But while the progress of speculative reason has been rapid, practical reason--the distinction is the Abbe's--has made little advance. In point of morals and general happiness the world is apparently much the same as ever. Our mediocre savants know twenty times as much as Socrates and Confucius, but our most virtuous men are not more virtuous than they. The growth of science has added much to the arts and conveniences of life, and to the sum of pleasures, and will add more. The progress in physical science is part of the progress of the "universal human reason," whose aim is the augmentation of our happiness. But there are two other sciences which are much more important for the promotion of happiness--Ethics and Politics--and these, neglected by men of genius, have made little way in the course of two thousand years. It is a grave misfortune that Descartes and Newton did not devote themselves to perfecting these sciences, so incomparably more useful for mankind than those in which they made their great discoveries. They fell into a prevailing error as to the comparative values of the various domains of knowledge, an error to which we must also ascribe the fact that while Academies of Sciences and Belles-Lettres exist there are no such institutions for Politics or Ethics. By these arguments he establishes to his own satisfaction that there are no irremovable obstacles to the Progress of the human race towards happiness, no hindrances that could not be overcome if governments only saw eye to eye with the Abbe de Saint-Pierre. Superstition is already on the decline; there would be no more wars if his simple scheme for permanent peace were adopted. Let the State immediately found Political and Ethical Academies; let the ablest men consecrate their talents to the science of government; and in a hundred years we shall make more progress than we should make in two thousand at the rate we are moving. If these things are done, human reason will have advanced so far in two or three millenniums that the wisest men of that age will be as far superior to the wisest of to-day as these are to the wisest African savages. This "perpetual and unlimited augmentation of reason" will one day produce an increase in human happiness which would astonish us more than our own civilisation would astonish the Kaffirs. 4. The Abbe de Saint-Pierre was indeed terribly at ease in confronting the deepest and most complex problems which challenge the intellect of man. He had no notion of their depth and complexity, and he lightly essayed them, treating human nature, as if it were an abstraction, by a method which he would doubtless have described as Cartesian. He was simply operating with the ideas which were all round him in a society saturated with Cartesianism,--supremacy of human reason, progressive enlightenment, the value of this life for its own sake, and the standard of utility. Given these ideas and the particular bias of his own mind, it required no great ingenuity to advance from the thought of the progress of science to the thought of progress in man's moral nature and his social conditions. The omnipotence of governments to mould the destinies of peoples, the possibility of the creation of enlightened governments, and the indefinite progress of enlightenment--all articles of his belief--were the terms of an argument of the sorites form, which it was a simple matter to develop in his brief treatise. But we must not do him injustice. He was a much more considerable thinker than posterity for a long time was willing to believe. It is easy to ridicule some of his projets, and dismiss him as a crank who was also somewhat of a bore. The truth, however, is that many of his schemes were sound and valuable. His economic ideas, which he thought out for himself, were in advance of his time, and he has even been described by a recent writer as "un contemporain egare au xviii siecle." Some of his financial proposals were put into practice by Turgot. But his significance in the development of the revolutionary ideas which were to gain control in the second half of the eighteenth century has hardly been appreciated yet, and it was imperfectly appreciated by his contemporaries. It is easy to see why. His theories are buried in his multitudinous projets. If, instead of working out the details of endless particular reforms, he had built up general theories of government and society, economics and education, they might have had no more intrinsic value, but he would have been recognised as the precursor of the Encyclopaedists. For his principles are theirs. The omnipotence of government and laws to mould the morals of peoples; the subordination of all knowledge to the goddess of utility; the deification of human reason; and the doctrine of Progress. His crude utilitarianism led him to depreciate the study of mathematical and physical sciences--notwithstanding his veneration for Descartes--as comparatively useless, and he despised the fine arts as waste of time and toil which might be better spent. He had no knowledge of natural science and he had no artistic susceptibility. The philosophers of the Encyclopaedia did not go so far, but they tended in this direction. They were cold and indifferent towards speculative science, and they were inclined to set higher value on artisans than on artists. In his religious ideas the Abbe differed from Voltaire and the later social philosophers in one important respect, but this very difference was a consequence of his utilitarianism. Like them he was a Deist, as we saw; he had imbibed the spirit of Bayle and the doctrine of the English rationalists, which were penetrating French society during the later part of his life. His God, however, was more than the creator and organiser of the Encyclopaedists, he was also the "Dieu vengeur et remunerateur" in whom Voltaire believed. But here his faith was larger than Voltaire's. For while Voltaire referred the punishments and rewards to this life, the Abbe believed in the immortality of the soul, in heaven and hell. He acknowledged that immortality could not be demonstrated, that it was only probable, but he clung to it firmly and even intolerantly. It is clear from his writings that his affection for this doctrine was due to its utility, as an auxiliary to the magistrate and the tutor, and also to the consideration that Paradise would add to the total of human happiness. But though his religion had more articles, he was as determined a foe of "superstition" as Voltaire, Diderot, and the rest. He did not go so far as they in aggressive rationalism--he belonged to an older generation--but his principles were the same. The Abbe de Saint-Pierre thus represents the transition from the earlier Cartesianism, which was occupied with purely intellectual problems, to the later thought of the eighteenth century, which concentrated itself on social problems. He anticipated the "humanistic" spirit of the Encyclopaedists, who were to make man, in a new sense, the centre of the world. He originated, or at least was the first to proclaim, the new creed of man's destinies, indefinite social progress. CHAPTER VII. NEW CONCEPTIONS OF HISTORY: MONTESQUIEU, VOLTAIRE, TURGOT The theory of human Progress could not be durably established by abstract arguments, or on the slender foundations laid by the Abbe de Saint-Pierre. It must ultimately be judged by the evidence afforded by history, and it is not accidental that, contemporaneously with the advent of this idea, the study of history underwent a revolution. If Progress was to be more than the sanguine dream of an optimist it must be shown that man's career on earth had not been a chapter of accidents which might lead anywhere or nowhere, but is subject to discoverable laws which have determined its general route, and will secure his arrival at the desirable place. Hitherto a certain order and unity had been found in history by the Christian theory of providential design and final causes. New principles of order and unity were needed to replace the principles which rationalism had discredited. Just as the advance of science depended on the postulate that physical phenomena are subject to invariable laws, so if any conclusions were to be drawn from history some similar postulate as to social phenomena was required. It was thus in harmony with the general movement of thought that about the middle of the eighteenth century new lines of investigation were opened leading to sociology, the history of civilisation, and the philosophy of history. Montesquieu's De l'esprit des lois, which may claim to be the parent work of modern social science, Voltaire's Essai sur les moeurs, and Turgot's plan of a Histoire universelle begin a new era in man's vision of the past. 1. Montesquieu was not among the apostles of the idea of Progress. It never secured any hold upon his mind. But he had grown up in the same intellectual climate in which that idea was produced; he had been nurtured both on the dissolving, dialectic of Bayle, and on the Cartesian enunciation of natural law. And his work contributed to the service, not of the doctrine of the past, but of the doctrine of the future. For he attempted to extend the Cartesian theory to social facts. He laid down that political, like physical, phenomena are subject to general laws. He had already conceived this, his most striking and important idea, when he wrote the Considerations on the Greatness and Decadence of the Romans (1734), in which he attempted to apply it: It is not Fortune who governs the world, as we see from the history of the Romans. There are general causes, moral or physical, which operate in every monarchy, raise it, maintain it, or overthrow it; all that occurs is subject to these causes; and if a particular cause, like the accidental result of a battle, has ruined a state, there was a general cause which made the downfall of this state ensue from a single battle. In a word, the principal movement (l'allure principale) draws with it all the particular occurrences. But if this excludes Fortune it also dispenses with Providence, design, and final causes; and one of the effects of the Considerations which Montesquieu cannot have overlooked was to discredit Bossuet's treatment of history. The Esprit des lois appeared fourteen years later. Among books which have exercised a considerable influence on thought few are more disappointing to a modern reader. The author had not the gift of what might be called logical architecture, and his work produces the effect of a collection of ideas which he was unable to co-ordinate in the clarity of a system. A new principle, the operation of general causes, is enthroned; but, beyond the obvious distinction of physical and moral, they are not classified. We have no guarantee that the moral causes are fully enumerated, and those which are original are not distinguished from those which are derived. The general cause which Montesquieu impresses most clearly on the reader's mind is that of physical environment--geography and climate. The influence of climate on civilisation was not a new idea. In modern times, as we have seen, it was noticed by Bodin and recognised by Fontenelle. The Abbe de Saint-Pierre applied it to explain the origin of the Mohammedan religion, and the Abbe Du Bos in his Reflexions on Poetry and Painting maintained that climate helps to determine the epochs of art and science. Chardin in his Travels, a book which Montesquieu studied, had also appreciated its importance. But Montesquieu drew general attention to it, and since he wrote, geographical conditions have been recognised by all inquirers as an influential factor in the development of human societies. His own discussion of the question did not result in any useful conclusions. He did not determine the limits of the action of physical conditions, and a reader hardly knows whether to regard them as fundamental or accessory, as determining the course of civilisation or only perturbing it. "Several things govern men," he says, "climate, religion, laws, precepts of government, historical examples, morals, and manners, whence is formed as their result a general mind (esprit general)." This co-ordination of climate with products of social life is characteristic of his unsystematic thought. But the remark which the author went on to make, that there is always a correlation between the laws of a people and its esprit general, was important. It pointed to the theory that all the products of social life are closely interrelated. In Montesquieu's time people were under the illusion that legislation has an almost unlimited power to modify social conditions. We have seen this in the case of Saint-Pierre. Montesquieu's conception of general laws should have been an antidote to this belief. It had however less effect on his contemporaries than we might have expected, and they found more to their purpose in what he said of the influence of laws on manners. There may be something in Comte's suggestion that he could not give his conception any real consistency or vigour, just because he was himself unconsciously under the influence of excessive faith in the effects of legislative action. A fundamental defect in Montesquieu's treatment of social phenomena is that he abstracted them from their relations in time. It was his merit to attempt to explain the correlation of laws and institutions with historical circumstances, but he did not distinguish or connect stages of civilisation. He was inclined to confound, as Sorel has observed, all periods and constitutions. Whatever be the value of the idea of Progress, we may agree with Comte that, if Montesquieu had grasped it, he would have produced a more striking work. His book announces a revolution in the study of political science, but in many ways belongs itself to the pre-Montesquieu era. 2. In the same years in which Montesquieu was busy on the composition of the Esprit des lois, Voltaire was writing his Age of Louis XIV. and his Essay on the Manners and Mind of Nations, and on the Principal Facts of History from Charlemagne to the Death of Louis XIII. The former work, which everybody reads still, appeared in 1751. Parts of the Essay, which has long since fallen into neglect, were published in the Mercure de France between 1745 and 1751; it was issued complete in 1756, along with the Age of Louis XIV., which was its continuation. If we add the Precis of the Reign of Louis XV. (1769), and observe that the Introduction and first fourteen chapters of the Essay sketch the history of the world before Charlemagne, and that China, India, and America are included in the survey, Voltaire's work amounts to a complete survey of the civilisation of the world from the earliest times to his own. If Montesquieu founded social science, Voltaire created the history of civilisation, and the Essay, for all its limitations, stands out as one of the considerable books of the century. In his Age of Louis XIV. he announced that his object was "to paint not the actions of a single man, but the mind of men (l'esprit des hommes) in the most enlightened age that had ever been," and that "the progress of the arts and sciences" was an essential part of his subject. In the same way he proposed in the Essay to trace "l'histoire de l'esprit humain," not the details of facts, and to show by what steps man advanced "from the barbarous rusticity" of the times of Charlemagne and his successors "to the politeness of our own." To do this, he said, was really to write the history of opinion, for all the great successive social and political changes which have transformed the world were due to changes of opinion. Prejudice succeeded prejudice, error followed error; "at last, with time men came to correct their ideas and learn to think." The motif of the book is, briefly, that wars and religions have been the great obstacles to the progress of humanity, and that if they were abolished, with the prejudices which engender them, the world would rapidly improve. "We may believe," he says, "that reason and industry will always progress more and more; that the useful arts will be improved; that of the evils which have afflicted men, prejudices, which are not their least scourge, will gradually disappear among all those who govern nations, and that philosophy, universally diffused, will give some consolation to human nature for the calamities which it will experience in all ages." This indeed is not the tone of the Abbe de Saint-Pierre. Voltaire's optimism was always tempered with cynicism. But the idea of Progress is there, though moderately conceived. And it is based on the same principle--universal reason implanted in man, which "subsists in spite of all the passions which make war on it, in spite of all the tyrants who would drown it in blood, in spite of the imposters who would annihilate it by superstition." And this was certainly his considered view. His common sense prevented him from indulging in Utopian speculations about the future; and his cynicism constantly led him to use the language of a pessimist. But at an early stage of his career he had taken up arms for human nature against that "sublime misanthrope" Pascal, who "writes against human nature almost as he wrote against the Jesuits"; and he returned to the attack at the end of his life. Now Pascal's Pensees enshrined a theory of life--the doctrine of original sin, the idea that the object of life is to prepare for death--which was sternly opposed to the spirit of Progress. Voltaire instinctively felt that this was an enemy that had to be dealt with. In a lighter vein he had maintained in a well-known poem, Le Mondain, [Footnote: 1756.] the value of civilisation and all its effects, including luxury, against those who regretted the simplicity of ancient times, the golden age of Saturn. O le bon temps que ce siecle de fer! Life in Paris, London, or Rome to-day is infinitely preferable to life in the garden of Eden. D'un bon vin frais ou la mousse ou la seve Ne gratta point le triste gosier d'Eve. La soie et l'or ne brillaient point chez eux. Admirez-vous pour cela nos aieux? Il leur manquait l'industrie et l'aisance: Est-ce vertu? c'etait pure ignorance. To return to the Essay, it flung down the gage of battle to that conception of the history of the world which had been brilliantly represented by Bossuet's Discours sur l'histoire universelle. This work was constantly in Voltaire's mind. He pointed out that it had no claim to be universal; it related only to four or five peoples, and especially the little Jewish nation which "was unknown to the rest of the world or justly despised," but which Bossuet made the centre of interest, as if the final cause of all the great empires of antiquity lay in their relations to the Jews. He had Bossuet in mind when he said "we will speak of the Jews as we would speak of Scythians or Greeks, weighing probabilities and discussing facts." In his new perspective the significance of Hebrew history is for the first time reduced to moderate limits. But it was not only in this particular, though central, point that Voltaire challenged Bossuet's view. He eliminated final causes altogether, and Providence plays no part on his historical stage. Here his work reinforced the teaching of Montesquieu. Otherwise Montesquieu and Voltaire entirely differed in their methods. Voltaire concerned himself only with the causal enchainment of events and the immediate motives of men. His interpretation of history was confined to the discovery of particular causes; he did not consider the operation of those larger general causes which Montesquieu investigated. Montesquieu sought to show that the vicissitudes of societies were subject to law; Voltaire believed that events were determined by chance where they were not consciously guided by human reason. The element of chance is conspicuous even in legislation: "almost all laws have been instituted to meet passing needs, like remedies applied fortuitously, which have cured one patient and kill others." On Voltaire's theory, the development of humanity might at any moment have been diverted into a different course; but whatever course it took the nature of human reason would have ensured a progress in civilisation. Yet the reader of the Essay and Louis XIV. might well have come away with a feeling that the security of Progress is frail and precarious. If fortune has governed events, if the rise and fall of empires, the succession of religions, the revolutions of states, and most of the great crises of history were decided by accidents, is there any cogent ground for believing that human reason, the principle to which Voltaire attributes the advance of civilisation, will prevail in the long run? Civilisation has been organised here and there, now and then, up to a certain point; there have been eras of rapid progress, but how can we be sure that these are not episodes, themselves also fortuitous? For growth has been followed by decay, progress by regress; can it be said that history, authorises the conclusion that reason will ever gain such an ascendancy that the play of chance will no longer be able to thwart her will? Is such a conclusion more than a hope, unsanctioned by the data of past experience, merely one of the characteristics of the age of illumination? Voltaire and Montesquieu thus raised fundamental questions of great moment for the doctrine of Progress, questions which belong to what was soon to be known as the Philosophy of History, a name invented by Voltaire, though hardly meant by him in the sense which it afterwards assumed. 3. Six years before Voltaire's Essay was published in its complete form a young man was planning a work on the same subject. Turgot is honourably remembered as an economist and administrator, but if he had ever written the Discourses on Universal History which he designed at the age of twenty-three his position in historical literature might have overshadowed his other claims to be remembered. We possess a partial sketch of its plan, which is supplemented by two lectures he delivered at the Sorbonne in 1750; so that we know his general conceptions. He had assimilated the ideas of the Esprit des lois, and it is probable that he had read the parts of Voltaire's work which had appeared in a periodical. His work, like Voltaire's, was to be a challenge to Bossuet's view of history; his purpose was to trace the fortunes of the race in the light of the idea of Progress. He occasionally refers to Providence but this is no more than a prudent lip-service. Providence has no functions in his scheme. The part which it played in Bossuet is usurped by those general causes which he had learned from Montesquieu. But his systematic mind would have organised and classified the ideas which Montesquieu left somewhat confused. He criticised the inductions drawn in the Esprit des lois concerning the influence of climate as hasty and exaggerated; and he pointed out that the physical causes can only produce their effects by acting on "the hidden principles which contribute to form our mind and character." It follows that the psychical or moral causes are the first element to consider, and it is a fault of method to try to evaluate physical causes till we have exhausted the moral, and are certain that the phenomena cannot be explained by these alone. In other words, the study of the development of societies must be based on psychology; and for Turgot, as for all his progressive contemporaries, psychology meant the philosophy of Locke. General necessary causes, therefore, which we should rather call conditions, have determined the course of history--the nature of man, his passions, and his reason, in the first place; and in the second, his environment,--geography and climate. But its course is a strict sequence of particular causes and effects, "which bind the state of the world (at a given moment) to all those which have preceded it." Turgot does not discuss the question of free-will, but his causal continuity does not exclude "the free action of great men." He conceives universal history as the progress of the human race advancing as an immense whole steadily, though slowly, through alternating periods of calm and disturbance towards greater perfection. The various units of the entire mass do not move with equal steps, because nature is not impartial with her gifts. Some men have talents denied to others, and the gifts of nature are sometimes developed by circumstances, sometimes left buried in obscurity. The inequalities in the march of nations are due to the infinite variety of circumstances; and these inequalities may be taken to prove that the world had a beginning, for in an eternal duration they would have disappeared. But the development of human societies has not been guided by human reason. Men have not consciously made general happiness the end of their actions. They have been conducted by passion and ambition and have never known to what goal they were moving. For if reason had presided, progress would soon have been arrested. To avoid war peoples would have remained in isolation, and the race would have lived divided for ever into a multitude of isolated groups, speaking different tongues. All these groups would have been limited in the range of their ideas, stationary in science, art, and government, and would never have risen above mediocrity. The history of China is an example of the results of restricted intercourse among peoples. Thus the unexpected conclusion emerges, that without unreason and injustice there would have been no progress. It is hardly necessary to observe that this argument is untenable. The hypothesis assumes that reason is in control among the primitive peoples, and at the same time supposes that its power would completely disappear if they attempted to engage in peaceful intercourse. But though Turgot has put his point in an unconvincing form, his purpose was to show that as a matter of fact "the tumultuous and dangerous passions" have been driving-forces which have moved the world in a desirable direction till the time should come for reason to take the helm. Thus, while Turgot might have subscribed to Voltaire's assertion that history is largely "un ramas de crimes, de folies, et de malheurs," his view of the significance of man's sufferings is different and almost approaches the facile optimism of Pope--"whatever is, is right." He regards all the race's actual experiences as the indispensable mechanism of Progress, and does not regret its mistakes and calamities. Many changes and revolutions, he observes, may seem to have had most mischievous effects; yet every change has brought some advantage, for it has been a new experience and therefore has been instructive. Man advances by committing errors. The history of science shows (as Fontenelle had pointed out) that truth is reached over the ruins of false hypotheses. The difficulty presented by periods of decadence and barbarism succeeding epochs of enlightenment is met by the assertion that in such dark times the world has not stood still; there has really been a progression which, though relatively inconspicuous, is not unimportant. In the Middle Ages, which are the prominent case, there were improvements in mechanical arts, in commerce, in some of the habits of civil life, all of which helped to prepare the way for happier times. Here Turgot's view of history is sharply opposed to Voltaire's. He considers Christianity to have been a powerful agent of civilisation, not a hinderer or an enemy. Had he executed his design, his work might well have furnished a notable makeweight to the view held by Voltaire, and afterwards more judicially developed by Gibbon, that "the triumph of barbarism and religion" was a calamity for the world. Turgot also propounded two laws of development. He observed that when a people is progressing, every step it takes causes an acceleration in the rate of progress. And he anticipated Comte's famous "law" of the three stages of intellectual evolution, though without giving it the extensive and fundamental significance which Comte claimed for it. "Before man understood the causal connection of physical phenomena, nothing was so natural as to suppose they were produced by intelligent beings, invisible and resembling ourselves; for what else would they have resembled?" That is Comte's theological stage. "When philosophers recognised the absurdity of the fables about the gods, but had not yet gained an insight into natural history, they thought to explain the causes of phenomena by abstract expressions such as essences and faculties." That is the metaphysical stage. "It was only at a later period, that by observing the reciprocal mechanical action of bodies hypotheses were formed which could be developed by mathematics and verified by experience." There is the positive stage. The observation assuredly does not possess the far-reaching importance which Comte attached to it; but whatever value it has, Turgot deserves the credit of having been the first to state it. The notes which Turgot made for his plan permit us to conjecture that his Universal History would have been a greater and more profound work than the Essay of Voltaire. It would have embodied in a digested form the ideas of Montesquieu to which Voltaire paid little attention, and the author would have elaborated the intimate connection and mutual interaction among all social phenomena--government and morals, religion, science, and arts. While his general thesis coincided with that of Voltaire--the gradual advance of humanity towards a state of enlightenment and reasonableness,--he made the idea of Progress more vital; for him it was an organising conception, just as the idea of Providence was for St. Augustine and Bossuet an organising conception, which gave history its unity and meaning. The view that man has throughout been blindly moving in the right direction is the counterpart of what Bossuet represented as a divine plan wrought out by the actions of men who are ignorant of it, and is sharply opposed to the views, of Voltaire and the other philosophers of the day who ascribed Progress exclusively to human reason consciously striving against ignorance and passion. CHAPTER VIII. THE ENCYCLOPAEDISTS AND ECONOMISTS 1. The intellectual movement which prepared French opinion for the Revolution and supplied the principles for reconstituting society may be described as humanistic in the sense that man was the centre of speculative interest. "One consideration especially that we ought never to lose from sight," says Diderot, "is that, if we ever banish a man, or the thinking and contemplative being, from above the surface of the earth, this pathetic and sublime spectacle of nature becomes no more than a scene of melancholy and silence... It is the presence of man that gives its interest to the existence of other beings... Why should we not make him a common centre?... Man is the single term from which we ought to set out." [Footnote: The passage from Diderot's article Encyclopedie is given as translated by Morley, Diderot, i, 145.] Hence psychology, morals, the structure of society, were the subjects which riveted attention instead of the larger supra-human problems which had occupied Descartes, Malebranche, and Leibnitz. It mattered little whether the universe was the best that could be constructed; what mattered was the relation of man's own little world to his will and capacities. Physical science was important only in so far as it could help social science and minister to the needs of man. The closest analogy to this development of thought is not offered by the Renaissance, to which the description HUMANISTIC has been conventionally appropriated, but rather by the age of illumination in Greece in the latter half of the fifth century B.C., represented by Protagoras, Socrates, and others who turned from the ultimate problems of the cosmos, hitherto the main study of philosophers, to man, his nature and his works. In this revised form of "anthropo-centrism" we see how the general movement of thought has instinctively adapted itself to the astronomical revolution. On the Ptolemaic system it was not incongruous or absurd that man, lord of the central domain in the universe, should regard himself as the most important cosmic creature. This is the view, implicit in the Christian scheme, which had been constructed on the old erroneous cosmology. When the true place of the earth was shown and man found himself in a tiny planet attached to one of innumerable solar worlds, his cosmic importance could no longer be maintained. He was reduced to the condition of an insect creeping on a "tas de boue," which Voltaire so vividly illustrated in Micromegas. But man is resourceful; [words in Greek]. Displaced, along with his home, from the centre of things, he discovers a new means of restoring his self-importance; he interprets his humiliation as a deliverance. Finding himself in an insignificant island floating in the immensity of space, he decides that he is at last master of his own destinies; he can fling away the old equipment of final causes, original sin, and the rest; he can construct his own chart and, bound by no cosmic scheme, he need take the universe into account only in so far as he judges it to be to his own profit. Or, if he is a philosopher, he may say that, after all, the universe for him is built out of his own sensations, and that by virtue of this relativity "anthropo-centrism" is restored in a new and more effective form. Built out of his own sensations: for the philosophy of Locke was now triumphant in France. I have used the term Cartesianism to designate, not the metaphysical doctrines of Descartes (innate ideas, two substances, and the rest), but the great principles which survived the passing of his metaphysical system--the supremacy of reason, and the immutability of natural laws, not subject to providential interventions. These principles still controlled thought, but the particular views of Descartes on mental phenomena were superseded in France by the psychology of Locke, whose influence was established by Voltaire and Condillac. The doctrine that all our ideas are derived from the senses lay at the root of the whole theory of man and society, in the light of which the revolutionary thinkers, Diderot, Helvetius, and their fellows, criticised the existing order and exposed the reigning prejudices. This sensationalism (which went beyond what Locke himself had really meant) involved the strict relativity of knowledge and led at once to the old pragmatic doctrine of Protagoras, that man is the measure of all things. And the spirit of the French philosophers of the eighteenth century was distinctly pragmatic. The advantage of man was their principle, and the value of speculation was judged by its definite service to humanity. "The value and rights of truth are founded on its utility," which is "the unique measure of man's judgements," one thinker asserts; another declares that "the useful circumscribes everything," l'utile circonscrit tout; another lays down that "to be virtuous is to be useful; to be vicious is to be useless or harmful; that is the sum of morality." Helvetius, anticipating Bentham, works out the theory that utility is the only possible basis of ethics. Bacon, the utilitarian, was extolled like Locke. [Footnote: The passages quoted on utility are from d'Holbach, Systems de la nature, i. c. 12, p. 224; c. 15, p. 312; Diderot, De I'interpretation de la nature in OEuvres, ii. p. 13; Raynal, Histoire des deux Indes, vii. p. 416. The effectiveness of the teaching may be illustrated from the Essay on Man, by Antoine Rivarol, whom Burke called the Tacitus of the Revolution. "The virtues are only virtues because they are useful to the human race." OEuvres choisis (ed. de Lescure), i. p. 211.] As, a hundred years before, his influence had inspired the foundation of the Royal Society, so now his name was invoked by the founders of the Encyclopaedia. [Footnote: See d'Alembert's tribute to him in the Discours preliminaire.] Beneath all philosophical speculation there is an undercurrent of emotion, and in the French philosophers of the eighteenth century this emotional force was strong and even violent. They aimed at practical results. Their work was a calculated campaign to transform the principles and the spirit of governments and to destroy sacerdotalism. The problem for the human race being to reach a state of felicity by its own powers, these thinkers believed that it was soluble by the gradual triumph of reason over prejudice and knowledge over ignorance. Violent revolution was far from their thoughts; by the diffusion of knowledge they hoped to create a public opinion which would compel governments to change the tenor of their laws and administration and make the happiness of the people their guiding principle. The optimistic confidence that man is perfectible, which means capable of indefinite improvement, inspired the movement as a whole, however greatly particular thinkers might differ in their views. Belief in Progress was their sustaining faith, although, occupied by the immediate problems of amelioration, they left it rather vague and ill-defined. The word itself is seldom pronounced in their writings. The idea is treated as subordinate to the other ideas in the midst of which it had grown up: Reason, Nature, Humanity, Illumination (lumieres). It has not yet entered upon an independent life of its own and received a distinct label, though it is already a vital force. In reviewing the influences which were forming a new public opinion during the forty years before the Revolution, it is convenient for the present purpose to group together the thinkers (including Voltaire) associated with the Encyclopaedia, who represented a critical and consciously aggressive force against traditional theories and existing institutions. The constructive thinker Rousseau was not less aggressive, but he stands apart and opposed, by his hostility to modern civilisation. Thirdly, we must distinguish the school of Economists, also reformers and optimists, but of more conservative temper than the typical Encyclopaedists. 2. The Encyclopaedia (1751-1765) has rightly been pronounced the central work of the rationalistic movement which made the France of 1789 so different from the France of 1715. [Footnote: The general views which governed the work may be gathered from d'Alembert's introductory discourse and from Diderot's article Encyclopedie. An interesting sketch of the principal contributors will be found in Morley's Diderot, i. chap. v. Another modern study of the Encyclopaedic movement is the monograph of L. Ducros, Les Encyclopidistes (1900). Helvetius has recently been the subject of a study by Albert Keim (Helvetius, sa vie et son oeuvre, 1907). Among other works which help the study of the speculations of this age from various points of view may be mentioned: Marius Roustan, Les Philosophes et la societe francaise au xviii siecle(1906); Espinas, La Philosophie sociale du xviii siecle et la Revolution (1898); Lichtenberger, Le Socialisme au xviii siecle(1895). I have not mentioned in the text Boullanger (1722-1758), who contributed to the Encyclopaedia the article on Political Economy (which has nothing to do with economics but treats of ancient theocracies); the emphasis laid on his views on progress by Buchez (op. cit. i. III sqq.) is quite excessive.] It was the organised section of a vast propaganda, speculative and practical, carried on by men of the most various views, most of whom were associated directly with it. As has well been observed, it did for the rationalism of the eighteenth century in France much what the Fortnightly Review, under the editorship of Mr. Morley (from 1868 to 1882) did for that of the nineteenth in England, as an organ for the penetrating criticism of traditional beliefs. If Diderot, who directed the Encyclopaedia with the assistance of d'Alembert the mathematician, had lived a hundred years later he would probably have edited a journal. We saw that the "solidarity" of the sciences was one of the conceptions associated with the theory of intellectual progress, and that the popularisation of knowledge was another. Both these conceptions inspired the Encyclopaedia, which was to gather up and concentrate the illumination of the modern age. It was to establish the lines of communication among all departments, "to enclose in the unity of a system the infinitely various branches of knowledge." And it was to be a library of popular instruction. But it was also intended to be an organ of propaganda. In the history of the intellectual revolution it is in some ways the successor of the Dictionary of Bayle, which, two generations before, collected the material of war to demolish traditional doctrines. The Encyclopaedia carried on the campaign against authority and superstition by indirect methods, but it was the work of men who were not sceptics like Bayle, but had ideals, positive purposes, and social hopes. They were not only confident in reason and in science, but most of them had also a more or less definite belief in the possibility of an advance of humanity towards perfection. As one of their own band afterwards remarked, they were less occupied in enlarging the bounds of knowledge than in spreading the light and making war on prejudice. [Footnote: Condorcet, Esquisse, p. 206 (ed. 1822).] The views of the individual contributors differed greatly, and they cannot be called a school, but they agreed so far in common tendencies that they were able to form a co-operative alliance. The propaganda of which the Encyclopaedia was the centre was reinforced by the independent publications of some of the leading men who collaborated or were closely connected with their circle, notably those of Diderot himself, Baron d'Holbach, and Helvetius. 3. The optimism of the Encyclopaedists was really based on an intense consciousness of the enlightenment of their own age. The progressiveness of knowledge was taken as axiomatic, but was there any guarantee that the light, now confined to small circles, could ever enlighten the world and regenerate mankind? They found the guarantee they required, not in an induction from the past experience of the race, but in an a priori theory: the indefinite malleability of human nature by education and institutions. This had been, as we saw, assumed by the Abbe de Saint-Pierre. It pervaded the speculation of the age, and was formally deduced from the sensational psychology of Locke and Condillac. It was developed, in an extreme form, in the work of Helvetius, De l'esprit (1758). In this book, which was to exert a large influence in England, Helvetius sought, among other things, to show that the science of morals is equivalent to the science of legislation, and that in a well-organised society all men are capable of rising to the highest point of mental development. Intellectual and moral inequalities between man and man arise entirely from differences in education and social circumstances. Genius itself is not a gift of nature; the man of genius is a product of circumstances--social, not physical, for Helvetius rejects the influence of climate. It follows that if you change education and social institutions you can change the character of men. The error of Helvetius in ignoring the irremovable physical differences between individuals, the varieties of cerebral organisation, was at once pointed out by Diderot. This error, however, was not essential to the general theory of the immeasurable power of social institutions over human character, and other thinkers did not fall into it. All alike, indeed, were blind to the factor of heredity. But the theory in its collective application contains a truth which nineteenth century critics, biassed by their studies in heredity, have been prone to overlook. The social inheritance of ideas and emotions to which the individual is submitted from infancy is more important than the tendencies physically transmitted from parent to child. The power of education and government in moulding the members of a society has recently been illustrated on a large scale in the psychological transformation of the German people in the life of a generation. It followed from the theory expounded by Helvetius that there is no impassable barrier between the advanced and the stationary or retrograde races of the earth. [Footnote: The most informing discussion of the relations between the Advanced and Backward races is Bryce's Romanes Lecture (1902).] "True morality," Baron d'Holbach wrote, "should be the same for all the inhabitants of the globe. The savage man and the civilised; the white man, the red man, the black man; Indian and European, Chinaman and Frenchman, Negro and Lapp have the same nature. The differences between them are only modifications of the common nature produced by climate, government, education, opinions, and the various causes which operate on them. Men differ only in the ideas they form of happiness and the means which they have imagined to obtain it." Here again the eighteenth century theorists held a view which can no longer be dismissed as absurd. Some are coming round to the opinion that enormous differences in capacity which seem fundamental are a result of the differences in social inheritance, and that these again are due to a long sequence of historical circumstances; and consequently that there is no people in the world doomed by nature to perpetual inferiority or irrevocably disqualified by race from playing a useful part in the future of civilisation. 4. This doctrine of the possibility of indefinitely moulding the characters of men by laws and institutions--whether combined or not with a belief in the natural equality of men's faculties--laid a foundation on which the theory of the perfectibility of humanity could be raised. It marked, therefore, an important stage in the development of the doctrine of Progress. It gave, moreover, a new and larger content to that doctrine by its applicability, not only to the peoples which are at present in the van of civilisation, but also to those which have lagged far behind and may appear irreclaimably barbarous--thus potentially including all humanity in the prospect of the future. Turgot had already conceived "the total mass of the human race moving always slowly forward"; he had declared that the human mind everywhere contains the germs of progress and that the inequality of peoples is due to the infinite variety of their circumstances. This enlarging conception was calculated to add strength to the idea of Progress, by raising it to a synthesis comprehending not merely the western civilised nations but the whole human world. Interest in the remote peoples of the earth, in the unfamiliar civilisations of the East, in the untutored races of America and Africa, was vivid in France in the eighteenth century. Everyone knows how Voltaire and Montesquieu used Hurons or Persians to hold up the glass to Western manners and morals, as Tacitus used the Germans to criticise the society of Rome. But very few ever look into the seven volumes of the Abbe Raynal's History of the Two Indies which appeared in 1772. It is however, one of the remarkable books of the century. Its immediate practical importance lay in the array of facts which it furnished to the friends of humanity in the movement against negro slavery. But it was also an effective attack on the Church and the sacerdotal system. The author's method was the same which his greater contemporary Gibbon employed on a larger scale. A history of facts was a more formidable indictment than any declamatory attack. Raynal brought home to the conscience of Europeans the miseries which had befallen the natives of the New World through the Christian conquerors and their priests. He was not indeed an enthusiastic preacher of Progress. He is unable to decide between the comparative advantages of the savage state of nature and the most highly cultivated society. But he observes that "the human race is what we wish to make it," that the felicity of man depends entirely on the improvement of legislation; and in the survey of the history of Europe to which the last Book of his work is devoted, his view is generally optimistic. [Footnote: cp. Raynal, Histoire, vii. 214, 256. This book was first published anonymously; the author's name appeared in the edition of 1780.] 5. Baron d'Holbach had a more powerful brain than Helvetius, but his writings had probably less influence, though he was the spiritual father of two prominent Revolutionaries, Hebert and Chaumette. His System of Nature (1770) develops a purely naturalistic theory of the universe, in which the prevalent Deism is rejected: there is no God; material Nature stands out alone, self-sufficing, dominis privata superbis. The book suggests how the Lucretian theory of development might have led to the idea of Progress. But it sent a chilly shock to the hearts of many and probably convinced few. The effective part was the outspoken and passionate indictment of governments and religions as causes of most of the miseries of mankind. It is in other works, especially in his Social System, that his views of Progress are to be sought. Man is simply a part of nature; he has no privileged position, and he is born neither good nor bad. Erras, as Seneca said, si existumas vitia nobiscum esse: supervenerunt, ingesta sunt. [Footnote: Seneca, Ep. 124.] We are made good or bad by education, public opinion, laws, government; and here the author points to the significance of the instinct of imitation as a social force, which a modern writer, M. Tarde, has worked into a system. The evils, which are due to the errors of tyranny and superstition, the force of truth will gradually diminish if it cannot completely banish them; for our governments and laws may be perfected by the progress of useful knowledge. But the process will be a long one: centuries of continuous mental effort in unravelling the causes of social ill-being and repeated experiments to determine the remedies (des experiences reiterees de la societe). In any case we cannot look forward to the attainment of an unchangeable or unqualified felicity. That is a mere chimera "incompatible with the nature of a being whose feeble machine is subject to derangement and whose ardent imagination will not always submit to the guidance of reason. Sometimes to enjoy, sometimes to suffer, is the lot of man; to enjoy more often than to suffer is what constitutes well-being." D'Holbach was a strict determinist; he left no room for freewill in the rigorous succession of cause and effect, and the pages in which he drives home the theory of causal necessity are still worth reading. From his naturalistic principles he inferred that the distinction between nature and art is not fundamental; civilisation is as rational as the savage state. Here he was at one with Aristotle. All the successive inventions of the human mind to change or perfect man's mode of existence and render it happier were only the necessary consequence of his essence and that of the existences which act upon him. All we do or think, all we are or shall be, is only an effect of what universal nature has made us. Art is only nature acting by the aid of the instruments which she has fashioned. [Footnote: The passages of d'Holbach specially referred to are: Systeme social, i. 1, p. 13; Syst. de la nature, i. 6, p. 88; Syst. soc. i. 15, p. 271; Syst. de la n. i. 1, p. 3.] Progress, therefore, is natural and necessary, and to criticise or condemn it by appealing to nature is only to divide the house of nature against itself. If d'Holbach had pressed his logic further, he would have taken a more indulgent and calmer view of the past history of mankind. He would have acknowledged that institutions and opinions to which modern reason may give short shrift were natural and useful in their day, and would have recognised that at any stage of history the heritage of the past is no less necessary to progress than the solvent power of new ideas. Most thinkers of his time were inclined to judge the past career of humanity anachronistically. All the things that had been done or thought which could not be justified in the new age of enlightenment, were regarded as gratuitous and inexcusable errors. The traditions, superstitions, and customs, the whole "code of fraud and woe" transmitted from the past, weighed then too heavily in France to allow the school of reform to do impartial justice to their origins. They felt a sort of resentment against history. D'Alembert said that it would be well if history could be destroyed; and the general tendency was to ignore the social memory and the common heritage of past experiences which mould a human society and make it something very different from a mere collection of individuals. Belief in Progress, however, took no extravagant form. It did not beguile d'Holbach or any other of the leading thinkers of the Encyclopaedia epoch into optimistic dreams of the future which might await mankind. They had a much clearer conception of obstacles than the good Abbe de Saint-Pierre. Helvetius agrees with d'Holbach that progress will be slow, and Diderot is wavering and sceptical of the question of indefinite social improvement. [Footnote: De l'esprit, Disc. ii. cc. 24, 25.] 6. The reformers of the Encyclopaedia group were not alone in disseminating the idea of Progress. Another group of thinkers, who widely differed in their principles, though some of them had contributed articles to the Encyclopaedia, [Footnote: Quesnay and Turgot, who, though not professedly a Physiocrat, held the same views as the sect.] also did much to make it a power. The rise of the special study of Economics was one of the most significant facts in the general trend of thought towards the analysis of civilisation. Economical students found that in seeking to discover a true theory of the production, distribution, and employment of wealth, they could not avoid the consideration of the constitution and purpose of society. The problems of production and distribution could not be divorced from political theory: production raises the question of the functions of government and the limits of its intervention in trade and industry; distribution involve questions of property, justice, and equality. The employment of riches leads into the domain of morals. The French Economists or "Physiocrats," as they were afterwards called, who formed a definite school before 1760--Quesnay the master, Mirabeau, Mercier de la Riviere, and the rest--envisaged their special subject from a wide philosophical point of view; their general economic theory was equivalent to a theory of human society. They laid down the doctrine of a Natural Order in political communities, and from it they deduced their economic teaching. They assumed, like the Encyclopaedists, that the end of society is the attainment of terrestrial happiness by its members, and that this is the sole purpose of government. The object of a treatise by Mercier de la Riviere [Footnote: L'ordre naturel et essentiel des societes politiqes, 1767.] (a convenient exposition of the views of the sect) is, in his own words, to discover the natural order for the government of men living in organised communities, which will assure to them temporal felicity: an order in which everything is well, necessarily well, and in which the interests of all are so perfectly and intimately consolidated that all are happy, from the ruler to the least of his subjects. But in what does this happiness consist? His answer is that "humanly speaking, the greatest happiness possible for us consists in the greatest possible abundance of objects suitable to our enjoyment and in the greatest liberty to profit by them." And liberty is necessary not only to enjoy them but also to produce them in the greatest abundance, since liberty stimulates human efforts. Another condition of abundance is the multiplication of the race; in fact, the happiness of men and their numbers are closely bound up together in the system of nature. From these axioms may be deduced the Natural Order of a human society, the reciprocal duties and rights whose enforcement is required for the greatest possible multiplication of products, in order to procure to the race the greatest sum of happiness with the maximum population. Now, individual property is the indispensable condition for full enjoyment of the products of human labour; "property is the measure of liberty, and liberty is the measure of property." Hence, to realise general happiness it is only necessary to maintain property and consequently liberty in all their natural extent. The fatal error which has made history what it is has been the failure to recognise this simple fact; for aggression and conquest, the causes of human miseries, violate the law of property which is the foundation of happiness. The practical inference was that the chief function of government was to protect property and that complete freedom should be left to private enterprise to exploit the resources of the earth. All would be well if trade and industry were allowed to follow their natural tendencies. This is what was meant by Physiocracy, the supremacy of the Natural Order. If rulers observed the limits of their true functions, Mercier thought that the moral effect would be immense. "The public system of government is the true education of moral man. Regis ad exemplum totus componitur orbis." [Footnote: The particulars of the Physiocratic doctrine as to the relative values of agriculture and commerce which Adam Smith was soon to criticise do not concern us; nor is it necessary to repeat the obvious criticisms on a theory which virtually reduced the science of society to a science of production and distribution.] While they advocated a thorough reform of the principles which ruled the fiscal policy of governments, the Economists were not idealists, like the Encyclopaedic philosophers; they sowed no seeds of revolution. Their starting-point was that which is, not that which ought to be. And, apart from their narrower point of view, they differed from the philosophers in two very important points. They did not believe that society was of human institution, and therefore they did not believe that there could be any deductive science of society based simply on man's nature. Moreover, they held that inequality of condition was one of its immutable features, immutable because it is a consequence of the inequality of physical powers. But they believed in the future progress of society towards a state of happiness through the increase of opulence which would itself depend on the growth of justice and "liberty"; and they insisted on the importance of the increase and diffusion of knowledge. Their influence in promoting a belief in Progress is vouched for by Condorcet, the friend and biographer of Turgot. As Turgot stands apart from the Physiocrats (with whom indeed he did not identify himself) by his wider views on civilisation, it might be suspected that it is of him that Condorcet was chiefly thinking. Yet we need not limit the scope of his statement when we remember that as a sect the Economists assumed as their first principle the eudaemonic value of civilisation, declared that temporal happiness is attainable, and threw all their weight into the scales against the doctrine of Regress which had found a powerful advocate in Rousseau. 7. By liberty the Economists meant economic liberty. Neither they nor the philosophers nor Rousseau, the father of modern democracy, had any just conception of what political liberty means. They contributed much to its realisation, but their own ideas of it were narrow and imperfect. They never challenged the principle of a despotic government, they only contended that the despotism must be enlightened. The paternal rule of a Joseph or a Catherine, acting under the advice of philosophers, seemed to them the ideal solution of the problem of government; and when the progressive and disinterested Turgot, whom they might regard as one of themselves, was appointed financial minister on the accession of Louis XVI., it seemed that their ideal was about to be realised. His speedy fall dispelled their hopes, but did not teach them the secret of liberty. They had no quarrel with the principle of the censorship, though they writhed under its tyranny; they did not want to abolish it. They only complained that it was used against reason and light, that is against their own writings; and, if the Conseil d'Etat or the Parlement had suppressed the works of their obscurantist opponents, they would have congratulated themselves that the world was marching quickly towards perfection. [Footnote: The principle that intolerance on the part of the wise and strong towards the ignorant and weak is a good thing is not alien to the spirit of the French philosophers, though I do not think any of them expressly asserted it. In the following century it was formulated by Colins, a Belgian (author of two works on social science, 1857-60), who believed that an autocratic government suppressing liberty of conscience is the most effective instrument of Progress. It is possible that democracy may yet try the experiment.] CHAPTER IX. WAS CIVILISATION A MISTAKE? ROUSSEAU, CHASTELLUX. 1. The optimistic theory of civilisation was not unchallenged by rationalists. In the same year (1750) in which Turgot traced an outline of historical Progress at the Sorbonne, Rousseau laid before the Academy of Dijon a theory of historical Regress. This Academy had offered a prize for the best essay on the question whether the revival of sciences and arts had contributed to the improvement of morals. The prize was awarded to Rousseau. Five years later the same learned body proposed another subject for investigation, the origin of Inequality among men. Rousseau again competed but failed to win the prize, though this second essay was a far more remarkable performance. The view common to these two discourses, that social development has been a gigantic mistake, that the farther man has travelled from a primitive simple state the more unhappy has his lot become, that civilisation is radically vicious, was not original. Essentially the same issue had been raised in England, though in a different form, by Mandeville's Fable of the Bees, the scandalous book which aimed at proving that it is not the virtues and amiable qualities of man that are the cement of civilised society, but the vices of its members which are the support of all trades and employments. [Footnote: The expanded edition was published in 1723.] In these vices, he said, "we must look for the true origin of all arts and sciences"; "the moment evil ceases the society must be spoiled, if not totally dissolved." The significance of Mandeville's book lay in the challenge it flung to the optimistic doctrines of Lord Shaftesbury, that human nature is good and all is for the best in this harmonious world. "The ideas he had formed," wrote Mandeville, "of the goodness and excellency of our nature were as romantic and chimerical as they are beautiful and amiable; he laboured hard to unite two contraries that can never be reconciled together, innocence of manners and worldly greatness." Of these two views Rousseau accepted one and rejected the other. He agreed with Shaftesbury as to the natural goodness of man; he agreed with Mandeville that innocence of manners is incompatible with the conditions of a civilised society. He was an optimist in regard to human nature, a pessimist in regard to civilisation. In his first Discourse he begins by appreciating the specious splendour of modern enlightenment, the voyages of man's intellect among the stars, and then goes on to assever that in the first place men have lost, through their civilisation, the original liberty for which they were born, and that arts and science, flinging garlands of flowers on the iron chains which bind them, make them love their slavery; and secondly that there is a real depravity beneath the fair semblance and "our souls are corrupted as our sciences and arts advance to perfection." Nor is this only a modern phenomenon; "the evils due to our vain curiosity are as old as the world." For it is a law of history that morals fall and rise in correspondence with the progress and decline of the arts and sciences as regularly as the tides answer to the phases of the moon. This "law" is exemplified by the fortunes of Greece, Rome, and China, to whose civilisations the author opposes the comparative happiness of the ignorant Persians, Scythians, and ancient Germans. "Luxury, dissoluteness, and slavery have been always the chastisement of the ambitious efforts we have made to emerge from the happy ignorance in which the Eternal Wisdom had placed us." There is the theological doctrine of the tree of Eden in a new shape. Rousseau's attempt to show that the cultivation of science produces specific moral evils is feeble, and has little ingenuity; it is a declamation rather than an argument; and in the end he makes concessions which undo the effect of his impeachment. The essay did not establish even a plausible case, but it was paradoxical and suggestive, and attracted more attention than Turgot's thoughtful discourse in the Sorbonne. D'Alembert deemed it worthy of a courteous expression of dissent; [Footnote: In the Disc. Prel. to the Encyclopaedia.] and Voltaire satirised it in his Timon. 2. In the Discourse on Inequality Rousseau dealt more directly with the effect of civilisation on happiness. He proposed to explain how it came about that right overcame the primitive reign of might, that the strong were induced to serve the weak, and the people to purchase a fancied tranquillity at the price of a real felicity. So he stated his problem; and to solve it he had to consider the "state of nature" which Hobbes had conceived as a state of war and Locke as a state of peace. Rousseau imagines our first savage ancestors living in isolation, wandering in the forests, occasionally co-operating, and differing from the animals only by the possession of a faculty for improving themselves (la faculte de se perfectionner). After a stage in which families lived alone in a more or less settled condition, came the formation of groups of families, living together in a definite territory, united by a common mode of life and sustenance, and by the common influence of climate, but without laws or government or any social organisation. It is this state, which was reached only after a long period, not the original state of nature, that Rousseau considers to have been the happiest period of the human race. This period of the development of human faculties, holding a just mean between the indolence of the primitive state and the petulant activity of our self-love, must be the happiest and most durable epoch. The more we reflect on it, the more we find that this state was the least exposed to revolutions and the best for man; and that he can have left it only through some fatal chance which, for the common advantage, should never have occurred. The example of the savages who have almost all been found in this state seems to bear out the conclusion that humanity was made to remain in it for ever, that it was the true youth of the world, and that all further progresses have been so many steps, apparently towards the perfection of the individual, and really towards the decrepitude of the species. He ascribes to metallurgy and agriculture the fatal resolution which brought this Arcadian existence to an end. Agriculture entailed the origin of property in land. Moral and social inequality were introduced by the man who first enclosed a piece of land and said, This is mine, and found people simple enough to believe him. He was the founder of civil society. The general argument amounts to this: Man's faculty of improving himself is the source of his other faculties, including his sociability, and has been fatal to his happiness. The circumstances of his primeval life favoured the growth of this faculty, and in making man sociable they made him wicked; they developed the reason of the individual and thereby caused the species to deteriorate. If the process had stopped at a certain point, all would have been well; but man's capacities, stimulated by fortuitous circumstances, urged him onward, and leaving behind him the peaceful Arcadia where he should have remained safe and content, he set out on the fatal road which led to the calamities of civilisation. We need not follow Rousseau in his description of those calamities which he attributes to wealth and the artificial conditions of society. His indictment was too general and rhetorical to make much impression. In truth, a more powerful and comprehensive case against civilised society was drawn up about the same time, though with a very different motive, by one whose thought represented all that was opposed to Rousseau's teaching. Burke's early work, A Vindication of Natural Society, [Footnote: A.D. 1756.] was written to show that all the objections which Deists like Bolingbroke urged against artificial religion could be brought with greater force against artificial society, and he worked out in detail a historical picture of the evils of civilisation which is far more telling than Rousseau's generalities. [Footnote: In his admirable edition of The Political Writings of Jean-Jacques Rousseau (1915), p. 89, Vaughan suggests that in Rousseau's later works we may possibly detect "the first faint beginnings" of a belief in Progress, and attributes this to the influence of Montesquieu.] 3. If civilisation has been the curse of man, it might seem that the logical course for Rousseau to recommend was its destruction. This was the inference which Voltaire drew in Timon, to laugh the whole theory out of court. But Rousseau did not suggest a movement to destroy all the libraries and all the works of art in the world, to put to death or silence all the savants, to pull down the cities, and burn the ships. He was not a mere dreamer, and his Arcadia was no more than a Utopian ideal, by the light of which he conceived that the society of his own day might be corrected and transformed. He attached his hopes to equality, democracy, and a radical change in education. Equality: this revolutionary idea was of course quite compatible with the theory of Progress, and was soon to be closely associated with it. But it is easy to understand that the two ideas should first have appeared in antagonism to each other. The advance of knowledge and the increase of man's power over nature had virtually profited only a minority. When Fontenelle or Voltaire vaunted the illumination of their age and glorified the modern revolution in scientific thought, they took account only of a small class of privileged people. Higher education, Voltaire observed, is not for cobblers or kitchenmaids; "on n'a jamais pretendu eclairer les cordonniers et les servantes." The theory of Progress had so far left the masses out of account. Rousseau contrasted the splendour of the French court, the luxury of the opulent, the enlightenment of those who had the opportunity of education, with the hard lot of the ignorant mass of peasants, whose toil paid for the luxury of many of the idle enlightened people who amused themselves at Paris. The horror of this contrast, which left Voltaire cold, was the poignant motive which inspired Rousseau, a man of the people, in constructing his new doctrine. The existing inequality seemed an injustice which rendered the self-complacency of the age revolting. If this is the result of progressive civilisation, what is progress worth? The next step is to declare that civilisation is the causa malorum and that what is named progress is really regress. But Rousseau found a way of circumventing pessimism. He asked himself, cannot equality be realised in an organised state, founded on natural right? The Social Contract was his answer, and there we can see the living idea of equality detaching itself from the dead theory of degradation. [Footnote: The consistency of the Social Contract with the Discourse on Inequality has been much debated. They deal with two distinct problems, and the Social Contract does not mark any change in the author's views. Though it was not published till 1762 he had been working at it since 1753.] Arcadianism, which was thus only a side-issue for Rousseau, was the extreme expression of tendencies which appear in the speculations of other thinkers of the day. Morelly and Mably argued in favour of a reversion to simpler forms of life. They contemplated the foundation of socialistic communities by reviving institutions and practices which belonged to a past period of social evolution. Mably, inspired by Plato, thought it possible by legislation to construct a state of antique pattern. [Footnote: For Mably's political doctrines see Guerrier's monograph, L'Abbe de Mably (1886), where it is shown that among "the theories which determined in advance the course of the events of 1789" the Abbe's played a role which has not been duly recognised.] They ascribed evils of civilisation to inequality arising from the existence of private property, but Morelly rejected the view of the "bold sophist" Rousseau that science and art were to blame. He thought that aided by science and learning man might reach a state based on communism, resembling the state of nature but more perfect, and he planned an ideal constitution in his romance of the Floating Islands. [Footnote: Naufrage des isles flottantes ou Basiliade du celebre Pilpai (1753). It begins: "je chante le regne aimable de la Verite et de la Nature." Morelly's other work, Code de la Nature, appeared in 1755.] Different as these views were, they represent the idea of regress; they imply a condemnation of the tendencies of actual social development and recommend a return to simpler and more primitive conditions. Even Diderot, though he had little sympathy with Utopian speculations, was attracted by the idea of the simplification of society, and met Rousseau so far as to declare that the happiest state was a mean between savage and civilised life. "I am convinced," he wrote, "that the industry of man has gone too far and that if it had stopped long ago and if it were possible to simplify the results, we should not be the worse. I believe there is a limit in civilisation, a limit more conformable to the felicity of man in general and far less distant from the savage state than is imagined; but how to return to it, having left it, or how to remain in it, if we were there? I know not." [Footnote: Refutation de l'ouvrage d'Helvetius in OEuvres ii. p. 431. Elsewhere (p. 287) he argues that in a community without arts and industries there are fewer crimes than in a civilised state, but men are not so happy.] His picture of the savages of Tahiti in the Supplement au voyage de Bougainville was not seriously meant, but it illustrates the fact that in certain moods he felt the fascination of Rousseau's Arcadia. D'Holbach met all these theories by pointing out that human development, from the "state of nature" to social life and the ideas and commodities of civilisation, is itself natural, given the innate tendency of man to improve his lot. To return to the simpler life of the forests--or to any bygone stage--would be denaturer l'homme, it would be contrary to nature; and if he could do so, it would only be to recommence the career begun by his ancestors and pass again through the same successive phases of history. [Footnote: Syst. soc. i. 16, p. 190.] There was, indeed, one question which caused some embarrassment to believers in Progress. The increase of wealth and luxury was evidently a salient feature in modern progressive states; and it was clear that there was an intimate connection between the growth of knowledge and the growth of commerce and industrial arts, and that the natural progress of these meant an ever-increasing accumulation of riches and the practice of more refined luxury. The question, therefore, whether luxury is injurious to the general happiness occupied the attention of the philosophers. [Footnote: D'Holbach, ib. iii. 7; Diderot, art. Luxe in the Encylopaedia; Helvetius, De l'esprit, i. 3.] If it is injurious, does it not follow that the forces on which admittedly Progress depends are leading in an undesirable direction? Should they be obstructed, or is it wiser to let things follow their natural tendency (laisser aller les choses suivant leur pente naturelle)? Voltaire accepted wealth with all its consequences. D'Holbach proved to his satisfaction that luxury always led to the ruin of nations. Diderot and Helvetius arrayed the arguments which could be urged on both sides. Perhaps the most reasonable contribution to the subject was an essay of Hume. 4. It is obvious that Rousseau and all other theorists of Regress would be definitely refuted if it could be proved by an historical investigation that in no period in the past had man's lot been happier than in the present. Such an inquiry was undertaken by the Chevalier de Chastellux. His book On Public Felicity, or Considerations on the lot of Men in the various Epochs of History, appeared in 1772 and had a wide circulation. [Footnote: There was a new edition in 1776 with an important additional chapter.] It is a survey of the history of the western world and aims at proving the certainty of future Progress. It betrays the influence both of the Encyclopaedists and of the Economists. Chastellux is convinced that human nature can be indefinitely moulded by institutions; that enlightenment is a necessary condition of general happiness; that war and superstition, for which governments and priests are responsible, are the principal obstacles. But he attempted to do what none of his masters had done, to test the question methodically from the data of history. Turgot, and Voltaire in his way, had traced the growth of civilisation; the originality of Chastellux lay in concentrating attention on the eudaemonic issue, in examining each historical period for the purpose of discovering whether people on the whole were happy and enviable. Has there ever been a time, he inquired, in which public felicity was greater than in our own, in which it would have been desirable to remain for ever, and to which it would now be desirable to return? He begins by brushing away the hypothesis of an Arcadia. We know really nothing about primitive man, there is not sufficient evidence to authorise conjectures. We know man only as he has existed in organised societies, and if we are to condemn modern civilisation and its prospects, we must find our term of comparison not in an imaginary golden age but in a known historical epoch. And we must be careful not to fall into the mistakes of confusing public prosperity with general happiness, and of considering only the duration or aggrandisement of empires and ignoring the lot of the common people. His survey of history is summary and superficial enough. He gives reasons for believing that no peoples from the ancient Egyptians and Assyrians to the Europeans of the Renaissance can be judged happy. Yet what about the Greeks? Theirs was an age of enlightenment. In a few pages he examines their laws and history, and concludes, "We are compelled to acknowledge that what is called the bel age of Greece was a time of pain and torture for humanity." And in ancient history, generally, "slavery alone sufficed to make man's condition a hundred times worse than it is at present." The miseries of life in the Roman period are even more apparent than in the Greek. What Englishman or Frenchman would tolerate life as lived in ancient Rome? It is interesting to remember that four years later an Englishman who had an incomparably wider and deeper knowledge of history declared it to be probable that in the age of the Antonines civilised Europe enjoyed greater happiness than at any other period. Rome declined and Christianity came. Its purpose was not to render men happy on earth, and we do not find that it made rulers less avaricious or less sanguinary, peoples more patient or quiet, crimes rarer, punishments less cruel, treaties more faithfully observed, or wars waged more humanely. The conclusion is that it is only those who are profoundly ignorant of the past who can regret "the good old times." Throughout this survey Chastellux does not, like Turgot, make any attempt to show that the race was progressing, however slowly. On the contrary, he sets the beginning of continuous Progress in the Renaissance--here agreeing with d'Alembert and Voltaire. The intellectual movement, which originated then and resulted in the enlightenment of his own day, was a condition of social progress. But alone it would not have been enough, as is proved by the fact that the intellectual brilliancy of the great age of Greece exerted no beneficent effects on the well-being of the people. Nor indeed was there any perceptible improvement in the prospect of happiness for the people at large during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, notwithstanding the progress of science and the arts. But the terrible wars of this period exhausted Europe, and this financial exhaustion has supplied the requisite conditions for attaining a measure of felicity never realised in the past. Peace is an advantageous condition for the progress of reason, but especially when it is the result of the exhaustion of peoples and their satiety of fighting. Frivolous ideas disappear; political bodies, like organisms, have the care of self-preservation impressed upon them by pain; the human mind, hitherto exercised on agreeable objects, falls back with more energy on useful objects; a more successful appeal can be made to the rights of humanity; and princes, who have become creditors and debtors of their subjects, permit them to be happy in order that they may be more solvent or more patient. This is not very lucid or convincing; but the main point is that intellectual enlightenment would be ineffective without the co-operation of political events, and no political events would permanently help humanity without the progress of knowledge. Public felicity consists--Chastellux follows the Economists--in external and domestic peace, abundance and liberty, the liberty of tranquil enjoyment of one's own; and ordinary signs of it are flourishing agriculture, large populations, and the growth of trade and industry. He is at pains to show the superiority of modern to ancient agriculture, and he avails himself of the researches of Hume to prove the comparatively greater populousness of modern European countries. As for the prospect of peace, he takes a curiously optimistic view. A system of alliances has made Europe a sort of confederated republic, and the balance of power has rendered the design of a universal monarchy, such as that which Louis XIV. essayed, a chimera. [Footnote: So Rivarol, writing in 1783 (OEuvres, i. pp. 4 and 52): "Never did the world offer such a spectacle. Europe has reached such a high degree of power that history has nothing to compare with it. It is virtually a federative republic, composed of empires and kingdoms, and the most powerful that has ever existed."] All the powerful nations are burdened with debt. War, too, is a much more difficult enterprise than it used to be; every campaign of the king of Prussia has been more arduous than all the conquests of Attila. It looks as if the Peace of 1762-3 possessed elements of finality. The chief danger he discerns in the overseas policy of the English--auri sacra fames. Divination of this kind has never been happy; a greater thinker, Auguste Comte, was to venture on more dogmatic predictions of the cessation of wars, which the event was no less utterly to belie. As for equality among men, Chastellux admits its desirability, but observes that there is pretty much the same amount of happiness (le bonheur se compense assez) in the different classes of society. "Courtiers and ministers are not happier than husbandmen and artisans." Inequalities and disportions in the lots of individuals are not incompatible with a positive measure of felicity. They are inconveniences incident to the perfectibility of the species, and they will be eliminated only when Progress reaches its final term. The best that can be done to remedy them is to accelerate the Progress of the race which will conduct it one day to the greatest possible happiness; not to restore a state of ignorance and simplicity, from which it would again escape. The general argument of the book may be resumed briefly. Felicity has never been realised in any period of the past. No government, however esteemed, set before itself to achieve what ought to be the sole object of government, "the greatest happiness of the greatest number of individuals." Now, for the first time in human history, intellectual enlightenment, other circumstances fortunately concurring, has brought about a condition of things, in which this object can no longer be ignored, and there is a prospect that it will gradually gain the ascendant. In the meantime, things have improved; the diffusion of knowledge is daily ameliorating men's lot, and far from envying any age in the past we ought to consider ourselves much happier than the ancients. We may wonder at this writer's easy confidence in applying the criterion of happiness to different societies. Yet the difficulty of such comparisons was, I believe, first pointed out by Comte. [Footnote: Cours de philosophie positive, iv. 379.] It is impossible, he says, to compare two states of society and determine that in one more happiness was enjoyed than in the other. The happiness of an individual requires a certain degree of harmony between his faculties and his environment. But there is always a natural tendency towards the establishment of such an equilibrium, and there is no means of discovering by argument or by direct experience the situation of a society in this respect. Therefore, he concludes, the question of happiness must be eliminated from any scientific treatment of civilisation. Chastellux won a remarkable success. His work was highly praised by Voltaire, and was translated into English, Italian, and German. It condensed, on a single issue, the optimistic doctrines of the philosophers, and appeared to give them a more solid historical foundation than Voltaire's Essay on Manners had supplied. It provided the optimists with new arguments against Rousseau, and must have done much to spread and confirm faith in perfectibility. [Footnote: Soon after the publication of the book of Chastellux--though I do not suggest any direct connection--a society of Illuminati, who also called themselves the Perfectibilists, was founded at Ingoldstadt, who proposed to effect a pacific transformation of humanity. See Javary, De l'idee de progres, p. 73.] CHAPTER X. THE YEAR 2440 1. The leaders of thought in France did not look far forward into the future or attempt to trace the definite lines on which the human race might be expected to develop. They contented themselves with principles and vague generalities, and they had no illusions as to the slowness of the process of social amelioration; a rational morality, the condition of improvement, was only in its infancy. A passage in a work of the Abbe Morellet probably reflects faithfully enough the comfortable though not extravagant optimism which was current. [Footnote: Reflexions sur les avantages d'ecrire et d'imprimer sur les matieres de l'administration (1764); in Melanges, vol. iii. p. 55. Morellet held, like d'Holbach, that society is only the development and improvement of nature itself (ib. p. 6).] Let us hope for the amelioration of man's lot as a consequence of the progress of the enlightenment (des lumieres) and labours of the educated (des gens instruits); let us trust that the errors and even the injustices of our age may not rob us of this consoling hope. The history of society presents a continuous alternation of light and darkness, reason and extravagance, humanity and barbarism; but in the succession of ages we can observe good gradually increasing in ever greater proportion. What educated man, if he is not a misanthrope or misled by vain declamations, would really wish he had lived in the barbarous and poetical time which Homer paints in such fair and terrifying colours? Who regrets that he was not born at Sparta among those pretended heroes who made it a virtue to insult nature, practised theft, and gloried in the murder of a Helot; or at Carthage, the scene of human sacrifices, or at Rome amid the proscriptions or under the rule of a Nero or a Caligula? Let as agree that man advances, though slowly, towards light and happiness. But though the most influential writers were sober in speculating about the future, it is significant of their effectiveness in diffusing the idea of Progress that now for the first time a prophetic Utopia was constructed. Hitherto, as I have before observed, ideal states were either projected into the remote past or set in some distant, vaguely-known region, where fancy could build freely. To project them into the future was a new thing, and when in 1770 Sebastien Mercier described what human civilisation would be in A.D. 2440, it was a telling sign of the power which the idea of Progress was beginning to exercise. 2. Mercier has been remembered, or rather forgotten, as an inferior dramatist. He was a good deal more, and the researches of M. Beclard into his life and works enable us to appreciate him. If it is an overstatement to say that his soul reflected in miniature the very soul of his age, [Footnote: L. Beclard, Sebastien Mercier, sa vie, son oeuvre, son temps (1903), p. vii.] he was assuredly one of its characteristic products. He reminds us in some ways of the Abbe de Saint-Pierre, who was one of his heroes. All his activities were urged by the dream of a humanity regenerated by reason, all his energy devoted to bringing about its accomplishment. Saint-Pierre's idea of perpetual peace inspired an early essay on the scourge of war. The theories of Rousseau exercised at first an irresistible attraction, but modern civilisation had too strong a hold on him; he was too Parisian in temper to acquiesce for long in the doctrine of Arcadianism. He composed a book on The Savage to illustrate the text that the true standard of morality is the heart of primitive man, and to prove that the best thing we could do is to return to the forest; but in the process of writing it he seems to have come to the conclusion that the whole doctrine was fallacious. [Footnote: Mercier's early essay: Des malheurs de la guerre et des avantages de la paix (1766). On the savage: L'homme sauvage (1767). For the opposite thesis see the Songes philosophiques (1768). He describes a state of perfect happiness in a planet where beings live in perpetual contemplation of the infinite. He appreciates the work of philosophers from Socrates to Leibnitz, and describes Rousseau as standing before the swelling stream, but cursing it. It may be suspected that the writings of Leibnitz had much to do with Mercier's conversion.] The transformation of his opinions was the work of a few months. He then came forward with the opposite thesis that all events have been ordered for man's felicity, and he began to work on an imaginary picture of the state to which man might find his way within seven hundred years. L'an 2440 was published anonymously at Amsterdam in 1770. [Footnote: The author's name first appeared in the 3rd ed., 1799. A German translation, by C. F. Weisse, was published in London in 1772. The English version, by Dr. Hooper, appeared in the same year, and a new edition in 1802; the translator changed the title to Memoirs of the year Two thousand five hundred.] Its circulation in France was rigorously forbidden, because it implied a merciless criticism of the administration. It was reprinted in London and Neuchatel, and translated into English and German. 3. As the motto of his prophetic vision Mercier takes the saying of Leibnitz that "the present is pregnant of the future." Thus the phase of civilisation which he imagines is proposed as the outcome of the natural and inevitable march of history. The world of A.D. 2440 in which a man born in the eighteenth century who has slept an enchanted sleep awakes to find himself, is composed of nations who live in a family concord rarely interrupted by war. But of the world at large we hear little; the imagination of Mercier is concentrated on France, and particularly Paris. He is satisfied with knowing that slavery has been abolished; that the rivalry of France and England has been replaced by an indestructible alliance; that the Pope, whose authority is still august, has renounced his errors and returned to the customs of the primitive Church; that French plays are performed in China. The changes in Paris are a sufficient index of the general transformation. The constitution of France is still monarchical. Its population has increased by one half; that of the capital remains about the same. Paris has been rebuilt on a scientific plan; its sanitary arrangements have been brought to perfection; it is well lit; and every provision has been made for the public safety. Private hospitality is so large that inns have disappeared, but luxury at table is considered a revolting crime. Tea, coffee, and tobacco are no longer imported. [Footnote: In the first edition of the book commerce was abolished.] There is no system of credit; everything is paid for in ready money, and this practice has led to a remarkable simplicity in dress. Marriages are contracted only through mutual inclination; dowries have been abolished. Education is governed by the ideas of Rousseau, and is directed, in a narrow spirit, to the promotion of morality. Italian, German, English, and Spanish are taught in schools, but the study of the classical languages has disappeared; Latin does not help a man to virtue. History too is neglected and discouraged, for it is "the disgrace of humanity, every page being crowded with crimes and follies." Theatres are government institutions, and have become the public schools of civic duties and morality. [Footnote: In 1769 Mercier began to carry out his programme of composing and adapting plays for instruction and edification. His theory of the true functions of the theatre he explained in a special treatise, Du theatre ou Nouvel Essai sur l'art dramatique (1773).] The literary records of the past had been almost all deliberately destroyed by fire. It was found expedient to do away with useless and pernicious books which only obscured truth or contained perpetual repetitions of the same thing. A small closet in the public library sufficed to hold the ancient books which were permitted to escape the conflagration, and the majority of these were English. The writings of the Abbe de Saint-Pierre were placed next those of Fenelon. "His pen was weak, but his heart was sublime. Seven ages have given to his great and beautiful ideas a just maturity. His contemporaries regarded him as a visionary; his dreams, however, have become realities." The importance of men of letters as a social force was a favourite theme of Mercier, and in A.D. 2440 this will be duly recognised. But the State control which weighed upon them so heavily in 1770 is not to be entirely abolished. There is no preventive censorship to hinder publication, but there are censors. There are no fines or imprisonment, but there are admonitions. And if any one publishes a book defending principles which are considered dangerous, he is obliged to go about in a black mask. There is a state religion, Deism. There is probably no one who does not believe in God. But if any atheist were discovered, he would be put through a course of experimental physics. If he remained obdurate in his rejection of a "palpable and salutary truth," the nation would go into mourning and banish him from its borders. Every one has to work, but labour no longer resembles slavery. As there are no monks, nor numerous domestics, nor useless valets, nor work-men employed on the production of childish luxuries, a few daily hours of labour are sufficient for the public wants. Censors inquire into men's capacities, assign tasks to the unemployed, and if man be found fit for nothing but the consumption of food he is banished from the city. These are some of the leading features of the ideal future to which Mercier's imagination reached. He did not put it forward as a final term. Later ages, he said, will go further, for "where can the perfectibility of man stop, armed with geometry and the mechanical arts and chemistry?" But in his scanty prophecies of what science might effect he showed curiously little resource. The truth is that this had not much interest for him, and he did not see that scientific discoveries might transmute social conditions. The world of 2440, its intolerably docile and virtuous society, reflects two capital weaknesses in the speculation of the Encyclopaedist period: a failure to allow for the strength of human passions and interests, and a deficient appreciation of the meaning of liberty. Much as the reformers acclaimed and fought for toleration, they did not generally comprehend the value of the principle. They did not see that in a society organised and governed by Reason and Justice themselves, the unreserved toleration of false opinions would be the only palladium of progress; or that a doctrinaire State, composed of perfectly virtuous and deferential people, would arrest development and stifle origiality, by its ungenial if mild tyranny. Mercier's is no exception to the rule that ideal societies are always repellent; and there are probably few who would not rather be set down in Athens in the days of the "vile" Aristophanes, whose works Mercier condemned to the flames, than in his Paris of 2440. 4. That Bohemian man of letters, Restif de la Bretonne, whose unedifying novels the Parisians of 2440 would assuredly have rejected from their libraries, published in 1790 a heroic comedy representing how marriages would be arranged in "the year 2000," by which epoch he conceived that all social equalities would have disappeared in a fraternal society and twenty nations be allied to France under the wise supremacy of "our well-beloved monarch Louis Francois XXII." It was the Revolution that converted Restif to the conception of Progress, for hitherto his master had been Rousseau; but it can hardly be doubted that the motif and title of his play were suggested by the romance of Mercier. L'an 2440 and L'an 2000 are the first examples of the prophetic fiction which Mr. Edward Bellamy's Looking Backward was to popularise a hundred years later. The Count de Volney's Ruins was another popular presentation of the hopes which the theory of Progress had awakened in France. Although the work was not published till after the outbreak of the Revolution, [Footnote: Les Ruines des empires, 1789. An English translation ran to a second edition (1795).] the plan had been conceived some years before. Volney was a traveller, deeply interested in oriental and classical antiquities, and, like Louis Le Roy, he approached the problem of man's destinies from the point of view of a student of the revolutions of empires. The book opens with melancholy reflections amid the ruins of Palmyra. "Thus perish the works of men, and thus do nations and empires vanish away... Who can assure us that desolation like this will not one day be the lot of our own country?" Some traveller like himself will sit by the banks of the Seine, the Thames, or the Zuyder Zee, amid silent ruins, and weep for a people inurned and their greatness changed into an empty name. Has a mysterious Deity pronounced a secret malediction against the earth? In this disconsolate mood he is visited by an apparition, who unveils the causes of men's misfortunes and shows that they are due to themselves. Man is governed by natural invariable laws, and he has only to study them to know the springs of his destiny, the causes of his evils and their remedies. The laws of his nature are self-love, desire of happiness, and aversion to pain; these are the simple and prolific principles of everything that happens in the moral world. Man is the artificer of his own fate. He may lament his weakness and folly; but "he has perhaps still more reason to be confident in his energies when he recollects from what point he has set out and to what heights he has been capable of elevating himself." The supernatural visitant paints a rather rosy picture of the ancient Egyptian and Assyrian kingdoms. But it would be a mistake to infer from their superficial splendour that the inhabitants generally were wise or happy. The tendency of man to ascribe perfection to past epochs is merely "the discoloration of his chagrin." The race is not degenerating; its misfortunes are due to ignorance and the mis-direction of self-love. Two principal obstacles to improvement have been the difficulty of transmitting ideas from age to age, and that of communicating them rapidly from man to man. These have been removed by the invention of printing. The press is "a memorable gift of celestial genius." In time all men will come to understand the principles of individual happiness and public felicity. Then there will be established among the peoples of the earth an equilibrium of forces; there will be no more wars, disputes will be decided by arbitration, and "the whole species will become one great society, a single family governed by the same spirit and by common laws, enjoying all the felicity of which human nature is capable." The accomplishment of this will be a slow process, since the same leaven will have to assimilate an enormous mass of heterogeneous elements, but its operation will be effectual. Here the genius interrupts his prophecy and exclaims, turning toward the west, "The cry of liberty uttered on the farther shores of the Atlantic has reached to the old continent." A prodigious movement is then visible to their eyes in a country at the extremity of the Mediterranean; tyrants are overthrown, legislators elected, a code of laws is drafted on the principles of equality, liberty, and justice. The liberated nation is attacked by neighbouring tyrants, but her legislators propose to the other peoples to hold a general assembly, representing the whole world, and weigh every religious system in the balance. The proceedings of this congress follow, and the book breaks off incomplete. It is not an arresting book; to a reader of the present day it is positively tedious; but it suited contemporary taste, and, appearing when France was confident that her Revolution would renovate the earth, it appealed to the hopes and sentiments of the movement. It made no contribution to the doctrine of Progress, but it undoubtedly helped to popularise it. CHAPTER XI. THE FRENCH REVOLUTION: CONDORCET I. The authority which the advanced thinkers of France gained among the middle classes during the third quarter of the eighteenth century was promoted by the influence of fashion. The new ideas of philosophers, rationalists, and men of science had interested the nobles and higher classes of society for two generations, and were a common subject of discussion in the most distinguished salons. Voltaire's intimacy with Frederick the Great, the relations of d'Alembert and Diderot with the Empress Catherine, conferred on these men of letters, and on the ideas for which they stood, a prestige which carried great weight with the bourgeoisie. Humbler people, too, were as amenable as the great to the seduction of theories which supplied simple keys to the universe [Footnote: Taine said of the Contrat Social that it reduces political science to the strict application of an elementary axiom which renders all study unnecessary (La Revolution, vol. i. c. iv. Sec. iii.).] and assumed that everybody was capable of judging for himself on the most difficult problems. As well as the Encyclopaedia, the works of nearly all the leading thinkers were written for the general public not merely for philosophers. The policy of the Government in suppressing these dangerous publications did not hinder their diffusion, and gave them the attraction of forbidden fruit. In 1770 the avocat general (Seguier) acknowledged the futility of the policy. "The philosophers," he said, "have with one hand sought to shake the throne, with the other to upset the altars. Their purpose was to change public opinion on civil and religious institutions, and the revolution has, so to speak, been effected. History and poetry, romances and even dictionaries, have been infected with the poison of incredulity. Their writings are hardly published in the capital before they inundate the provinces like a torrent. The contagion has spread into workshops and cottages." [Footnote: Rocquain, L'Esprit revolutionnaire avant la Revolution, p. 278.] The contagion spread, but the official who wrote these words did not see that it was successful because it was opportune, and that the minds of men were prepared to receive the seed of revolutionary ideas by the unspeakable corruption of the Government and the Church. As Voltaire remarked about the same time, France was becoming Encyclopaedist, and Europe too. 2. The influence of the subversive and rationalistic thinkers in bringing about the events of 1789 has been variously estimated by historians. The truth probably lies in the succinct statement of Acton that "the confluence of French theory with American example caused the Revolution to break out" when it did. The theorists aimed at reform, not at political revolution; and it was the stimulus of the Declaration of Rights of 1774 and the subsequent victory of the Colonies that precipitated the convulsion, at a time when the country had a better prospect of improvement than it ever had before 1774, when Louis XVI. came to the throne. But the theories had prepared France for radical changes, and they guided the phases of the Revolution. The leaders had all the optimism of the Encyclopaedists; yet the most powerful single force was Rousseau, who, though he denied Progress and blasphemed civilisation, had promulgated the doctrine of the sovereignty of the people, giving it an attractive appearance of mathematical precision; and to this doctrine the revolutionaries attached their optimistic hopes. [Footnote: It is interesting to observe how Robespierre, to whom the doctrines of Rousseau were oracles, could break out into admiration of the progress of civilised man, as he did in the opening passage of his speech of 7th May 1794. proposing the decree for the worship of the Supreme Being (see the text in Stephen, Orators of the French Revolution, ii. 391-92).] The theory of equality seemed no longer merely speculative; for the American constitution was founded on democratic equality, whereas the English constitution, which before had seemed the nearest approximation to the ideal of freedom, was founded on inequality. The philosophical polemic of the masters was waged with weapons of violence by the disciples. Chaumette and Hebert, the followers of d'Holbach, were destroyed by the disciples of Rousseau. In the name of the creed of the Vicaire Savoyard the Jacobin Club shattered the bust of Helvetius. Mably and Morelly had their disciples in Babeuf and the socialists. A naive confidence that the political upheaval meant regeneration and inaugurated a reign of justice and happiness pervaded France in the first period of the Revolution, and found a striking expression in the ceremonies of the universal "Federation" in the Champ-de-Mars on 14th July 1790. The festival was theatrical enough, decreed and arranged by the Constituent Assembly, but the enthusiasm and optimism of the people who gathered to swear loyalty to the new Constitution were genuine and spontaneous. Consciously or subconsciously they were under the influence of the doctrine of Progress which leaders of opinion had for several decades been insinuating into the public mind. It did not occur to them that their oaths and fraternal embraces did not change their minds or hearts, and that, as Taine remarked, they remained what ages of political subjection and one age of political literature had made them. The assumption that new social machinery could alter human nature and create a heaven upon earth was to be swiftly and terribly confuted. Post uarios casus et tot discrimina rerum uenimus in Latium, but Latium was to be the scene of sanguinary struggles. Another allied and fundamental fallacy, into which all the philosophers and Rousseau had more or less fallen, was reflected and exposed by the Revolution. They had considered man in vacuo. They had not seen that the whole development of a society is an enormous force which cannot be talked or legislated away; they had ignored the power of social memory and historical traditions, and misvalued the strength of the links which bind generations together. So the Revolutionaries imagined that they could break abruptly with the past, and that a new method of government, constructed on mathematical lines, a constitution (to use words of Burke) "ready made and ready armed, mature in its birth, a perfect goddess of wisdom and of war, hammered by our blacksmith midwives out of the brain of Jupiter himself," would create a condition of idyllic felicity in France, and that the arrival of the millennium depended only on the adoption of the same principles by other nations. The illusions created by the Declaration of the Rights of Man on the 4th of August died slowly under the shadow of the Terror; but though the hopes of those who believed in the speedy regeneration of the world were belied, some of the thoughtful did not lose heart. There was one at least who did not waver in his faith that the movement was a giant's step on the path of man towards ultimate felicity, however far he had still to travel. Condorcet, one of the younger Encyclopaedists, spent the last months of his life, under the menace of the guillotine, in projecting a history of human Progress. 3. Condorcet was the friend and biographer of Turgot, and it was not unfitting that he should resume the design of a history of civilisation, in the light of the idea of Progress, for which Turgot had only left luminous suggestions. He did not execute the plan, but he completed an elaborate sketch in which the controlling ideas of the scheme are fully set forth. His principles are to be found almost entirely in Turgot. But they have a new significance for Condorcet. He has given them wings. He has emphasised, and made deductions. Turgot wrote in the calm spirit of an inquirer. Condorcet spoke with the verve of a prophet. He was prophesying under the shadow of death. It is amazing that the optimistic Sketch of a Historical Picture of the Progress of the Human Mind should have been composed when he was hiding from Robespierre in 1793. [Footnote: Published in 1795.] Condorcet was penetrated with the spirit of the Encyclopaedists, of whom he had been one, and his attitude to Christianity was that of Voltaire and Diderot. Turgot had treated the received religion respectfully. He had acknowledged Providence, and, though the place which he assigned to Providence was that of a sort of honorary President of the development of civilisation who might disappear without affecting the proceedings, there was a real difference between his views and those of his friend as to the role of Christianity and the civilisation of the Middle Ages. A more important difference between the two thinkers is connected with the different circumstances in which they wrote. Turgot did not believe in the necessity of violent changes; he thought that steady reforms under the existing regime would do wonders for France. Before the Revolution Condorcet had agreed, but he was swept away by its enthusiasm. The victory of liberty in America and the increasing volume of the movement against slavery--one of the causes which most deeply stirred his heart--had heightened his natural optimism and confirmed his faith in the dogma of Progress. He felt the exhilaration of the belief that he was living through "one of the greatest revolutions of the human race," and he deliberately designed his book to be opportune to a crisis of mankind, at which "a picture of revolutions of the past will be the best guide." Feeling that he is personally doomed, he consoles himself with brooding on the time, however remote, when the sun will shine "on an earth of none but freemen, with no master save reason; for tyrants and slaves, priests and their stupid or hypocritical tools, will all have disappeared." He is not satisfied with affirming generally the certainty of an indefinite progress in enlightenment and social welfare. He sets himself to think out its nature, to forecast its direction, and determine its goal, and insists, as his predecessors had never done, on the prospects of the distant future. 4. His ambitious design is, in his own words, to show "the successive changes in human society, the influence which each instant exerts on the succeeding instant, and thus, in its successive modifications, the advance of the human species towards truth or happiness." Taken literally, this is an impossible design, and to put it forward as a practical proposition is as if a man were to declare his intention of writing a minute diary of the life of Julius Caesar from his birth to his death. By stating his purpose in such terms, Condorcet reveals that he had no notion of the limitations which confine our knowledge of the past, and that even if he had conceived a more modest and practicable programme he would have been incapable of executing it. His formula, however, is worth remembering. For the unattainable ideal which it expresses reminds us how many periods and passages of human experience must always remain books with seven seals. Condorcet distinguished ten periods of civilisation, of which the tenth lies in the future, but he has not justified his divisions and his epochs are not co-ordinate in importance. Yet his arrangement of the map of history is remarkable as an attempt to mark its sections not by great political changes but by important steps in knowledge. The first three periods--the formation of primitive societies, followed by the pastoral age, and the agricultural age--conclude with the invention of alphabetic writing in Greece. The fourth is the history of Greek thought, to the definite division of the sciences in the time of Aristotle. In the fifth knowledge progresses and suffers obscuration under Roman rule, and the sixth is the dark age which continues to the time of the Crusades. The significance of the seventh period is to prepare the human mind for the revolution which would be achieved by the invention of printing, with which the eighth period opens. Some of the best pages of the book develop the vast consequences of this invention. The scientific revolution effected by Descartes begins a new period, which is now closed by the creation of the French Republic. The idea of the progress of knowledge had created the idea of social Progress and remained its foundation. It was therefore logical and inevitable that Condorcet should take advance in knowledge as the clew to the march of the human race. The history of civilisation is the history of enlightenment. Turgot had justified this axiom by formulating the cohesion of all modes of social activity. Condorcet insists on "the indissoluble union" between intellectual progress and that of liberty, virtue, and the respect for natural rights, and on the effect of science in the destruction of prejudice. All errors in politics and ethics have sprung, he asserts, from false ideas which are closely connected with errors in physics and ignorance of the laws of nature. And in the new doctrine of Progress he sees an instrument of enlightenment which is to give "the last blow to the tottering edifice of prejudices." It would not be useful to analyse Condorcet's sketch or dwell on his obsolete errors and the defects of his historical knowledge. His slight picture of the Middle Ages reflects the familiar view of all the eighteenth century philosophers. The only contribution to social amelioration which he can discover in a period of nearly a millennium is the abolition of domestic slavery. And so this period appears as an interruption of the onward march. His inability to appreciate the historical role of the Roman Empire exhibits more surprising ignorance and prejudice. But these particular defects are largely due to a fundamental error which runs through his whole book and was inherent in the social speculations of the Encyclopaedists. Condorcet, like all his circle, ignored the preponderant part which institutions have played in social development. So far as he considered them at all, he saw in them obstacles to the free play of human reason; not the spontaneous expression of a society corresponding to its needs or embodying its ideals, but rather machinery deliberately contrived for oppressing the masses and keeping them in chains. He did not see that if the Progress in which he believed is a reality, its possibility depends on the institutions and traditions which give to societies their stability. In the following generation, it would be pointed out that he fell into a manifest contradiction when he praised the relative perfection reached in some European countries in the eighteenth century, and at the same time condemned as eminently retrograde all the doctrines and institutions which had been previously in control. [Footnote: Comte. Cours de philosophie positive, iv. 228.] This error is closely connected with the other error, previously noticed, of conceiving man abstracted from his social environment and exercising his reason in vacuo. 5. The study of the history of civilisation has, in Condorcet's eyes, two uses. It enables us to establish the fact of Progress, and it should enable us to determine its direction in the future, and thereby to accelerate the rate of progression. By the facts of history and the arguments they suggest, he undertakes to show that nature has set no term to the process of improving human faculties, and that the advance towards perfection is limited only by the duration of the globe. The movement may vary in velocity, but it will never be retrograde so long as the earth occupies its present place in the cosmic system and the general laws of this system do not produce some catastrophe or change which would deprive the human race of the faculties and resources which it has hitherto possessed. There will be no relapse into barbarism. The guarantees against this danger are the discovery of true methods in the physical sciences, their application to the needs of men, the lines of communication which have been established among them, the great number of those who study them, and finally the art of printing. And if we are sure of the continuous progress of enlightenment, we may be sure of the continuous improvement of social conditions. It is possible to foresee events, if the general laws of social phenomena are known, and these laws can be inferred from the history of the past. By this statement Condorcet justifies his bold attempt to sketch his tenth period of human history which lies in the future; and announces the idea which was in the next generation to be worked out by Comte. But he cannot be said to have deduced himself any law of social development. His forecast of the future is based on the ideas and tendencies of his own age. [Footnote: It is interesting to notice that the ablest of medieval Arabic historians, Ibn Khaldun (fourteenth century), had claimed that if history is scientifically studied future events may be predicted.] Apart from scientific discoveries and the general diffusion of a knowledge of the laws of nature on which moral improvement depends, he includes in his prophetic vision the cessation of war and the realisation of the less familiar idea of the equality of the sexes. If he were alive to-day, he could point with triumph to the fact that of these far-reaching projects one is being accomplished in some of the most progressive countries and the other is looked upon as an attainable aim by statesmen who are not visionaries. The equality of the sexes was only a logical inference from the general doctrine of equality to which Condorcet's social theory is reducible. For him the goal of political progress is equality; equality is to be the aim of social effort--the ideal of the Revolution. For it is the multitude of men that must be considered--the mass of workers, not the minority who live on their labours. Hitherto they have been neglected by the historian as well as by the statesman. The true history of humanity is not the history of some men. The human race is formed by the mass of families who subsist almost entirely on the fruits of their own work, and this mass is the proper subject of history, not great men. You may establish social equality by means of laws and institutions, yet the equality actually enjoyed may be very incomplete. Condorcet recognises this and attributes it to three principal causes: inequality in wealth; inequality in position between the man whose means of subsistence are assured and can be transmitted to his family and the man whose means depend on his work and are limited by the term of his own life [Footnote: He looked forward to the mitigation of this inequality by the development of life insurance which was then coming to the front.]; and inequality in education. He did not propose any radical methods for dealing with these difficulties, which he thought would diminish in time, without, however, entirely disappearing. He was too deeply imbued with the views of the Economists to be seduced by the theories of Rousseau, Mably, Babeuf, and others, into advocating communism or the abolition of private property. Besides equality among the individuals composing a civilised society, Condorcet contemplated equality among all the peoples of the earth,--a uniform civilisation throughout the world, and the obliteration of the distinction between advanced and retrograde races. The backward peoples, he prophesied, will climb up to the condition of France and the United States of America, for no people is condemned never to exercise its reason. If the dogma of the perfectibility of human nature, unguarded by any restrictions, is granted, this is a logical inference, and we have already seen that it was one of the ideas current among the philosophers. Condorcet does not hesitate to add to his picture adventurous conjectures on the improvement of man's physical organisation, and a considerable prolongation of his life by the advance of medical science. We need only note this. More interesting is the prediction that, even if the compass of the human being's cerebral powers is inalterable, the range, precision, and rapidity of his mental operations will be augmented by the invention of new instruments and methods. The design of writing a history of human civilisation was premature, and to have produced a survey of any durable value would have required the equipment of a Gibbon. Condorcet was not even as well equipped as Voltaire. [Footnote: But as he wrote without books the Sketch was a marvellous tour de force.] The significance of his Sketch lies in this, that towards the close of an intellectual movement it concentrated attention on the most important, though hitherto not the most prominent, idea which that movement had disseminated, and as it were officially announced human Progress as the leading problem that claimed the interest of mankind. With him Progress was associated intimately with particular eighteenth century doctrines, but these were not essential to it. It was a living idea; it survived the compromising theories which began to fall into discredit after the Revolution, and was explored from new points of view. Condorcet, however, wedded though his mind was to the untenable views of human nature current in his epoch and his circle, did not share the tendency of leading philosophers to regard history as an unprofitable record of folly and crime which it would be well to obliterate or forget. He recognised the interpretation of history as the key to human development, and this principle controlled subsequent speculations on Progress in France. 6. Cabanis, the physician, was Condorcet's literary executor, and a no less ardent believer in human perfectibility. Looking at life and man from his own special point of view, he saw in the study of the physical organism the key to the intellectual and moral improvement of the race. It is by knowledge of the relations between his physical states and moral states that man can attain happiness, through the enlargement of his faculties and the multiplication of enjoyments, and that he will be able to grasp, as it were, the infinite in his brief existence by realising the certainty of indefinite progress. His doctrine was a logical extension of the theories of Locke and Condillac. If our knowledge is wholly derived from sensations, our sensations depend on our sensory organs, and mind becomes a function of the nervous system. The events of the Revolution quenched in him as little as in Condorcet the sanguine confidence that it was the opening of a new era for science and art, and thereby for the general Progress of man. "The present is one of those great periods of history to which posterity will often look back" with gratitude. [Footnote: Picavet, Les Ideologues, p. 203. Cabanis was born in 1757 and died in 1808.] He took an active part in the coup d'etat of the 18th of Brumaire (1799) which was to lead to the despotism of Napoleon. He imagined that it would terminate oppression, and was as enthusiastic for it as he and Condorcet had been for the Revolution ten years before. "You philosophers," he wrote, [Footnote: Ib. p. 224.] "whose studies are directed to the improvement and happiness of the race, you no longer embrace vain shadows. Having watched, in alternating moods of hope and sadness, the great spectacle of our Revolution, you now see with joy the termination of its last act; you will see with rapture this new era, so long promised to the French people, at last open, in which all the benefits of nature, all the creations of genius, all the fruits of time, labour, and experience will be utilised, an era of glory and prosperity in which the dreams of your philanthropic enthusiasm should end by being realised." It was an over-sanguine and characteristic greeting of the eighteenth to the nineteenth century. Cabanis was one of the most important of those thinkers who, living into the new period, took care that the ideas of their own generation should not be overwhelmed in the rising flood of reaction. CHAPTER XII. THE THEORY OF PROGRESS IN ENGLAND 1. The idea of Progress could not help crossing the Channel. France and England had been at war in the first year of the eighteenth century, they were at war in the last, and their conflict for supremacy was the leading feature of the international history of the whole century. But at no period was there more constant intellectual intimacy or more marked reciprocal influence between the two countries. It was a commonplace that Paris and London were the two great foci of civilisation, and they never lost touch of each other in the intellectual sphere. Many of the principal works of literature that appeared in either country were promptly translated, and some of the French books, which the censorship rendered it dangerous to publish in Paris, were printed in London. It was not indeed to be expected that the theory should have the same kind of success, or exert the same kind of effect in England as in France. England had her revolution behind her, France had hers before her. England enjoyed what were then considered large political liberties, the envy of other lands; France groaned under the tyranny of worthless rulers. The English constitution satisfied the nation, and the serious abuses which would now appear to us intolerable were not sufficient to awaken a passionate desire for reforms. The general tendency of British thought was to see salvation in the stability of existing institutions, and to regard change with suspicion. Now passionate desire for reform was the animating force which propagated the idea of Progress in France. And when this idea is translated from the atmosphere of combat, in which it was developed by French men of letters, into the calm climate of England, it appears like a cold reflection. Again, English thinkers were generally inclined to hold, with Locke, that the proper function of government is principally negative, to preserve order and defend life and property, not to aim directly at the improvement of society, but to secure the conditions in which men may pursue their own legitimate aims. Most of the French theorists believed in the possibility of moulding society indefinitely by political action, and rested their hopes for the future not only on the achievements of science, but on the enlightened activity of governments. This difference of view tended to give to the doctrine of Progress in France more practical significance than in England. But otherwise British soil was ready to receive the idea. There was the same optimistic temper among the comfortable classes in both countries. Shaftesbury, the Deist, had struck this note at the beginning of the century by his sanguine theory, which was expressed in Pope's banal phrase: "Whatever is, is right," and was worked into a system by Hutcheson. This optimism penetrated into orthodox circles. Progress, far from appearing as a rival of Providence, was discussed in the interests of Christianity by the Scotch theologian, Turnbull. [Footnote: The Principles of Modern Philosophy, 1740.] 2. The theory of the indefinite progress of civilisation left Hume cold. There is little ground, he argued, to suppose that "the world" is eternal or incorruptible. It is probably mortal, and must therefore, with all things in it, have its infancy, youth, manhood, and old age; and man will share in these changes of state. We must then expect that the human species should, when the world is in the age of manhood, possess greater bodily and mental vigour, longer life, and a stronger inclination and power of generation. But it is impossible to determine when this stage is reached. For the gradual revolutions are too slow to be discernible in the short period known to us by history and tradition. Physically and in mental powers men have been pretty much the same in all known ages. The sciences and arts have flourished now and have again decayed, but when they reached the highest perfection among one people, the neighbouring peoples were perhaps wholly unacquainted with them. We are therefore uncertain whether at present man is advancing to his point of perfection or declining from it. [Footnote: Essay on the Populousness of Ancient Nations, ad init. ] The argument is somewhat surprising in an eighteenth century thinker like Hume, but it did not prevent him from recognising the superiority of modern to ancient civilisation. This superiority forms indeed the minor premiss in the general argument by which he confuted the commonly received opinion as to the populousness of ancient nations. He insisted on the improvements in art and industry, on the greater liberty and security enjoyed by modern men. "To one who considers coolly on the subject," he remarked, "it will appear that human nature in general really enjoys more liberty at present in the most arbitrary government of Europe than it ever did during the most flourishing period of ancient times." [Footnote: The justification of this statement was the abolition of slavery in Europe.] He discussed many of the problems of civilisation, especially the conditions in which the arts and sciences flourish, [Footnote: Essay on the Rise of Arts and Sciences.] and drew some general conclusions, but he was too sceptical to suppose that any general synthesis of history is possible, or that any considerable change for the better in the manners of mankind is likely to occur. [Footnote: Cf. Essay on the Idea of a Perfect Commonwealth, ad init.] The greatest work dealing with social problems, that Britain produced in the eighteenth century, was Adam Smith's Wealth of Nations, and his luminous exposition of the effects of the division of labour was the most considerable contribution made by British thinkers of the age to the study of human development. It is much more than a treatise on economic principles; it contains a history of the gradual economic progress of human society, and it suggests the expectation of an indefinite augmentation of wealth and well-being. Smith was entirely at one with the French Economists on the value of opulence for the civilisation and happiness of mankind. But it was indirectly perhaps that his work contributed most effectively to the doctrine of the Progress of collective mankind. [Footnote: It has been observed by Mr. Leslie Stephen that the doctrine of the rights of man lies in the background of Adam Smith's speculations.] His teaching that the free commercial intercourse of all the peoples of the world, unfettered by government policies, was to the greatest advantage of each, presented an ideal of the economic "solidarity" of the race, which was one element in the ideal of Progress. And this principle soon began to affect practice. Pitt assimilated it when he was a young man, and it is one of the distinctions of his statesmanship that he endeavoured to apply the doctrines of his master so far as the prevailing prejudices would allow him. 3. A few writers of less weight and fame than Hume or Smith expressly studied history in the light of Progress. It would not help us, in following the growth of the idea, to analyse the works of Ferguson, Dunbar, or Priestley. [Footnote: In his Essay on the History of Civil Society Adam Ferguson treated the growth of civilisation as due to the progressive nature of man, which insists on carrying him forward to limits impossible to ascertain. He formulated the process as a movement from simplicity to complexity, but contributed little to its explanation.] But I will quote one passage from Priestley, the most eminent of the three, and the most enthusiastic for the Progress of man. As the division of labour--the chief principle of organised society--is carried further he anticipates that ... nature, including both its materials and its laws, will be more at our command; men will make their situation in this world abundantly more easy and comfortable; they will probably prolong their existence in it and will grow daily more happy.... Thus, whatever was the beginning of this world, the end will be glorious and paradisiacal beyond what our imaginations can now conceive. Extravagant as some people may suppose these views to be, I think I could show them to be fairly suggested by the true theory of human nature and to arise from the natural course of human affairs. [Footnote: This passage of Priestley occurs in his Essay on the First Principles of Government and on the Nature of Political, Civil, and Religious Liberty (1768, 2nd ed. 1771), pp. 2-4. His Lectures on History and General Policy appeared in 1788. Priestley was a strict utilitarian, who held that there is nothing intrinsically excellent in justice and veracity apart from their relation to happiness. The degree of public happiness is measured by the excellence of religion, science, government, laws, arts, commerce, conveniences of life, and especially by the degrees of personal security and personal liberty. In all these the ancients were inferior, and therefore they enjoyed less happiness. The present state of Europe is vastly preferable to what it was in any former period. And "the plan of this divine drama is opening more and more." In the future, Knowledge will increase and accumulate and diffuse itself to the lower ranks of society, who, by degrees, will find leisure for speculation; and looking beyond their immediate employment, they will consider the complex machine of society, and in time understand it better than those who now write about it. See his Lectures, pp. 371, 388 sqq., 528-53. The English thinker did not share all the views of his French masters. As a Unitarian, he regarded Christianity as a "great remedy of vice and ignorance," part of the divine plan; and he ascribed to government a lesser role than they in the improvement of humanity. He held, for instance, that the state should not interfere in education, arguing that this art was still in the experimental stage, and that the intervention of the civil power might stereotype a bad system. Not less significant, though less influential, than the writings of Priestley and Ferguson was the work of James Dunbar, Professor of Philosophy at Aberdeen, entitled Essays on the History of Mankind in Rude and Cultivated Ages (2nd ed., 1781). He conceived history as progressive, and inquired into the general causes which determine the gradual improvements of civilisation. He dealt at length with the effects of climate and local circumstances, but unlike the French philosophers did not ignore heredity. While he did not enter upon any discussion of future developments, he threw out incidentally the idea that the world may be united in a league of nations. Posterity, he wrote, "may contemplate, from a concurrence of various causes and events, some of which are hastening into light, the greater part, or even the whole habitable globe, divided among nations free and independent in all the interior functions of government, forming one political and commercial system" (p. 287). Dunbar's was an optimistic book, but his optimism was more cautious than Priestley's. These are his final words: If human nature is liable to degenerate, it is capable of proportionable improvement from the collected wisdom of ages. It is pleasant to infer from the actual progress of society, the glorious possibilities of human excellence. And, if the principles can be assembled into view, which most directly tend to diversify the genius and character of nations, some theory may be raised on these foundations that shall account more systematically for past occurrences and afford some openings and anticipations into the eventual history of the world.] The problem of dark ages, which an advocate of Progress must explain, was waved away by Priestley in his Lectures on History with the observation that they help the subsequent advance of knowledge by "breaking the progress of authority." [Footnote: This was doubtless suggested to him by some remarks of Hume in The Rise of Arts and Sciences.] This is not much of a plea for such periods viewed as machinery in a Providential plan. The great history of the Middle Ages, which in the words of its author describes "the triumph of barbarism and religion," had been completed before Priestley's Lectures appeared, and it is remarkable that he takes no account of it, though it might seem to be a work with which a theory of Progress must come to terms. Yet the sceptical historian of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, who was more at home in French literature than any of his fellow-countrymen, was not opposed to the theory of Progress, and he even states it in a moderate form. Having given reasons for believing that civilised society will never again be threatened by such an irruption of barbarians as that which oppressed the arms and institutions of Rome, he allows us to "acquiesce in the pleasing conclusion that every age of the world has increased, and still increases, the real wealth, the happiness, the knowledge and perhaps the virtue of the human race." "The discoveries of ancient and modern navigators, and the domestic history or tradition of the most enlightened nations, represent the HUMAN SAVAGE, naked both in mind and body, and destitute of laws, of arts, of ideas, and almost of language. From this abject condition, perhaps the primitive and universal state of man, he has gradually arisen to command the animals, to fertilise the earth, to traverse the ocean, and to measure the heavens. His progress in the improvement and exercise of his mental and corporeal faculties has been irregular and various, infinitely slow in the beginning, and increasing by degrees with redoubled velocity; ages of laborious ascent have been followed by a moment of rapid downfall; and the several climates of the globe have felt the vicissitudes of light and darkness. Yet the experience of four thousand years should enlarge our hopes and diminish our apprehensions; we cannot determine to what height the human species may aspire in their advances towards perfection; but it may safely be presumed that no people, unless the face of nature is changed, will relapse into their original barbarism." [Footnote: Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, ch. xxxviii. ad fin.] But Gibbon treats the whole subject as a speculation, and he treats it without reference to any of the general principles on which French thinkers had based their theory. He admits that his reasons for holding that civilisation is secure against a barbarous cataclysm may be considered fallacious; and he also contemplates the eventuality that the fabric of sciences and arts, trade and manufacture, law and policy, might be "decayed by time." If so, the growth of civilisation would have to begin again, but not ab initio. For "the more useful or at least more necessary arts," which do not require superior talents or national subordination for their exercise, and which war, commerce, and religious zeal have spread among the savages of the world, would certainly survive. These remarks are no more than obiter dicta but they show how the doctrine of Progress was influencing those who were temperamentally the least likely to subscribe to extravagant theories. 4. The outbreak of the French Revolution evoked a sympathetic movement among English progressive thinkers which occasioned the Government no little alarm. The dissenting minister Dr. Richard Price, whose Observations on Civil Liberty (1776), defending the action of the American colonies, had enjoyed an immense success, preached the sermon which provoked Burke to write his Reflections; and Priestley, no less enthusiastic in welcoming the Revolution, replied to Burke. The Government resorted to tyrannous measures; young men who sympathised with the French movement and agitated for reforms at home were sent to Botany Bay. Paine was prosecuted for his Rights of Man, which directly preached revolution. But the most important speculative work of the time, William Godwin's Political Justice, escaped the censorship because it was not published at a popular price. [Footnote: Godwin had helped to get Paine's book published in 1791, and he was intimate with the group of revolutionary spirits who were persecuted by the Government. A good account of the episode will be found in Brailsford's Shelley, Godwin, and their Circle.] The Enquiry concerning Political Justice, begun in 1791, appeared in 1793. The second edition, three years later, shows the influence of Condorcet's Sketch, which had appeared in the meantime. Godwin says that his original idea was to produce a work on political science to supersede Montesquieu. The note of Montesquieu's political philosophy was respect for social institutions. Godwin's principle was that social institutions are entirely pernicious, that they perpetuate harmful prejudices, and are an almost insuperable obstacle to improvement. If he particularly denounced monarchical government, he regarded all government as evil, and held that social progress would consist, not in the reformation of government, but in its abolition. While he recognised that man had progressed in the past, he considered history mainly a sequence of horrors, and he was incapable of a calm survey of the course of civilisation. In English institutions he saw nothing that did not outrage the principles of justice and benevolence. The present state of humanity is about as bad as it could be. It is easy to see the deep influence which the teaching of Rousseau exercised on Godwin. Without accepting the theory of Arcadia Godwin followed him in unsparing condemnation of existing conditions. Rousseau and Godwin are the two great champions in the eighteenth century of the toiling and suffering masses. But Godwin drew the logical conclusion from Rousseau's premisses which Rousseau hesitated to draw himself. The French thinker, while he extolled the anarchical state of uncivilised society, and denounced government as one of the sources of its corruption, nevertheless sought the remedy in new social and political institutions. Godwin said boldly, government is the evil; government must go. Humanity can never be happy until all political authority and social institutions disappear. Now the peculiarity of Godwin's position as a doctrinaire of Progress lies in the fact that he entertained the same pessimistic view of some important sides of civilisation as Rousseau, and at the same time adopted the theories of Rousseau's opponents, especially Helvetius. His survey of human conditions seems to lead inevitably to pessimism; then he turns round and proclaims the doctrine of perfectibility. The explanation of this argument was the psychological theory of Helvetius. He taught, as we saw, and Godwin developed the view in his own way, that the natures and characters of men are moulded entirely by their environment--not physical, but intellectual and moral environment, and therefore can be indefinitely modified. A man is born into the world without innate tendencies. His conduct depends on his opinions. Alter men's opinions and they will act differently. Make their opinions conformable to justice and benevolence, and you will have a just and benevolent society. Virtue, as Socrates taught, is simply a question of knowledge. The situation, therefore, is not hopeless. For it is not due to the radical nature of man; it is caused by ignorance and prejudice, by governments and institutions, by kings and priests. Transform the ideas of men, and society will be transformed. The French philosopher considered that a reformed system of educating children would be one of the most powerful means for promoting progress and bringing about the reign of reason; and Condorcet worked out a scheme of universal state education. This was entirely opposed to Godwin's principles. State schools would only be another instrument of power in the hands of a government, worse even than a state Church. They would strengthen the poisonous influence of kings and statesmen, and establish instead of abolishing prejudices. He seems to have relied entirely on the private efforts of enlightened thinkers to effect a gradual conversion of public opinion. In his study of the perfectibility of man and the prospect of a future reign of general justice and benevolence, Godwin was even more visionary than Condorcet, as in his political views he was more radical than the Revolutionists. Condorcet had at least sought to connect his picture of the future with a reasoned survey of the past, and to find a chain of connection, but the perfectibility of Godwin hung in the air, supported only by an abstract theory of the nature of man. It can hardly be said that he contributed anything to the theoretical problem of civilisation. His significance is that he proclaimed in England at an opportune moment, and in a more impressive and startling way than a sober apostle like Priestley, the creed of progress taught by French philosophers, though considerably modified by his own anarchical opinions. 5. Perfectibility, as expounded by Condorcet and Godwin, encountered a drastic criticism from Malthus, whose Essay on the Principle of Population appeared in its first form anonymously in 1798. Condorcet had foreseen an objection which might be raised as fatal to the realisation of his future state. Will not the progress of industry and happiness cause a steady increase in population, and must not the time come when the number of the inhabitants of the globe will surpass their means of subsistence? Condorcet did not grapple with this question. He contented himself with saying that such a period must be very far away, and that by then "the human race will have achieved improvements of which we can now scarcely form an idea." Similarly Godwin, in his fancy picture of the future happiness of mankind, notices the difficulty and shirks it. "Three-fourths of the habitable globe are now uncultivated. The parts already cultivated are capable of immeasurable improvement. Myriads of centuries of still increasing population may pass away and the earth be still found sufficient for the subsistence of its inhabitants." Malthus argued that these writers laboured under an illusion as to the actual relations between population and the means of subsistence. In present conditions the numbers of the race are only kept from increasing far beyond the means of subsistence by vice, misery, and the fear of misery. [Footnote: This observation had been made (as Hazlitt pointed out) before Malthus by Robert Wallace (see A Dissertation on the Numbers of Mankind, p. 13, 1753). It was another book of Wallace that suggested the difficulty to Godwin.] In the conditions imagined by Condorcet and Godwin these checks are removed, and consequently the population would increase with great rapidity, doubling itself at least in twenty-five years. But the products of the earth increase only in an arithmetical progression, and in fifty years the food supply would be too small for the demand. Thus the oscillation between numbers and food supply would recur, and the happiness of the species would come to an end. Godwin and his adherents could reply that one of the checks on over-population is prudential restraint, which Malthus himself recognised, and that this would come more extensively into operation with that progress of enlightenment which their theory assumed. [Footnote: This is urged by Hazlitt in his criticism of Malthus in the Spirit of the Age.] But the criticisms of Malthus dealt a trenchant blow to the doctrine that human reason, acting through legislation and government, has a virtually indefinite power of modifying the condition of society. The difficulty, which he stated so vividly and definitely, was well calculated to discredit the doctrine, and to suggest that the development of society could be modified by the conscious efforts of man only within restricted limits. [Footnote: The recent conclusions of Mr. Knibbs, statistician to the Commonwealth of Australia, in vol. i. of his Appendix to the Census of the Commonwealth, have an interest in this connection. I quote from an article in the Times of August 5, 1918: "An eminent geographer, the late Mr. E. G. Ravenstein, some years ago, when the population of the earth was estimated at 1400 million, foretold that about the middle of this century population would have reached a limit beyond which increase would be disastrous. Mr. Knibbs is not so pessimistic and is much more precise; though he defers the disastrous culmination, he has no doubt as to its inevitability. The limits of human expansion, he assures us, are much nearer than popular opinion imagines; the difficulty of food supplies will soon be most grave; the exhaustion of sources of energy necessary for any notable increase of population, or advance in the standards of living, or both combined, is perilously near. The present rate of increase in the world's population cannot continue for four centuries."] 6. The Essay of Malthus afterwards became one of the sacred books of the Utilitarian sect, and it is interesting to notice what Bentham himself thought of perfectibility. Referring to the optimistic views of Chastellux and Priestley on progressive amelioration he observed that "these glorious expectations remind us of the golden age of poetry." For perfect happiness "belongs to the imaginary region of philosophy and must be classed with the universal elixir and the philosopher's stone." There will always be jealousies through the unequal gifts of nature and of fortune; interests will never cease to clash and hatred to ensue; "painful labour, daily subjection, a condition nearly allied to indigence, will always be the lot of numbers"; in art and poetry the sources of novelty will probably be exhausted. But Bentham was far from being a pessimist. Though he believes that "we shall never make this world the abode of happiness," he asserts that it may be made a most delightful garden "compared with the savage forest in which men so long have wandered." [Footnote: Works, vol. i. p. 193 seq.] 7. The book of Malthus was welcomed at the moment by all those who had been thoroughly frightened by the French Revolution and saw in the "modern philosophy," as it was called, a serious danger to society. [Footnote: Both Hazlitt and Shelley thought that Malthus was playing to the boxes, by sophisms "calculated to lull the oppressors of mankind into a security of everlasting triumph" (Revolt of Islam, Preface). Bentham refers in his Book of Fallacies (Works, ii. p. 462) to the unpopularity of the views of Priestley, Godwin, and Condorcet: "to aim at perfection has been pronounced to be utter folly or wickedness."] Vice and misery and the inexorable laws of population were a godsend to rescue the state from "the precipice of perfectibility." We can understand the alarm occasioned to believers in the established constitution of things, for Godwin's work--now virtually forgotten, while Malthus is still appealed to as a discoverer in social science--produced an immense effect on impressionable minds at the time. All who prized liberty, sympathised with the downtrodden, and were capable of falling in love with social ideals, hailed Godwin as an evangelist. "No one," said a contemporary, "was more talked of, more looked up to, more sought after; and wherever liberty, truth, justice was the theme, his name was not far off." Young graduates left the Universities to throw themselves at the feet of the new Gamaliel; students of law and medicine neglected their professional studies to dream of "the renovation of society and the march of mind." Godwin carried with him "all the most sanguine and fearless understandings of the time." [Footnote: Hazlitt, Spirit of the Age: article on Godwin (written in 1814).] The most famous of his disciples were the poets Wordsworth, Coleridge, Southey, and afterwards Shelley. Wordsworth had been an ardent sympathiser with the French Revolution. In its early days he had visited Paris: An emporium then Of golden expectations and receiving Freights every day from a new world of hope. He became a Godwinian in 1795, when the Terror had destroyed his faith in Revolutionary France. Southey, who had come under the influence of Rousseau, was initiated by Coleridge into Godwin's theories, and in their utopian enthusiasm they formed the design of founding a "pantisocratic" settlement in America, to show how happiness could be realised in a social environment in which duty and interest coincide and consequently all are virtuous. The plan anticipated the experiments of Owen and Cabet; but the pantisocrats did not experience the disappointments of the socialists, for it was never carried out. Coleridge and Southey as well as Wordsworth soon abandoned their Godwinian doctrines. [Footnote: In letters of 1797 and 1798 Coleridge repudiated the French doctrines and Godwin's philosophy. See Cestre, La Revolution francaise et les poetes anglais (1789-1809), pp. 389, 414.] They had, to use a phrase of Hazlitt, lost their way in Utopia, and they gave up the abstract and mechanical view of society which the French philosophy of the eighteenth century taught, for an organic conception in which historic sentiment and the wisdom of our ancestors had their due place. Wordsworth could presently look back and criticise his Godwinian phase as that of A proud and most presumptuous confidence In the transcendent wisdom of the age And its discernment. [Footnote: Excursion, Book ii.] He and Southey became conservative pillars of the state. Yet Southey, reactionary as he was in politics, never ceased to believe in social Progress. [Footnote: See his Colloquies; and Shelley, writing in 1811, says that Southey "looks forward to a state when all shall be perfected and matter become subjected to the omnipotence of mind" (Dowden, Life of Shelley, i. p. 212). Compare below, p. 325.] Amelioration was indeed to be effected by slow and cautious reforms, with the aid of the Church, but the intellectual aberrations of his youth had left an abiding impression. While these poets were sitting at Godwin's feet, Shelley was still a child. But he came across Political Justice at Eton; in his later life he reread it almost every year; and when he married Godwin's daughter he was more Godwinian than Godwin himself. Hazlitt, writing in 1814, says that Godwin's reputation had "sunk below the horizon," but Shelley never ceased to believe in his theory, though he came to see that the regeneration of man would be a much slower process than he had at first imagined. In the immature poem Queen Mab the philosophy of Godwin was behind his description of the future, and it was behind the longer and more ambitious poems of his maturer years. The city of gold, of the Revolt of Islam, is Godwin's future society, and he describes that poem as "an experiment on the temper of the public mind as to how far a thirst for a happier condition of moral and political society survives, among the enlightened and refined, the tempests which have shaken the age in which we live." As to Prometheus Unbound his biographer observes: [Footnote: Dowden, ib. ii. p. 264. Elsewhere Dowden remarks on the singular insensibility of Shelley's mind "to the wisdom or sentiment of history" (i. p. 55).] All the glittering fallacies of "Political Justice"--now sufficiently tarnished--together with all its encouraging and stimulating truths, may be found in the caput mortuum left when the critic has reduced the poetry of the "Prometheus" to a series of doctrinaire statements. The same dream inspired the final chorus of Hellas. Shelley was the poet of perfectibility. 8. The attraction of perfectibility reached beyond the ranks of men of letters, and in Robert Owen, the benevolent millowner of Lanark, it had an apostle who based upon it a very different theory from that of Political Justice and became one of the founders of modern socialism. The success of the idea of Progress has been promoted by its association with socialism. [Footnote: The word was independently invented in England and France. An article in the Poor Man's Guardian (a periodical edited by H. Hetherington, afterwards by Bronterre O'Brien), Aug. 24, 1833, is signed "A Socialist"; and in 1834 socialisme is opposed to individualism by P. Leroux in an article in the Revue Encyclopedique. The word is used in the New Moral World, and from 1836 was applied to the Owenites. See Dolleans, Robert Owen (1907), p. 305.] The first phase of socialism, what has been called its sentimental phase, was originated by Saint-Simon in France and Owen in England at about the same time; Marx was to bring it down from the clouds and make it a force in practical politics. But both in its earlier and in its later forms the economical doctrines rest upon a theory of society depending on the assumption, however disguised, that social institutions have been solely responsible for the vice and misery which exist, and that institutions and laws can be so changed as to abolish misery and vice. That is pure eighteenth century doctrine; and it passed from the revolutionary doctrinaires of that period to the constructive socialists of the nineteenth century. Owen learned it probably from Godwin, and he did not disguise it. His numerous works enforce it ad nauseam. He began the propagation of his gospel by his "New View of Society, or Essays on the formation of the human character, preparatory to the development of a plan for gradually ameliorating the condition of mankind," which he dedicated to the Prince Regent. [Footnote: 3rd ed. 1817. The Essays had appeared separately in 1813-14.] Here he lays down that "any general character, from the best to the worst, may be given to any community, even to the world at large, by the application of proper means; which means are to a great extent at the command and under the control of those who have influence in the affairs of men." [Footnote: P. 19.] The string on which he continually harps is that it is the cardinal error in government to suppose that men are responsible for their vices and virtues, and therefore for their actions and characters. These result from education and institutions, and can be transformed automatically by transforming those agencies. Owen founded several short-lived journals to diffuse his theories. The first number of the New Moral World (1834-36) [Footnote: This was not a journal, but a series of pamphlets which appeared in 1836-1844. Other publications of Owen were: Outline of the Rational System of Society (6th ed., Leeds, 1840); The Revolution in the Mind and Practice of the Human Race, or the coming change from Irrationality to Rationality (1849); The Future of the Human Race, or a great, glorious and peaceful Revolution, near at hand, to be effected through the agency of departed spirits of good and superior men and women (1853); The New Existence of Man upon Earth, Parts i.-viii., 1854-55.] proclaimed the approach of an ideal society in which there will be no ignorance, no poverty, and no charity--a system "which will ensure the happiness of the human race throughout all future ages," to replace one "which, so long as it shall be maintained, must produce misery to all." His own experimental attempt to found such a society on a miniature scale in America proved a ludicrous failure. It is to be observed that in these socialist theories the conception of Progress as indefinite tends to vanish or to lose its significance. If the millennium can be brought about at a stroke by a certain arrangement of society, the goal of development is achieved; we shall have reached the term, and shall have only to live in and enjoy the ideal state--a menagerie of happy men. There will be room for further, perhaps indefinite, advance in knowledge, but civilisation in its social character becomes stable and rigid. Once man's needs are perfectly satisfied in a harmonious environment there is no stimulus to cause further changes, and the dynamic character of history disappears. Theories of Progress are thus differentiating into two distinct types, corresponding to two radically opposed political theories and appealing to two antagonistic temperaments. The one type is that of constructive idealists and socialists, who can name all the streets and towers of "the city of gold," which they imagine as situated just round a promontory. The development of man is a closed system; its term is known and is within reach. The other type is that of those who, surveying the gradual ascent of man, believe that by the same interplay of forces which have conducted him so far and by a further development of the liberty which he has fought to win, he will move slowly towards conditions of increasing harmony and happiness. Here the development is indefinite; its term is unknown, and lies in the remote future. Individual liberty is the motive force, and the corresponding political theory is liberalism; whereas the first doctrine naturally leads to a symmetrical system in which the authority of the state is preponderant, and the individual has little more value than a cog in a well-oiled wheel: his place is assigned; it is not his right to go his own way. Of this type the principal example that is not socialistic is, as we shall see, the philosophy of Comte. CHAPTER XIII. GERMAN SPECULATIONS ON PROGRESS 1. The philosophical views current in Germany during the period in which the psychology of Locke was in fashion in France and before the genius of Kant opened a new path, were based on the system of Leibnitz. We might therefore expect to find a theory of Progress developed there, parallel to the development in France though resting on different principles. For Leibnitz, as we saw, provided in his cosmic optimism a basis for the doctrine of human Progress, and he had himself incidentally pointed to it. This development, however, was delayed. It was only towards the close of the period--which is commonly known as the age of "Illumination"--that Progress came to the front, and it is interesting to observe the reason. Wolf was the leading successor and interpreter of Leibnitz. He constrained that thinker's ideas into a compact logical system which swayed Germany till Kant swept it away. In such cases it usually happens that some striking doctrines and tendencies of the master are accentuated and enforced, while others are suffered to drop out of sight. So it was here. In the Wolfian system, Leibnitz's conception of development was suffered to drop out of sight, and the dynamic element which animated his speculation disappeared. In particular, he had laid down that the sum of motive forces in the physical world is constant. His disciples proceeded to the inference that the sum of morality in the ethical world is constant. This dogma obviously eliminates the possibility of ethical improvement for collective humanity. And so we find Mendelssohn, who was the popular exponent of Wolf's philosophy, declaring that "progress is only for the individual; but that the whole of humanity here below in the course of time shall always progress and perfect itself seems to me not to have been the purpose of Providence." [Footnote: See Bock, Jakob Wegelin als Geschichtstheoretiker, in Leipsiger Studien, ix. 4, pp. 23-7 (1902).] The publication of the Nouveaux Essais in 1765 induced some thinkers to turn from the dry bones of Wolf to the spirit of Leibnitz himself. And at the same time French thought was penetrating. In consequence of these influences the final phase of the German "Illumination" is marked by the appearance of two or three works in which Progress is a predominating idea. We see this reaction against Wolf and his static school in a little work published by Herder in 1774--"a philosophy of history for the cultivation of mankind." There is continuous development, he declares, and one people builds upon the work of another. We must judge past ages, not by the present, but relatively to their own particular conditions. What exists now was never possible before, for everything that man accomplishes is conditioned by time, climate, and circumstances. Six years later Lessing's pamphlet on the Education of the Human Race appeared, couched in the form of aphoristic statements, and to a modern reader, one may venture to say, singularly wanting in argumentative force. The thesis is that the drama of history is to be explained as the education of man by a progressive series of religions, a series not yet complete, for the future will produce another revelation to lift him to a higher plane than that to which Christ has drawn him up. This interpretation of history proclaimed Progress, but assumed an ideal and applied a measure very different from those of the French philosophers. The goal is not social happiness, but a full comprehension of God. Philosophy of religion is made the key to the philosophy of history. The work does not amount to more than a suggestion for a new synthesis, but it was opportune and arresting. Herder meanwhile had been thinking, and in 1784 he gave the German world his survey of man's career--Ideas of the Philosophy of the History of Humanity. In this famous work, in which we can mark the influence of French thinkers, especially Montesquieu, as well as of Leibnitz, he attempted, though on very different lines, the same task which Turgot and Condorcet planned, a universal history of civilisation. The Deity designed the world but never interferes in its process, either in the physical cosmos or in human history. Human history itself, civilisation, is a purely natural phenomenon. Events are strictly enchained; continuity is unbroken; what happened at any given time could have happened only then, and nothing else could have happened. Herder's rigid determinism not only excludes Voltaire's chance but also suppresses the free play of man's intelligent will. Man cannot guide his own destinies; his actions and fortunes are determined by the nature of things, his physical organisation and physical environment. The fact that God exists in inactive ease hardly affects the fatalistic complexion of this philosophy; but it is perhaps a mitigation that the world was made for man; humanity is its final cause. The variety of the phases of civilisation that have appeared on earth is due to the fact that the possible manifestations of human nature are very numerous and that they must all be realised. The lower forms are those in which the best, which means the most human, faculties of our nature are undeveloped. The highest has not yet been realised. "The flower of humanity, captive still in its germ, will blossom out one day into the true form of man like unto God, in a state of which no terrestrial man can imagine the greatness and the majesty." [Footnote: Ideen, v. 5.] Herder is not a systematic thinker--indeed his work abounds in contradictions--and he has not made it clear how far this full epiphany results from the experiences of mankind in preceding phases. He believes that life is an education for humanity (he has taken the phrase of Lessing), that good progressively develops, that reason and justice become more powerful. This is a doctrine of Progress, but he distinctly opposes the hypothesis of a final and unique state of perfection as the goal of history, which would imply that earlier generations exist for the sake of the later and suffer in order to ensure the felicity of remote posterity--a theory which offends his sense of justice and fitness. On the contrary, man can realise happiness equally in every stage of civilisation. All forms of society are equally legitimate, the imperfect as well as the perfect; all are ends in themselves, not mere stages on the way to something better. And a people which is happy in one of these inferior states has a perfect right to remain in it. Thus the Progress which Herder sees is, to use his own geometrical illustration, a sequence of unequal and broken curves, corresponding to different maxima and minima. Each curve has its own equation, the history of each people is subject to the laws of its own environment; but there is no general law controlling the whole career of humanity. [Footnote: Ib. xv. 3. The power of ideas in history, which Herder failed to appreciate, was recognised by a contemporary savant from whom he might have learned. Jakob Wegelin, a Swiss, had, at the invitation of Frederick the Great, settled in Berlin, where he spent the last years of his life and devoted his study to the theory of history. His merit was to have perceived that "external facts are penetrated and governed by spiritual forces and guiding ideas, and that the essential and permanent in history is conditioned by the nature and development of ideas." (Dierauer, quoted by Bock, op. cit. p. 13.) He believed in the progressive development of mankind as a whole, but as his learned brochures seem to have exerted no influence, it would be useless here to examine more closely his views, which are buried in the transactions of the Prussian Academy of Science. In Switzerland he came under the influence of Rousseau and d'Alembert. After he moved to Berlin (1765) he fell under that of Leibnitz. It may be noted (1) that he deprecated attempts at writing a universal history as premature until an adequate knowledge of facts had been gained, and this would demand long preliminary labours; (2) that he discussed the question whether history is an indefinite progression or a series of constant cycles, and decided for the former view. (Memoire sur le cours periodique, 1785). Bock's monograph is the best study of Wegelin; but see also Flint's observations in Philosophy of History, vol. i. (1874).] Herder brought down his historical survey only as far as the sixteenth century. It has been suggested [Footnote: Javary, De l'idee de progres, p. 69.] that if he had come down further he might have comprehended the possibility of a deliberate transformation of societies by the intelligent action of the human will--an historical force to which he does not do justice, apparently because he fancied it incompatible with strict causal sequence. The value of his work does not lie in the philosophical principles which he applied. Nor was it a useful contribution to history; of him it has been said, as of Bossuet, that facts bent like grass under his feet. [Footnote: Jouffroy, Melanges, p. 81.] But it was a notable attempt to do for human phenomena what Leibnitz in his Theodicy sought to do for the cosmos, and it pointed the way to the rationalistic philosophies of history which were to be a feature of the speculations of the following century. 2. The short essay of Kant, which he clumsily called the Idea of a Universal History on a Cosmopolitical Plan, [Footnote: 1784. This work of Kant was translated by De Quincey (Works, vol. ix. 428 sqq., ed. Masson), who is responsible for cosmopolitical as the rendering of weltburgerlich.] approaches the problems raised by the history of civilisation from a new point of view. He starts with the principle of invariable law. On any theory of free will, he says, human actions are as completely under the control of universal-laws of nature as any other physical phenomena. This is illustrated by statistics. Registers of births, deaths, and marriages show that these events occur with as much conformity to laws of nature as the oscillations of the weather. It is the same with the great sequence of historical events. Taken alone and individually, they seem incoherent and lawless; but viewed in their connection, as due to the action not of individuals but of the human species, they do not fail to reveal "a regular stream of tendency." Pursuing their own often contradictory purposes, individual nations and individual men are unconsciously promoting a process to which if they perceived it they would pay little regard. Individual men do not obey a law. They do not obey the laws of instinct like animals, nor do they obey, as rational citizens of the world would do, the laws of a preconcerted plan. If we look at the stage of history we see scattered and occasional indications of wisdom, but the general sum of men's actions is "a web of folly, childish vanity, and often even of the idlest wickedness and spirit of destruction." The problem for the philosopher is to discover a meaning in this senseless current of human actions, so that the history of creatures who pursue no plan of their own may yet admit of a systematic form. The clew to this form is supplied by the predispositions of human nature. I have stated this problem almost in Kant's words, and as he might have stated it if he had not introduced the conception of final causes. His use of the postulate of final causes without justifying it is a defect in his essay. He identifies what he well calls a stream of tendency with "a natural purpose." He makes no attempt to show that the succession of events is such that it cannot be explained without the postulate of a purpose. His solution of the problem is governed by this conception of finality, and by the unwarranted assumption that nature does nothing in vain. He lays down that all the tendencies to which any creature is predisposed by its nature must in the end be developed perfectly and agreeably to their final purpose. Those predispositions in man which serve the use of his reason are therefore destined to be fully developed. This destiny, however, cannot be realised in the individual; it can only be realised in the species. For reason works tentatively, by progress and regress. Each man would require an inordinate length of time to make a perfect use of his natural tendencies. Therefore, as life is short, an incalculable series of generations is needed. The means which nature employs to develop these tendencies is the antagonism which in man's social state exists between his gregarious and his antigregarious tendencies. His antigregarious nature expresses itself in the desire to force all things to comply to his own humour. Hence ambition, love of honour, avarice. These were necessary to raise mankind from the savage to the civilised state. But for these antisocial propensities men would be gentle as sheep, and "an Arcadian life would arise, of perfect harmony and mutual love, such as must suffocate and stifle all talents in their very germs." Nature, knowing better than man what is good for the species, ordains discord. She is to be thanked for competition and enmity, and for the thirst of power and wealth. For without these the final purpose of realising man's rational nature would remain unfulfilled. This is Kant's answer to Rousseau. The full realisation of man's rational nature is possible only in a "universal civil society" founded on political justice. The establishment of such a society is the highest problem for the human species. Kant contemplates, as the political goal, a confederation of states in which the utmost possible freedom shall be united with the most rigorous determination of the boundaries of freedom. Is it reasonable to suppose that a universal or cosmopolitical society of this kind will come into being; and if so, how will it be brought about? Political changes in the relations of states are generally produced by war. Wars are tentative endeavours to bring about new relations and to form new political bodies. Are combinations and recombinations to continue until by pure chance some rational self-supporting system emerges? Or is it possible that no such condition of society may ever arrive, and that ultimately all progress may be overwhelmed by a hell of evils? Or, finally, is Nature pursuing her regular course of raising the species by its own spontaneous efforts and developing, in the apparently wild succession of events, man's originally implanted tendencies? Kant accepts the last alternative on the ground that it is not reasonable to assume a final purpose in particular natural processes and at the same time to assume that there is no final purpose in the whole. Thus his theory of Progress depends on the hypothesis of final causes. It follows that to trace the history of mankind is equivalent to unravelling a hidden plan of Nature for accomplishing a perfect civil constitution for a universal society; since a universal society is the sole state in which the tendencies of human nature can be fully developed. We cannot determine the orbit of the development, because the whole period is so vast and only a small fraction is known to us, but this is enough to show that there is a definite course. Kant thinks that such a "cosmopolitical" history, as he calls it, is possible, and that if it were written it would give us a clew opening up "a consolatory prospect into futurity, in which at a remote distance we shall discover the human species seated upon an eminence won by infinite toil, where all the germs are unfolded which nature has implanted and its own destination upon this earth accomplished." 3. But to see the full bearing of Kant's discussion we must understand its connection with his ethics. For his ethical theory is the foundation and the motive of his speculation on Progress. The progress on which he lays stress is moral amelioration; he refers little to scientific or material progress. For him morality was an absolute obligation founded in the nature of reason. Such an obligation presupposes an end to be attained, and this end is a reign of reason under which all men obeying the moral law mutually treat each other as ends in themselves. Such an ideal state must be regarded as possible, because it is a necessary postulate of reason. From this point of view it may be seen that Kant's speculation on universal history is really a discussion whether the ideal state, which is required as a subjective postulate in the interest of ethics, is likely to be realised objectively. Now, Kant does not assert that because our moral reason must assume the possibility of this hypothetical goal civilisation is therefore moving towards it. That would be a fallacy into which he was incapable of falling. Civilisation is a phenomenon, and anything we know about it can only be inferred from experience. His argument is that there are actual indications of progress in this desirable direction. He pointed to the contemporary growth of civil liberty and religious liberty, and these are conditions of moral improvement. So far his argument coincides in principle with that of French theorists of Progress. But Kant goes on to apply to these data the debatable conception of final causes, and to infer a purpose in the development of humanity. Only this inference is put forward as a hypothesis, not as a dogma. It is probable that what hindered Kant from broaching his theory of Progress with as much confidence as Condorcet was his perception that nothing could be decisively affirmed about the course of civilisation until the laws of its movement had been discovered. He saw that this was a matter for scientific investigation. He says expressly that the laws are not yet known, and suggests that some future genius may do for social phenomena what Kepler and Newton did for the heavenly bodies. As we shall see, this is precisely what some of the leading French thinkers of the next generation will attempt to do. But cautiously though he framed the hypothesis Kant evidently considered Progress probable. He recognised that the most difficult obstacle to the moral advance of man lies in war and the burdens which the possibility of war imposes. And he spent much thought on the means by which war might be abolished. He published a philosophical essay on Perpetual Peace, in which he formulated the articles of an international treaty to secure the disappearance of war. He considered that, while a universal republic would be the positive ideal, we shall probably have to be contented with what he calls a negative substitute, consisting in a federation of peoples bound by a peace-alliance guaranteeing the independence of each member. But to assure the permanence of this system it is essential that each state should have a democratic constitution. For such a constitution is based on individual liberty and civil equality. All these changes should be brought about by legal reforms; revolutions--he was writing in 1795---cannot be justified. We see the influence of Rousseau's Social Contract and that of the Abbe de Saint-Pierre, with whose works Kant was acquainted. There can be little doubt that it was the influence of French thought, so powerful in Germany at this period, that turned Kant's mind towards these speculations, which belong to the latest period of his life and form a sort of appendix to his philosophical system. The theory of Progress, the idea of universal reform, the doctrine of political equality--Kant examined all these conceptions and appropriated them to the service of his own highly metaphysical theory of ethics. In this new association their spirit was changed. In France, as we saw, the theory of Progress was generally associated with ethical views which could find a metaphysical basis in the sensationalism of Locke. A moral system which might be built on sensation, as the primary mental fact, was worked out by Helvetius. But the principle that the supreme law of conduct is to obey nature had come down as a practical philosophy from Rabelais and Montaigne through Moliere to the eighteenth century. It was reinforced by the theory of the natural goodness of man. Jansenism had struggled against it and was defeated. After theology it was the turn of metaphysics. Kant's moral imperative marked the next stage in the conflict of the two opposite tendencies which seek natural and ultra-natural sanctions for morality. Hence the idea of progress had a different significance for Kant and for its French exponents, though his particular view of the future possibly in store for the human species coincided in some essential points with theirs. But his theory of life gives a different atmosphere to the idea. In France the atmosphere is emphatically eudaemonic; happiness is the goal. Kant is an uncompromising opponent of eudaemonism. "If we take enjoyment or happiness as the measure, it is easy," he says, "to evaluate life. Its value is less than nothing. For who would begin one's life again in the same conditions, or even in new natural conditions, if one could choose them oneself, but of which enjoyment would be the sole end?" There was, in fact, a strongly-marked vein of pessimism in Kant. One of the ablest men of the younger generation who were brought up on his system founded the philosophical pessimism--very different in range and depth from the sentimental pessimism of Rousseau--which was to play a remarkable part in German thought in the nineteenth century. [Footnote: Kant's pessimism has been studied at length by von Hartmann, in Zur Geschichte und Begrundung des Pessimismus (1880).] Schopenhauer's unpleasant conclusion that of all conceivable worlds this is the worst, is one of the speculations for which Kant may be held ultimately responsible. [Footnote: Schopenhauer recognised progress social, economic, and political, but as a fact that contains no guarantee of happiness; on the contrary, the development of the intelligence increases suffering. He ridiculed the optimistic ideals of comfortable, well-regulated states. His views on historical development have been collected by G. Sparlinsky, Schopenhauers Verhaltnis zur Geschichte, in Berner Studien s. Philosophie, Bd. lxxii. (1910).] 4. Kant's considerations on historical development are an appendix to his philosophy; they are not a necessary part, wrought into the woof of his system. It was otherwise with his successors the Idealists, for whom his system was the point of departure, though they rejected its essential feature, the limitation of human thought. With Fichte and Hegel progressive development was directly deduced from their principles. If their particular interpretations of history have no permanent value, it is significant that, in their ambitious attempts to explain the universe a priori, history was conceived as progressive, and their philosophies did much to reinforce a conception which on very different principles was making its way in the world. But the progress which their systems involved was not bound up with the interest of human happiness, but stood out as a fact which, whether agreeable or not, is a consequence of the nature of thought. The process of the universe, as it appeared to Fichte, [Footnote: Fichte's philosophy of history will be found in Die Grundzuge des gegenwartigen Zeitalters (1806), lectures which he delivered at Berlin in 1804-5.] tends to a full realisation of "freedom"; that is its end and goal, but a goal that always recedes. It can never be reached; for its full attainment would mean the complete suppression of Nature. The process of the world, therefore, consists in an indefinite approximation to an unattainable ideal: freedom is being perpetually realised more and more; and the world, as it ascends in this direction, becomes more and more a realm of reason. What Fichte means by freedom may be best explained by its opposition to instinct. A man acting instinctively may be acting quite reasonably, in a way which any one fully conscious of all the implications and consequences of the action would judge to be reasonable. But in order that his actions should be free he must himself be fully conscious of all those implications and consequences. It follows that the end of mankind upon earth is to reach a state in which all the relations of life shall be ordered according to reason, not instinctively but with full consciousness and deliberate purpose. This end should govern the ethical rules of conduct, and it determines the necessary stages of history. It gives us at once two main periods, the earliest and the latest: the earliest, in which men act reasonably by instinct, and the latest, in which they are conscious of reason and try to realise it fully. But before reaching this final stage they must pass through an epoch in which reason is conscious of itself, but not regnant. And to reach this they must have emancipated themselves from instinct, and this process of emancipation means a fourth epoch. But they could not have wanted to emancipate themselves unless they had felt instinct as a servitude imposed by an external authority, and therefore we have to distinguish yet another epoch wherein reason is expressed in authoritarian institutions to which men blindly submit. In this way Fichte deduces five historical epochs: two in which progress is blind, two in which it is free, and an intermediate in which it is struggling to consciousness. [Footnote: First Epoch: that of instinctive reason; the age of innocence. Second: that of authoritarian reason. Third: that of enfranchisement; the age of scepticism and unregulated liberty. Fourth: that of conscious reason, as science. Fifth: that of regnant reason, as art.] But there are no locked gates between these periods; they overlap and mingle; each may have some of the characteristics of another; and in each there is a vanguard leading the way and a rearguard lagging behind. At present (1804) we are in the third age; we have broken with authority, but do not yet possess a clear and disciplined knowledge of reason. [Footnote: Three years later, however, Fichte maintained in his patriotic Discourses to the German Nation (1807) that in 1804 man had crossed the threshold of the fourth epoch. He asserted that the progress of "culture" and science will depend henceforward chiefly on Germany.] Fichte has deduced this scheme purely a priori without any reference to actual experience. "The philosopher," he says, "follows the a priori thread of the world-plan which is clear to him without any history; and if he makes use of history, it is not to prove anything, since his theses are already proved independently of all history." Historical development is thus presented as a necessary progress towards a goal which is known but cannot be reached. And this fact as to the destiny of the race constitutes the basis of morality, of which the fundamental law is to act in such a way as to promote the free realisation of reason upon earth. It has been claimed by a recent critic that Fichte was the first modern philosopher to humanise morals. He completely rejected the individualistic conception which underlay Kantian as well as Christian ethics. He asserted that the true motive of morality is not the salvation of the individual man but the Progress of humanity. In fact, with Fichte Progress is the principle of ethics. That the Christian ideal of ascetic saintliness detached from society has no moral value is a plain corollary from the idea of earthly Progress. [Footnote: X. Leon, La Philosophie de Fichte (1902), pp. 477-9.] One other point in Fichte's survey of history deserves notice--the social role of the savant. It is the function of the savant to discover the truths which are a condition of moral progress; he may be said to incarnate reason in the world. We shall see how this idea played a prominent part in the social schemes of Saint-Simon and Comte. [Footnote: Fichte, Ueber die Bestimmung des Gelehrten (1794).] 5. Hegel's philosophy of history is better known than Fichte's. Like Fichte, he deduced the phases a priori from his metaphysical principles, but he condescended to review in some detail the actual phenomena. He conceived the final cause of the world as Spirit's consciousness of its own freedom. The ambiguous term "freedom" is virtually equivalent to self-consciousness, and Hegel defines Universal History as the description of the process by which Spirit or God comes to the consciousness of its own meaning. This freedom does not mean that Spirit could choose at any moment to develop in a different way; its actual development is necessary and is the embodiment of reason. Freedom consists in fully recognising the fact. Of the particular features which distinguish Hegel's treatment, the first is that he identifies "history" with political history, the development of the state. Art, religion, philosophy, the creations of social man, belong to a different and higher stage of Spirit's self-revelation. [Footnote: The three phases of Spirit are (1) subjective; (2) objective; (3) absolute. Psychology, e.g., is included in (1), law and history in (2), religion in (3).] In the second place, Hegel ignores the primitive prehistoric ages of man, and sets the beginning of his development in the fully-grown civilisation of China. He conceives the Spirit as continually moving from one nation to another in order to realise the successive stages of its self-consciousness: from China to India, from India to the kingdoms of Western Asia; then from the Orient to Greece, then to Rome, and finally to the Germanic world. In the East men knew only that ONE is free, the political characteristic was despotism; in Greece and Rome they knew that SOME are free, and the political forms were aristocracy and democracy; in the modern world they know that ALL are free, and the political form is monarchy. The first period, he compared to childhood, the second to youth (Greece) and manhood (Rome), the third to old age, old but not feeble. The third, which includes the medieval and modern history of Europe, designated by Hegel as the Germanic world--for "the German spirit is the spirit of the modern world"--is also the final period. In it God realises his freedom completely in history, just as in Hegel's own absolute philosophy, which is final, God has completely understood his own nature. And here is the most striking difference between the theories of Fichte and Hegel. Both saw the goal of human development in the realisation of "freedom," but, while with Fichte the development never ends as the goal is unattainable, with Hegel the development is already complete, the goal is not only attainable but has now been attained. Thus Hegel's is what we may call a closed system. History has been progressive, but no path is left open for further advance. Hegel views this conclusion of development with perfect complacency. To most minds that are not intoxicated with the Absolute it will seem that, if the present is the final state to which the evolution of Spirit has conducted, the result is singularly inadequate to the gigantic process. But his system is eminently inhuman. The happiness or misery of individuals is a matter of supreme indifference to the Absolute, which, in order to realise itself in time, ruthlessly sacrifices sentient beings. The spirit of Hegel's philosophy, in its bearing on social life, was thus antagonistic to Progress as a practical doctrine. Progress there had been, but Progress had done its work; the Prussian monarchical state was the last word in history. Kant's cosmopolitical plan, the liberalism and individualism which were implicit in his thought, the democracies which he contemplated in the future, are all cast aside as a misconception. Once the needs of the Absolute Spirit have been satisfied, when it has seen its full power and splendour revealed in the Hegelian philosophy, the world is as good as it can be. Social amelioration does not matter, nor the moral improvement of men, nor the increase of their control over physical forces. 6. The other great representative of German idealism, who took his departure from Kant, also saw in history a progressive revelation of divine reason. But it was the processes of nature, not the career of humanity, that absorbed the best energies of Schelling, and the elaboration of a philosophical idea of organic evolution was the prominent feature of his speculation. His influence--and it was wide, reaching even scientific biologists--lay chiefly in diffusing this idea, and he thus contributed to the formation of a theory which was afterwards to place the idea of Progress on a more imposing base. [Footnote: Schelling's views notoriously varied at various stages of his career. In his System of Transcendental Idealism (1800) he distinguished three historical periods, in the first of which the Absolute reveals itself as Fate, in the second as Nature, in the third as Providence, and asserted that we are still living in the second, which began with the expansion of Rome (Werke, i. 3, p. 603). In this context he says that the conception of an infinite "progressivity" is included in the conception of "history," but adds that the perfectibility of the race cannot be directly inferred. For it may be said that man has no proper history but turns round on a wheel of Ixion. The difficulty of establishing the fact of Progress from the course of events lies in discovering a criterion. Schelling rejects the criterion of moral improvement and that of advance in science and arts as unpractical or misleading. But if we see the sole object of history in a gradual realisation of the ideal state, we have a measure of Progress which can be applied; though it cannot be proved either by theory or by experience that the goal will be attained. This must remain an article of faith (ib. 592 sqq.).] Schelling influenced, among others, his contemporary Krause, a less familiar name, who worked out a philosophy of history in which this idea is fundamental. Krause conceived history, which is the expression of the Absolute, as the development of life; society as an organism; and social growth as a process which can be deduced from abstract biological principles. [Footnote: Krause divided man's earthly career into three Ages--infancy, growth, and maturity. The second of these falls into three periods characterised by (1) polytheism, (2) monotheism (Middle Ages), (3) scepticism and liberty, and we are now in the third of these periods. The third Age will witness the union of humanity in a single social organism, and the universal acceptance of "panentheism" (the doctrine of the unity of all in God), which is the principle of Krause's philosophy and religion. But though this will be the final stage on the earth, Krause contemplates an ulterior career of humanity in other solar systems. Krause never attracted attention in England, but he exerted some influence in France and Spain, and especially in Belgium, notwithstanding the grotesque jargon in which he obscured his thoughts. See Flint, Philosophy of History, pp. 474-5. Flint's account of his speculations is indulgent. The main ideas of his philosophy of history will be found in the Introduction a la philosophie (ed. 2, 1880) of G. Tiberghien, a Belgian disciple.] All these transcendent speculations had this in common that they pretended to discover the necessary course of human history on metaphysical principles, independent of experience. But it has been rightly doubted whether this alleged independence was genuine. We may question whether any of them would have produced the same sequence of periods of history, if the actual facts of history had been to them a sealed book. Indeed we may be sure that they were surreptitiously and subconsciously using experience as a guide, while they imagined that abstract principles were entirely responsible for their conclusions. And this is equivalent to saying that their ideas of progressive movement were really derived from that idea of Progress which the French thinkers of the eighteenth century had attempted to base on experience. The influence, direct and indirect, of these German philosophers reached far beyond the narrow circle of the bacchants or even the wandbearers of idealism. They did much to establish the notion of progressive development as a category of thought, almost as familiar and indispensable as that of cause and effect. They helped to diffuse the idea of "an increasing purpose" in history. Augustine or Bossuet might indeed have spoken of an increasing purpose, but the "purpose" of their speculations was subsidiary to a future life. The purpose of the German idealists could be fulfilled in earthly conditions and required no theory of personal immortality. This atmosphere of thought affected even intelligent reactionaries who wrote in the interest of orthodox Christianity and the Catholic Church. Progressive development is admitted in the lectures on the Philosophy of History of Friedrich von Schlegel. [Footnote: Translated into English in 2 vols., 1835.] He denounced Condorcet, and opposed to perfectibility the corruptible nature of man. But he asserted that the philosophy of history is to be found in "the principles of social progress." [Footnote: Op. cit. ii, p. 194, sqq.] These principles are three: the hidden ways of Providence emancipating the human race; the freewill of man; and the power which God permits to the agents of evil,--principles which Bossuet could endorse, but the novelty is that here they are arrayed as forces of Progress. In fact, the point of von Schlegel's pretentious, unilluminating book is to rehabilitate Christianity by making it the key to that new conception of life which had taken shape among the enemies of the Church. 7. As biological development was one of the constant preoccupations of Goethe, whose doctrine of metamorphosis and "types" helped to prepare the way for the evolutionary hypothesis, we might have expected to find him interested in theories of social progress, in which theories of biological development find a logical extension. But the French speculations on Progress did not touch his imagination; they left him cool and sceptical. Towards the end of his life, in conversation with Eckermann, he made some remarks which indicate his attitude. [Footnote: Gesprache mit Goethe, 23 Oktober 1828.] "'The world will not reach its goal so quickly as we think and wish. The retarding demons are always there, intervening and resisting at every point, so that, though there is an advance on the whole, it is very slow. Live longer and you will find that I am right.' "'The development of humanity,' said Eckermann, 'appears to be a matter of thousands of years.' "'Who knows?' Goethe replied, 'perhaps of millions. But let humanity last as long as it will, there will always be hindrances in its way, and all kinds of distress, to make it develop its powers. Men will become more clever and discerning, but not better nor happier nor more energetic, at least except for limited periods. I see the time coming when God will take no more pleasure in the race, and must again proceed to a rejuvenated creation. I am sure that this will happen and that the time and hour in the distant future are already fixed for the beginning of this epoch of rejuvenation. But that time is certainly a long way off, and we can still for thousands and thousands of years enjoy ourselves on this dear old playing-ground, just as it is.'" That is at once a plain rejection of perfectibility, and an opinion that intellectual development is no highroad to the gates of a golden city. CHAPTER XIV. CURRENTS OF THOUGHT IN FRANCE AFTER THE REVOLUTION 1. The failure of the Revolution to fulfil the visionary hopes which had dazzled France for a brief period--a failure intensified by the horrors that had attended the experiment--was followed by a reaction against the philosophical doctrines and tendencies which had inspired its leaders. Forces, which the eighteenth century had underrated or endeavoured to suppress, emerged in a new shape, and it seemed for a while as if the new century might definitely turn its back on its predecessor. There was an intellectual rehabilitation of Catholicism, which will always be associated with the names of four thinkers of exceptional talent, Chateaubriand, De Maistre, Bonald, and Lamennais. But the outstanding fame of these great reactionaries must not mislead us into exaggerating the reach of this reaction. The spirit and tendencies of the past century still persisted in the circles which were most permanently influential. Many eminent savants who had been imbued with the ideas of Condillac and Helvetius, and had taken part in the Revolution and survived it, were active under the Empire and the restored Monarchy, still true to the spirit of their masters, and commanding influence by the value of their scientific work. M. Picavet's laborious researches into the activities of this school of thinkers has helped us to understand the transition from the age of Condorcet to the age of Comte. The two central figures are Cabanis, the friend of Condorcet, [Footnote: He has already claimed our notice, above, p. 215.] and Destutt de Tracy. M. Picavet has grouped around them, along with many obscurer names, the great scientific men of the time, like Laplace, Bichat, Lamarck, as all in the direct line of eighteenth century thought. "Ideologists" he calls them. [Footnote: Ideology is now sometimes used to convey a criticism; for instance, to contrast the methods of Lamarck with those of Darwin.] Ideology, the science of ideas, was the word invented by de Tracy to distinguish the investigation of thought in accordance with the methods of Locke and Condillac from old-fashioned metaphysics. The guiding principle of the ideologists was to apply reason to observed facts and eschew a priori deductions. Thinkers of this school had an influential organ, the Decade philosophique, of which J. B. Say the economist was one of the founders in 1794. The Institut, which had been established by the Convention, was crowded with "ideologists," and may be said to have continued the work of the Encyclopaedia. [Footnote: Picavet, op. cit. p. 69. The members of the 2nd Class of the Institut, that of moral and political science, were so predominantly Ideological that the distrust of Napoleon was excited, and he abolished it in 1803, distributing its members among the other Classes.] These men had a firm faith in the indefinite progress of knowledge, general enlightenment, and "social reason." 2. Thus the ideas of the "sophists" of the age of Voltaire were alive in the speculative world, not withstanding political, religious, and philosophical reaction. But their limitations were to be transcended, and account taken of facts and aspects which their philosophy had ignored or minimised. The value of the reactionary movement lay in pressing these facts and aspects on the attention, in reopening chambers of the human spirit which the age of Voltaire had locked and sealed. The idea of Progress was particularly concerned in the general change of attitude, intellectual and emotional, towards the Middle Ages. A fresh interest in the great age of the Church was a natural part of the religious revival, but extended far beyond the circle of ardent Catholics. It was a characteristic feature, as every one knows, of the Romantic movement. It did not affect only creative literature, it occupied speculative thinkers and stimulated historians. For Guizot, Michelet, and Auguste Comte, as well as for Chateaubriand and Victor Hugo, the Middle Ages have a significance which Frenchmen of the previous generation could hardly have comprehended. We saw how that period had embarrassed the first pioneers who attempted to trace the course of civilisation as a progressive movement, how lightly they passed over it, how unconvincingly they explained it away. At the beginning of the nineteenth century the medieval question was posed in such a way that any one who undertook to develop the doctrine of Progress would have to explore it more seriously. Madame de Stael saw this when she wrote her book on Literature considered in its Relation to Social Institutions (1801). She was then under the influence of Condorcet and an ardent believer in perfectibility, and the work is an attempt to extend this theory, which she testifies was falling into discredit, to the realm of literature. She saw that, if man regressed instead of progressing for ten centuries, the case for Progress was gravely compromised, and she sought to show that the Middle Ages contributed to the development of the intellectual faculties and to the expansion of civilisation, and that the Christian religion was an indispensable agent. This contention that Progress was uninterrupted is an advance on Condorcet and an anticipation of Saint-Simon and Comte. A more eloquent and persuasive voice was raised in the following year from the ranks of reaction. Chateaubriand's Genie du Christianisme appeared in 1802, "amidst the ruins of our temples," as the author afterwards said, when France was issuing from the chaos of her revolution. It was a declaration of war against the spirit of the eighteenth century which had treated Christianity as a barbarous system whose fall was demanded in the name of Progress. But it was much more than polemic. Chateaubriand arrayed arguments in support of orthodox dogmas, original sin, primitive degeneration, and the rest; but the appeal of the book did not lie in its logic, it lay in the appreciation of Christianity from a new point of view. He approached it in the spirit of an artist, as an aesthete, not as a philosopher, and so far as he proved anything he proved that Christianity is valuable because it is beautiful, not because it is true. He aimed at showing that it can "enchanter l'ame aussi divinement que les dieux de Virgile et d'Homere." He might call to his help the Fathers of the Church, but it was on Dante, Milton, Racine that his case was really based. The book is an apologia, from the aesthetic standpoint of the Romantic school. "Dieu ne defend pas les routes fleuries quand elles servent a revenir a lui." It was a matter of course that the defender of original sin should reject the doctrine of perfectibility. "When man attains the highest point of civilisation," wrote Chateaubriand in the vein of Rousseau, "he is on the lowest stair of morality; if he is free, he is rude; by civilising his manners, he forges himself chains. His heart profits at the expense of his head, his head at the expense of his heart." And, apart from considerations of Christian doctrine, the question of Progress had little interest for the Romantic school. Victor Hugo, in the famous Preface to his Cromwell (1827), where he went more deeply than Chateaubriand into the contrasts between ancient and modern art, revived the old likeness of mankind to an individual man, and declared that classical antiquity was the time of its virility and that we are now spectators of its imposing old age. From other points of view powerful intellects were reverting to the Middle Ages and eager to blot out the whole development of modern society since the Reformation, as the Encyclopaedic philosophers had wished to blot out the Middle Ages. The ideal of Bonald, De Maistre, and Lamennais was a sacerdotal government of the world, and the English constitution was hardly less offensive to their minds than the Revolution which De Maistre denounced as "satanic." Advocates as they were of the dead system of theocracy, they contributed, however, to the advance of thought, not only by forcing medieval institutions on the notice of the world but also by their perception that society had been treated in the eighteenth century in too mechanical a way, that institutions grow, that the conception of individual men divested of their life in society is a misleading abstraction. They put this in extravagant and untenable forms, but there was a large measure of truth in their criticism, which did its part in helping the nineteenth century to revise and transcend the results of eighteenth century speculation. In this reactionary literature we can see the struggle of the doctrine of Providence, declining before the doctrine of Progress, to gain the upper-hand again. Chateaubriand, Bonald, De Maistre, Lamennais firmly held the dogma of an original golden age and the degradation of man, and denounced the whole trend of progressive thought from Bacon to Condorcet. These writers were unconsciously helping Condorcet's doctrine to assume a new and less questionable shape. [Footnote: Bonald indeed in his treatise De pouvoir adopted the idea of development and applied it to religion (as Newman did afterwards) for the purpose of condemning the Reformation as a retrograde movement.] 3. Along with the discovery of the Middle Ages came the discovery of German literature. In the intellectual commerce between the two countries in the age of Frederick the Great, France had been exclusively the giver, Germany the recipient. It was due, above all, to Madame de Stael that the tide began to flow the other way. Among the writers of the Napoleonic epoch, Madame de Stael is easily first in critical talent and intellectual breadth. Her study of the Revolution showed a more dispassionate appreciation of that convulsion than any of her contemporaries were capable of forming. But her chef-d'oeuvre is her study of Germany, De l'Allemagne, [Footnote: A.D. 1813.] which revealed the existence of a world of art and thought, unsuspected by the French public. Within the next twenty years Herder and Lessing, Kant and Hegel were exerting their influence at Paris. She did in France what Coleridge was doing in England for the knowledge of German thought. Madame de Stael had raised anew the question which had been raised in the seventeenth century and answered in the negative by Voltaire: is there progress in aesthetic literature? Her early book on Literature had clearly defined the issue. She did not propose the thesis that there is any progress or improvement (as some of the Moderns had contended in the famous Quarrel) in artistic form. Within the limits of their own thought and emotional experience the ancients achieved perfection of expression, and perfection cannot be surpassed. But as thought progresses, as the sum of ideas increases and society changes, fresh material is supplied to art, there is "a new development of sensibility" which enables literary artists to compass new kinds of charm. The Genie du Christianisme embodied a commentary on her contention, more arresting than any she could herself have furnished. Here the reactionary joined hands with the disciple of Condorcet, to prove that there is progress in the domain of art. Madame de Stael's masterpiece, Germany, was a further impressive illustration of the thesis that the literature of the modern European nations represents an advance on classical literature, in the sense that it sounds notes which the Greek and Roman masters had not heard, reaches depths which they had not conjectured, unlocks chambers which to them were closed,--as a result of the progressive experiences of the human soul. [Footnote: German literature was indeed already known, in some measure, to readers of the Decade philosophique, and Kant had been studied in France long before 1813, the year of the publication of De l'Allemagne. See Picavet, Les Ideologues, p. 99.] [Footnote: We can see the effect of her doctrine in Guizot's remarks (Histoire de la civilisation en Europe, 2e lecon) where he says of modern literatures that "sous le point de vue du fond des sentiments et des idees elles sont plus fortes et plus riches [than the ancient]. On voit que l'ame humaine a ete remuee sur un plus grand nombre de points a une plus grande profondeur"--and to this very fact he ascribes their comparative imperfection in form.] This view is based on the general propositions that all social phenomena closely cohere and that literature is a social phenomenon; from which it follows that if there is a progressive movement in society generally, there is a progressive movement in literature. Her books were true to the theory; they inaugurated the methods of modern criticism, which studies literary works in relation to the social background of their period. 4. France, then, under the Bourbon Restoration began to seek new light from the obscure profundities of German speculation which Madame de Stael proclaimed. Herder's "Ideas" were translated by Edgar Quinet, Lessing's Education by Eugene Rodrigues. Cousin sat at the feet of Hegel. At the same time a new master, full of suggestiveness for those who were interested in the philosophy of history, was discovered in Italy. The "Scienza nuova" of Vico was translated by Michelet. The book of Vico was now a hundred years old. I did not mention him in his chronological place, because he exercised no immediate influence on the world. His thought was an anachronism in the eighteenth century, it appealed to the nineteenth. He did not announce or conceive any theory of Progress, but his speculation, bewildering enough and confused in its exposition, contained principles which seemed predestined to form the basis of such a doctrine. His aim was that of Cabanis and the ideologists, to set the study of society on the same basis of certitude which had been secured for the study of nature through the work of Descartes and Newton. [Footnote: Vico has sometimes been claimed as a theorist of Progress, but incorrectly. See B. Croce, The Philosophy of Giambattista Vico (Eng. tr., 1913), p. 132--an indispensable aid to the study of Vico. The first edition of the Scienza nuova appeared in 1725; the second, which was a new work, in 1730. Vico influenced Ballanche, a writer who enjoyed a considerable repute in his day. He taught the progressive development of man towards liberty and equality within the four corners of the Christian religion, which he regarded as final. His Palingenesie sociale appeared in 1823-30.] His fundamental idea was that the explanation of the history of societies is to be found in the human mind. The world at first is felt rather than thought; this is the condition of savages in the state of nature, who have no political organisation. The second mental state is imaginative knowledge, "poetical wisdom"; to this corresponds the higher barbarism of the heroic age. Finally, comes conceptual knowledge, and with it the age of civilisation. These are the three stages through which every society passes, and each of these types determines law, institutions, language, literature, and the characters of men. Vico's strenuous researches in the study of Homer and early Roman history were undertaken in order to get at the point of view of the heroic age. He insisted that it could not be understood unless we transcended our own abstract ways of thinking and looked at the world with primitive eyes, by a forced effort of imagination. He was convinced that history had been vitiated by the habit of ignoring psychological differences, by the failure to recapture the ancient point of view. Here he was far in advance of his own times. Concentrating his attention above all on Roman antiquity, he adopted--not altogether advantageously for his system--the revolutions of Roman history as the typical rule of social development. The succession of aristocracy (for the early kingship of Rome and Homeric royalty are merely forms of aristocracy in Vico's view), democracy, and monarchy is the necessary sequence of political governments. Monarchy (the Roman Empire) corresponds to the highest form of civilisation. What happens when this is reached? Society declines into an anarchical state of nature, from which it again passes into a higher barbarism or heroic age, to be followed once more by civilisation. The dissolution of the Roman Empire and the barbarian invasions are followed by the Middle Ages, in which Dante plays the part of Homer; and the modern period with its strong monarchies corresponds to the Roman Empire. This is Vico's principle of reflux. If the theory were sound, it would mean that the civilisation of his day must again relapse into barbarism and the cycle begin again. He did not himself state this conclusion directly or venture on any prediction. It is obvious how readily his doctrine could be adapted to the conception of Progress as a spiral movement. Evidently the corresponding periods in his cycles are not identical or really homogeneous. Whatever points of likeness may be discovered between early Greek or Roman and medieval societies, the points of unlikeness are still more numerous and manifest. Modern civilisation differs in fundamental and far-reaching ways from Greek and Roman. It is absurd to pretend that the general movement brings man back again and again to the point from which he started, and therefore, if there is any value in Vico's reflux, it can only mean that the movement of society may be regarded as a spiral ascent, so that each stage of an upward progress corresponds, in certain general aspects, to a stage which has already been traversed, this correspondence being due to the psychical nature of man. A conception of this kind could not be appreciated in Vico's day or by the next generation. The "Scienza nuova" lay in Montesquieu's library, and he made no use of it. But it was natural that it should arouse interest in France at a time when the new idealistic philosophies of Germany were attracting attention, and when Frenchmen, of the ideological school, were seeking, like Vico himself, a synthetic principle to explain social phenomena. Different though Vico was in his point of departure as in his methods from the German idealists, his speculations nevertheless had something in common with theirs. Both alike explained history by the nature of mind which necessarily determined the stages of the process; Vico as little as Fichte or Hegel took eudaemonic considerations into account. The difference was that the German thinkers sought their principle in logic and applied it a priori, while Vico sought his in concrete psychology and engaged in laborious research to establish it a posteriori by the actual data of history. But both speculations suggested that the course of human development corresponds to the fundamental character of mental processes and is not diverted either by Providential intervention or by free acts of human will. 5. These foreign influences co-operated in determining the tendencies of French speculation in the period of the restored monarchy, whereby the idea of Progress was placed on new basements and became the headstone of new "religions." Before we consider the founders of sects, we may glance briefly at the views of some eminent savants who had gained the ear of the public before the July Revolution--Jouffroy, Cousin, and Guizot. Cousin, the chief luminary in the sphere of pure philosophy in France in the first half of the nineteenth century, drew his inspiration from Germany. He was professedly an eclectic, but in the main his philosophy was Hegelian. He might endow God with consciousness and speak of Providence, but he regarded the world-process as a necessary evolution of thought, and he saw, not in religion but in philosophy, the highest expression of civilisation. In 1828 he delivered a course of lectures on the philosophy of history. He divided history into three periods, each governed by a master idea: the first by the idea of the infinite (the Orient); the second by that of the finite (classical antiquity); the third by that of the relation of finite to infinite (the modern age). As with Hegel, the future is ignored, progress is confined within a closed system, the highest circle has already been reached. As an opponent of the ideologists and the sensational philosophy on which they founded their speculations, Cousin appealed to the orthodox and all those to whom Voltairianism was an accursed thing, and for a generation he exercised a considerable influence. But his work--and this is the important point for us--helped to diffuse the idea, which the ideologists were diffusing on very different lines--that human history has been a progressive development. Progressive development was also the theme of Jouffroy in his slight but suggestive introduction to the philosophy of history (1825), [Footnote: "Reflexions sur la philosophie de l'histoire," in Melanges philosophiques, 2nd edition, 1838.] in which he posed the same problem which, as we shall see, Saint-Simon and Comte were simultaneously attempting to solve. He had not fallen under the glamour of German idealism, and his results have more affinity with Vico's than with Hegel's. He begins with some simple considerations which conduct to the doubtful conclusion that all the historical changes in man's condition are due to the operation of his intelligence. The historian's business is to trace the succession of the actual changes. The business of the philosopher of history is to trace the succession of ideas and study the correspondence between the two developments. This is the true philosophy of history: "the glory of our age is to understand it." Now it is admitted to-day, he says, that the human intelligence obeys invariable laws, so that a further problem remains. The actual succession of ideas has to be deduced from these necessary laws. When that deduction is effected--a long time hence--history will disappear; it will be merged in science. Jouffroy then presented the world with what he calls the FATALITY OF INTELLECTUAL DEVELOPMENT, to take the place of Providence or Destiny. It is a fatality, he is careful to explain, which, so far from compromising, presupposes individual liberty. For it is not like the fatality of sensual impulse which guides the brute creation. What it implies is this: if a thousand men have the same idea of what is good, this idea will govern their conduct in spite of their passions, because, being reasonable and free, they are not blindly submissive to passion, but can deliberate and choose. This explanation of history as a necessary development of society corresponding to a necessary succession of ideas differs in two important points from the explanations of Hegel and Cousin. The succession of ideas is not conceived as a transcendent logic, but is determined by the laws of the HUMAN mind and belongs to the domain of psychology. Here Jouffroy is on the same ground as Vico. In the second place, it is not a closed system; room remains for an indefinite development in the future. 6. While Cousin was discoursing on philosophy at Paris in the days of the last Bourbon king, Guizot was drawing crowded audiences to his lectures on the history of European civilisation, [Footnote: Histoire de la civilisation en Europe.] and the keynote of these lectures was Progress. He approached it with a fresh mind, unencumbered with any of the philosophical theories which had attended and helped its growth. Civilisation, he said, is the supreme fact so far as man is concerned, "the fact par excellence, the general and definite fact in which all other facts merge." And "civilisation" means progress or development. The word "awakens, when it is pronounced, the idea of a people which is in motion, not to change its place but to change its state, a people whose condition is expanding and improving. The idea of progress, development, seems to me to be the fundamental idea contained in the word CIVILISATION." There we have the most important positive idea of eighteenth century speculation, standing forth detached and independent, no longer bound to a system. Fifty years before, no one would have dreamed of defining civilisation like that and counting on the immediate acquiescence of his audience. But progress has to be defined. It does not merely imply the improvement of social relations and public well-being. France in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries was behind Holland and England in the sum and distribution of well-being among individuals, and yet she can claim that she was the most "civilised" country in those ages. The reason is that civilisation also implies the development of the individual life, of men's private faculties, sentiments, and ideas. The progress of man therefore includes both these developments. But they are intimately connected. We may observe how moral reformers generally recommend their proposals by promising social amelioration as a result, and that progressive politicians maintain that the progress of society necessarily induces moral improvement. The connection may not always be apparent, and at different times one or other kind of progress predominates. But one is followed by the other ultimately, though it may be after a long interval, for "la Providence a ses aises dans le temps." The rise of Christianity was one of the crises of civilisation, yet it did not in its early stages aim at any improvement of social conditions; it did not attack the great injustices which were wrought in the world. It meant a great crisis because it changed the beliefs and sentiments of individuals; social effects came afterwards. The civilisation of modern Europe has grown through a period of fifteen centuries and is still progressing. The rate of progress has been slower than that of Greek civilisation, but on the other hand it has been continuous, uninterrupted, and we can see "the vista of an immense career." The effects of Guizot's doctrine in propagating the idea of Progress were all the greater for its divorce from philosophical theory. He did not touch perplexing questions like fatality, or discuss the general plan of the world; he did not attempt to rise above common-sense; and he did not essay any premature scheme of the universal history of man. His masterly survey of the social history of Europe exhibited progressive movement as a fact, in a period in which to the thinkers of the eighteenth century it had been almost invisible. This of course was far from proving that Progress is the key to the history of the world and human destinies. The equation of civilisation with progress remains an assumption. For the question at once arises: Can civilisation reach a state of equilibrium from which no further advance is possible; and if it can, does it cease to be civilisation? Is Chinese civilisation mis-called, or has there been here too a progressive movement all the time, however slow? Such questions were not raised by Guizot. But his view of history was effective in helping to establish the association of the two ideas of civilisation and progress, which to-day is taken for granted as evidently true. 7. The views of these eminent thinkers Cousin, Jouffroy, and Guizot show that--quite apart from the doctrines of ideologists and of the "positivists," Saint-Simon and Comte, of whom I have still to speak--there was a common trend in French thought in the Restoration period towards the conception of history as a progressive movement. Perhaps there is no better illustration of the infectiousness of this conception than in the Historical Studies which Chateaubriand gave to the world in 1831. He had learned much, from books as well as from politics, since he wrote the GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY. He had gained some acquaintance with German philosophy and with Vico. And in this work of his advanced age he accepts the idea of Progress, so far as it could be accepted by an orthodox son of the Church. He believes that the advance of knowledge will lead to social progress, and that society, if it seems sometimes to move backward, is always really moving forward. Bossuet, for whom he had no word of criticism thirty years before, he now convicts of "an imposing error." That great man, he writes, "has confined historical events in a circle as rigorous as his genius. He has imprisoned them in an inflexible Christianity--a terrible hoop in which the human race would turn in a sort of eternity, without progress or improvement." The admission from such a quarter shows eloquently how the wind was setting. The notions of development and continuity which were to control all departments of historical study in the later nineteenth century were at the same time being independently promoted by the young historical school in Germany which is associated with the names of Eichhorn, Savigny, and Niebuhr. Their view that laws and institutions are a natural growth or the expression of a people's mind, represents another departure from the ideas of the eighteenth century. It was a repudiation of that "universal reason" which desired to reform the world and its peoples indiscriminately without taking any account of their national histories. CHAPTER XV. THE SEARCH FOR A LAW OF PROGRESS: I. SAINT-SIMON Amid the intellectual movements in France described in the last chapter the idea of Progress passed into a new phase of its growth. Hitherto it had been a vague optimistic doctrine which encouraged the idealism of reformers and revolutionaries, but could not guide them. It had waited like a handmaid on the abstractions of Nature and Reason; it had hardly realised an independent life. The time had come for systematic attempts to probe its meaning and definitely to ascertain the direction in which humanity is moving. Kant had said that a Kepler or a Newton was needed to find the law of the movement of civilisation. Several Frenchmen now undertook to solve the problem. They did not solve it; but the new science of sociology was founded; and the idea of Progress, which presided at its birth, has been its principal problem ever since. 1. The three thinkers who claimed to have discovered the secret of social development had also in view the practical object of remoulding society on general scientific principles, and they became the founders of sects, Fourier, Saint-Simon, and Comte. They all announced a new era of development as a necessary sequel of the past, an inevitable and desirable stage in the march of humanity, and delineated its features. Comte was the successor of Saint-Simon, as Saint-Simon himself was the successor of Condorcet. Fourier stands quite apart. He claimed that he broke entirely new ground, and acknowledged no masters. He regarded himself as a Newton for whom no Kepler or Galileo had prepared the way. The most important and sanest part of his work was the scheme for organising society on a new principle of industrial co-operation. His general theory of the universe and man's destinies which lay behind his practical plans is so fantastic that it sounds like the dream of a lunatic. Yet many accepted it as the apocalypse of an evangelist. Fourier was moved by the far-reaching effects of Newton's discovery to seek a law which would coordinate facts in the moral world as the principle of gravitation had co-ordinated facts in the physical world, and in 1808 he claimed to have found the secret in what he called the law of Passional Attraction. [Footnote: Theorie des quatre mouvements et des destinees generales. General accounts of his theories will be found in Charles Fourier, sa vie et sa theorie, by his disciple Dr. Ch. Pellarin (2nd ed., 1843), and in Flint, Hist. of Philosophy of History in France, etc., pp. 408 sqq.] The human passions have hitherto been sources of misery; the problem for man is to make them sources of happiness. If we know the law which governs them, we can make such changes in our environment that none of the passions will need to be curbed, and the free indulgence of one will not hinder or compromise the satisfaction of the others. His worthless law for harmonising the passions without restraining them need not detain us. The structure of society, by which he proposed to realise the benefits of his discovery, was based on co-operation, but was not socialistic. The family as a social unit was to be replaced by a larger unit (PHALANGE), economically self-sufficing, and consisting of about 1800 persons, who were to live together in a vast building (PHALANSTERE), surrounded by a domain sufficient to produce all they required. Private property is not abolished; the community will include both rich and poor; all the products of their work are distributed in shares according to the labour, talents, and capital of each member, but a fixed minimum is assured to every one. The scheme was actually tried on a small scale near the forest of Rambouillet in 1832. This transformation of society, which is to have the effect of introducing harmony among the passions, will mark the beginning of a new epoch. The duration of man's earthly career is 81,000 years, of which 5000 have elapsed. He will now enter upon a long period of increasing harmony, which will be followed by an equal period of decline--like the way up and the way down of Heraclitus. His brief past, the age of his infancy, has been marked by a decline of happiness leading to the present age of "civilisation" which is thoroughly bad--here we see the influence of Rousseau--and from it Fourier's discovery is the clue to lead humanity forth into the epoch in which harmony begins to emerge. But men who have lived in the bad ages need not be pitied, and those who live to-day need not be pessimistic. For Fourier believed in metempsychosis, and could tell you, as if he were the private secretary of the Deity calculating the arithmetical details of the cosmic plan, how many very happy, tolerably happy, and unhappy lives fall to the lot of each soul during the whole 81,000 years. Nor does the prospect end with the life of the earth. The soul of the earth and the human souls attached to it will live again in comets, planets, and suns, on a system of which Fourier knew all the particulars. [Footnote: Details will be found in the Theorie de l'unite universelle, originally published under the title Association domestique-agricole in 1822.] These silly speculations would not deserve even this slight indication of their purport were it not that Fourier founded a sect and had a considerable body of devoted followers. His "discovery" was acclaimed by Beranger: Fourier nous dit: Sors de la fange, Peuple en proie aux deceptions, Travaille, groupe par phalange, Dans un cercle d'attractions; La terre, apres tant de desastres, Forme avec le ciel un hymen, Et la loi qui regit les astres, Donne la paix au genre humain. Ten years after his death (1837) an English writer tells us that "the social theory of Fourier is at the present moment engrossing the attention and exciting the apprehensions of thinking men, not only in France but in almost every country in Europe." [Footnote: R. Blakey, History of the Philosophy of Mind, vol. iv. p. 293 (1848). Fourier, born 1772, died in 1837. His principal disciple was Victor Considerant.] Grotesque as was the theoretical background of his doctrines, he helped to familiarise the world with the idea of indefinite Progress. 2. "The imagination of poets has placed the golden age in the cradle of the human race. It was the age of iron they should have banished there. The golden age is not behind us, but in front of us. It is the perfection of social order. Our fathers have not seen it; our children will arrive there one day, and it is for us to clear the way for them." The Comte de Saint-Simon, who wrote these words in 1814, was one of the liberal nobles who had imbibed the ideas of the Voltairian age and sympathised with the spirit of the Revolution. In his literary career from 1803 to his death in 1825 he passed through several phases of thought, [Footnote: They are traced in G. Weill's valuable monograph, Saint-Simon et son oeuvre, 1894.] but his chief masters were always Condorcet and the physiologists, from whom he derived his two guiding ideas that ethics and politics depend ultimately on physics and that history is progress. Condorcet had interpreted history by the progressive movement of knowledge. That, Saint-Simon said, is the true principle, but Condorcet applied it narrowly, and committed two errors. He did not understand the social import of religion, and he represented the Middle Ages as a useless interruption of the forward movement. Here Saint-Simon learned from the religious reaction. He saw that religion has a natural and legitimate social role and cannot be eliminated as a mere perversity. He expounded the doctrine that all social phenomena cohere. A religious system, he said, always corresponds to the stage of science which the society wherein it appears has reached; in fact, religion is merely science clothed in a form suitable to the emotional needs which it satisfies. And as a religious system is based on the contemporary phase of scientific development, so the political system of an epoch corresponds to the religious system. They all hang together. Medieval Europe does not represent a temporary triumph of obscurantism, useless and deplorable, but a valuable and necessary stage in human progress. It was a period in which an important principle of social organisation was realised, the right relation of the spiritual and temporal powers. It is evident that these views transformed the theory of Condorcet into a more acceptable shape. So long as the medieval tract of time appeared to be an awkward episode, contributing nothing to the forward movement but rather thwarting and retarding it, Progress was exposed to the criticism that it was an arbitrary synthesis, only partly borne out by historical facts and supplying no guarantees for the future. And so long as rationalists of the Encyclopaedic school regarded religion as a tiresome product of ignorance and deceit, the social philosophy which lay behind the theory of Progress was condemned as unscientific; because, in defiance of the close cohesion of social phenomena, it refused to admit that religion, as one of the chief of those phenomena, must itself participate and co-operate in Progress. Condorcet had suggested that the value of history lies in affording data for foreseeing the future. Saint-Simon raised this suggestion to a dogma. But prevision was impossible on Condorcet's unscientific method. In order to foretell, the law of the movement must be discovered, and Condorcet had not found or even sought a law. The eighteenth century thinkers had left Progress a mere hypothesis based on a very insufficient induction; their successors sought to lift it to the rank of a scientific hypothesis, by discovering a social law as valid as the physical law of gravitation. This was the object both of Saint-Simon and of Comte. The "law" which Saint-Simon educed from history was that epochs of organisation or construction, and epochs of criticism or revolution, succeed each other alternately. The medieval period was a time of organisation, and was followed by a critical, revolutionary period, which has now come to an end and must be succeeded by another epoch of organisation. Having discovered the clew to the process, Saint-Simon is able to predict. As our knowledge of the universe has reached or is reaching a stage which is no longer conjectural but POSITIVE in all departments, society will be transformed accordingly; a new PHYSICIST religion will supersede Christianity and Deism; men of science will play the role of organisers which the clergy played in the Middle Ages. As the goal of the development is social happiness, and as the working classes form the majority, the first step towards the goal will be the amelioration of the lot of the working classes. This will be the principal problem of government in reorganising society, and Saint-Simon's solution of the problem was socialism. He rejected the watchwords of liberalism--democracy, liberty, and equality--with as much disdain as De Maistre and the reactionaries. The announcement of a future age of gold, which I quoted above, is taken from a pamphlet which he issued, in conjunction with his secretary, Augustin Thierry the historian, after the fall of Napoleon. [Footnote: De la reorganisation de la societe europeenne, p. 111 (1814).] In it he revived the idea of the Abbe de Saint-Pierre for the abolition of war, and proposed a new organisation of Europe more ambitious and Utopian than the Abbe's league of states. At this moment he saw in parliamentary government, which the restored Bourbons were establishing in France, a sovran remedy for political disorder, and he imagined that if this political system were introduced in all the states of Europe a long step would have been taken to the perpetuation of peace. If the old enemies France and England formed a close alliance there would be little difficulty in creating ultimately a European state like the American Commonwealth, with a parliamentary government supreme over the state governments. Here is the germ of the idea of a "parliament of man." 3. Saint-Simon, however, did not construct a definite system for the attainment of social perfection. He left it to disciples to develop the doctrine which he sketched. In the year of his death (1825) Olinde Rodrigues and Enfantin founded a journal, the Producteur, to present to humanity the one thing which humanity, in the opinion of their master, then most needed, a new general doctrine. [Footnote: The best study of the Saint-Simonian school is that of G. Weill, L'Ecole saint-simonienne, son histoire, son influence jusqu'a nos jours (1896), to which I am much indebted.] History shows that peoples have been moving from isolation to union, from war to peace, from antagonism to association. The programme for the future is association scientifically organised. The Catholic Church in the Middle Ages offered the example of a great social organisation resting on a general doctrine. The modern world must also be a social organisation, but the general doctrine will be scientific, not religious. The spiritual power must reside, not in priests but in savants, who will direct the progress of science and public education. Each member of the community will have his place and duties assigned to him. Society consists of three classes of workers--industrial workers, savants, and artists. A commission of eminent workers of each class will determine the place of every individual according to his capacities. Complete equality is absurd; inequality, based on merit, is reasonable and necessary. It is a modern error to distrust state authority. A power directing national forces is requisite, to propose great ideas and to make the innovations necessary for Progress. Such an organisation will promote progress in all domains: in science by co-operation, in industry by credit, and in art too, for artists will learn to express the ideas and sentiments of their own age. There are signs already of a tendency towards something of this kind; its realisation must be procured, not by revolution but by gradual change. In the authoritarian character of the organisation to which these apostles of Progress wished to entrust the destinies of man we may see the influence of the great theocrat and antagonist of Progress, Joseph de Maistre. He taught them the necessity of a strong central power and the danger of liberty. But the fullest exposition of the Saint-Simonian doctrine of development was given by Bazard, one of the chief disciples, a few years later. [Footnote: Exposition de la doctrine saint-simonienne, 2 vols., 1830-1.] The human race is conceived as a collective being which unfolds its nature in the course of generations, according to a law--the law of Progress--which may be called the physiological law of the human species, and was discovered by Saint-Simon. It consists in the alternation of ORGANIC and CRITICAL epochs. [Footnote: In the Globe, which became an organ of Saint-Simonism in 1831, Enfantin announced a new principle (Weill, op. cit. 107). He defined the law of history as "the harmony, ceaselessly progressive, of flesh and spirit, of industry and science, of east and west, of woman and man." The role of woman played a large part in the teaching of the sect. Saint-Simon's law of organic and critical ages was definitely accepted by H. de Ferron, a thinker who did not belong to the school, as late as 1867. See his Theorie du progres, vol. ii. p. 433.] In an organic epoch men discern a destination and harmonise all their energies to reach it. In a critical epoch they are not conscious of a goal, and their efforts are dispersed and discordant. There was an organic period in Greece before the age of Socrates. It was succeeded by a critical epoch lasting to the barbarian invasions. Then came an organic period in the homogeneous societies of Europe from Charlemagne to the end of the fifteenth century, and a new critical period opened with Luther and has lasted till to-day. Now it is time to prepare the advent of the organic age which must necessarily follow. The most salient fact observable in history is the continual extension of the principle of association, in the series of family, city, nation, supernational Church. The next term must be a still vaster association comprehending the whole race. In consequence of the incompleteness of association, the exploitation of the weak by the strong has been a capital feature in human societies, but its successive forms exhibit a gradual mitigation. Cannibalism is followed by slavery, slavery by serfdom, and finally comes industrial exploitation by the capitalist. This latest form of the oppression of the weak depends on the right of property, and the remedy is to transfer the right of inheriting the property of the individual from the family to the state. The society of the future must be socialistic. The new social doctrine must not only be diffused by education and legislation, it must be sanctioned by a new religion. Christianity will not serve, for Christianity is founded on a dualism between matter and spirit, and has laid a curse on matter. The new religion must be monistic, and its principles are, briefly: God is one, God is all that is, all is God. He is universal love, revealing itself as mind and matter. And to this triad correspond the three domains of religion, science, and industry. In combining their theory with a philosophical religion the Saint-Simonian school was not only true to its master's teaching but obeying an astute instinct. As a purely secular movement for the transformation of society, their doctrine would not have reaped the same success or inspired the same enthusiasm. They were probably influenced too by the pamphlet of Lessing to which Madame de Stael had invited attention, and which one of Saint-Simon's disciples translated. The fortunes of the school, the life of the community at Menilmontant under the direction of Enfantin, the persecution, the heresies, the dispersion, the attempt to propagate the movement in Egypt, the philosophical activity of Enfantin and Lemonnier under the Second Empire, do not claim our attention; the curious story is told in M. Weill's admirable monograph. [Footnote: It may be noticed that Saint-Simonians came to the front in public careers after the revolution of 1848; e.g. Carnot, Reynaud, Charton.] The sect is now extinct, but its influence was wide in its day, and it propagated faith in Progress as the key to history and the law of collective life.[Footnote: Two able converts to the ideas of Saint-Simon seceded from the school at an early stage in consequence of Enfantin's aberrations: Pierre Leroux, whom we shall meet again, and P. J. B. Buchez, who in 1833 published a thoughtful "Introduction a la science de l'histoire," where history is defined as "a science whose end is to foresee the social future of the human species in the order of its free activity" (vol. i. p. 60,. ed. 2, 1842).] CHAPTER XVI. THE SEARCH FOR A LAW OF PROGRESS: II. COMTE 1. Auguste Comte did more than any preceding thinker to establish the idea of Progress as a luminary which could not escape men's vision. The brilliant suggestions of Saint-Simon, the writings of Bazard and Enfantin, the vagaries of Fourier, might be dismissed as curious rather than serious propositions, but the massive system wrought out by Comte's speculative genius--his organic scheme of human knowledge, his elaborate analysis of history, his new science of sociology--was a great fact with which European thought was forced to reckon. The soul of this system was Progress, and the most important problem he set out to solve was the determination of its laws. His originality is not dimmed by the fact that he owed to Saint-Simon more than he afterwards admitted or than his disciples have been willing to allow. He collaborated with him for several years, and at this time enthusiastically acknowledged the intellectual stimulus he received from the elder savant. [Footnote: Comte collaborated with Saint-Simon from 1818-1822. The final rupture came in 1824. The question of their relations is cleared up by Weill (Saint-Simon, chap. xi.). On the quarrel see also Ostwald, Auguste Comte (1914), 13 sqq.] But he derived from Saint-Simon much more than the stimulation of his thoughts in a certain direction. He was indebted to him for some of the characteristic ideas of his own system. He was indebted to him for the principle which lay at the very basis of his system, that the social phenomena of a given period and the intellectual state of the society cohere and correspond. The conception that the coming age was to be a period of organisation like the Middle Ages, and the idea of the government of savants, are pure Saint-Simonian doctrine. And the fundamental idea of a POSITIVE philosophy had been apprehended by Saint-Simon long before he was acquainted with his youthful associate. But Comte had a more methodical and scientific mind, and he thought that Saint-Simon was premature in drawing conclusions as to the reformation of societies and industries before the positive philosophy had been constructed. He published--he was then only twenty-two--in 1822 a "Plan of the scientific operations necessary for the re-organisation of society," which was published under another title two years later by Saint-Simon, and it was over this that the friends quarrelled. This work contains the principles of the positive philosophy which he was soon to begin to work out; it announces already the "law of the Three Stages." The first volume of the "Cours de philisophie positive" appeared in 1830; it took him twelve years more to complete the exposition of his system. [Footnote: With vol. vi., 1842.] 2. The "law of Three Stages" is familiar to many who have never read a line of his writings. That men first attempted to explain natural phenomena by the operation of imaginary deities, then sought to interpret them by abstractions, and finally came to see that they could only be understood by scientific methods, observation, and experiment--this was a generalisation which had already been thrown out by Turgot. Comte adopted it as a fundamental psychological law, which has governed every domain of mental activity and explains the whole story of human development. Each of our principal conceptions, every branch of knowledge, passes successively through these three states which he names the theological, the metaphysical, and the positive or scientific. In the first, the mind invents; in the second, it abstracts; in the third, it submits itself to positive facts; and the proof that any branch of knowledge has reached the third stage is the recognition of invariable natural laws. But, granting that this may be the key to the history of the sciences, of physics, say, or botany, how can it explain the history of man, the sequence of actual historical events? Comte replies that history has been governed by ideas; "the whole social mechanism is ultimately based on opinions." Thus man's history is essentially a history of his opinions; and these are subject to the fundamental psychological law. It must, however, be observed that all branches of knowledge are not in the same stage simultaneously. Some may have reached the metaphysical, while others are still lagging behind in the theological; some may have become scientific, while others have not passed from the metaphysical. Thus the study of physical phenomena has already reached the positive stage; but the study of social phenomena has not. The central aim of Comte, and his great achievement in his own opinion, was to raise the study of social phenomena from the second to the third stage. When we proceed to apply the law of the three stages to the general course of historical development, we are met at the outset by the difficulty that the advance in all the domains of activity is not simultaneous. If at a given period thought and opinions are partly in the theological, partly in the metaphysical, and partly in the scientific state, how is the law to be applied to general development? One class of ideas, Comte says, must be selected as the criterion, and this class must be that of social and moral ideas, for two reasons. In the first place, social science occupies the highest rank in the hierarchy of sciences, on which he laid great stress. [Footnote: Cours de phil. pos. v. 267. Law of consensus: op. cit. iv. 347 sqq., 364, 505, 721, 735.] In the second, those ideas play the principal part for the majority of men, and the most ordinary phenomena are the most important to consider. When, in other classes of ideas, the advance is at any time more rapid, this only means an indispensable preparation for the ensuing period. The movement of history is due to the deeply rooted though complex instinct which pushes man to ameliorate his condition incessantly, to develop in all ways the sum of his physical, moral, and intellectual life. And all the phenomena of his social life are closely cohesive, as Saint-Simon had pointed out. By virtue of this cohesion, political, moral, and intellectual progress are inseparable from material progress, and so we find that the phases of his material development correspond to intellectual changes. The principle of consensus or "solidarity," which secures harmony and order in the development, is as important as the principle of the three stages which governs the onward movement. This movement, however, is not in a right line, but displays a series of oscillations, unequal and variable, round a mean motion which tends to prevail. The three general causes of variation, according to Comte, are race, climate, and deliberate political action (such as the retrograde policies of Julian the Apostate or Napoleon). But while they cause deflections and oscillation, their power is strictly limited; they may accelerate or retard the movement, but they cannot invert its order; they may affect the intensity of the tendencies in a given situation, but cannot change their nature. 3. In the demonstration of his laws by the actual course of civilisation, Comte adopts what he calls "the happy artifice of Condorcet," and treats the successive peoples who pass on the torch as if they were a single people running the race. This is "a rational fiction," for a people's true successors are those who pursue its efforts. And, like Bossuet and Condorcet, he confined his review to European civilisation; he considered only the ELITE or advance guard of humanity. He deprecated the introduction of China or India, for instance, as a confusing complication. He ignored the ROLES of Brahmanism, Buddhism, Mohammedanism. His synthesis, therefore, cannot claim to be a synthesis of universal history; it is only a synthesis of the movement of European history. In accordance with the law of the three stages, the development falls into three great periods. The first or Theological came to an end about A.D. 1400, and the second or Metaphysical is now nearing its close, to make way for the third or Positive, for which Comte was preparing the way. The Theological period has itself three stages, in which Fetishism, Polytheism, and Monotheism successively prevail. The chief social characteristics of the Polytheistic period are the institution of slavery and the coincidence or "confusion" of the spiritual and temporal powers. It has two stages: the theocratic, represented by Egypt, and the military, represented by Rome, between which Greece stands in a rather embarrassing and uneasy position. The initiative for the passage to the Monotheistic period came from Judaea, and Comte attempts to show that this could not have been otherwise. His analysis of this period is the most interesting part of his survey. The chief feature of the political system corresponding to monotheism is the separation of the spiritual and temporal powers; the function of the spiritual power being concerned with education, and that of the temporal with action, in the wide senses of those terms. The defects of this dual system were due to the irrational theology. But the theory of papal infallibility was a great step in intellectual and social progress, by providing a final jurisdiction, without which society would have been troubled incessantly by contests arising from the vague formulae of dogmas. Here Comte had learned from Joseph de Maistre. But that thinker would not have been edified when Comte went on to declare that in the passage from polytheism to monotheism the religious spirit had really declined, and that one of the merits of Catholicism was that it augmented the domain of human wisdom at the expense of divine inspiration. [Footnote: Cours de philosophic positive, vi. 354.] If it be said that the Catholic system promoted the empire of the clergy rather than the interests of religion, this was all to the good; for it placed the practical use of religion in "the provisional elevation of a noble speculative corporation eminently able to direct opinions and morals." But Catholic monotheism could not escape dissolution. The metaphysical spirit began to operate powerfully on the notions of moral philosophy, as soon as the Catholic organisation was complete; and Catholicism, because it could not assimilate this intellectual movement, lost its progressive character and stagnated. The decay began in the fourteenth century, where Comte dates the beginning of the Metaphysical period--a period of revolution and disorder. In the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries the movement is spontaneous and unconscious; from the sixteenth till to-day it has proceeded under the direction of a philosophical spirit which is negative and not constructive. This critical philosophy has only accelerated a decomposition which began spontaneously. For as theology progresses it becomes less consistent and less durable, and as its conceptions become less irrational, the intensity of the emotions which they excite decreases. Fetishism had deeper roots than polytheism and lasted longer; and polytheism surpassed monotheism in vigour and vitality. Yet the critical philosophy was necessary to exhibit the growing need of solid reorganisation and to prove that the decaying system was incapable of directing the world any longer. Logically it was very imperfect, but it was justified by its success. The destructive work was mainly done in the seventeenth century by Hobbes, Spinoza, and Bayle, of whom Hobbes was the most effective. In the eighteenth all prominent thinkers participated in developing this negative movement, and Rousseau gave it the practical stimulus which saved it from degenerating into an unfruitful agitation. Of particular importance was the great fallacy, which Helvetius propagated, that human intellects are equal. This error was required for the full development of the critical doctrine. For it supported the dogmas of popular sovranty and social equality, and justified the principle of the right of private judgement. These three principles--popular sovranty, equality, and what he calls the right of free examination--are in Comte's eyes vicious and anarchical.[Footnote #1 Op. cit. iv. 36-38.] But it was necessary that they should be promulgated, because the transition from one organised social system to another cannot be direct; it requires an anarchical interregnum. Popular sovranty is opposed to orderly institutions and condemns all superior persons to dependence on the multitude of their inferiors. Equality, obviously anarchical in its tendency, and obviously untrue (for, as men are not equal or even equivalent to one another, their rights cannot be identical), was similarly necessary to break down the old institutions. The universal claim to the right of free judgement merely consecrates the transitional state of unlimited liberty in the interim between the decline of theology and the arrival of positive philosophy. Comte further remarks that the fall of the spiritual power had led to anarchy in international relations, and if the spirit of nationality were to prevail too far, the result would be a state of things inferior to that of the Middle Ages. But Comte says for the metaphysical spirit in France that with all its vices it was more disengaged from the prejudices of the old theological regime, and nearer to a true rational positivism than either the German mysticism or the English empiricism of the same period. The Revolution was a necessity, to disclose the chronic decomposition of society from which it resulted, and to liberate the modern social elements from the grip of the ancient powers. Comte has praise for the Convention, which he contrasts with the Constituent Assembly with its political fictions and inconsistencies. He pointed out that the great vice in the "metaphysics" of the crisis--that is, in the principles of the revolutionaries--lay in conceiving society out of relation to the past, in ignoring the Middle Ages, and borrowing from Greek and Roman society retrograde and contradictory ideals. Napoleon restored order, but he was more injurious to humanity than any other historical person. His moral and intellectual nature was incompatible with the true direction of Progress, which involves the extinction of the theological and military regime of the past. Thus his work, like Julian the Apostate's, exhibits an instance of deflection from the line of Progress. Then came the parliamentary system of the restored Bourbons which Comte designates as a political Utopia, destitute of social principles, a foolish attempt to combine political retrogression with a state of permanent peace. 4. The critical doctrine has performed its historical function, and the time has come for man to enter upon the Positive stage of his career. To enable him to take this step forward, it is necessary that the study of social phenomena should become a positive science. As social science is the highest in the hierarchy of sciences, it could not develop until the two branches of knowledge which come next in the scale, biology and chemistry, assumed a scientific form. This has recently been achieved, and it is now possible to found a scientific sociology. This science, like mechanics and biology, has its statics and its dynamics. The first studies the laws of co-existence, the second those of succession; the first contains the theory of order, the second that of progress. The law of consensus or cohesion is the fundamental principle of social statics; the law of the three stages is that of social dynamics. Comte's survey of history, of which I have briefly indicated the general character, exhibits the application of these sociological laws. The capital feature of the third period, which we are now approaching, will be the organisation of society by means of scientific sociology. The world will be guided by a general theory, and this means that it must be controlled by those who understand the theory and will know how to apply it. Therefore society will revive the principle which was realised in the great period of Monotheism, the distinction of a spiritual and a temporal order. But the spiritual order will consist of savants who will direct social life not by theological fictions but by the positive truths of science. They will administer a system of universal education and will draw up the final code of ethics. They will be able, more effectively than the Church, to protect the interests of the lower classes. Comte's conviction that the world is prepared for a transformation of this kind is based principally on signs of the decline of the theological spirit and of the military spirit, which he regarded as the two main obstacles to the reign of reason. Catholicism, he says, is now no more than "an imposing historical ruin." As for militarism, the epoch has arrived in which serious and lasting warfare among the ELITE nations will totally cease. The last general cause of warfare has been the competition for colonies. But the colonial policy is now in its decadence (with the temporary exception of England), so that we need not look for future trouble from this source. The very sophism, sometimes put forward to justify war, that it is an instrument of civilisation, is a homage to the pacific nature of modern society. We need not follow further the details of Comte's forecast of the Positive period, except to mention that he did not contemplate a political federation. The great European nations will develop each in its own way, with their separate "temporal" organisations. But he contemplated the intervention of a common "spiritual" power, so that all nationalities "under the direction of a homogeneous speculative class will contribute to an identical work, in a spirit of active European patriotism, not of sterile cosmopolitanism." Comte claimed, like Saint-Simon, that the data of history, scientifically interpreted, afford the means of prevision. It is interesting to observe how he failed himself as a diviner; how utterly he misapprehended the vitality of Catholicism, how completely his prophecy as to the cessation of wars was belied by the event. He lived to see the Crimean war. [Footnote: He died in 1857.] As a diviner he failed as completely as Saint-Simon and Fourier, whose dream that the nineteenth century would see the beginning of an epoch of harmony and happiness was to be fulfilled by a deadly struggle between capitalism and labour, the civil war in America, the war of 1870, the Commune, Russian pogroms, Armenian massacres, and finally the universal catastrophe of 1914. 5. For the comprehension of history we have perhaps gained as little from Comte's positive laws as from Hegel's metaphysical categories. Both thinkers had studied the facts of history only slightly and partially, a rather serious drawback which enabled them to impose their own constructions with the greater ease. Hegel's method of a PRIORI synthesis was enjoined by his philosophical theory; but in Comte we also find a tendency to a PRIORI treatment. He expressly remarks that the chief social features of the Monotheistic period might almost be constructed a PRIORI. The law of the Three Stages is discredited. It may be contended that general Progress depends on intellectual progress, and that theology, metaphysics, and science have common roots, and are ultimately identical, being merely phases in the movement of the intelligence. But the law of this movement, if it is to rank as a scientific hypothesis, must be properly deduced from known causes, and must then be verified by a comparison with historical facts. Comte thought that he fulfilled these requirements, but in both respects his demonstration was defective. [Footnote: Criticism of Comte's assumption that civilisation begins with animism: Weber's criticisms from this point of view are telling (Le Rythme du progres, 73-95). He observes that if Comte had not left the practical and active side of intelligence in the shade and considered only its speculative side, he could not have formulated the law of the Three Stages. He would have seen that "the positive explanation of phenomena has played in every period a preponderant role, though latent, in the march of the human mind." Weber himself suggests a scheme of two states (corresponding to the two-sidedness of the intellect), technical and speculative, practical and theoretical, through the alternation of which intellectual progress has been effected. The first stage was probably practical (he calls it proto-technic). It is to be remembered that when Comte was constructing his system palaeontology was in its infancy.] The gravest weakness perhaps in his historical sketch is the gratuitous assumption that man in the earliest stage of his existence had animistic beliefs and that the first phase of his progress was controlled by fetishism. There is no valid evidence that fetishism is not a relatively late development, or that in the myriads of years stretching back beyond our earliest records, during which men decided the future of the human species by their technical inventions and the discovery of fire, they had any views which could be called religious or theological. The psychology of modern savages is no clew to the minds of the people who wrought tools of stone in the world of the mammoth and the RHINOCEROS TICHIRHINUS. If the first stage of man's development, which was of such critical importance for his destinies, was pre-animistic, Comte's law of progress fails, for it does not cover the ground. In another way, Comte's system may be criticised for failing to cover the ground, if it is regarded as a philosophy of history. In accordance with "the happy artifice of Condorcet," he assumes that the growth of European civilisation is the only history that matters, and discards entirely the civilisations, for instance, of India and China. This assumption is much more than an artifice, and he has not scientifically justified it. [Footnote: A propos of the view that only European civilisation matters it has been well observed that "human history is not unitary but pluralistic": F. J. Teggart, The Processes of History, p. 24 (1918).] The reader of the PHILOSOPHIE POSITIVE will also observe that Comte has not grappled with a fundamental question which has to be faced in unravelling the woof of history or seeking a law of events. I mean the question of contingency. It must be remembered that contingency does not in the least affect the doctrine of determinism; it is compatible with the strictest interpretation of the principle of causation. A particular example may be taken to show what it implies. [Footnote: On contingency and the "chapter of accidents" see Cournot, Considerations sur la marche des idees et des evenements dans les temps modernes (1872), i. 16 sqq. I have discussed the subject and given some illustrations in a short paper, entitled "Cleopatra's Nose," in the Annual of the Rationalist Press Association for 1916.] It may plausibly be argued that a military dictatorship was an inevitable sequence of the French Revolution. This may not be true, but let us assume it. Let us further assume that, given Napoleon, it was inevitable that he should be the dictator. But Napoleon's existence was due to an independent causal chain which had nothing whatever to do with the course of political events. He might have died in his boyhood by disease or by an accident, and the fact that he survived was due to causes which were similarly independent of the causal chain which, as we are assuming, led necessarily to an epoch of monarchical government. The existence of a man of his genius and character at the given moment was a contingency which profoundly affected the course of history. If he had not been there another dictator would have grasped the helm, but obviously would not have done what Napoleon did. It is clear that the whole history of man has been modified at every stage by such contingencies, which may be defined as the collisions of two independent causal chains. Voltaire was perfectly right when he emphasised the role of chance in history, though he did not realise what it meant. This factor would explain the oscillations and deflections which Comte admits in the movement of historical progression. But the question arises whether it may not also have once and again definitely altered the direction of the movement. Can the factor be regarded as virtually negligible by those who, like Comte, are concerned with the large perspective of human development and not with the details of an episode? Or was Renouvier right in principle when he maintained "the real possibility that the sequence of events from the Emperor Nerva to the Emperor Charlemagne might have been radically different from what it actually was"? [Footnote: He illustrated this proposition by a fanciful reconstruction of European history from 100 to 800 A.D. in his UCHRONIE, 1876. He contended that there is no definite law of progress: "The true law lies in the equal possibility of progress or regress for societies as for individuals."] 6. It does not concern us here to examine the defects of Comte's view of the course of European history. But it interests us to observe that his synthesis of human Progress is, like Hegel's, what I have called a closed system. Just as his own absolute philosophy marked for Hegel the highest and ultimate term of human development, so for Comte the coming society whose organisation he adumbrated was the final state of humanity beyond which there would be no further movement. It would take time to perfect the organisation, and the period would witness a continuous increase of knowledge, but the main characteristics were definitely fixed. Comte did not conceive that the distant future, could he survive to experience it, could contain any surprises for him. His theory of Progress thus differed from the eighteenth century views which vaguely contemplate an indefinite development and only profess to indicate some general tendencies. He expressly repudiated this notion of INDEFINITE progress; the data, he said, justify only the inference of CONTINUOUS progress, which is a different thing. A second point in which Comte in his view of Progress differed from the French philosophers of the preceding age is this. Condorcet and his predecessors regarded it exclusively from the eudaemonic point of view. The goal of Progress for them was the attainment of human felicity. With felicity Comte is hardly more concerned than Hegel. The establishment of a fuller harmony between men and their environment in the third stage will no doubt mean happiness. But this consideration lies outside the theory, and to introduce it would only intrude an unscientific element into the analysis. The course of development is determined by intellectual ideas, and he treats these as independent of, and indifferent to, eudaemonic motives. A third point to be noted is the authoritarian character of the regime of the future. Comte's ideal state would be as ill to live in for any unfortunate being who values personal liberty as a theocracy or any socialistic Utopia. He had as little sympathy with liberty as Plato or as Bossuet, and less than the eighteenth century philosophers. This feature, common to Comte and the Saint-Simonians, was partly due to the reaction against the Revolution, but it also resulted from the logic of the man of science. If sociological laws are positively established as certainly as the law of gravitation, no room is left for opinion; right social conduct is definitely fixed; the proper functions of every member of society admit of no question; therefore the claim to liberty is perverse and irrational. It is the same argument which some modern exponents of Eugenics use to advocate a state tyranny in the matter of human breeding. When Comte was writing, the progressive movement in Europe was towards increase of liberty in all its forms, national, civic, political, and economical. On one hand there was the agitation for the release of oppressed nationalities, on the other the growth of liberalism in England and France. The aim of the liberalism of that period was to restrict the functions of government; its spirit was distrust of the state. As a political theory it was defective, as modern Liberals acknowledge, but it was an important expression of the feeling that the interests of society are best furthered by the free interplay of individual actions and aims. It thus implicitly contained or pointed to a theory of Progress sharply opposed to Comte's: that the realisation of the fullest possible measure of individual liberty is the condition of ensuring the maximum of energy and effectiveness in improving our environment, and therefore the condition of attaining public felicity. Right or wrong, this theory reckons with fundamental facts of human nature which Comte ignored. 7. Comte spent the later years of his life in composing another huge work, on social reorganisation. It included a new religion, in which Humanity was the object of worship, but made no other important addition to the speculations of his earlier manhood, though he developed them further. The Course of Positive Philosophy was not a book that took the public by storm. We are told by a competent student of social theories in France that the author's name was little known in his own country till about 1855, when his greatness began to win recognition, and his influence to operate. [Footnote: Weill, Hist. du mouvement social, p. 21.] Even then his work can hardly have been widely read. But through men like Littre and Taine, whose conceptions of history were moulded by his teaching, and men like Mill, whom he stimulated, as well as through the disciples who adopted Positivism as a religion, his leading principles, detached from his system, became current in the world of speculation. [Footnote: The influence of Comte. The manner in which ideas filter through, as it were, underground and emerge oblivious of their source is illustrated by the German historian Lamprecht's theory of historical development. He surveyed the history of a people as a series of what he called typical periods, each of which is marked by a collective psychical character expressing itself in every department of life. He named this a diapason. Lamprecht had never read Comte, and he imagined that this principle, on which he based his kulturhistorische Methode, was original. But his psychical diapason is the psychical consensus of Comte, whose system, as we have seen, depended on the proposition that a given social organisation corresponds in a definite way to the contemporary stage of mental development; and Comte had derived the principle from Saint-Simon. Cf. his pamphlet Die kulturhistorische Methode (1900). The succession of "typical period" was worked out for Germany in his History of the German People.] He laid the foundations of sociology, convincing many minds that the history of civilisation is subject to general laws, or, in other words, that a science of society is possible. In England this idea was still a novelty when Mill's System of Logic appeared in 1843. The publication of this work, which attempted to define the rules for the investigation of truth in all fields of inquiry and to provide tests for the hypotheses of science, was a considerable event, whether we regard its value and range or its prolonged influence on education. Mill, who had followed recent French thought attentively and was particularly impressed by the system of Comte, recognised that a new method of investigating social phenomena had been inaugurated by the thinkers who set out to discover the "law" of human progression. He proclaimed and welcomed it as superior to previous methods, and at the same time pointed out its limitations. Till about fifty years ago, he said, generalisations on man and society have erred by implicitly assuming that human nature and society will for ever revolve in the same orbit and exhibit virtually the same phenomena. This is still the view of the ostentatiously practical votaries of common sense in Great Britain; whereas the more reflective minds of the present age, analysing historical records more minutely, have adopted the opinion that the human race is in a state of necessary progression. The reciprocal action between circumstances and human nature, from which social phenomena result, must produce either a cycle or a trajectory. While Vico maintained the conception of periodic cycles, his successors have universally adopted the idea of a trajectory or progress, and are endeavouring to discover its law. [Footnote: Philosophical writers in England in the middle of the century paid more attention to Cousin than to Comte or Saint-Simon. J. D. Morell, in his forgotten History and Critical View of Speculative Philosophy (1846), says that eclecticism is the philosophy of human progress (vol. ii. 635, 2nd ed.). He conceived the movement of humanity as that of a spiral, ever tending to a higher perfection (638).] But they have fallen into a misconception in imagining that if they can find a law of uniformity in the succession of events they can infer the future from the past terms of the series. For such a law would only be an "empirical law"; it would not be a causal law or an ultimate law. However rigidly uniform, there is no guarantee that it would apply to phenomena outside those from which it was derived. It must itself depend on laws of mind and character (psychology and ethology). When those laws are known and the nature of the dependence is explained, when the determining causes of all the changes constituting the progress are understood, then the empirical law will be elevated to a scientific law, then only will it be possible to predict. Thus Mill asserted that if the advanced thinkers who are engaged on the subject succeed in discovering an empirical law from the data of history, it may be converted into a scientific law by deducing it a priori from the principles of human nature. In the meantime, he argued that what is already known of those principles justifies the important conclusion that the order of general human progression will mainly depend on the order of progression in the intellectual convictions of mankind. Throughout his exposition Mill uses "progress" in a neutral sense, without implying that the progression necessarily means improvement. Social science has still to demonstrate that the changes determined by human nature do mean improvement. But in warning the reader of this he declares himself to be personally an optimist, believing that the general tendency, saving temporary exceptions, is in the direction of a better and happier state. 8. Twenty years later [Footnote: In later editions of the Logic.] Mill was able to say that the conception of history as subject to general laws had "passed into the domain of newspaper and ordinary political discussion." Buckle's HISTORY OF CIVILISATION IN ENGLAND [Footnote: 2 Vol. i. appeared in 1857, vol. ii. in 1861.] which enjoyed an immediate success, did a great deal to popularise the idea. In this stimulating work Buckle took the fact of Progress for granted; his purpose was to investigate its causes. Considering the two general conditions on which all events depend, human nature and external nature, he arrived at two conclusions: (1) In the early stage of history the influence of man's external environment is the more decisive factor; but as time goes on the roles are gradually inverted, and now it is his own nature that is principally responsible for his development. (2) Progress is determined, not by the emotional and moral faculties, but by the intellect; [Footnote: This was the view of Jouffroy, Comte, and Mill; Buckle popularised it.] the emotional and moral faculties are stationary, and therefore religion is not a decisive influence in the onward movement of humanity. "I pledge myself to show that the progress Europe has made from barbarism to civilisation is entirely due to its intellectual activity.... In what may be called the innate and original morals of mankind there is, so far as we are aware, no progress." [Footnote: Buckle has been very unjustly treated by some critics, but has found an able defender in Mr. J.M. Robertson (Buckle and his Critics (1895)). The remarks of Benn (History of Rationalism in the Nineteenth Century, ii. 182 sqq.) are worth reading.] Buckle was convinced that social phenomena exhibit the same undeviating regularity as natural phenomena. In this belief he was chiefly influenced by the investigations of the Belgian statistician Quetelet (1835). "Statistics," he said, "has already thrown more light on the study of human nature than all the sciences put together." From the regularity with which the same crimes recur in the same state of society, and many other constant averages, he inferred that all actions of individuals result directly from the state of society in which they live, and that laws are operating which, if we take large enough numbers into account, scarcely undergo any sensible perturbation. [Footnote: Kant had already appealed to statistics in a similar sense; see above, p. 243.] Thus the evidence of statistics points to the conclusion that progress is not determined by the acts of individual men, but depends on general laws of the intellect which govern the successive stages of public opinion. The totality of human actions at any given time depends on the totality of knowledge and the extent of its diffusion. There we have the theory that history is subject to general laws in its most unqualified form, based on a fallacious view of the significance of statistical facts. Buckle's attempt to show the operation of general laws in the actual history of man was disappointing. When he went on to review the concrete facts of the historical process, his own political principles came into play, and he was more concerned with denouncing the tendencies of which he did not approve than with extricating general laws from the sequence of events. His comments on religious persecution and the obscurantism of governments and churches were instructive and timely, but they did not do much to exhibit a set of rigid laws governing and explaining the course of human development. The doctrine that history is under the irresistible control of law was also popularised by an American physiologist, J. W. Draper, whose HISTORY OF THE INTELLECTUAL DEVELOPMENT OF EUROPE appeared in 1864 and was widely read. His starting-point was a superficial analogy between a society and an individual. "Social advancement is as completely under the control of natural law as a bodily growth. The life of an individual is a miniature of the life of a nation," and "particles" in the individual organism answer to persons in the political organism. Both have the same epochs--infancy, childhood, youth, manhood, old age--and therefore European progress exhibits five phases, designated as Credulity, Inquiry, Faith, Reason, Decrepitude. Draper's conclusion was that Europe, now in the fourth period, is hastening to a long period of decrepitude. The prospect did not dismay him; decrepitude is the culmination of Progress, and means the organisation of national intellect. That has already been achieved in China, and she owes to it her well-being and longevity. "Europe is inevitably hastening to become what China is. In her we may see what we shall be like when we are old." Judged by any standard, Draper's work is much inferior to Buckle's, but both these books, utterly different though they were in both conception and treatment, performed a similar function. Each in its own way diffused the view which had originated in France, that civilisation is progression and, like nature, subject to general laws. CHAPTER XVII. "PROGRESS" IN THE FRENCH REVOLUTIONARY MOVEMENT (1830-1851) 1. In 1850 there appeared at Paris a small book by M. A. Javary, with the title DE L'IDEE DU PROGRES. Its interest lies in the express recognition that Progress was the characteristic idea of the age, ardently received by some, hotly denounced by others. [Footnote: Lamartine denounced in his monthly journal Le Conseiller du peuple, vol. i. (1849), all the progressive gospels of the day, socialist, communist, Saint-Simonian, Fourierist, Icarian--in fact every school of social reform since the First Republic--as purely materialistic, sprung from the "cold seed of the century of Helvetius" (pp. 224, 287).] "If there is any idea," he says, "that belongs properly to one century, at least by the importance accorded to it, and that, whether accepted or not, is familiar to all minds, it is the idea of Progress conceived as the general law of history and the future of humanity." He observes that some, intoxicated by the spectacle of the material improvements of modern civilisation and the results of science, set no limits to man's power or his hopes; while others, unable to deny the facts, say that this progress serves only the lower part of human nature, and refuse to look with complacency on a movement which means, they assert, a continuous decadence of the nobler part. To which it is replied that, If moral decadence is a fact, it is only transient; it is a necessary phase of a development which means moral progress in the end, for it is due to the process by which the beliefs, ideas, and institutions of the past disappear and make way for new and better principles. And Javary notes a prevailing tendency in France to interpret every contemporary movement as progressive, while all the social doctrinaires justify their particular reforms by invoking the law of Progress. It was quite true that during the July monarchy nearly all serious speculations on society and history were related to that idea. It was common to Michelet and Quinet, who saw in the march of civilisation the gradual triumph of liberty; to Leroux and Cabet, who preached humanitarian communism; to Louis Blanc and to Proudhon; to the bourgeois, who were satisfied with the regime of Louis Philippe and grew rich, following the precept of Guizot, as well as to the workers who overthrew it. It is significant that the journal of Louis Blanc, in which he published his book on the ORGANISATION OF WORK (1839), was entitled REVUS DES PROGRES. The political question as to the due limits between government and individual freedom was discussed in terms of Progress: is personal liberty or state authority the efficient means of progressing? The metaphysical question of necessity and freewill acquired a new interest: is Progress a fatality, independent of human purposes, determined by general, ineluctable, historical laws? Quinet and Michelet argued vigorously against the optimism of Cousin, who with Hegel held that history is just what it ought to be and could not be improved. 2. Among the competing theories of the time, and sharply opposed to the views of Comte, was the idea, derived from the Revolution, that the world is moving towards universal equality and the obliteration of class distinctions, that this is the true direction of Progress. This view, represented by leaders of the popular movement against the bourgeois ascendency, derived powerful reinforcement from one of the most enlightened political thinkers of the day. The appearance of de Tocqueville's renowned study of American democracy was the event of 1834. He was convinced that he had discovered on the other side of the Atlantic the answer to the question whither the world is tending. In American society he found that equality of conditions is the generating fact on which every other fact depends. He concluded that equality is the goal of humanity, providentially designed. "The gradual development of equality of conditions has the principal characteristics of a providential fact. It is universal, it is permanent, it eludes human power; all events and all men serve this development.... This whole book has been written under the impression of a sort of religious terror produced in the author's soul by the view of this irresistible revolution which for so many centuries has been marching across all obstacles, and which is to-day seen still advancing in the midst of the ruins it has made.... If the men of our time were brought to see that the gradual and progressive development of equality is at once the past and the future of their history, this single discovery would give that development the sacred character of the will of the sovran master." Here we have a view of the direction of Progress and the meaning of history, pretending to be based upon the study of facts and announced with the most intense conviction. And behind it is the fatalistic doctrine that the movement cannot be arrested or diverted; that it is useless to struggle against it; that men, whatever they may do, cannot deflect the clock-like motion regulated by a power which de Tocqueville calls Providence but to which his readers might give some other name. 3. It has been conjectured, [Footnote: Georges Sorel, Les Illusions du progres, pp. 247-8 (1908).] and seems probable enough, that de Tocqueville's book was one of the influences which wrought upon the mind of Proudhon. The speculations of this remarkable man, who, like Saint-Simon and Comte, sought to found a new science of society, attracted general attention in the middle of the century. [Footnote: Compare the appreciation by Weill in Histoire du mouvement social en France 1852-1910 (1911, ed. 2), p. 41: "Le grande ecrivain revolutionnaire et anarchiste n'etait au fond ni un revolutionnaire ni un anarchiste, mais un reformateur pratique et modere qui a fait illusion par le ton vibrant de ses pamphlets centre la societe capitaliste."]His hostility to religion, his notorious dictum that "property is theft," his gospel of "anarchy," and the defiant, precipitous phrases in which he clothed his ideas, created an impression that he was a dangerous anti-social revolutionary. But when his ideas are studied in their context and translated into sober language, they are not so unreasonable. Notwithstanding his communistic theory of property and his ideal of equality, he was a strong individualist. He held that the future of civilisation depends on the energy of individuals, that liberty is a condition of its advance, and that the end to be kept in view is the establishment of justice, which means equality. He saw the difficulty of reconciling liberty with complete equality, but hoped that the incompatibility would be overcome by a gradual reduction of the natural differences in men's capacities. He said, "I am an anarchist," but his anarchy only meant that the time would come when government would be superfluous, when every human being could be trusted to act wisely and morally without a restraining authority or external sanctions. Nor was he a Utopian. He comprehended that such a transformation of society would be a long, slow process, and he condemned the schools of Saint-Simon and Fourier for imagining that a millennium might be realised immediately by a change of organisation. He tells us that all his speculations and controversial activities are penetrated with the idea of Progress, which he described as "the railway of liberty"; and his radical criticism on current social theories, whether conservative or democratic, was that they did not take Progress seriously though they invoked it. "What dominates in all my studies, what forms their beginning and end, their summit and their base, their reason, what makes my originality as a thinker (if I have any), is that I affirm Progress resolutely, irrevocably, and everywhere, and deny the Absolute. All that I have ever written, all I have denied or affirmed, I have written, denied or affirmed in the name of one unique idea, Progress. My adversaries, on the other hand, are all partisans of the Absolute, IN OMNI GENERE, CASU, ET NUMERO, to use the phrase of Sganarelle." [Footnote: Philosophie du progres, Premiere lettre (1851).] 4. A vague confidence in Progress had lain behind and encouraged the revolution of 1789, but in the revolution of 1848 the idea was definitely enthroned as the regnant principle. It presided over the session of the Committee which drew up the Constitution of the second Republic. Armand Marrast, the most important of the men who framed that document, based the measure of universal suffrage upon "the invisible law which rules societies," the law of progress which has been so long denied but which is rooted in the nature of man. His argument was this: Revolutions are due to the repression of progress, and are the expression and triumph of a progress which has been achieved. But such convulsions are an undesirable method of progressing; how can they be avoided? Only by organising elastic institutions in which new ideas of amelioration can easily be incorporated, and laws which can be accommodated without struggle or friction to the rise of new opinions. What is needed is a flexible government open to the penetration of ideas, and the key to such a government is universal suffrage. [Footnote: Marrast, "the invisible law"; "Oui," he continues, "toute societe est progressive, parce que tout individu est educable, perfectible; on peut mesurer, limiter, peut-etre les facultes d'un individu; on ne saurait limiter, mesurer ce que peuvent, dans l'ordre des idees, les intelligences dont les produits ne s'ajoutent pas seulement mais se fecondent et se multiplient dans une progression indefinie." No. 393 Republique francoise. Assemblee nationale. Projet de Constitution... precede par un rapport fait au nom de la Commission par le citoyen Armand Marrast. Seance du 30 aout, 1848.] Universal suffrage was practical politics, but the success of the revolution fluttered agreeably all the mansions of Utopia, and social reformers of every type sought to improve the occasion. In the history of the political struggles of 1848 the names are written of Proudhon, of Victor Considerant the disciple of Fourier, of Pierre Leroux the humanitarian communist, and his devoted pupil George Sand. The chief title of Leroux to be remembered is just his influence over the soul of the great novelist. Her later romances are pervaded by ideas derived from his teaching. His communism was vague and ineffectual, but he was one of the minor forces in the thought of the period, and there are some features in his theory which deserve to be pointed out. Leroux had begun as a member of the Saint-Simonian school, but he diverged into a path of his own. He reinstated the ideal of equality which Saint-Simon rejected, and made the approach to that ideal the measure of Progress. The most significant process in history, he held, is the gradual breaking down of caste and class: the process is now approaching its completion; "today MAN is synonymous with EQUAL." In order to advance to the city of the future we must have a force and a lever. Man is the force, and the lever is the idea of Progress. It is supplied by the study of history which displays the improvement of our faculties, the increase of our power over nature, the possibility of organising society more efficaciously. But the force and the lever are not enough. A fulcrum is also required, and this is to be found in the "solidarity" of the human race. But this conception meant for Leroux something different from what is ordinarily meant by the phrase, a deeper and even mystical bond. Human "solidarity" was a corollary from the pantheistic religion of the Saint-Simonians, but with Leroux, as with Fourier, it was derived from the more difficult doctrine of palingenesis. We of this generation, he believed, are not merely the sons and descendants of past generations, we are the past generations themselves, which have come to birth again in us. Through many pages of the two volumes [Footnote: De l'humanite, 1840 (dedicated to Beranger).] in which he set forth his thesis, Leroux expended much useless learning in endeavouring to establish this doctrine, which, were it true, might be the central principle in a new religion of humanity, a transformed Pythagoreanism. It is easy to understand the attractiveness of palingenesis to a believer in Progress: for it would provide a solution of the anomaly that generations after generations are sacrificed for the sake of posterity, and so appear to have no value in themselves. Believers in Progress, who are sensitive to the sufferings of mankind, past and present, need a stoical resolution to face this fact. We saw how Herder refused to accept it. A pantheistic faith, like that of the Saint-Simonian Church, may help some, it cannot do more, to a stoical acquiescence. The palingenesis of Leroux or Fourier removes the radical injustice. The men of each generation are sacrificed and suffer for the sake of their descendants, but as their descendants are themselves come to life again, they are really suffering in their own interests. They will themselves reach the desirable state to which the slow, painful process of history is tending. But palingenesis, notwithstanding all the ancient opinions and traditions that the researches of Leroux might muster, could carry little conviction to those who were ceasing to believe in the familiar doctrine of a future life detached from earth, and Madame Dudevant was his only distinguished convert. 5. The ascendency of the idea of Progress among thoughtful people in France in the middle of the last century is illustrated by the work which Ernest Renan composed under the immediate impression of the events of 1848. He desired to understand the significance of the current revolutionary doctrines, and was at once involved in speculation on the future of humanity. This is the purport of L'AVENIR DE LA SCIENCE. [Footnote: L'Avenir de la science--Pensees de (1848). Published in 1890.] [Footnote: The ascendency of the idea of Progress at this epoch may be further illustrated by E. Pelletan's Profession de foi du dix-neuvieme siecle, 1852 (4th ed., 1857), where Progress is described as the general law of the universe; and by Jean Reynaud's Philosophie religieuse: Terre et ciel (3rd ed., 1858), a religious but not orthodox book, which acclaims the "sovran principle of perfectibility" (cp. p. 138). I may refer also to the rhetorical pages of E. Vacherot on the Doctrine du progres, printed (as part of an essay on the Philosophy of History) in his Essais de philosophie critique (1864).] The author was then convinced that history has a goal, and that mankind tends perpetually, though in an oscillating line, towards a more perfect state, through the growing dominion of reason over instinct and caprice. He takes the French Revolution as the critical moment in which humanity first came to know itself. That revolution was the first attempt of man to take the reins into his own hands. All that went before we may call, with Owen, the irrational period of human existence. We have now come to a point at which we must choose between two faiths. If we despair of reason, we may find a refuge from utter scepticism in a belief in the external authority of the Roman Church. If we trust reason, we must accept the march of the human mind and justify the modern spirit. And it can be justified only by proving that it is a necessary step towards perfection. Renan affirmed his belief in the second alternative, and felt confident that science--including philology, on the human bearings of which he enlarged,--philosophy, and art would ultimately enable men to realise an ideal civilisation, in which all would be equal. The state, he said, is the machine of Progress, and the Socialists are right in formulating the problem which man has to solve, though their solution is a bad one. For individual liberty, which socialism would seriously limit, is a definite conquest, and ought to be preserved inviolate. Renan wrote this work in 1848 and 1849, but did not publish it at the time. He gave it to the world forty years later. Those forty years had robbed him of his early optimism. He continues to believe that the unfortunate conditions of our race might be ameliorated by science, but he denounces the view that men can ever be equal. Inequality is written in nature; it is not only a necessary consequence of liberty, but a necessary postulate of Progress. There will always be a superior minority. He criticises himself too for having fallen into the error of Hegel, and assigned to man an unduly important place in the universe. [Footnote: Renan, speaking of the Socialists, paid a high tribute to Bazard (L'Avenir de la science, p. 104). On the other hand, he criticised Comte severely (p. 149). Renan returned to speculation on the future in 1863, in a letter to M. Marcellin-Berthelot (published in Dialogues et fragments philosophiques, 1876): "Que sera Ie monde quand un million de fois se sera reproduit ce qui s'est passe depuis 1763 quand la chimie, au lieu de quatre-vingt ans de progres, en aura cent millions?" (p. 183). And again in the Dialogues written in 1871 (ib.), where it is laid down that the end of humanity is to produce great men: "le grand oeuvre s'accomplira par la science, non par la democratic. Rien sans grands hommes; le salut se fera par des grands hommes" (p. 103).] In 1890 there was nothing left of the sentimental socialism which he had studied in 1848; it had been blown away by the cold wind of scientific socialism which Marx and Engels created. And Renan had come to think that in this new form socialism would triumph. [Footnote: He reckoned without the new forces, opposed to socialism as well as to parliamentary democracy, represented by Bakunin and men like Georges Sorel.] He had criticised Comte for believing that "man lives exclusively by science, or rather little verbal tags, like geometrical theorems, dry formulae." Was he satisfied by the concrete doctrine of Marx that all the phenomena of civilisation at a given period are determined by the methods of production and distribution which then prevail? But the future of socialism is a minor issue, and the ultimate goal of humanity is quite uncertain. "Ce qu'il y a de consolant, c'est qu'on arrive necessairement quelque part." We may console ourselves with the certainty that we must get somewhere. 6. Proudhon described the idea of Progress as the railway of liberty. It certainly supplied motive power to social ideals which were repugnant and alarming to the authorities of the Catholic Church. At the Vatican it was clearly seen that the idea was a powerful engine driven by an enemy; and in the famous SYLLABUS of errors which Pope Pius IX. flung in the face of the modern world at the end of 1864, Progress had the honour of being censured. The eightieth error, which closes the list, runs thus: Romanus Pontifex potest ac debet cum progressu, cum liberalismo et cum recenti civilitate sese reconciliare et componere. "The Roman Pontiff can, and ought to, be reconciled and come to terms with progress, with liberalism, and with modern civilisation." No wonder, seeing that Progress was invoked to justify every movement that offended the nostrils of the Vatican--liberalism, toleration, democracy, and socialism. And the Roman Church well understood the intimate connection of the idea with the advance of rationalism. CHAPTER XVIII. MATERIAL PROGRESS: THE EXHIBITION OF 1851 1. It is not easy for a new idea of the speculative order to penetrate and inform the general consciousness of a community until it has assumed some external and concrete embodiment or is recommended by some striking material evidence. In the case of Progress both these conditions were fulfilled in the period 1820 to 1850. In the Saint-Simonian Church, and in the attempts of Owen and Cabet to found ideal societies, people saw practical enterprises inspired by the idea. They might have no sympathy with these enterprises, but their attention was attracted. And at the same time they were witnessing a rapid transformation of the external conditions of life, a movement to the continuation of which there seemed no reason for setting any limit in the future. The spectacular results of the advance of science and mechanical technique brought home to the mind of the average man the conception of an indefinite increase of man's power over nature as his brain penetrated her secrets. This evident material progress which has continued incessantly ever since has been a mainstay of the general belief in Progress which is prevalent to-day. England was the leader in this material progress, of which the particulars are familiar and need not be enumerated here. The discovery of the power of steam and the potentialities of coal revolutionised the conditions of life. Men who were born at the beginning of the century had seen, before they had passed the age of thirty, the rapid development of steam navigation, the illumination of towns and houses by gas, the opening of the first railway. It was just before this event, the opening of the Liverpool and Manchester railway, which showed how machinery would abbreviate space as it had SIR THOMAS MORE, OR COLLOQUIES ON THE PROGRESS OF SOCIETY (1829). There we see the effect of the new force on his imagination. "Steam," he says, "will govern the world next,... and shake it too before its empire is established." The biographer of Nelson devotes a whole conversation to the subject of "steam and war." But the theme of the book is the question of moral and social progress, on which the author inclines to the view that "the world will continue to improve, even as it has hitherto been continually improving; and that the progress of knowledge and the diffusion of Christianity will bring about at last, when men become Christian in reality as well as in name, something like that Utopian state of which philosophers have loved to dream." This admission of Progress, cautious though it was, circumscribed by reserves and compromised by hesitations, coming from such a conservative pillar of Church and State as Southey, is a notable sign of the times, when we remember that the idea was still associated then with revolution and heresy. It is significant too that at the same time an octogenarian mathematician of Aberdeen was composing a book on the same subject. Hamilton's PROGRESS OF SOCIETY is now utterly forgotten, but it must have contributed in its day to propagating the same moderate view of Progress, consistent with orthodoxy, which Southey held. "The belief of the perfectibility of human nature and the attainment of a golden age in which vice and misery have no place, will only be entertained by an enthusiast; but an inquiry into the means of improving our nature and enlarging our happiness is consistent with sober reason, and is the most important subject, merely human, that can engage the mind of man." [Footnote: P. 13. The book was published posthumously by Murray in 1830, a year after the author's death.] [Footnote: "Progress of Society." The phrase was becoming common; e.g. Russell's History of Modern Europe (1822) has the sub-title A view of the Progress of Society, etc. The didactic poem of Payne Knight, The Progress of Civil Society (1796), a very dull performance, was quite unaffected by the dreams of Priestley or Godwin. It was towards the middle of the nineteenth century that Progress, without any qualifying phrase, came into use.] 2. We have been told by Tennyson that when he went by the first train from Liverpool to Manchester (1830) he thought that the wheels ran in grooves. "Then I made this line: Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change." [Footnote: See Tennyson, Memoir by his Son, vol. i. p. 195.] LOCKSLEY HALL, which was published in 1842, illustrates how the idea of Progress had begun to creep into the imagination of Englishmen. Though subsidiary to a love story, it is the true theme of the poem. The pulsation of eager interest in the terrestrial destinies of humanity, the large excitement of living in a "wondrous Mother-age," dreams of the future, quicken the passion of the hero's youth. His disappointment in love disenchants him; he sees the reverse side of civilisation, but at last he finds an anodyne for his palsied heart in a more sober version of his earlier faith, a chastened belief in his Mother-age. He can at least discern an increasing purpose in history, and can be sure that "the thoughts of men are widened with the process of the suns." The novelty of the poem lay in finding a cathartic cure for a private sorrow, not in religion or in nature, but in the modern idea of Progress. It may be said to mark a stage in the career of the idea. The view of civilisation which Tennyson took as his MOTIF had no revolutionary implications, suggested no impatience or anger with the past. The startling prospect unfolding itself before "the long result of time," and history is justified by the promise of to-day: The centuries behind me like a fruitful land reposed. Very different was the spirit in which another great poet composed, nearly twenty years later, a wonderful hymn of Progress. Victor Hugo's PLEIN CEIL, in his epic LA LEGENDE DES SIECLES,[Footnote: A.D. 1859.] announces a new era of the world in which man, the triumphant rebel, delivered from his past, will move freely forward on a glorious way. The poet is inspired not by faith in a continuous development throughout the ages, but by the old spirit of the Revolution, and he sees in the past only a heavy chain which the race at last flings off. The horrible past has gone, not to return: "ce monde est mort"; and the poem is at once a paean on man's victorious rebellion against it and a dithyramb on the prospect of his future. Man is imagined as driving through the heavens an aerial car to which the four winds are harnessed, mounting above the clouds, and threatening to traverse the ether. Superbe, il plane, avec un hymne en ses agres; Et l'on voit voir passer la strophe du progres. Il est la nef, il est le phare! L'homme enfin prend son sceptre et jette son baton. Et l'on voit s'envoler le calcul de Newton Monte sur l'ode de Pindare. But if this vision foreshadows the conquest of the air, its significance is symbolic rather than literal, and, like Pindar checking the steeds of his song, Hugo returns to earth: Pas si loin! pas si haut! redescendons. Restons L'homme, restons Adam; mais non l'homme a tatons, Mais non l'Adam tombe! Tout autre reve altere L'espece d'ideal qui convient a la terre. Contentons-nous du mot: meilleur! ecrit partout. Dawn has appeared, after six thousand years in the fatal way, and man, freed by "the invisible hand" from the weight of his chains, has embarked for new shores: Ou va-t-il ce navire? II va, de jour vetu, A l'avenir divin et pur, a la vertu, A la science qu'on voit luire, A la mort des fleaux, a l'oubli genereux, A l'abondance, au caime, au rire, a l'homme heureux, Il va, ce glorieux navire. Oh! ce navire fait le voyage sacre! C'est l'ascension bleue a son premier degre; Hors de l'antique et vil decombre, Hors de la pesanteur, c'est l'avenir fonde; C'est le destin de l'homme a la fin evade, Qui leve l'ancre et sort de l'ombre! The union of humanity in a universal commonwealth, which Tennyson had expressed as "the Parliament of Man, the Federation of the World," the goal of many theorists of Progress, becomes in Hugo's imagination something more sublime. The magic ship of man's destiny is to compass the cosmopolis of the Stoics, a terrestrial order in harmony with the whole universe. Nef magique et supreme! elle a, rien qu'eri marchant, Change le cri terrestre en pur et joyeux chant, Rajeuni les races fletries, Etabli l'ordre vrai, montre le chemin sur, Dieu juste! et fait entrer dans l'homme tant d'azur Qu'elle a supprime les patries! Faisant a l'homme avec le ciel une cite, Une pensee avec toute l'immensite, Elle abolit les vieilles regles; Elle abaisse les monts, elle annule les tours; Splendide, elle introduit les peuples, marcheurs lourds, Dans la communion des aigles. 3. Between 1830 and 1850 railway transport spread throughout Great Britain and was introduced on the Continent, and electricity was subdued to man's use by the invention of telegraphy. The great Exhibition of London in 1851 was, in one of its aspects, a public recognition of the material progress of the age and the growing power of man over the physical world. Its aim, said a contemporary, was "to seize the living scroll of human progress, inscribed with every successive conquest of man's intellect."[Footnote: Edinburgh Review (October 1851), p. 562, in a review of the Official Catalogue of the Exhibition.] The Prince Consort, who originated the Exhibition, explained its significance in a public speech: "Nobody who has paid any attention to the peculiar features of our present era will doubt for a moment that we are living at a period of most wonderful transition, which tends rapidly to accomplish that great end to which indeed all history points--THE REALISATION OF THE UNITY OF MANKIND.... The distances which separated the different nations and parts of the globe are rapidly vanishing before the achievements of modern invention, and we can traverse them with incredible ease; the languages of all nations are known, and their acquirements placed within the reach of everybody; thought is communicated with the rapidity, and even by the power, of lightning. On the other hand, the GREAT PRINCIPLE OF DIVISION OF LABOUR, which may be called the moving power of civilisation, is being extended to all branches of science, industry, and art... Gentlemen, the Exhibition of 1851 is to give us a true test and a living picture of the point of development at which the whole of mankind has arrived in this great task, and a new starting-point from which all nations will be able to direct their further exertions." [Footnote: Martin, Life of the Prince Consort (ed. 3), iii. p. 247. The speech was delivered at a banquet at the Mansion House on March 21, 1850.] The point emphasised here is the "solidarity" of the world. The Exhibition is to bring home to men's consciousness the community of all the inhabitants of the earth. The assembled peoples, wrote Thackeray, in his "May-day Ode," [Footnote: Published in the Times, April 30, 1851. The Exhibition was opened on May I.] See the sumptuous banquet set, The brotherhood of nations met Around the feast. And this was the note struck in the leading article of the Times on the opening day: "The first morning since the creation that all peoples have assembled from all parts of the world and done a common act." It was claimed that the Exhibition signified a new, intelligent, and moral movement which "marks a great crisis in the history of the world," and foreshadows universal peace. England, said another writer, produced Bacon and Newton, the two philosophers "who first lent direction and force to the stream of industrial science; we have been the first also to give the widest possible base to the watch-tower of international progress, which seeks the formation of the physical well-being of man and the extinction of the meaner jealousies of commerce."[Footnote: Edinburgh Review, loc. cit.] These quotations show that the great Exhibition was at the time optimistically regarded, not merely as a record of material achievements, but as a demonstration that humanity was at last well on its way to a better and happier state, through the falling of barriers and the resulting insight that the interests of all are closely interlocked. A vista was suggested, at the end of which far-sighted people might think they discerned Tennyson's "Federation of the World." 4. Since the Exhibition, western civilisation has advanced steadily, and in some respects more rapidly than any sober mind could have predicted--civilisation, at least, in the conventional sense, which has been not badly defined as "the development of material ease, of education, of equality, and of aspirations to rise and succeed in life." [Footnote: B. Kidd, Social Evolution, p. 368.] The most striking advance has been in the technical conveniences of life--that is, in the control over natural forces. It would be superfluous to enumerate the discoveries and inventions since 1850 which have abridged space, economised time, eased bodily suffering, and reduced in some ways the friction of life, though they have increased it in others. This uninterrupted series of technical inventions, proceeding concurrently with immense enlargements of all branches of knowledge, has gradually accustomed the least speculative mind to the conception that civilisation is naturally progressive, and that continuous improvement is part of the order of things. So far the hopes of 1851 have been fulfilled. But against all this technical progress, with the enormous expansion of industry and commerce, dazzling to the man in the market-place when he pauses to reflect, have to be set the exploitation and sufferings of industrial workers, the distress of intense economic competition, the heavier burdens of preparation for modern war. The very increase of "material ease" seemed unavoidably to involve conditions inconsistent with universal happiness; and the communications which linked the peoples of the world together modified the methods of warfare instead of bringing peace. "Toutes nos merveilleuses inventions sont aussi puissantes pour le mal que pour le bien." [Footnote: H. de Ferron, Theorie du progres (1867), ii. 439.] One fact indeed might be taken as an index that humanity was morally advancing--the abolition of slavery in America at the price of a long and sanguinary war. Yet some triumphs of philanthropy hardly seemed to endanger the conclusion that, while knowledge is indefinitely progressive, there is no good reason for sanguine hopes that man is "perfectible" or that universal happiness is attainable. A thoughtful writer observed, discussing Progress in 1864, that the innumerable individual steps in the growth of knowledge and business organisation have not been combined, so far, to produce a general advance in the happiness of life; each step brings increase of pressure. [Footnote: Lotze, Microcosmus (Eng. tr.), vol. ii. p. 396.] Yet in spite of all adverse facts and many eminent dissenters the belief in social Progress has on the whole prevailed. This triumph of optimism was promoted by the victory of a revolutionary hypothesis in another field of inquiry, which suddenly electrified the world. [Footnote: Against Lotze we might set many opinions which do not seem to have been influenced by the doctrine of evolution. For instance, the optimism of M. Marcellin-Berthelot in a letter to Renan in 1863. He says (Renan, Dialogues, p. 233) that one of the general results of historical study is "the fact of the incessant progress of human societies in science, in material conditions, and in morality, three correlatives.... Societies become more and more civilised, and I will venture to say more and more virtuous. The sum of good is always increasing, and the sum of evil diminishing, in the same measure as the sum of truth increases and the sum of ignorance diminishes." In 1867 Emerson delivered an address at Harvard on the "Progress of Culture" (printed in his Letters and Social Aims), in which he enumerates optimistically the indications of social advance: "the new scope of social science; the abolition of capital punishment and of imprisonment for debt: the improvement of prisons; the efforts for the suppression of intemperance, vice, etc.," and asks: "Who would live in the stone age, or the bronze, or the iron, or the lacustrine? Who does not prefer the age of steel, of gold, of coal, petroleum, cotton, steam, electricity, and the spectroscope?" The discursive Thoughts on the Future of the Human Race, published in 1866, by W. Ellis (1800-81), a disciple of J. S. Mill, would have been remarkable if it had appeared half a century earlier. He is untouched by the theory of evolution, and argues on common-sense grounds that Progress is inevitable.] CHAPTER XIX. PROGRESS IN THE LIGHT OF EVOLUTION 1. In the sixties of the nineteenth century the idea of Progress entered upon the third period of its history. During the FIRST period, up to the French Revolution, it had been treated rather casually; it was taken for granted and received no searching examination either from philosophers or from historians. In the SECOND period its immense significance was apprehended, and a search began for a general law which would define and establish it. The study of sociology was founded, and at the same time the impressive results of science, applied to the conveniences of life, advertised the idea. It harmonised with the notion of "development" which had become current both in natural science and in metaphysics. Socialists and other political reformers appealed to it as a gospel. By 1850 it was a familiar idea in Europe, but was not yet universally accepted as obviously true. The notion of social Progress had been growing in the atmosphere of the notion of biological development, but this development still seemed a highly precarious speculation. The fixity of species and the creation of man, defended by powerful interests and prejudices, were attacked but were not shaken. The hypothesis of organic evolution was much in the same position as the Copernican hypothesis in the sixteenth century. Then in 1859 Darwin intervened, like Galileo. The appearance of the ORIGIN OF SPECIES changed the situation by disproving definitely the dogma of fixity of species and assigning real causes for "transformism." What might be set aside before as a brilliant guess was elevated to the rank of a scientific hypothesis, and the following twenty years were enlivened by the struggle around the evolution of life, against prejudices chiefly theological, resulting in the victory of the theory. The ORIGIN OF SPECIES led to the THIRD stage of the fortunes of the idea of Progress. We saw how the heliocentric astronomy, by dethroning man from his privileged position in the universe of space and throwing him back on his own efforts, had helped that idea to compete with the idea of a busy Providence. He now suffers a new degradation within the compass of his own planet. Evolution, shearing him of his glory as a rational being specially created to be the lord of the earth, traces a humble pedigree for him. And this second degradation was the decisive fact which has established the reign of the idea of Progress. 2. Evolution itself, it must be remembered, does not necessarily mean, applied to society, the movement of man to a desirable goal. It is a neutral, scientific conception, compatible either with optimism or with pessimism. According to different estimates it may appear to be a cruel sentence or a guarantee of steady amelioration. And it has been actually interpreted in both ways. In order to base Progress on Evolution two distinct arguments are required. If it could be shown that social life obeys the same general laws of evolution as nature, and also that the process involves an increase of happiness, then Progress would be as valid a hypothesis as the evolution of living forms. Darwin had concluded his treatise with these words: As all the living forms of life are the lineal descendants of those which lived long before the Silurian epoch, we may feel certain that the ordinary succession by generation has never once been broken, and that no cataclysm has desolated the whole world. Hence we may look with some confidence to a secure future of equally inappreciable length. And as natural selection works solely by and for the good of each being, all corporeal and mental environments will tend to progress towards perfection. Here the evolutionist struck the note of optimism. And he suggested that laws of Progress would be found in other quarters than those where they had hitherto been sought. The ablest and most influential development of the argument from evolution to Progress was the work of Spencer. He extended the principle of evolution to sociology and ethics, and was the most conspicuous interpreter of it in an optimistic sense. He had been an evolutionist long before Darwin's decisive intervention, and in 1851 he had published his Social Statics, which, although he had not yet worked out the evolutionary laws which he began to formulate soon afterwards and was still a theist, exhibits the general trend of his optimistic philosophy. Progress here appears as the basis of a theory of ethics. The title indicates the influence of Comte, but the argument is sharply opposed to the spirit of Comte's teaching, and sociology is treated in a new way. [Footnote: Social Statics, or the Conditions Essential to Human Happiness specified, and the first of them developed, is the full title.] Spencer begins by arguing that the constancy of human nature, so frequently alleged, is a fallacy. For change is the law of all things, of every single object as well as of the universe. "Nature in its infinite complexity is ever growing to a new development." It would be strange if, in this universal mutation, man alone were unchangeable, and it is not true. "He also obeys the law of indefinite variation." Contrast the houseless savages with Newtons and Shakespeares; between these extremes there are countless degrees of difference. If then humanity is indefinitely variable, perfectibility is possible. In the second place, evil is not a permanent necessity. For all evil results from the non-adaptation of the organism to its conditions; this is true of everything that lives. And it is equally true that evil perpetually tends to disappear. In virtue of an essential principle of life, this non-adaptation of organisms to their conditions is ever being rectified, and one or both continue to be modified until the adaptation is perfect. And this applies to the mental as well as to the physical sphere. In the present state of the world men suffer many evils, and this shows that their characters are not yet adjusted to the social state. Now the qualification requisite for the social state is that each individual shall have such desires only as may fully be satisfied without trenching upon the ability of others to obtain similar satisfaction. This qualification is not yet fulfilled, because civilised man retains some of the characteristics which were suitable for the conditions of his earlier predatory life. He needed one moral constitution for his primitive state, he needs quite another for his present state. The resultant is a process of adaptation which has been going on for a long time, and will go on for a long time to come. Civilisation represents the adaptations which have already been accomplished. Progress means the successive steps of the process. That by this process man will eventually become suited to his mode of life, Spencer has no doubts. All excess and deficiency of suitable faculties must disappear; in other words, all imperfection. "The ultimate development of the ideal man is logically certain--as certain as any conclusion in which we place the most implicit faith; for instance, that all men will die." Here is the theory of perfectibility asserted, on new grounds, with a confidence not less assured than that of Condorcet or Godwin. Progress then is not an accident, but a necessity. Civilisation is a part of nature, being a development of man's latent capabilities under the action of favourable circumstances which were certain at some time or other to occur. Here Spencer's argument assumes a final cause. The ultimate purpose of creation, he asserts, is to produce the greatest amount of happiness, and to fulfil this aim it is necessary that each member of the race should possess faculties enabling him to experience the highest enjoyment of life, yet in such a way as not to diminish the power of others to receive like satisfaction. Beings thus constituted cannot multiply in a world tenanted by inferior creatures; these, therefore, must be dispossessed to make room; and to dispossess them aboriginal man must have an inferior constitution to begin with; he must be predatory, he must have the desire to kill. In general, given an unsubdued earth, and the human being "appointed" to overspread and occupy it, then, the laws of life being what they are, no other series of changes than that which has actually occurred could have occurred. The argument might be put in a form free from the assumption of a final cause, and without introducing the conception of a divine Providence which in this work Spencer adopted, though in his later philosophy it was superseded by the conception of the Unknowable existing behind all phenomena. But the ROLE of the Divine ruler is simply to set in motion immutable forces to realise his design. "In the moral as in the material world accumulated evidence is gradually generating the conviction that events are not at bottom fortuitous, but that they are wrought out in a certain inevitable way by unchanging forces." The optimism of Spencer's view could not be surpassed. "After patient study," he writes, "this chaos of phenomena into the midst of which he [man] was born has begun to generalise itself to him"; instead of confusion he begins to discern "the dim outlines of a gigantic plan. No accidents, no chance, but everywhere order and completeness One by one exceptions vanish, and all becomes systematic." Always towards perfection is the mighty movement--towards a complete development and a more unmixed good; subordinating in its universality all petty irregularities and fallings back, as the curvature of the earth subordinates mountains and valleys. Even in evils the student learns to recognise only a struggling beneficence. But above all he is struck with the inherent sufficingness of things. But the movement towards harmony, the elimination of evil, will not be effected by idealists imposing their constructions upon the world or by authoritarian governments. It means gradual adaptation, gradual psychological change, and its life is individual liberty. It proceeds by the give and take of opposed opinions. Guizot had said, "Progress, and at the same time resistance." And Spencer conceives that resistance is beneficial, so long as it comes from those who honestly think that the institutions they defend are really the best and the proposed innovations absolutely wrong. It will be observed that Spencer's doctrine of perfectibility rests on an entirely different basis from the doctrine of the eighteenth century. It is one thing to deduce it from an abstract psychology which holds that human nature is unresistingly plastic in the hands of the legislator and the instructor. It is another to argue that human nature is subject to the general law of change, and that the process by which it slowly but continuously tends to adapt itself more and more to the conditions of social life--children inheriting the acquired aptitudes of their parents--points to an ultimate harmony. Here profitable legislation and education are auxiliary to the process of unconscious adaptation, and respond to the psychological changes in the community, changes which reveal themselves in public opinion. 3. During the following ten years Spencer was investigating the general laws of evolution and planning his Synthetic Philosophy which was to explain the development of the universe. [Footnote: In an article on "Progress: its Law and Cause," in the Westminster Review, April 1857, Spencer explained that social progress, rightly understood, is not the increase of material conveniences or widening freedom of action, but changes of structure in the social organism which entail such consequences, and proceeded to show that the growth of the individual organism and the growth of civilisation obey the same law of advance from homogeneity to heterogeneity of structure. Here he used progress in a neutral sense; but recognising that a word is required which has no teleological implications (Autobiography, i. 500), he adopted evolution six months later in an article on "Transcendental Physiology" (National Review, Oct. 1857). In his study of organic laws Spencer was indirectly influenced by the ideas of Schelling through von Baer.] He aimed at showing that laws of change are discoverable which control all phenomena alike, inorganic, biological, psychical, and social. In the light of this hypothesis the actual progression of humanity is established as a necessary fact, a sequel of the general cosmic movement and governed by the same principles; and, if that progression is shown to involve increasing happiness, the theory of Progress is established. The first section of the work, FIRST PRINCIPLES, appeared in 1862. The BIOLOGY, the PSYCHOLOGY, and finally the SOCIOLOGY, followed during the next twenty years; and the synthesis of the world-process which these volumes lucidly and persuasively developed, probably did more than any other work, at least in England, both to drive home the significance of the doctrine of evolution and to raise the doctrine of Progress to the rank of a commonplace truth in popular estimation, an axiom to which political rhetoric might effectively appeal. Many of those who were allured by Spencer's gigantic synthesis hardly realised that his theory of social evolution, of the gradual psychical improvement of the race, depends upon the validity of the assumption that parents transmit to their children faculties and aptitudes which they have themselves acquired. On this question experts notoriously differ. Some day it will probably be definitely decided, and perhaps in Spencer's favour. But the theory of continuous psychical improvement by a process of nature encounters an obvious difficulty, which did not escape some critics of Spencer, in the prominent fact of history that every great civilisation of the past progressed to a point at which instead of advancing further it stood still and declined, to become the prey of younger societies, or, if it survived, to stagnate. Arrest, decadence, stagnation has been the rule. It is not easy to reconcile this phenomenon with the theory of mental improvement. The receptive attitude of the public towards such a philosophy as Spencer's had been made possible by Darwin's discoveries, which were reinforced by the growing science of palaeontology and the accumulating material evidence of the great antiquity of man. By the simultaneous advances of geology and biology man's perspective in time was revolutionised, just as the Copernican astronomy had revolutionised his perspective in space. Many thoughtful and many thoughtless people were ready to discern--as Huxley suggested--in man's "long progress through the past, a reasonable ground of faith in his attainment of a nobler future." and Winwood Reade, a young African traveller, exhibited it in a vivid book as a long-drawn-out martyrdom. But he was a disciple of Spencer, and his hopes for the future were as bright as his picture of the past was dark. THE MARTYRDOM OF MAN, published in 1872, was so widely read that it reached an eighth edition twelve years later, and may be counted as one of the agencies which popularised Spencer's optimism. That optimism was not endorsed by all the contemporary leaders of thought. Lotze had asserted emphatically in 1864 that "human nature will not change," and afterwards he saw no reason to alter his conviction. Never one fold and one shepherd, never one uniform culture for all mankind, never universal nobleness. Our virtue and happiness can only flourish amid an active conflict with wrong. If every stumbling-block were smoothed away, men would no longer be like men, but like a flock of innocent brutes, feeding on good things provided by nature as at the very beginning of their course. [Footnote: Microcosmus, Bk. vii. 5 ad fin. (Eng. trans. p. 300). The first German edition (three vols.) appeared in 1856-64, the third, from which the English translation was made, in 1876. Lotze was optimistic as to the durability of modern civilisation: "No one will profess to foreknow the future, but as far as men may judge it seems that in our days there arc greater safeguards than there were in antiquity against unjustifiable excesses and against the external forces which might endanger the continued existence of civilisation."] But even if we reject with Spencer the old dictum, endorsed by Lotze as by Fontenelle, that human nature is immutable, the dictum of ultimate harmony encounters the following objection. "If the social environment were stable," it is easy to argue, "it could be admitted that man's nature, variable EX HYPOTHESI, could gradually adapt itself to it, and that finally a definite equilibrium would be established. But the environment is continually changing as the consequence of man's very efforts to adapt himself; every step he takes to harmonise his needs and his conditions produces a new discord and confronts him with a new problem. In other words, there is no reason to believe that the reciprocal process which goes on in the growth of society between men's natures and the environment they are continually modifying will ever reach an equilibrium, or even that, as the character of the discords changes, the suffering which they cause diminishes." In fact, upon the neutral fact of evolution a theory of pessimism may be built up as speciously as a theory of optimism. And such a theory was built up with great power and ability by the German philosopher E. von Hartmann, whose PHILOSOPHY OF THE UNCONSCIOUS appeared in 1869. Leaving aside his metaphysics and his grotesque theory of the destiny of the universe, we see here and in his subsequent works how plausibly a convinced evolutionist could revive the view of Rousseau that civilisation and happiness are mutually antagonistic, and that Progress means an increase of misery. Huxley himself, [Footnote: See Agnosticism in Nineteenth Century (Feb. 1889); Government: Anarchy or Regimentation, ib. (May 1890); Essays on Evolution and Ethics (1894).] one of the most eminent interpreters of the doctrine of evolution, did not, in his late years at least, entertain very sanguine views of mankind. "I know of no study which is so saddening as that of the evolution of humanity as it is set forth in the annals of history.... Man is a brute, only more intelligent than other brutes"; and "even the best of modern civilisations appears to me to exhibit a condition of mankind which neither embodies any worthy ideal nor even possesses the merit of stability." There may be some hope of a large improvement, but otherwise he would "welcome a kindly comet to sweep the whole affair away." And he came to the final conclusion that such an improvement could only set in by deliberately resisting, instead of co-operating with, the processes of nature. "Social progress means the checking of the cosmic process at every step and the substitution for it of another which may be called the ethical process." [Footnote: Huxley considers progress exclusively from an ethical, not from an eudaemonic point of view.] How in a few centuries can man hope to gain the mastery over the cosmic process which has been at work for millions of years? "The theory of evolution encourages no millennial anticipations." I have quoted these views to illustrate that evolution lends itself to a pessimistic as well as to an optimistic interpretation. The question whether it leads in a desirable direction or not is answered according to the temperament of the inquirer. In an age of prosperity and self-complacency the affirmative answer was readily received, and the term evolution attracted to itself in common speech the implications of value which belong to Progress. It may be noticed that the self-complacency of the age was promoted by the popularisation of scientific knowledge. A rapidly growing demand (especially in England) for books and lectures, making the results of science accessible and interesting to the lay public, is a remarkable feature of the second half of the nineteenth century; and to supply this demand was a remunerative enterprise. This popular literature explaining the wonders of the physical world was at the same time subtly flushing the imaginations of men with the consciousness that they were living in an era which, in itself vastly superior to any age of the past, need be burdened by no fear of decline or catastrophe, but trusting in the boundless resources of science might securely defy fate. 4. [It was said in 1881 by an American writer (who strongly dissented from Spencer's theory) that the current view was "fatalistic." See Henry George, Progress and Poverty. But it may be doubted whether those of the general public who optimistically accepted evolution without going very deeply into the question really believed that the future of man is taken entirely out of his hands and is determined exclusively by the nature of the cosmic process. Bagehot was a writer who had a good deal of influence in his day; and in Physics and Politics (1872), where he discusses Progress, there is no suggestion of fatalism. In France, the chief philosophical writers who accepted Progress as a fact protested against a fatalistic interpretation (Renouvier, Cournot, Caro; and cf. L. Carrau's article on Progress in the Revue des deux Mondes (Oct. 1875)). Progress was discussed by Fiske in his Outlines of Cosmic Philosophy (1874), vol. ii. 192 sqq. For him (p. 201) "the fundamental characteristic of social progress is the continuous weakening of selfishness and the continuous strengthening of sympathy."] Thus in the seventies and eighties of the last century the idea of Progress was becoming a general article of faith. Some might hold it in the fatalistic form that humanity moves in a desirable direction, whatever men do or may leave undone; others might believe that the future will depend largely on our own conscious efforts, but that there is nothing in the nature of things to disappoint the prospect of steady and indefinite advance. The majority did not inquire too curiously into such points of doctrine, but received it in a vague sense as a comfortable addition to their convictions. But it became a part of the general mental outlook of educated people. When Mr. Frederic Harrison delivered in 1889 at Manchester an eloquent discourse on the "New Era," in which the dominant note is "the faith in human progress in lieu of celestial rewards of the separate soul," his general argument could appeal to immensely wider circles than the Positivists whom he was specially addressing. The dogma--for a dogma it remains, in spite of the confidence of Comte or of Spencer that he had made it a scientific hypothesis--has produced an important ethical principle. Consideration for posterity has throughout history operated as a motive of conduct, but feebly, occasionally, and in a very limited sense. With the doctrine of Progress it assumes, logically, a preponderating importance; for the centre of interest is transferred to the life of future generations who are to enjoy conditions of happiness denied to us, but which our labours and sufferings are to help to bring about. If the doctrine is held in an extreme fatalistic form, then our duty is to resign ourselves cheerfully to sacrifices for the sake of unknown descendants, just as ordinary altruism enjoins the cheerful acceptance of sacrifices for the sake of living fellow-creatures. Winwood Reade indicated this when he wrote, "Our own prosperity is founded on the agonies of the past. Is it therefore unjust that we also should suffer for the benefit of those who are to come?" But if it is held that each generation can by its own deliberate acts determine for good or evil the destinies of the race, then our duties towards others reach out through time as well as through space, and our contemporaries are only a negligible fraction of the "neighbours" to whom we owe obligations. The ethical end may still be formulated, with the Utilitarians, as the greatest happiness of the greatest number; only the greatest number includes, as Kidd observed, "the members of generations yet unborn or unthought of." This extension of the moral code, if it is not yet conspicuous in treatises on Ethics, has in late years been obtaining recognition in practice. 5. Within the last forty years nearly every civilised country has produced a large literature on social science, in which indefinite Progress is generally assumed as an axiom. But the "law" whose investigation Kant designated as the task for a Newton, which Saint-Simon and Comte did not find, and to which Spencer's evolutionary formula would stand in the same relation as it stands to the law of gravitation, remains still undiscovered. To examine or even glance at this literature, or to speculate how theories of Progress may be modified by recent philosophical speculation, lies beyond the scope of this volume, which is only concerned with tracing the origin of the idea and its growth up to the time when it became a current creed. Looking back on the course of the inquiry, we note how the history of the idea has been connected with the growth of modern science, with the growth of rationalism, and with the struggle for political and religious liberty. The precursors (Bodin and Bacon) lived at a time when the world was consciously emancipating itself from the authority of tradition and it was being discovered that liberty is a difficult theoretical problem. The idea took definite shape in France when the old scheme of the universe had been shattered by the victory of the new astronomy and the prestige of Providence, CUNCTA SUPERCILIO MOUENTIS, was paling before the majesty of the immutable laws of nature. There began a slow but steady reinstatement of the kingdom of this world. The otherworldly dreams of theologians, ceux qui reniaient la terre pour patrie, which had ruled so long lost their power, and men's earthly home again insinuated itself into their affections, but with the new hope of its becoming a place fit for reasonable beings to live in. We have seen how the belief that our race is travelling towards earthly happiness was propagated by some eminent thinkers, as well as by some "not very fortunate persons who had a good deal of time on their hands." And all these high-priests and incense-bearers to whom the creed owes its success were rationalists, from the author of the Histoire des oracles to the philosopher of the Unknowable. EPILOGUE In achieving its ascendency and unfolding its meaning, the Idea of Progress had to overcome a psychological obstacle which may be described as THE ILLUSION OF FINALITY. It is quite easy to fancy a state of society, vastly different from ours, existing in some unknown place like heaven; it is much more difficult to realise as a fact that the order of things with which we are familiar has so little stability that our actual descendants may be born into a world as different from ours as ours is from that of our ancestors of the pleistocene age. The illusion of finality is strong. The men of the Middle Ages would have found it hard to imagine that a time was not far off in which the Last Judgement would have ceased to arouse any emotional interest. In the sphere of speculation Hegel, and even Comte, illustrate this psychological limitation: they did not recognise that their own systems could not be final any more than the system of Aristotle or of Descartes. It is science, perhaps, more than anything else--the wonderful history of science in the last hundred years--that has helped us to transcend this illusion. But if we accept the reasonings on which the dogma of Progress is based, must we not carry them to their full conclusion? In escaping from the illusion of finality, is it legitimate to exempt that dogma itself? Must not it, too, submit to its own negation of finality? Will not that process of change, for which Progress is the optimistic name, compel "Progress" too to fall from the commanding position in which it is now, with apparent security, enthroned? [words in Greek]... A day will come, in the revolution of centuries, when a new idea will usurp its place as the directing idea of humanity. Another star, unnoticed now or invisible, will climb up the intellectual heaven, and human emotions will react to its influence, human plans respond to its guidance. It will be the criterion by which Progress and all other ideas will be judged. And it too will have its successor. In other words, does not Progress itself suggest that its value as a doctrine is only relative, corresponding to a certain not very advanced stage of civilisation; just as Providence, in its day, was an idea of relative value, corresponding to a stage somewhat less advanced? Or will it be said that this argument is merely a disconcerting trick of dialectic played under cover of the darkness in which the issue of the future is safely hidden by Horace's prudent god? 
30610	----	[Transcriber's note: Extensive research found no evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] HISTORY OF HUMAN SOCIETY BY FRANK W. BLACKMAR PROFESSOR OF SOCIOLOGY, UNIVERSITY OF KANSAS CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS NEW YORK ---- CHICAGO ---- BOSTON ATLANTA ---- SAN FRANCISCO Copyright, 1926, by CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS Printed in the United States of America {v} PREFACE This book tells what we know of man, how he first lived, how he worked with other men, what kinds of houses he built, what tools he made, and how he formed a government under which to live. So we learn of the activities of men in the past and what they have passed on to us. In this way we may become acquainted with the different stages in the process which we call civilization. The present trend of specialization in study and research has brought about widely differentiated courses of study in schools and a large number of books devoted to special subjects. Each course of study and each book must necessarily represent but a fragment of the subject. This method of intensified study is to be commended; indeed, it is essential to the development of scientific truth. Those persons who can read only a limited number of books and those students who can take only a limited number of courses of study need books which present a connected survey of the movement of social progress as a whole, and which blaze a trail through the accumulation of learning, and give an adequate perspective of human achievement. It is hoped, then, that this book will form the basis of a course of reading or study that will give the picture in small compass of this most fascinating subject. If it serves its purpose well, it will be the introduction to more special study in particular fields or periods. That the story of this book may be always related more closely with the knowledge and experience of the individual reader, questions and problems have been added at the conclusion of each chapter, which may be used as subjects for {vi} discussion or topics for themes. For those who wish to pursue some particular phase of the subject a brief list of books has been selected which may profitably be read more intensively. F. W. B. {vii} CONTENTS _PART I_ CIVILIZATION AND PROGRESS CHAPTER PAGE I. WHAT IS CIVILIZATION? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 The human trail. Civilization may be defined. The material evidences of civilization are all around us. Primitive man faced an unknown world. Civilization is expressed in a variety of ways. Modern civilization includes some fundamentals. Progress an essential characteristic of civilization. Diversity is necessary to progress. What is the goal of civilized man? Possibilities of civilization. Civilization can be estimated. II. THE ESSENTIALS OF PROGRESS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18 How mankind goes forward on the trail. Change is not necessarily progress. Progress expresses itself in a variety of ideals and aims. Progress of the part and progress of the whole. Social progress involves individual development. Progress is enhanced by the interaction of groups and races. The study of uncultured races of to-day. The study of prehistoric types. Progress is indicated by early cultures. Industrial and social life of primitive man. Cultures indicate the mental development of the race. Men of genius cause mutations which permit progress. The data of progress. III. METHODS OF RECOUNTING HUMAN PROGRESS . . . . . . . . . . 35 Difficulty of measuring progress. Progress may be measured by the implements used. The development of art. Progress is estimated by economic stages. Progress is through the food-supply. Progress estimated by the different forms of social order. Development of family life. The growth of political life. Religion important in civilization. Progress through moral evolution. Intellectual development of man. Change from savagery to barbarism. Civilization includes all kinds of human progress. Table showing methods of recounting human progress. _PART II_ FIRST STEPS OF PROGRESS IV. PREHISTORIC MAN . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 57 The origin of man has not yet been determined. Methods of recounting prehistoric time: (1) geologic method, (2) paleontology, (3) anatomy, (4) cultures. Prehistoric types of the human race. The unity of the human race. The primitive home of man may be determined in a general way. The antiquity of man is shown in racial differentiation. The evidences of man's ancient life in different localities: (1) caves, (2) shell mounds, (3) river and glacial drifts, (4) burial-mounds, (5) battle-fields and village sites, (6) lake-dwellings. Knowledge of man's antiquity influences reflective thinking. {viii} V. THE ECONOMIC FACTORS OF PROGRESS . . . . . . . . . . . . . 82 The efforts of man to satisfy physical needs. The attempt to satisfy hunger and protect from cold. The methods of procuring food in primitive times. The variety of food was constantly increased. The food-supply was increased by inventions. The discovery and use of fire. Cooking added to the economy of the food-supply. The domestication of animals. The beginnings of agriculture were very meagre. The manufacture of clothing. Primitive shelters and houses. Discovery and use of metals. Transportation as a means of economic development. Trade, or exchange of goods. The struggle for existence develops the individual and the race. VI. PRIMITIVE SOCIAL LIFE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 108 The character of primitive social life. The family is the most persistent of social origins. Kinship is a strong factor in social organization. The earliest form of social order. The reign of custom. The Greek and Roman family was strongly organized. In primitive society religion occupied a prominent place. Spirit worship. Moral conditions. Warfare and social progress. Mutual aid developed slowly. _PART III_ SEATS OF EARLY CIVILIZATION VII. LANGUAGE AND ART AS A MEANS OF CULTURE AND SOCIAL DEVELOPMENT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 121 The origin of language has been a subject of controversy. Language is an important social function. Written language followed speech in order of development. Phonetic writing was a step in advance of the ideograph. The use of manuscripts and books made permanent records. Language is an instrument of culture. Art as a language of aesthetic ideas. Music is a form of language. The dance as a means of dramatic expression. The fine arts follow the development of language. The love of the beautiful slowly develops. VIII. THE INFLUENCE OF PHYSICAL NATURE ON HUMAN PROGRESS . . 141 Man is a part of universal nature. Favorable location is necessary for permanent civilization. The nature of the soil an essential condition of progress. The use of land the foundation of social order. Climate has much to do with the possibilities of progress. The general aspects of nature determine the type of civilization. Physical nature influences social order. IX. CIVILIZATION OF THE ORIENT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 152 The first nations with historical records in Asia and Africa. Civilization in Mesopotamia. Influences coming from the Far East. Egypt becomes a centre of civilization. The coming of the Semites. The Phoenicians became the great navigators. A comparison of the Egyptian and Babylonian empires. The Hebrews made a permanent contribution to world civilization. The civilization of India and China. The coming of the Aryans. X. THE ORIENTAL TYPE OF CIVILIZATION . . . . . . . . . . . . 170 The governments of the early Oriental civilizations. War existed for conquest and plunder. Religious belief was an important factor in despotic {ix} government. Social organization was incomplete. Economic influences. Records, writing, and paper. The beginnings of science were strong in Egypt, weak in Babylon. The contribution to civilization. XI. BEGINNINGS OF CIVILIZATION IN AMERICA . . . . . . . . . . 186 America was peopled from the Old World. The Incas of Peru. Aztec civilization in Mexico. The earliest centres of civilization in Mexico. The Pueblo Indians of the Southwest. The Mound-Builders of the Mississippi Valley. Other types of Indian life. Why did the civilization of America fail? _PART IV_ WESTERN CIVILIZATION XII. THE OLD GREEK LIFE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 205 The old Greek life was the starting-point of Western civilization. The Aegean culture preceded the coming of the Greeks. The Greeks were of Aryan stock. The coming of the Greeks. Character of the primitive Greeks. Influence of old Greek life. XIII. GREEK PHILOSOPHY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 215 The transition from theology to inquiry. Explanation of the universe by observation and inquiry. The Ionian philosophy turned the mind toward nature. The weakness of Ionian philosophy. The Eleatic philosophers. The Sophists. Socrates the first moral philosopher (b. 469 B.C.). Platonic philosophy develops the ideal. Aristotle the master mind of the Greeks. Other schools. Results obtained in Greek philosophy. XIV. THE GREEK SOCIAL POLITY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 229 The struggle for Greek equality and liberty. The Greek government an expanded family. Athenian government a type of Grecian democracy. Constitution of Solon seeks a remedy. Cleisthenes continues the reforms of Solon. Athenian democracy failed in obtaining its best and highest development. The Spartan state differs from all others. Greek colonization spreads knowledge. The conquests of Alexander. Contributions of Greece to civilization. XV. ROMAN CIVILIZATION . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 250 The Romans differed in nature from the Greeks. The social structure of early Rome and that of early Greece. Civil organization of Rome. The struggle for liberty. The development of government. The development of law is the most remarkable phase of the Roman civilization. Influence of the Greek life on Rome. Latin literature and language. Development of Roman art. Decline of the Roman Empire. Summary of Roman civilization. XVI. THE CHRISTIAN RELIGION . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 268 Important factors in the foundation of Western civilization. The social contacts of the Christian religion. Social conditions at the beginning of the Christian era. The contact of Christianity with social life. Christianity influenced the legislation of the times. Christians come into conflict with civil authority. The wealth of the church accumulates. Development of the hierarchy. Attempt to dominate the temporal powers. Dogmatism. The church becomes the conservator of knowledge. Service of Christianity. {x} XVII. TEUTONIC INFLUENCE ON CIVILIZATION . . . . . . . . . . 281 The coming of the barbarians. Importance of Teutonic influence. Teutonic liberty. Tribal life. Classes of society. The home and the home life. Political assemblies. General social customs. The economic life. Contributions to law. XVIII. FEUDAL SOCIETY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 294 Feudalism a transition of social order. There are two elementary sources of feudalism. The feudal system in its developed state based on land-holding. Other elements of feudalism. The rights of sovereignty. The classification of feudal society. Progress of feudalism. State of society under feudalism. Lack of central authority in feudal society. Individual development in the dominant group. XIX. ARABIAN CONQUEST AND CULTURE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 304 The rise and expansion of the Arabian Empire. The religious zeal of the Arab-Moors. The foundations of science and art. The beginnings of chemistry and medicine. Metaphysics and exact science. Geography and history. Discoveries, inventions, and achievements. Language and literature. Art and architecture. The government of the Arab-Moors was peculiarly centralized. Arabian civilization soon reached its limits. XX. THE CRUSADES STIR THE EUROPEAN MIND . . . . . . . . . . . 319 What brought about the crusades. Specific causes of the crusades. Unification of ideals and the breaking of feudalism. The development of monarchy. The crusades quickened intellectual development. The commercial effects of the crusades. General influence of the crusades on civilization. XXI. ATTEMPTS AT POPULAR GOVERNMENT . . . . . . . . . . . . . 328 The cost of popular government. The feudal lord and the towns. The rise of free cities. The struggle for independence. The affranchisement of cities developed municipal organization. The Italian cities. Government of Venice. Government of Florence. The Lombard League. The rise of popular assemblies in France. Rural communes arose in France. The municipalities of France. The States-General was the first central organization. Failure of attempts at popular government in Spain. Democracy in the Swiss cantons. The ascendancy of monarchy. Beginning of constitutional liberty in England. XXII. THE INTELLECTUAL AWAKENING OF EUROPE . . . . . . . . . 347 Social evolution is dependent upon variation. The revival of progress throughout Europe. The revival of learning a central idea of progress. Influence of Charlemagne. The attitude of the church was retrogressive. Scholastic philosophy marks a step in progress. Cathedral and monastic schools. The rise of universities. Failure to grasp scientific methods. Inventions and discoveries. The extension of commerce hastened progress. XXIII. HUMANISM AND THE REVIVAL OF LEARNING . . . . . . . . . 364 The discovery of manuscripts. Who were the humanists? Relation of humanism to language and literature. Art and architecture. The effect of humanism on social manners. Relation of humanism to science and philosophy. The study of the classics became fundamental in education. General influence of humanism. {xi} XXIV. THE REFORMATION . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 375 The character of the Reformation. Signs of the rising storm. Attempts at reform within the church. Immediate causes of the Reformation. Luther was the hero of the Reformation in Germany. Zwingli was the hero of the Reformation in Switzerland. Calvin establishes the Genevan system. The Reformation in England differed from the German. Many phases of reformation in other countries. Results of the Reformation were far-reaching. XXV. CONSTITUTIONAL LIBERTY AND THE FRENCH REVOLUTION . . . . 392 Progress of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. The struggle of monarchy with democracy. Struggle for constitutional liberty in England. The place of France in modern civilization. The divine right of kings. The power of the nobility. The misery of the people. The church. Influence of the philosophers. The failure of government. France on the eve of the revolution. The revolution. Results of the revolution. _PART V_ MODERN PROGRESS XXVI. PROGRESS OF POLITICAL LIBERTY . . . . . . . . . . . . . 413 Political liberty in the eighteenth century. The progress of popular government found outside of great nations. Reform measures in England. The final triumph of the French republic. Democracy in America. Modern political reforms. Republicanism in other countries. Influence of democracy on monarchy. XXVII. INDUSTRIAL PROGRESS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 429 Industries radiate from the land as a centre. The early medieval methods of industry. The beginnings of trade. Expansion of trade and transportation. Invention and discoveries. The change from handcraft to power manufacture. The industrial revolution. Modern industrial development. Scientific agriculture. The building of the city. Industry and civilization. XXVIII. SOCIAL EVOLUTION . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 443 The evolutionary processes of society. The social individual. The ethnic form of society. The territorial group. The national group founded on race expansion. The functions of new groups. Great society and the social order. Great society protects voluntary organizations. The widening influence of the church. Growth of religious toleration. Altruism and democracy. Modern society a machine of great complexity. Interrelation of different parts of society. The progress of the race based on social opportunities. The central idea of modern civilization. XXIX. THE EVOLUTION OF SCIENCE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 458 Science is an attitude of mind toward life. Scientific methods. Measurement in scientific research. Science develops from centres. Science and democracy. The study of the biological and physical sciences. The evolutionary theory. Science and war. Scientific progress is cumulative. The trend of scientific investigation. Research foundations. {xii} XXX. UNIVERSAL EDUCATION AND DEMOCRACY . . . . . . . . . . . 475 Universal public education is a modern institution. The mediaeval university permitted some freedom of choice. The English and German universities. Early education in the United States. The common, or public, schools. Knowledge, intelligence, and training necessary in a democracy. Education has been universalized. Research an educational process. The diffusion of knowledge necessary in a democracy. Educational progress. Importance of state education. The printing-press and its products. Public opinion. XXXI. WORLD ECONOMICS AND POLITICS . . . . . . . . . . . . . 486 Commerce and communication. Exchange of ideas modifies political organization. Spread of political ideas. The World War breaks down the barriers of thought. Attempt to form a league for permanent peace. International agreement and progress. The mutual aid of nations. Reorganization of international law. The outlook for a world state. XXXII. THE TREND OF CIVILIZATION IN THE UNITED STATES . . . . 495 The economic outlook. Economics of labor. Public and corporate industries. The political outlook. Equalization of opportunity. The influence of scientific thought on progress. The relation of material comfort to spiritual progress. The balance of social forces. Restlessness vs. happiness. Summary of progress. BIBLIOGRAPHY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 504 INDEX . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 509 {3} _PART I_ CIVILIZATION AND PROGRESS HISTORY OF HUMAN SOCIETY CHAPTER I WHAT IS CIVILIZATION? _The Human Trail_.--The trail of human life beginning in the mists of the past, winding through the ages and stretching away toward an unknown future, is a subject of perennial interest and worthy of profound thought. No other great subject so invites the attention of the mind of man. It is a very long trail, rough and unblazed, wandering over the continents of the earth. Those who have travelled it came in contact with the mysteries of an unknown world. They faced the terrors of the shifting forms of the earth, of volcanoes, earthquakes, floods, storms, and ice fields. They witnessed the extinction of forests and animal groups, and the changing forms of lakes, rivers, and mountains, and, indeed, the boundaries of oceans. It is the trail of human events and human endeavor on which man developed his physical powers, enlarged his brain capacity, developed and enriched his mind, and became efficient through art and industry. Through inventions and discovery he turned the forces of nature to his use, making them serve his will. In association with his fellows, man learned that mutual aid and co-operation were necessary to the survival of the race. To learn this caused him more trouble than all the terrors and mysteries of the natural world around him. Connected with the trail is a long chain of causes and effects, trial and error, success and failure, out of which has come the advancement of the race. The accumulated results of life on the trail are called _civilization_. _Civilization May Be Defined_.--To know what civilization is by study and observation is better than to rely upon a formal {4} definition. For, indeed, the word is used in so many different ways that it admits of a loose interpretation. For instance, it may be used in a narrow sense to indicate the character and quality of the civil relations. Those tribes or nations having a well-developed social order, with government, laws, and other fixed social customs, are said to be civilized, while those peoples without these characters are assumed to be uncivilized. It may also be considered in a somewhat different sense, when the arts, industries, sciences, and habits of life are stimulated--civilization being determined by the degree in which these are developed. Whichever view is accepted, it involves a contrast of present ideals with past ideals, of an undeveloped with a developed state of human progress. But whatever notion we have of civilization, it is difficult to draw a fixed line between civilized and uncivilized peoples. Mr. Lewis H. Morgan, in his _Ancient Society_, asserts that civilization began with the phonetic alphabet, and that all human activity prior to this could be classified as savagery or barbarism. But there is a broader conception of civilization which recognizes all phases of human achievement, from the making of a stone axe to the construction of the airplane; from the rude hut to the magnificent palace; from crude moral and religious conditions to the more refined conditions of human association. If we consider that civilization involves the whole process of human achievement, it must admit of a great variety of qualities and degrees of development, hence it appears to be a relative term applied to the variation of human life. Thus, the Japanese are highly civilized along special lines of hand work, hand industry, and hand art, as well as being superior in some phases of family relationships. So we might say of the Chinese, the East Indians, and the American Indians, that they each have well-established customs, habits of thought, and standards of life, differing from other nations, expressing different types of civilization. When a member of a primitive tribe invented the bow-and-arrow, or began to chip a flint nodule in order to make a stone {5} axe, civilization began. As soon as people began to co-operate with one another in obtaining food, building houses, or for protection against wild animals and wild men, that is, when they began to treat each other civilly, they were becoming civilized. We may say then in reality that civilization has been a continuous process from the first beginning of man's conquest of himself and nature to the modern complexities of social life with its multitude of products of industry and cultural arts. It is very common for one group or race to assume to be highly civilized and call the others barbarians or savages. Thus the Hebrews assumed superiority when they called other people Gentiles, and the Greeks when they called others barbarians. Indeed, it is only within recent years that we are beginning to recognize that the civilizations of China, Japan, and India have qualities worth studying and that they may have something worth while in life that the Western civilization has not. Also there has been a tendency to confuse the terms Christian and heathen with civilized and uncivilized. This idea arose in England, where, in the early history of Christianity, the people of the towns were more cultured than the people of the country. It happened, too, that the townspeople received Christianity before the people of the country, hence heathens were the people who dwelt out on the heath, away from town. This local idea became a world idea when all non-Christian peoples were called uncivilized. It is a fatal error for an individual, neighborhood, tribe, or nation to assume superiority to the extent that it fails to recognize good qualities in others. One should not look with disdain upon a tribe of American Indians, calling them uncivilized because their material life is simple, when in reality in point of honor, faithfulness, and courage they excel a large proportion of the races assuming a higher civilization. _The Material Evidences of Civilization Are All Around Us_.--Behold this beautiful valley of the West, with its broad, {6} fertile fields, yielding rich harvests of corn and wheat, and brightened by varied forms of fruit and flower. Farmhouses and schoolhouses dot the landscape, while towns and cities, with their marts of trade and busy industries, rise at intervals. Here are churches, colleges, and libraries, indicative of the education of the community; courthouses, prisons, and jails, which speak of government, law, order, and protection. Here are homes for the aged and weak, hospitals and schools for the defective, almshouses for the indigent, and reformatories for the wayward. Railroads bind together all parts of the nation, making exchange possible, and bringing to our doors the products of every clime. The telephone and the radio unite distant people with common knowledge, thought, and sentiment. Factories and mills line the streams or cluster in village and city, marking the busy industrial life. These and more mark the visible products of civilization. But civilization is something more than form, it is spirit; and its evidence may be more clearly discerned in the co-operation of men in political organization and industrial life, by their united action in religious worship and charitable service, in social order and educational advancement. Observe, too, the happy homes, with all of their sweet and hallowed influences, and the social mingling of the people searching for pleasure or profit in their peaceful, harmonious association. Witness the evidences of accumulated knowledge in newspapers, periodicals, and books, and the culture of painting, poetry, and music. Behold, too, the achievements of the mind in the invention and discovery of the age; steam and electrical appliances that cause the whirl of bright machinery, that turn night into day, and make thought travel swift as the wings of the wind! Consider the influence of chemistry, biology, and medicine on material welfare, and the discoveries of the products of the earth that subserve man's purpose! And the central idea of all this is man, who walks upright in the dignity and grace of his own manhood, surrounded by the evidence of his own achievements. His knowledge, his power of thought, {7} his moral character, and his capacity for living a large life, are evidences of the real civilization. For individual culture is, after all, the flower and fruit, the beauty and strength of civilization. One hundred years ago neither dwelling, church, nor city greeted the eye that gazed over the broad expanse of the unfilled prairies. Here were no accumulations of wealth, no signs of human habitation, except a few Indians wandering in groups or assembled in their wigwam villages. The evidences of art and industry were meagre, and of accumulated knowledge small, because the natives were still the children of nature and had gone but a little way in the mastery of physical forces or in the accumulation of knowledge. The relative difference in their condition and that of those that followed them is the contrast between barbarism and civilization. Yet how rapid was the change that replaced the latter with the former. Behold great commonwealths built in half a century! What is the secret of this great and marvellous change? It is a transplanted civilization, not an indigenous one. Men came to this fertile valley with the spiritual and material products of modern life, the outcome of centuries of progress. They brought the results of man's struggle, with himself and with nature, for thousands of years. This made it possible to build a commonwealth in half a century. The first settlers brought with them a knowledge of the industrial arts; the theory and practice of social order; individual capacity, and a thirst for education. It was necessary only to set up the machinery already created, and civilization went forward. When they began the life of labor, the accumulated wealth of the whole world was to be had in exchange for the products of the soil. _Primitive Man Faced an Unknown World_.--But how different is the picture of primitive man suddenly brought face to face with an unknown world. With no knowledge of nature or art, with no theory or practice of social order, he began to dig and to delve for the preservation of life. Suffering the pangs of hunger, he obtained food; naked, he clothed himself; {8} buffeted by storm and wind and scorched by the penetrating rays of the sun, he built himself a shelter. As he gradually became skilled in the industrial arts, his knowledge increased. He formed a clearer estimate of how nature might serve him, and obtained more implements with which to work The social order of the family and the state slowly appeared. Man became a co-operating creature, working with his fellows in the satisfaction of material wants and in protecting the rights of individuals. Slow and painful was this process of development, but as he worked his capacity enlarged, his power increased, until he mastered the forces of nature and turned them to serve him; he accumulated knowledge and brought forth culture and learning; he marshalled the social forces in orderly process. Each new mastery of nature or self was a power for the future, for civilization is cumulative in its nature; it works in a geometrical progression. An idea once formed, others follow; one invention leads to another, and each material form of progress furnishes a basis for a more rapid progress and for a larger life. The discovery and use of a new food product increased the power of civilization a hundredfold. One step in social order leads to another, and thus is furnished a means of utilizing without waste all of the individual and social forces. Yet how irregular and faltering are the first steps of human progress. A step forward, followed by a long period of readjustment of the conditions of life; a movement forward here and a retarding force there. Within this irregular movement we discover the true course of human progress. One tribe, on account of peculiar advantages, makes a special discovery, which places it in the ascendancy and gives it power over others. It has obtained a favorable location for protection against oppressors or a fertile soil, a good hunting ground or a superior climate. It survives all opposing factors for a time, and, obtaining some idea of progress, it goes on adding strength unto strength, or is crowded from its favorable position by its warlike neighbors to perish from the earth, or to live a {9} stationary or even a deteriorating life. A strong tribe, through internal development and the domination of other groups, finally becomes a great nation in an advanced state of civilization. It passes through the course of infancy, youth, maturity, old age, and death. But the products of its civilization are handed on to other nations. Another rises and, when about to enter an advanced state of progress, perishes on account of internal maladies. It is overshadowed with despotism, oppressed by priestcraft, or lacking industrial vitality to such a degree that it is forced to surrender the beginnings of civilization to other nations and other lives. The dominance of a group is dependent in part on the natural or inherent qualities of mind and body of its members, which give it power to achieve by adapting itself to conditions of nature and in mastering and utilizing natural resources. Thus the tribe that makes new devices for procuring food or new weapons for defense, or learns how to sow seeds and till the soil, adds to its means of survival and progress and thus forges ahead of those tribes lacking in these means. Also the social heritage or the inheritance of all of the products of industry and arts of life which are passed on from generation to generation, is essential to the rapid development of civilization. _Civilization Is Expressed in a Variety of Ways_.--Different ideals and the adaptation to different environment cause different types of life. The ideals of the Persian, the Greek, the Roman, and the Teuton varied. Still greater is the contrast between these and the Chinese and the Egyptian ideals. China boasts of an ancient civilization that had its origin long before the faint beginnings of Western nations, and the Chinese are firm believers in their own culture and superior advancement. The silent grandeur of the pyramids and temples of the Nile valley bespeak a civilization of great maturity, that did much for the world in general, but little for the Egyptian people. Yet these types of civilization are far different from that of Western nations. Their ideas of culture are in great contrast to our own. But even the Western nations are not uniform in {10} ideals of civil life nor in their practice of social order. They are not identical in religious life, and their ideals of art and social progress vary. Moreover, the racial type varies somewhat and with it the national life and thought. Compare England, Germany, France, and Spain as to the variability in characteristics of literature and art, in moral ideals, in ethical practice, in religious motive, and in social order. Their differences are evident, but they tend to disappear under the influence of rapid transit and close intercommunication, which draw all modern nations nearer together. Yet, granting the variability of ideals and of practice, there is a general consensus of opinion as to what constitutes civilization and what are the elements of progress. Modern writers differ somewhat in opinion as to elements of civilization, but these differences are more apparent than real, as all true civilization must rest upon a solid foundation of common human traits. The fundamental principles and chief characteristics are quite uniform for all nations and for all times, and writers who disagree as to general characteristics may not be classified by national boundaries; they represent the differences of philosophers. _Modern Civilization Includes Some Fundamentals_.--As applied at different periods of the world's progress and as a representation of different phases of life, civilization means more to-day than ever before; its ideal is higher, its conception broader. In the modern, accepted sense it includes (1) _a definite knowledge of man and nature_. The classified knowledge of science and philosophy and all phases of the history of man socially and individually are important in estimating his true progress. All forms of thought and life are to be estimated in considering the full meaning of the term. It also includes (2) _progress in art_. While science deals with principles, art deals with rules of action. Science gives classified knowledge, while art directs to a practical end. Art provides definite plans how to operate. If these plans are carried out, the field of practice is entered. In its broadest conception art includes the making {11} and the doing, as well as the plan. The fine arts and the industrial or practical arts, in all of their varied interests, are included in art as a factor in civilization. This category should include the highest forms of painting, poetry, sculpture, and music, as well as the lowest forms of industrial implements. Civilization includes (3) _a well-developed ethical code_ quite universally observed by a community or nation. The rule of conduct of man toward himself and toward his fellows is one of the essential points of discrimination between barbarism and civilization. While ethical practice began at a very early period in the progress of man, it was a long time before any distinct ethical code became established. But the completed civilization does not exist until a high order of moral practice obtains; no civilization can long prevail without it. Of less importance, but of no less binding force, is (4) the _social code_, which represents the forms and conventionalities of society, built, it is true, largely upon the caprices of fashion, and varying greatly in different communities, yet more arbitrary, if possible, than the moral code. It considers fitness and consistency in conduct, and as such is an important consideration in social usage and social progress. In Europe it has its extreme in the court etiquette; in America, in the punctiliousness of the higher social classes of our large cities. But it affects all communities, and its observance may be noted in rural districts as well as in the city population. The mores, or customs, of man began at a very early time and have been a persistent ruling power in human conduct. Through tradition they are handed down from generation to generation, to be observed with more or less fidelity as a guide to the art of living. Every community, whether primitive or developed, is controlled to a great extent by the prevailing custom. It is common for individuals and families to do as their ancestors did. This habit is frequently carried to such an extent that the deeds of the fathers are held sacred from which no one dare to depart. Isolated communities continue year after year to do things because they had always done so, {12} holding strictly to the ruling custom founded on tradition, even when some better way was at hand. A rare example of this human trait is given by Captain Donald MacMillan, who recently returned from Arctic Greenland. He said: "We took two ultra-modern developments, motion pictures and radio, direct to a people who live and think as their ancestors did two thousand years ago." He was asked: "What did they think?" He replied: "I do not know." Probably it was a case of wonder without thought. While this is a dominant force which makes for the unity and perpetuity of the group, it is only by departure from established tradition that progress is made possible. Civilization involves (5) _government and law_. The tribes and nations in a state of barbarism lived under the binding influence of custom. In this period people were born under _status_, or condition, not under law. Gradually the old family life expanded into the state, and government became more formal. Law appeared as the expression of the will of the people directly or indirectly through their representatives. True, it may have been the arbitrary ruling of a king, but he represented the unity of the race and spoke with the authority of the nation. Law found no expression until there was formed an organic community capable of having a will respecting the control of those who composed it. It implies a governing body and a body governed; it implies an orderly movement of society according to a rule of action called law. While social order is generally obtained through law and government, such is the practice in modern life that the orderly association of men in trade and commerce and in daily contact appears to stand alone and to rise above the control of the law. Indeed, in a true civilization, the civil code, though an essential factor, seems to be outclassed by the higher social instincts based on the practice of social order. (6) _Religion_ must take a large place as a factor in the development of civilization. The character of the religious belief of man is, to a certain extent, the true test of his progressive {13} nature. His faith may prove a source of inspiration to reason and progressive life; it may prove the opposite, and lead to stagnation and retrogression. Upon the whole, it must be insisted that religious belief has subserved a large purpose in the economy of human progress. It has been universal to all tribes, for even the lowest have some form of religious belief--at least, a belief in spiritual beings. Religious belief thus became the primary source of abstract ideas, and it has always been conducive to social order. It has, in modern times especially, furnished the foundation of morality. By surrounding marriage with ceremonies it has purified the home life, upheld the authority of the family, and thus strengthened social order. It has developed the individual by furnishing an ideal before science and positive knowledge made it possible. It strengthened patriotic feeling on account of service rendered in supporting local government, and subjectively religion improved man by teaching him to obey a superior. Again, by its tradition it frequently stifled thought and retarded progress. Among other elements of civilization must be mentioned (7) _social well-being_. The preceding conditions would be almost certain to insure social well-being and prosperity. Yet it might be possible, through lack of harmony of these forces, on account of their improper distribution in a community, that the group might lack in general social prosperity. Unless there is general contentment and happiness there cannot be said to be an ideal state of civilization. And this social well-being is closely allied to (8) _material prosperity_, the most apparent element to be mentioned in the present analysis. The amount of the accumulation of the wealth of a nation, its distribution among the people, and the manner in which it is obtained and expended, determine the state of civilization. This material prosperity makes the better phases of civilization possible. It is essential to modern progress, and our civilization should seek to render it possible for all classes to earn their bread and to have leisure and opportunity for self-culture. The mastery of the forces of nature is the basis for man's {14} material prosperity. Touching nature here and there, by discovery, invention, and toil, causing her to yield her treasures for his service, is the key to all progress. In this, it is not so much conflict with nature as co-operation with her, that yields utility and eventually mastery. The discovery and use of new food products, the coal and other minerals of the earth, the forests, the water power and electric power, coupled with invention and adaptability to continually greater use, are the qualifying opportunity for advancement. Without these the fine theories of the philosopher, exalted religious belief, and high ideals of life are of no avail. From the foregoing it may be said that civilization in its fulness means all of the acquired capabilities of man as evidenced by his conduct and the material products arising from his physical and mental exertion. It is evident that at first the structure called civilization began to develop very slowly and very feebly; just when it began it is difficult to state. The creation of the first utility, the first substantial movement to increase the food supply, the first home for protection, the first religious ceremony, or the first organized household, represents the beginnings of civilization, and these are the landmarks along the trail of man's ascendency. _Progress Is an Essential Characteristic of Civilization_.--The goal is never reached, the victory is never finally achieved. Man must move on, ever on. Intellect must develop, morals improve, liberty increase, social order be perfected, and social growth continue. There must be no halting on the road; the nation that hesitates is lost. Progress in general is marked by the development of the individual, on the one hand, and that of society, on the other. In well-ordered society these two ideas are balanced; they seek an equilibrium. Excessive individualism leads to anarchy and destruction; excessive socialism blights and stagnates individual activity and independence and retards progress. It must be admitted here as elsewhere that the individual culture and the individual life are, after all, the highest aims. But how can these be obtained in {15} modern life without social progress? How can there be freedom of action for the development of the individual powers without social expansion? Truly, the social and the individual life are complementary elements of progress. _Diversity Is Necessary to Progress_.--If progress is an essential characteristic of modern civilization, it may be said that diversity is essential to progress. There is much said about equality and fraternity. It depends on what is meant by the terms as to whether these are good sayings or not. If equality means uniformity, by it man is easily reduced to a state of stagnation. Diversity of life exists everywhere in progressive nature, where plants or animals move forward in the scale of existence. Man is not an exception to the rule, notwithstanding his strong will force. Men differ in strength, in moral and intellectual capacity, and in co-operating ability. Hence they must occupy different stations in life. And the quality and quantity of progress are to be estimated in different nations according to the diversity of life to be observed among individuals and groups. _What Is the Goal of Civilized Man?_--And it may be well to ask, as civilization is progressive: What is our aim in life from our own standpoint? For what do men strive? What is the ultimate of life? What is the best for which humanity can live? If it were merely to obtain food and clothes and nothing more, the question could be easily answered. If it were merely to train a man to be a monk, that he might spend his time in prayer and supplication for a better future life, the question would be simple enough. If to pore over books to find out the knowledge of the past and to spend the life in investigation of truth were the chief aims, it would be easy to determine the object of life. But frequently that which we call success in life is merely a means to an end. And viewed in the complex activity of society, it is difficult to say what is the true end of life; it is difficult to determine the true end of civilization. Some have said it is found in administering the "greatest good to the greatest number," {16} and if we consider in this the generations yet unborn, it reveals the actual tendency of modern civilization. If the perfection of the individual is the highest ideal of civilization, it stops not with one individual, but includes all. And this asserts that social well-being must be included in the final aim, for full and free individual development cannot appear without it. The enlarged capacity for living correctly, enjoying the best of this life righteously, and for associating harmoniously and justly with his fellows, is the highest aim of the individual. Happiness of the greatest number through utility is the formula for modern civilization. _Possibilities of Civilization_.--The possibilities of reaching a still higher state of civilization are indeed great. The future is not full of foreboding, but bright and happy with promise of individual culture and social progress. If opportunities are but wisely used, the twentieth century will witness an advancement beyond our highest dreams. Yet the whole problem hinges on the right use of knowledge. If the knowledge of chemistry is to be used to destroy nations and races with gases and high explosives, such knowledge turns civilization to destruction. If all of the powers of nature under man's control should be turned against him, civilization would be turned back upon itself. Let us have "the will to believe" that we have entered an era of vital progress, of social improvement, of political reforms, which will lead to the protection of those who need protection and the elevation of those who desire it. The rapid progress in art and architecture, in invention and industry, the building of libraries and the diffusion of knowledge, the improvement of our educational system, all being entered upon, will force the world forward at a rapid pace, and on such a rational basis that the delight of living will be greatly enhanced for all classes. _Civilization Can Be Estimated_.--This brief presentation of the meaning of civilization reveals the fact that civilization can be recounted; that it is a question of fact and philosophy that can be measured. It is the story of human progress and {17} the causes which made it. It presents the generalizations of all that is valuable in the life of the race. It is the epitome of the history of humanity in its onward sweep. In its critical sense it cannot be called history, for it neglects details for general statements. Nor is it the philosophy of history, for it covers a broader field. It is not speculation, for it deals with fact. It is the philosophy of man's life as to the results of his activity. It shows alike the unfolding of the individual and of society, and it represents these in every phase embraced in the word "progress." To recount this progress and to measure civilization is the purpose of the following pages, so far as it may be done in the limited space assigned. SUBJECTS FOR FURTHER STUDY 1. Are people of civilized races happier now than are the uncivilized races? 2. Would the American Indians in time have developed a high state of civilization? 3. Why do we not find a high state of civilization among the African negroes? 4. What are the material evidences of civilization in the neighborhood in which you live? 5. Does increased knowledge alone insure an advanced civilization? 6. Choose an important public building in your neighborhood and trace the sources of architecture of the different parts. {18} CHAPTER II THE ESSENTIALS OF PROGRESS _How Mankind Goes Forward on the Trail_.--Although civilization cannot exist without it, progress is something different from the sum-total of the products of civilization. It may be said to be the process through which civilization is obtained, or, perhaps more fittingly, it is the log of the course that marks civilization. There can be no conception of progress without ideals, which are standards set up toward which humanity travels. And as humanity never rises above its ideals, the possibilities of progress are limited by them. If ideals are high, there are possibilities of a high state of culture; if they are low, the possibilities are lessened, and, indeed, frequently are barren of results. But having established ideals as beacon lights for humanity to follow, the final test is whether there is sufficient knowledge, sufficient ability, and sufficient will-power to approximate them. In other words, shall humanity complete the trail of life, go on higher and higher grounds where are set the standards or goals to be reached; or will humanity rest easily and contentedly on a low level with no attempt to reach a higher level, or, indeed, will humanity, failing in desires for betterment, initiative, and will-power, drift to lower levels? Groups, either tribes, races, or nations, may advance along given lines and be stationary or even retarded along other lines of development. If the accumulation of wealth is the dominant ideal, it may be so strenuously followed as to destroy opportunity for other phases of life. If the flow of energy is all toward a religious belief that absorbs the time and energy of people in the building of pyramids, mausoleums, cathedrals, and mosques, and taboos the inquiry into nature {19} which might yield a large improvement in the race, religion would be developed at the expense of race improvement. _Change Is Not Necessarily Progress_.--It is quite common in a popular sense for people to identify change with progress, or indeed to accept the wonderful changes which take place as causes of progress, when in reality they should have taken more care to search out the elements of progress of the great moving panorama of changing life. Changes are frequently violent, sudden, tremendous in their immediate effect. They move rapidly and involve many complexes, but progress is a slow-going old tortoise that plods along irrespective of storm or sunshine, life or death, of the cataclysms of war or the catastrophes of earthquakes or volcanoes. Progress moves slowly along through political and social revolutions, gaining a little here and a little there, and registering the things that are really worth while out of the ceaseless, changing humanity. Achievement may take place without betterment, but all progress must make a record of betterment with achievement. A man may write a book or invent a machine at great labor. So far as he is concerned it is an achievement, but unless it is a good book, a good invention, better than others, so that they may be used for the advancement of the race, they will not form a betterment. Many of the changes of life represent the results of trial and error. "There is a way that seemeth right" to a nation which may end in destruction. The evil aroused is sometimes greater than the good. The prosperity of the Roman Empire was destroyed because of luxury and corrupt administration. The German Empire developed great powers in government, education, in the arts and sciences, but her military purpose nearly destroyed her. The Spanish Empire that once controlled a good part of the American continent failed because laborers were driven out of Spain and the wealth gained by exploitation was used to support the nobility and royalty in luxury. Whether the United States will continue to carry out her high purposes will depend upon the right use of her immense wealth and power. Likewise the {20} radio, the movie, and the automobile are making tremendous changes. Will the opportunities they furnish improve the moral and intellectual character of the people--a necessary condition to real progress? In considering modern progress, too frequently it is estimated by the greatness of things, by the stupendous changes, or by the marvellous achievements of the age, and we pause and wonder at what has been accomplished; but if we think long enough and clearly enough, we may get a vision of real progress, and we may find it difficult to determine the outcome of it all, so far as the real betterment of the race is concerned. Is the millionaire of to-day any happier, necessarily, and any more moral or of a higher religious standard than the primitive man or the savage of the plains or forest of to-day? True, he has power to achieve in many directions, but is he any happier or better? It may be said that his millions may accomplish great good. This is true if they are properly applied. It is also true that they are capable of great harm if improperly used. As we stand and gaze at the movements of the airplane, or contemplate its rapid flight from ocean to ocean and from land to land around the world, we are impressed with this great wonder of the age, the great achievement of the inventive power of man. But what of the gain to humanity? If it is possible to transport the mails from New York to San Francisco in sixteen hours instead of in five days, is there advantage in that except the quickening process of transportation and life? Is it not worth while to inquire what the man at the other end of the line is going to do by having his mail four days ahead? He will hurry up somebody else and somebody else will hurry the next one, and we only increase the rapidity of motion. Does it really give us more time for leisure, and if so, are we using that leisure time in the development of our reflective intellectual powers or our spiritual life? It is easier to see improvement in the case of the radio, whereby songs and lectures can be broadcast all over the earth, and the {21} community of life and the community of interest are developed thereby, and, also, the leisure hours are devoted to a contemplation of high ideals, of beautiful music, of noble thoughts. We do recognize a modicum of progress out of the great whirring, rapid changes in transportation and creative industry; but let us not be deceived by substituting change for progress, or making the two identical. Thus human progress is something more than achievement, and it is something more than the exhibition of tools. It is determined by the use of the tools and involves betterment of the human race. Hence, all the products of social heredity, of language, of science, of religion, of art, and of government are progressive in proportion as they are successfully used for individual and social betterment. For if government is used to enslave people, or science to destroy them, or religion to stifle them, there can be no progress. _Progress Expresses Itself in a Variety of Ideals and Aims_.--Progress involves many lines of development. It may include biological development of the human race, the development of man, especially his growth of brain power. It may consider man's adaptation to environment under different phases of life. It may consider the efficiency of bodily structure. In a cultural sense, progress may refer to the products of the industrial arts, or to the development of fine arts, or the advancement of religious life and belief--in fact, to the mastery of the resources of nature and their service to mankind in whatever form they may appear or in whatever phase of life they may be expressed. Progress may also be indicated in the improvement in social order and in government, and also the increased opportunity of the individual to receive culture through the process of mutual aid. In fact, progress must be sought for in all phases of human activity. Whatever phase of progress is considered, its line of demarcation is carefully drawn in the process of change from the old to the new, but the results of these changes will be the indices of either progress or retardation. {22} _Progress of the Part and Progress of the Whole_.--An individual might through hereditary qualities have superior mental traits or physical powers. These also may receive specific development under favorable educational environment, but the inertia of the group or the race might render ineffective a salutary use of his powers. A man is sometimes elected mayor of a town and devotes his energies to municipal betterment. But he may be surrounded by corrupt politicians and promoters of enterprises who hedge his way at every turn. Also, in a similar way, a group or tribe may go forward, and yet the products of its endeavor be lost to the world. Thus a productiveness of the part may be exhibited without the progress of the race. The former moves with concrete limitations, the latter in sweeping, cycling changes; but the latter cannot exist without the former, because it is from the parts that the whole is created, and it is the generalization of the accumulated knowledge or activities of the parts that makes it possible for the whole to develop. The evolution of the human race includes the idea of differentiation of parts and a generalization that makes the whole of progress. So it is not easy to determine the result of a local activity as progressive until its relation to other parts is determined, nor until other activities and the whole of life are determined. Local colorings of life may be so provincial in their view-point as to be practically valueless in the estimation of the degree and quality of progress. Certain towns, especially in rural districts not acquainted with better things, boast that they have the best school, the best court-house, the best climate--in fact, everything best. When they finally awaken from their local dream, they discover their own deficiencies. The great development of art, literature, philosophy, and politics among the ancient Greeks was inefficient in raising the great masses of the people to a higher plane of living, but the fruits of the lives of these superiors were handed on to other groups to utilize, and they are not without influence {23} over the whole human group of to-day. So, too, the religious mystic philosophy and literature of India represented a high state of mental development, but the products of its existence left the races of India in darkness because the mystic philosophy was not adaptable to the practical affairs of life. The Indian philosophers may have handed on ideas which caused admiration and wonder, but they have had very little influence of a practical nature on Western civilization. So society may make progress in either art, religion, or government for a time, and then, for the want of adaptation to the conditions imposed by progress, the effects may disappear. Yet not all is lost, for some achievements in the form of tools are passed on through social heredity and utilized by other races. In the long run it is the total of the progress of the race, the progress of the whole, that is the final test. _Social Progress Involves Individual Development_.--If we trace progress backward over the trail which it has followed, there are two lines of development more or less clearly defined. One is the improvement of the racial stock through the hereditary traits of individuals. The brain is enlarged, the body developed in character and efficiency, and the entire physical system has changed through variation in accordance with the laws of heredity. What we observe is development in the individual, which is its primary function. Progress in this line must furnish individuals of a higher type in the procession of the generations. The other line is through social heredity, that is the accumulated products of civilization handed down from generation to generation. This gives each succeeding generation a new, improved kit of tools, it brings each new generation into a better environment and surrounds it with ready-made means to carry on the improvement and add something for the use of the next generation. Knowledge of the arts and industries, language and books, are thus products of social heredity. Also buildings, machinery, roads, educational systems, and school buildings are inherited. Connected with these two methods of development must {24} be the discovery of the use of the human mind evidenced by the beginning of reflective thought. It is said by some writers that we are still largely in the age of instincts and emotions and have just recently entered the age of reason. Such positive statements should be considered with a wider vision of life, for one cannot conceive of civilization at all without the beginning of reflective mental processes. Simple inventions, like the use of fire, the bow-and-arrow, or the flint knife, may have come about primarily through the desire to accomplish something by subjecting means to an end, but in the perfection of the use of these things, which occurred very early in primitive life, there must have been reflective thinking in order to shape the knife for its purpose, make the bow-and-arrow more effective, and utilize fire for cooking, heating, and smelting. All of these must have come primarily through the individual initiative. Frequent advocates of social achievement would lead one to suppose that the tribe in need of some method of cutting should assemble and pass the resolution that a flint knife be made, when any one knows it was the reflective process of the individual mind which sought adaptation to environment or means to accomplish a purpose. Of course the philosopher may read many generalizations into this which may confuse one in trying to observe the simple fact, for it is to be deplored that much of the philosophy of to-day is a smoke screen which obscures the simple truth. The difference of races in achievement and in culture is traced primarily to hereditary traits developed through variation, through intrinsic stimuli, or those originating through so-called inborn traits. These traits enable some races to achieve and adapt themselves to their environment, and cause others to fail. Thus, some groups or races have perished because of living near a swamp infested with malaria-carrying mosquitoes or in countries where the food supply was insufficient. They lacked initiative to move to a more healthful region or one more bountiful in food products, or else they {25} lacked knowledge and skill to protect themselves against mosquitoes or to increase the food supply. Moreover, they had no power within them to seek the better environment or to change the environment for their own advancement. This does not ignore the tremendous influence of environment in the production of race culture. Its influence is tremendous, especially because environmental conditions are more under the direction of intelligence than is the development of hereditary traits. Some writers have maintained that there is no difference in the dynamic, mental, or physical power of races, and that the difference of races which we observe to-day is based upon the fact that some have been retarded by poor environment, and others have advanced because of fortunate environment. This argument is good as far as it goes, but it does not tell the whole story. It does not show why some races under good environment have not succeeded, while others under poor environment have succeeded well. It does not show why some races have the wit to change to a better environment or transform the old environment. There seems to be a great persistency of individual traits, of family traits, and, in a still larger generalization, of racial traits which culture fails to obliterate. As these differences of traits seem to be universal, it appears that the particular combination which gives motor power may also be a differentiation. At least, as all races have had the same earth, why, if they are so equal in the beginning, would they not achieve? Had they no inventive power? Also, when these so-called retarded races came in contact with the more advanced races who were superior in arts and industries, why did they not borrow, adapt, and utilize these productions? There must have been something vitally lacking which neither the qualities of the individual nor the stimulus of his surroundings could overcome. Some have deteriorated, others have perished; some have reached a stationary existence, while others have advanced. Through hereditary changes, nature played the {26} game in her own way with the leading cards in her own hand, and some races lost. Hence so with races, so with individuals. _Progress Is Enhanced by the Interaction of Groups and Races_.--The accumulation of civilization and the state of progress may be much determined by the interaction of races and groups. Just as individual personality is developed by contact with others, so the actions and reactions of tribes and races in contact bring into play the utility of discoveries and inventions. Thus, knowledge of any kind may by diffusion become a heritage of all races. If one tribe should acquire the art of making implements by chipping flint in a certain way, other tribes with which it comes in contact might borrow the idea and extend it, and thus it becomes spread over a wide area. However, if the original discoverer used the chipped flint for skinning animals, the one who would borrow the idea might use it to make implements of warfare. Thus, through borrowing, progress may be a co-operative process. The reference to people in any community reveals the fact that there are few that lead and many that follow; that there is but one Edison, but there are millions that follow Edison. Even in the educational world there are few inventors and many followers. This is evidence of the large power of imitation and adaptation and of the universal habit of borrowing. On the other hand, if one chemical laboratory should discover a high explosive which may be used in blasting rock for making the foundations for buildings, a nation might borrow the idea and use it in warfare for the destruction of man. Mr. Clark Wissler has shown in his book on _Man and Culture_ that there are culture areas originating from culture centres. From these culture centres the bow-and-arrow is used over a wide area. The domestication of the horse, which occurred in central Asia, has spread over the whole world. So stone implements of culture centres have been borrowed and exchanged more or less throughout the world. The theory is that one tribe or race invented one thing because of the {27} adaptability to good environment. The dominant necessity of a race stimulated man's inventive power, while another tribe would invent or discover some other new thing for similar reasons. But once created, not only could the products be swapped or traded, but, where this was impossible, ideas could be borrowed and adapted through imitation. However, one should be careful not to make too hasty generalizations regarding the similar products in different parts of the world, for there is such universality of the traits of the human mind that, with similar stages of advancement and similar environments, man's adaptive power would cause him to do the same thing in very much the same way. Thus, it is possible for two races that have had no contact for a hundred thousand years to develop indigenous products of art which are very similar. To illustrate from a point of contact nearer home, it is possible for a person living in Wisconsin and one in Massachusetts, having the same general environment--physical, educational, ethnic, religious--and having the same general traits of mind, through disconnected lines of differentiation, to write two books very much alike or two magazine articles very much alike. In the question of fundamental human traits subject to the same environmental stimuli, in a general way we expect similar results. With all this differentiation, progress as a whole represents a continuous change from primitive conditions to the present complex life, even though its line of travel leads it through the byways of differentiation. Just as the development of races has been through the process of differentiation from an early parent stock, cultural changes have followed the same law of progressive change. Just as there is a unity of the human race, there is a unity of progress that involves all mankind. _The Study of the Uncultured Races of To-Day_.--It is difficult to determine the beginnings of culture and to trace its slow development. In accomplishing this, there are two main methods of procedure; the first, to find the products or {28} remains of culture left by races now extinct, that is, of nations and peoples that have lived and flourished and passed away, leaving evidence of what they brought to the world; also, by considering what they did with the tools with which they worked, and by determining the conditions under which they lived, a general idea of their state of progress may be obtained. The second method is to determine the state of culture of living races of to-day who have been retarded or whose progress shows a case of arrested development and compare their civilization statistically observed with that of the prehistoric peoples whose state of progress exhibits in a measure similar characteristics to those of the living races. With these two methods working together, more light is continually being thrown upon man's ancient culture. To illustrate this, if a certain kind of tool or implement is found in the culture areas of the extinct Neanderthal race and a similar tool is used by a living Australian tribe, it may be conjectured with considerable accuracy that the use of this tool was for similar purposes, and the thoughts and beliefs that clustered around its use were the same in each tribe. Thus may be estimated the degree of progress of the primitive race. Or if an inscription on a cave of an extinct race showed a similarity to an inscription used by a living race, it would seem that they had the same background for such expression, and that similar instincts, emotions, and reflections were directed to a common end. The recent study of anthropologists and archaeologists has brought to light much knowledge of primitive man which may be judged on its own evidence and own merits. The verification of these early cultures by the living races who have reached a similar degree of progress is of great importance. _The Study of Prehistoric Types_.[1]--The brain capacity of modern man has changed little since the time of the Crô-Magnon race, which is the earliest ancestral type of present European races and whose existence dates back many {29} thousand years. Possibly the weight of the brain has increased during this period because of its development, and undoubtedly its power is much greater in modern man than in this ancient type. Prior to that there are some evidences of extinct species, such as Pithecanthropus Erectus, the Grimaldi man, the Heidelberg man, and the Neanderthal. Judging from the skeletal remains that have been found of these races, there has been a general progress of cranial capacity. It is not necessary here to attempt to determine whether this has occurred from hereditary combinations or through changing environment. Undoubtedly both of these factors have been potential in increasing the brain power of man, and if we were to go farther back by way of analogy, at least, and consider the Anthropoid ape, the animal most resembling man, we find a vast contrast in his cranial capacity as compared with the lowest of the prehistoric types, or, indeed, of the lowest types of the uncultured living races. Starting with the Anthropoid ape, who has a register of about 350 c.c., the Pithecanthropus about 900 c.c., and Neanderthal types registering as high as 1,620 c.c. of brain capacity, the best measures of the highest types of modern man show the brain capacity of 1,650 c.c. Specimens of the Crô-Magnon skulls show a brain capacity equal to that of modern man. There is a great variation in the brain capacity of the Neanderthal race as exhibited in specimens found in different centres of culture, ranging all the way from 1,296 c.c. to 1,620 c.c. Size is only one of several traits that determine brain power. Among others are the weight, convolutions, texture, and education. A small, compact brain may have more power than a larger brain relatively lighter. Also much depends upon the centres of development. The development of the frontal area, shown by the full forehead in connection with the distance above the ear (auditory meatus), in contrast with the development of the anterior lobes is indicative of power. It is interesting to note also that the progress of man as shown in the remnants of arts and industry corresponds in {30} development to the development of brain capacity, showing that the physical power of man kept pace with the mental development as exhibited in his mental power displayed in the arts and industries. The discoveries in recent times of the skeletons of prehistoric man in Europe, Africa, and America, and the increased collection of implements showing cultures are throwing new light on the science of man and indicating a continuous development from very primitive beginnings. _Progress Is Indicated by the Early Cultures_.--It is convenient to divide the early culture of man, based upon his development in art into the Paleolithic, or unpolished, and the Neolithic, or polished, Stone Ages.[2] The former is again divided into the Eolithic, Lower Paleolithic, and the Upper Paleolithic. In considering these divisions of relative time cultures, it must be remembered that the only way we have of measuring prehistoric time is through the geological method, based upon the Ice Ages and changes in the physical contour of the earth. In the strata of the earth, either in the late second inter-glacial period or at the beginning of the third, chipped rocks, or eoliths, are found used by races of which the Piltdown and Heidelberg species are representatives.[3] Originally man used weapons to hammer and to cut already prepared by nature. Sharp-edged flints formed by the crushing of rocks in the descent of the glaciers or by upheavals of earth or by powerful torrents were picked up as needed for the purpose of cutting. Wherever a sharp edge was needed, these natural implements were useful. Gradually man learned to carry the best specimens with him. These he improved by chipping the edges, making them more serviceable, or chipping the eolith, so as to grasp it more easily. This represents the earliest relic of the beginning of civilization through art. Eoliths of this kind are found in Egypt in the hills bordering the Nile Valley, in Asia and America, as well as in southern Europe. Perhaps at the same period of development man selected stones suitable for crushing bones or for other purposes when hammering {31} was necessary. These were gradually fashioned into more serviceable hammers. In the latter part of this period, known as the pre-Chellean, flint implements were considerably improved. In the Lower Paleolithic in the pre-Neanderthal period, including what is known as the Chellean, new forms of implements are added to the earlier beginnings. Almond-shaped flint implements, followed later by long, pointed implements, indicate the future development of the stone spear, arrowhead, knife, and axe. Also smaller articles of use, such as borers, scrapers, and ploughs, appeared. The edges of all implements were rough and uneven, and the forms very imperfect. _Industrial and Social Life of Primitive Man_.--In the industry of the early Neanderthal races (Acheulean) implements were increased in number and variety, being also more perfectly formed, showing the expansive art of man. At this period man was a hunter, having temporary homes in caves and shelters, which gradually became more or less permanent, and used well-fashioned implements of stone. At the close of the third interglacial period the climate was mild and moist, and mankind found the open glades suitable places for assemblages in family groups about the open fires; apparently the cooking of food and the making of implements and clothing on a small scale were the domestic occupations at this time. Hunting was the chief occupation in procuring food. The bison, the horse, the reindeer, the bear, the beaver, the wild boar had taken the place of the rhinoceros, the sabre-tooth tiger, and the elephant. Judging from the stage of life existing at this time, and comparing this with that of the lowest living races, we may safely infer that the family associations existed at this time, even though the habitations in caves and shelters were temporary.[4] "Yet, when at length rude huts they first devised, And fires and garments; and in union sweet Man wedded woman, the pure joys indulged {32} Of chaste connubial love, and children rose, The rough barbarians softened. The warm hearth Their frames so melted they no more could bear, As erst, th' uncovered skies. The nuptial bed Broke their wild vigor, and the fond caress Of prattling children from the bosom chased Their stern, ferocious manners." --LUCRETIUS, "ON THE NATURE OF THINGS." AFTER OSBORN. Thus the Lower Paleolithic merged into the Upper; with the appearance of the Mousterian, Augrignacian, Solutrian, Magdalenian, and Azilian cultures followed the most advanced stage of the Neanderthal race before its final disappearance. The list of tools and implements indicates a widening scope of civilization. For war and chase and fishing, for industry and domestic life, for art, sculpture, and engraving, and for ceremonial use, a great variety of implements of stone and bone survived the life of the races. Spears, daggers, knives, arrowheads, fish-hooks, and harpoons; hand-axes, drills, hammers, scrapers, planes, needles, pins, chisels, wedges, gravers, etchers, mortars, and pilasters; ceremonial staffs and wands--all are expressions of a fulness of industrial and social life not recognized in earlier races. Indications of religious ceremonies represent the changing mind, and the expression of mind in art suggests increased mental power. _Cultures Indicate the Mental Development of the Race_.--As the art and industry to-day represent the mental processes of man, so did these primitive cultures show the inventive skill and adaptive power in the beginnings of progress. Perhaps instinct, emotion, and necessity figured more conspicuously in the early period than reflective thought, while in modern times we have more design and more planning, both in invention and construction. Also the primitive social order was more an unconscious development, and lacked purpose and directing power in comparison with present life. {33} But there must have been inventors and leaders in primitive times, some brains more fertile than others, that made change and progress possible. Who these unknown geniuses were human records do not indicate. In modern times we single out the superiors and call them great. The inventor, the statesman, the warrior, the king, have their achievements heralded and recorded in history. The records of achievement of the great barbarous cultures, of the Assyrians, the Egyptians, and the Hebrews, centre around some king whose tomb preserves the only records, while in reality some man unknown to us was the real author of such progress as was made. The reason is that progress was so slow that the changes passed unnoticed, being the products of many minds, each adding its increment of change. Only the king or ruler who could control the mass mind and the mass labor could make sufficient spectacular demonstration worth recording, and could direct others to build a tomb or record inscriptions to perpetuate his name. _Men of Genius Cause the Mutations Which Permit Progress_.--The toiling multitudes always use the products of some inventive genius. Some individual with specialized mental traits plans something different from social usages or industrial life which changes tradition and modifies the customs and habits of the mass. Whether he be statesman, inventor, philosopher, scientist, discoverer, or military leader, he usually receives credit for the great progressive mutation which he has originated. There can be little progress without these few fertile brains, just as there could be little progress unless they were supported by the laborers who carry out the plans of the genius. While the "unknown man" is less conspicuous in the progress of the race in modern complex society, he is still a factor in all progress. _The Data of Progress_.--Evolution is not necessarily progress; neither is development progress; yet the factors that enter into evolution and development are essential to progress. The laws of differentiation apply to progress as well as to evolution. In the plant and animal life everywhere this law {34} obtains. In man it is subservient to the domination of intelligent direction, yet it is in operation all of the time. Some races are superior in certain lines, other races show superiority in other lines. Likewise, individuals exhibit differences in a similar way. Perhaps the dynamic physical or mental power of the individual or the race will not improve in itself, having reached its maximum. There is little hope that the brain of man will ever be larger or stronger, but it may become more effective through training and increased knowledge. Hence in the future we must look for achievement along co-operative and social lines. It is to social expansion and social perfection that we must look for progress in the future. For here the accumulated power of all may be utilized in providing for the welfare of the individual, who, in turn, will by his inventive power cause humanity to progress. The industrial, institutional, humanitarian, and educational machinery represents progress in action, but increased knowledge, higher ideals of life, broader concepts of truth, liberty of individual action which is interested in human life in its entirety, are the real indices of progress. SUBJECTS FOR FURTHER STUDY 1. Why do some races progress and others deteriorate? 2. Compare different communities to show to what extent environment determines progress. 3. Show how the airplane is an evidence of progress. The radio. The gasoline-engine. 4. Discuss the effects of religious belief on progress. 5. Is the mental capacity of the average American greater than the average of the Greeks at the time of their highest culture? 6. What are the evidences that man will not advance in physical and mental capacity? 7. Show that the improvement of the race will be through social activity. [1] See Chapter IV. [2] See Chapter III. [3] See Chapter IV. [4] See Chapter VI. {35} CHAPTER III METHODS OF RECOUNTING HUMAN PROGRESS _Difficulty of Measuring Progress_.--In its larger generalization, progress may move in a straight line, but it has such a variety of expression and so many tributary causes that it is difficult to reduce it to any classification. Owing to the difficulties that attend an attempt to recite all of the details of human progress, philosophers and historians have approached the subject from various sides, each seeking to make, by means of higher generalizations, a clear course of reasoning through the labyrinth of materials. By adopting certain methods of marking off periods of existence and pointing out the landmarks of civilization, they have been able to estimate more truly the development of the race. Civilization cannot be readily measured by time; indeed, the time interval in history is of little value save to mark order and continuity. It has in itself no real significance; it is merely an arbitrary division whose importance is greatly exaggerated. But while civilization is a continuous quantity, and cannot be readily marked off into periods without destroying its movement, it is necessary to make the attempt, especially in the study of ancient or prehistoric society; for any method which groups and classifies facts in logical order is helpful to the study of human progress. _Progress May Be Measured by the Implements Used_.--A very common method, based largely upon the researches of archaeologists, is to divide human society into four great periods, or ages, marked by the progress of man in the use of implements. The first of these periods is called the Stone Age, and embraces the time when man used stone for all {36} purposes in the industrial arts so far as they had been developed. For convenience this period has been further divided into the age of ancient or unpolished implements and the age of modern or polished implements. The former includes the period when rude implements were chipped out of flint or other hard stone, without much idea of symmetry and beauty, and with no attempt to perfect or beautify them by smoothing and polishing their rough surface. In the second period man learned to fashion more perfectly the implements, and in some instances to polish them to a high degree. Although the divisions are very general and very imperfect, they map out the great prehistoric era of man; but they must be considered as irregular, on account of the fact that the Stone Era of man occurred at different times in different tribes. Thus the inhabitants of North America were in the Stone Age less than two centuries ago, while some of the inhabitants of the South Sea Islands are in the Stone Age during the present century. It is quite remarkable that the use of stone implements was universal to all tribes and nations at some period of their existence. After the long use of stone, man gradually became acquainted with some of the metals, and subsequently discovered the method of combining copper with tin and other alloys to form bronze, which material, to a large extent, added to the implements already in use. The Bronze Age is the most hypothetical of all these divisions, as it does not appear to have been as universal as the Stone, on account of the difficulty of obtaining metals. The use of copper by the Indians of the Lake Superior region was a very marked epoch in their development, and corresponds to the Bronze Age of other nations, although their advancement in other particulars appears to be less than that of other tribes of European origin which used bronze freely. Bronze implements have been found in great plenty in Scandinavia and Peru, and to a limited extent in North America. They certainly mark a stage of progress in advance of that of the inhabitants of the Stone Age. Bronze {37} was the chief metal for implements throughout the early civilization of Europe. Following the age of bronze is the Iron Age, in which the advancement of man is especially marked. The bronze implements were at first supplemented in their use by those of iron. But gradually iron implements superseded the bronze. The Iron Age still is with us. Possibly it has not yet reached its highest point. Considering the great structures built of iron, and the excessive use of iron in machinery, implements, and furniture, it is easy to realize that we are yet in this great period. Though we continue to use stone more than the ancients and more bronze for decoration and ornament than they, yet both are subordinate to the use of iron. General as the above classification is, it helps in an indefinite way to give us a central idea of progress and to mark off, somewhat indefinitely, periods of development. _The Development of Art_.--Utility was the great purpose underlying the foundation of the industrial arts. The stone axe, or celt, was first made for a distinct service, but, in order to perfect its usefulness, its lines became more perfect and its surface more highly polished. So we might say for the spear-head, the knife, or the olla. Artistic lines and decorative beauty always followed the purpose of use. This could be applied to all of the products of man's invention to transform parts of nature to his use. On account of the durability of form, the attempt to trace the course of civilization by means of the development of the fine arts has met with much success. Though the idea of beauty is not essential to the preservation of man or to the making of the state, it has exerted a great influence in individual-building and in society-building. In our higher emotional natures aesthetic ideas have ruled with imperial sway. But primitive ideas of beauty appear to us very crude, and even repulsive. The adornment of person with bright though rudely colored garments, the free use of paint on the person, and the promiscuous use of jewelry, as {38} practised by the primitive peoples, present a great contrast to modern usage. Yet it is easy to trace the changes in custom and, moreover, to determine the origin of present customs. So also in representative art, the rude sketch of an elephant or a buffalo on ivory or stone and the finished picture by a Raphael are widely separated in genius and execution, but there is a logical connection between the two found in the slowly evolving human activities. The rude figure of a god moulded roughly from clay and the lifelike model by an Angelo have the same relations to man in his different states. The same comparison may be made between the low, monotonous moaning of the savage and the rapturous music of a Patti, or between the beating of the tom-tom and the lofty strains of a Mozart. _Progress Is Estimated by Economic Stages_.--The progress of man is more clearly represented by the successive economic stages of his life. Thus we have first the _primal nomadic_ period, in which man was a wanderer, subsisting on roots and berries, and with no definite social organization. This period, like all primary periods, is largely hypothetical. Having learned to capture game and fish, he entered what might be called the _fisher-hunter_ stage, although he was still a nomad, and rapidly spread over a large part of the earth's surface, wandering from forest to forest and from stream to stream, searching for the means of subsistence and clothing. When man learned to domesticate animals he made a great step forward and entered what is known as the _pastoral_ period, in which his chief occupation was the care of flocks and herds. This contributed much to his material support and quickened his social and intellectual movement. After a time, when he remained in one place a sufficient time to harvest a short crop, he began agriculture in a tentative way, while his chief concern was yet with flocks and herds. He soon became permanently settled, and learned more fully the art of agriculture, and then entered the permanent _agricultural_ stage. It was during this period that he made the most rapid advances in {39} the industrial arts and in social order. This led to more densely populated communities, with permanent homes and the necessary development of law and government. As the products of industry increased men began to exchange "the relatively superfluous for the relatively necessary," and trade in the form of barter became a permanent custom. This led to the use of money and a more extended system of exchange, and man entered the _commercial_ era. This gave him a wider intercourse with surrounding tribes and nations, and brought about a greater diversity of ideas. The excessive demand for exchangeable goods, the accumulation of wealth, and the enlarged capacity for enjoyment centred the activities of life in industry, and man entered the _industrial_ stage. At first he employed hand power for manufacturing goods, but soon he changed to power manufacture, brought about by discovery and invention. Water and steam were now applied to turn machinery, and the new conditions of production changed the whole industrial life. A revolution in industrial society caused an immediate shifting of social life. Classes of laborers in the great industrial army became prominent, and production was carried on in a gigantic way. We are still in this industrial world, and as electricity comes to the aid of steam we may be prepared for even greater changes in the future than we have witnessed in the past.[1] In thus presenting the course of civilization by the different periods of economic life, we must keep the mind free from conventional ideas. For, while the general course of economic progress is well indicated, there was a slow blending of each period into the succeeding one. There is no formal procedure in the progress of man. Yet we might infer from the way in which some writers present this matter that society moved forward in regular order, column after column. From the formal and forcible way in which they have presented the history of early society, one might imagine that a certain tribe, having become weary of tending cattle and goats, resolved one {40} fine morning to change from the pastoral life to agriculture, and that all of the tribes on earth immediately concluded to do the same, when, in truth, the change was slow and gradual, while the centuries passed away. It is well to consider that in the expanded industrial life of man the old was not replaced, but supplemented, by the new, and that after the pastoral stage was entered, man continued to hunt and fish, and that after formal agriculture was begun the tending of flocks and herds continued, and fishing was practised at intervals. But each succeeding occupation became for the time the predominant one, while others were relatively subordinate. Even to-day, while we have been rushing forward in recent years at a rapid rate, under the power of steam and electricity, agriculture and commerce have made marvellous improvement. Though we gain the new, nothing of the old is lost. The use of flocks and herds, as well as fish and game, increases each year, although not relatively. _Progress Is Through the Food Supply_.--This is only another view of the economic life. The first period is called the natural subsistence period, when man used such food as he found prepared for him by nature. It corresponds to the primal nomadic period of the last classification. From this state he advanced to the use of fish for food, and then entered the third period, when native grains were obtained through a limited cultivation of the soil. After this followed a period in which meat and milk were the chief articles of food. Finally the period of extended and permanent agriculture was reached, and farinaceous food by cultivation became the main support of life. The significance of this classification is observed in the fact that the amount, variety, and quality of the food available determine the possibility of man's material and spiritual advancement. As the food supply lies at the foundation of human existence, prosperity is measured to a large extent by the food products. The character of the food affects to a great extent the mental and moral capabilities of man; that is, it {41} limits the possibilities of civilization. Even in modern civilization the effect of poor food on intellect, morals, and social order is easily observed. _Progress Is Estimated by Different Forms of Social Order_.--It is only a more general way of estimating political life, and perhaps a broader way, for it includes the entire social development. By this classification man is first represented as wandering in a solitary state with the smallest amount of association with his fellows necessary to his existence and perpetuation, and with no social organization. This status of man is hypothetical, and gives only a starting point for the philosophy of higher development. No savage tribes have yet been discovered in which there was not at least association of individuals in groups, although organization might not yet have appeared. It is true that some of the lower tribes, like the Fuegians of South America, have very tentative forms of social and political association. They wander in loosely constructed groups, which constantly shift in association, being without permanent organization. Yet the purely solitary man is merely conjectural. It is common for writers to make a classification of social groups into primary and secondary.[2] The primary social groups are: first, the family based upon biological relations, supported by the habit of association; second, the play group of children, in which primitive characters of social order appear, and a third group is the association of adults in a neighborhood meeting. In the formation of these groups, the process of social selection is always in evidence. Impulse, feeling, and emotion play the greater parts in the formation of these primitive groups, while choice based on rational selection seldom appears. The secondary groups are those which originate through the differentiation of social functions in which the contact of individuals is less intimate than in the primary group. Such voluntary associations as a church, labor organization, or {42} scientific society may be classified as secondary in time and in importance. Next above the human horde is represented the forced association of men in groups, each group struggling for its own existence. Within the group there was little protection and little social order, although there was more or less authority of leadership manifested. This state finally led to the establishment of rudimentary forms of government, based upon blood relationship. These groups enlarged to full national life. This third stage finally passed to the larger idea of international usage, and is prospective of a world state. These four stages of human society, so sweeping in their generalization, still point to the idea of the slow evolution of social order. _The Development of Family Life_.--Starting with the hypothesis that man at one time associated in a state of promiscuity, he passed through the separate stages of polyandry and polygamy, and finally reached a state of monogamy and the pure home life of to-day. Those who have advocated this doctrine have failed to substantiate it clearly so as to receive from scholars the recognition of authority. All these forms of family life except the first have been observed among the savage tribes of modern life, but there are not sufficient data to prove that the human race, in the order of its development, must have passed through these four stages. However, it is true that the modern form of marriage and pure home life did not always exist, but are among the achievements of modern civilization. There certainly has been a gradual improvement in the relations of the members of the household, and notwithstanding the defects of faithlessness and ignorance, the modern family is the social unit and the hope of modern social progress. _The Growth of Political Life_.--Many have seen in this the only true measure of progress, for it is affirmed that advancement in civil life is the essential element of civilization. Its importance in determining social order makes it a central factor in all progress. The _primitive family_ represents the germ {43} of early political foundation. It was the first organized unit of society, and contained all of the rudimentary forms of government. The executive, the judicial, the legislative, and the administrative functions of government were all combined in one simple family organization. The head of the family was king, lord, judge, priest, and military commander all in one. As the family expanded it formed the _gens_ or _clan_, with an enlarged family life and more systematic family government. The religious life expanded also, and a common altar and a common worship were instituted. A slight progress toward social order and the tendency to distribute the powers of government are to be observed. Certain property was held in common and certain laws regulated the family life. The family groups continued to enlarge by natural increase and by adoption, all those coming into the gens submitting to its laws, customs, and social usage. Finally several gentes united into a brotherhood association called by the Greeks a _phratry_, by the Romans a _curia_. This brotherhood was organized on a common religious basis, with a common deity and a central place of worship. It also was used partially as the basis of military organization. This group represents the first unit based upon locality. From it spring the ward idea and the idea of local self-government. The _tribe_ represented a number of gentes united for religious and military purposes. Although its principal power was military, there were a common altar and a common worship for all members of the tribe. The chief, or head of the tribe, was the military leader, and usually performed an important part in all the affairs of the tribe. As the tribe became the seat of power for military operations, the gens remained as the foundation of political government, for it was the various heads of the gentes who formed the council of the chief or king and later laid the foundation of the senate, wherever instituted. It was common for the tribe in most instances to pass into a village community before developing full national life. There were exceptions to this, where tribes have passed directly into {44} well-organized groups without the formation of the village or the city. The _village community_, next in logical order, represents a group of closely related people located on a given territory, with a half-communal system of government. There were the little group of houses forming the village proper and representing the different homes of the family group. There were the common pasture-land, the common woodland, and the fertile fields for cultivation. These were all owned, except perhaps the house lot, by the entire community, and every year the tillable land was parcelled out by the elders of the community to the heads of families for tillage. Usually the tiller of the soil had a right to the crop, although among the early Greeks the custom seems to be reversed, and the individual owned the land, but was compelled to place its proceeds into a common granary. The village community represents the transition from a nomadic to a permanent form of government, and was common to all of the Aryan tribes. The federation of the village communities or the expansion of the tribes formed the Greek city-state, common to all of the Greek communities. It represents the real beginning of civic life among the nations. The old family organization continued to exist, although from this time on there was a gradual separation of the functions of government. The executive, legislative, and judicial processes became more clearly defined, and special duties were assigned to officers chosen for a particular purpose. Formal law, too, appeared as the expression of the will of a definitely organized community. Government grew more systematic, and expanded into a well-organized municipality. There was less separation of the duties of officers than now, but there was a constant tendency for government to unfold and for each officer to have his specific powers and duties defined. A deity watched over the city, and a common shrine for worship was set up for all members of the municipality. The next attempt to enlarge government was by federation {45} and by conquest and domination.[3] The city of Rome represents, first, a federation of tribal city groups, and, finally, the dominant city ruling over many other cities and much territory. From this it was only a step to the empire and imperial sway. Athens in her most prosperous period attempted to do the same, but was not entirely successful. After the decline of the Roman power there arose from the ruins of the fallen empire the modern nationalities, which used all forms of government hitherto known. They partook of democracy, aristocracy, or imperialism, and even attempted, in some instances, to combine the principles of all three in one government. While the modern state developed some new characteristics, it included the elements of the Greek and Roman governments. The relations of these new states developed a new code of law, based upon international relations. Though treaties were made between the Greeks and the Romans in their first international relations, and much earlier between the Hebrews and the Phoenicians, international law is of practically modern origin. At present modern nations have an extended and intricate code of laws governing their relations. It is an extension of government beyond the boundaries of nationality. Through commerce, trade, and political intercourse the nations of the Western World are drawn more closely together, and men talk of a world citizenship. A wide philanthropy, rapid and cheap transportation, the accompanying influences of travel, and a world market for the products of the earth, all tend to level the barriers of nationality and to develop universal citizenship. The prophets of our day talk of the coming world state, which is not likely to appear so long as the barriers of sea and mountain remain; yet each year witnesses a closer blending of the commercial, industrial, and political interests of all nations. Thus we see how governments have been evolved and national life expanded in accordance {46} with slowly developing civilization. Although good government and a high state of civilization are not wholly in the relation of cause and effect, they always accompany each other, and the progress of man may be readily estimated from the standpoint of the development of political institutions and political life. _Religion Important in Civilization_.--It is not easy to trace the development of man by a consideration of the various religious beliefs entertained at different periods of his existence. Yet there is unmistakably a line of constant development to be observed in religion, and as a rule its progress is an index of the improvement of the race. No one can contrast the religion of the ancient nations with the modern Christian religion without being impressed with the vast difference in conception and in practice existing between them. In the early period of barbarism, and even of savagery, religious belief was an important factor in the development of human society. It is no less important to-day, and he who recounts civilization without giving it a prominent place has failed to obtain a comprehensive view of the philosophy of human development. From the family altar of the Greeks to the state religion; from the rude altar of Abraham in the wilderness to the magnificent temple of Solomon at Jerusalem; from the harsh and cruel tenets of the Oriental religions to the spiritual conception and ethical practice of the Christian religion, one observes a marked progress. We need only go to the crude unorganized superstition of the savage or to the church of the Middle Ages to learn that the power and influence of religion is great in human society building. _The Progress Through Moral Evolution_.--The moral development of the race, although more difficult to determine than the intellectual, may prove an index to the progress of man. The first formal expression of moral practice is the so-called race morality or group morality, based upon mutual aid for common defense. This is found to-day in all organized groups, such as the boy gang, the Christian church, the political party, {47} the social set, the educational institution, and, indeed, the state itself; but wherever found it has its source in a very primitive group action. In the primitive struggle for existence man had little sympathy for his fellows, the altruistic sentiment being very feeble. But gradually through the influence of the family life sympathy widened and deepened in its onward flow until, joining with the group morality, it entered the larger world of ethical practice. This phase of moral culture had its foundation in the sympathy felt by the mother for her offspring, a sympathy that gradually extended to the immediate members of the household. As the family expanded into the state, human sympathy expanded likewise, until it became national in its significance. Through this process there finally came a world-wide philanthropy which recognizes the sufferings of all human beings. This sympathy has been rapidly increased by the culture of the intellect, the higher development of the sensibilities, and the refinement of the emotions; thus along the track of altruism or ethical development, which had its foundation in primitive life, with its ever widening and enlarging circles, the advancement of humanity may be traced. The old egoism, the savage warfare for existence, has been constantly tempered by altruism, which has been a saving quality in the human race. _Intellectual Development of Man_.--Some philosophers have succeeded in recounting human progress by tracing the intellectual development of the race. This is possible, for everything of value that has been done, and which has left a record, bears the mark of man's intellect. In the early period of his existence, man had sufficient intellect to direct his efforts to satisfy the common wants of life. This exercise of the intellectual faculty has accompanied man's every movement, but it is best observed in the products of his industry and the practice of social order. By doing and making, the intellect grows, and it is only by observing the phenomena of active life that we get a hint or trace of the powers and capacities of the mind. {48} But after man begins the process of reflective thinking, his intellectual activities become stronger, and it is much easier to trace his development by considering the condition of religion, law, philosophy, literature, sculpture, art, and architecture. These represent the best products of the mind, and it is along this intellectual highway that the best results of civilization are found. During the modern period of progressive life systematic education has forced the intellectual faculties through a more rapid course, giving predominance to intellectual life everywhere. The intellectual development of nations or the intellectual development of man in general is a theme of never-tiring interest, as it represents his noblest achievements. Man from the very beginning has had a desire for knowledge, to satisfy curiosity. Gradually, however, he had a desire to know in order to increase utility, and finally he reaches the highest state of progress in desiring to know for the sake of knowing. Thus he proceeds from mere animal curiosity to the idealistic state of discovering "truth for truth's sake." These are qualities not only of the individual in his development but of the racial group and, indeed, in a larger way of all mankind; intelligence developed in the attempt of man to discover the nature of the results of his instinctive, impulsive, or emotional actions. Later he sought causes of these results. Here we have involved increased knowledge as a basis of human action and the use of that knowledge through discriminating intelligence. The intellect thus represents the selective and directive process in the use of knowledge. Hence, intelligent behavior of the individual or of the group comes only after accumulated knowledge based on experience. The process of trial and error thus gives rise to reflective thinking. It is a superior use of the intellect that more than anything else distinguishes the adult from the child or modern man from the primitive. _Change from Savagery to Barbarism_.--Perhaps one of the broadest classifications of ancient society, based upon general characteristics of progress, makes the two general divisions of {49} savagery and barbarism, and subdivides each of these into three groups. The lowest status of savagery represents man as little above the brute creation, subsisting upon roots and berries, and with no knowledge of art or of social order. The second period, called the middle status of savagery, represents man using fire, and using fish for food, and having corresponding advancement in other ways. The upper status of savagery begins with the use of the bow-and-arrow and extends to the period of the manufacture and use of pottery. At this point the period of barbarism begins. Its lower status, beginning with the manufacture of pottery, extends to the time of the domestication of animals. The middle status includes not only the domestication of animals in the East but the practice of irrigation in the West and the building of walls from stone and adobe brick. The upper status is marked by the use of iron and extends to the introduction of the phonetic alphabet and literary composition. At this juncture civilization is said to dawn. "Commencing," says Mr. Morgan, the author of this classification, in his _Ancient Society_, "with the Australians and the Polynesians, following with the American Indian tribes, and concluding with the Roman and Grecian, which afford the best exemplification of the six great stages of human progress, the sum of their united experiences may be supposed to fairly represent that of the human family from the middle status of savagery to the end of the ancient civilization." By this classification the Australians would be placed in the middle status of savagery, and the early Greeks and Romans in the upper status of barbarism, while the Pueblo Indians of New Mexico would be placed in the middle status of barbarism. This is an excellent system for estimating the progress of ancient society, for around these initial periods may be clustered all of the elements of civilization. It is of especial value in the comparative study of different races and tribes. _Civilization Includes All Kinds of Human Progress_.--The above representation of the principal methods of recounting {50} civilization shows the various phases of human progress. Although each one is helpful in determining the progress of man from a particular point of view, none is sufficient to marshal all of the qualities of civilization in a completed order. For the entire field of civilization should include all the elements of progress, and this great subject must be viewed from every side before it can be fairly represented to the mind of the student. The true nature of civilization has been more clearly presented in thus briefly enumerating the different methods of estimating human progress. But we must remember that civilization, though continuous, is not uniform. The qualities of progress which are strong in one tribe or nation are weak in others. It is the total of the characteristics of man and the products of his activity that represents his true progress. Nations have arisen, developed, and passed away; tribes have been swept from the face of the earth before a complete development was possible; and races have been obliterated by the onward march of civilization. But the best products of all nations have been preserved for the service of others. Ancient Chaldea received help from central Asia; Egypt and Judea from Babylon; Greece from Egypt; Rome from Greece; and all Europe and America have profited from the culture of Greece and Rome and the religion of Judea. There may be a natural growth, maturity, and decay of nations, but civilization moves ever on toward a higher and more diversified life. The products of human endeavor arrange themselves on the side of man in his attempt to master himself and nature. TABLE SHOWING METHODS OF RECOUNTING HUMAN PROGRESS I. Method of the Kind of Implements Used. 1. Paleolithic, or Old Stone, Age. 2. Neolithic, or New Stone, Age. 3. Incidental use of copper, tin, and other metals. 4. The making of pottery. 5. The age of bronze. 6. The iron age. {51} II. Method by Art Development. 1. Primitive drawings in caves and engraving on ivory and wood. 2. The use of color in decoration of objects, especially in decoration of the body. 3. Beginnings of sculpture and carving figures, animals, gods, and men. 4. Pictorial representations--the pictograph. 5. Representative art in landscapes. 6. Perspective drawing. 7. Idealistic art. 8. Industrial arts. III. Method of Economic Stages. 1. The Nomadic Stage. 2. The Hunter-Fisher Stage. 3. The Pastoral Period. 4. The Agricultural Period. 5. The Commercial Period. 6. The Period of Industrial Organization. IV. Progress Estimated by the Food Supply. 1. Natural subsistence Period. 2. Fish and shell fish. 3. Cultivation of native grains. 4. Meat and milk. 5. Farinaceous foods by systematic agriculture. V. Method of Social Order. 1. Solitary state of man (hypothetical). 2. The human horde. 3. Small groups for purposes of association. 4. The secret society. 5. The religious cult. 6. Closely integrated groups for defense. 7. Amalgamated or federated groups. 8. The Race. VI. The Family Development. 1. State of promiscuity (hypothetical). 2. Polyandry. 3. Polygamy. 4. Patriarchal family with polygamy. 5. The Monogamic family. VII. Progress Measured by Political Organization. 1. The organized horde about religious ideas. {52} 2. The completed family organization. _a_. Family. _b_. Gens. _c_. The Phratry. _d_. Patriarchal family. _e_. Tribe. 3. The Ethnic state. 4. State formed by conflict and amalgamation. 5. International relations. 6. The World State (Idealistic). VIII. Religious Development. 1. Belief in spiritual beings. 2. Recognition of the spirit of man and other spirits. 3. Animism. 4. Anthropomorphic religion. 5. Spiritual concept of religion. 6. Ethnical religions. 7. Forms of religious worship and religious practice. IX. Moral Evolution. 1. Race morality (gang morality). 2. Sympathy for fellow beings. 3. Sympathy through blood relationship. 4. Patriotism: love of race and country. 5. World Ethics. X. Progress Through Intellectual Development. 1. Sensation and reflex action. 2. Instinct and emotion. 3. Impulse and adaptability. 4. Reflective thought. 5. Invention and discovery. 6. Rational direction of human life. 7. Philosophy. 8. Science. XI. Progress Through Savagery and Barbarism. 1. Lower status of savagery. 2. Middle status of savagery. 3. Upper status of savagery. 4. Lower status of barbarism. 5. Middle status of barbarism. 6. Upper status of barbarism. 7. Civilization (?). {53} SUBJECTS FOR FURTHER STUDY 1. In what other ways than those named in this chapter may we estimate the progress of man? 2. Discuss the evidences of man's mental and spiritual progress. 3. The relation of wealth to progress. 4. The relation of the size of population to the prosperity of a nation. 5. Enumerate the arguments that the next destructive war will destroy civilization. 6. In what ways do you think man is better off than he was one hundred years ago? One thousand years ago? 7. In what ways did the suffering caused by the Great War indicate an increase in world ethics? [1] See Chapter XXVII. [2] See Cooley, _Social Organization_, chap. III. [3] The transition from the ethnic state to the modern civic state was through conflict, conquest, and race amalgamation. {57} _PART II_ FIRST STEPS OF PROGRESS CHAPTER IV PREHISTORIC MAN _The Origin of Man Has not Yet Been Determined_.--Man's origin is still shrouded in mystery, notwithstanding the accumulated knowledge of the results of scientific investigation in the field and in the laboratory. The earliest historical records and relics of the seats of ancient civilization all point backward to an earlier period of human life. Looking back from the earliest civilizations along the Euphrates and the Nile that have recorded the deeds of man so that their evidences could be handed down from generation to generation, the earlier prehistoric records of man stretch away in the dim past for more than a hundred thousand years. The time that has elapsed from the earliest historical records to the present is only a few minutes compared to the centuries that preceded it. Wherever we go in the field of knowledge, we shall find evidences of man's great antiquity. We know at least that he has been on earth a long, long period. As to the method of his appearance, there is no absolutely determining evidence. Yet science has run back into the field of conjecture with such strong lines that we may assume with practical certainty something of his early life. He stands at the head of the zoological division of the animal kingdom. The Anthropoid Ape is the animal that most nearly resembles man. It might be said to stand next to man in the procession of species. So far as our knowledge can ascertain, it appears that man was developed in the same manner as the higher types in the animal and vegetable world, namely, by the process of evolution, and by evolution we mean continuous progressive change according to law, from external and internal stimuli. The process of evolution is not a process of creation, nor does evolution move in {58} a straight line, but through the process of differentiation. In no other way can one account for the multitudes of the types and races of the human being, except by this process of differentiation which is one of the main factors of evolution. Accompanying the process of differentiation is that of specialization and integration. When types become highly specialized they fail to adapt themselves to new environments, and other types not so highly specialized prevail. So far as the human race is concerned, it seems to be evolved according to the law of sympodial development--that is, a certain specialized part of the human race develops certain traits and is limited in its adaptability to a specific environment. Closely allied with this are some individuals or groups possessing human traits that are less highly specialized, and hence are adaptable to new conditions. Under new conditions the main stem of development perishes and the budded branch survives. We have abundant pictures of this in prehistoric times, and records show that this also has been the common lot of man. Modern man thus could not have been developed from any of the living species of the Anthropoid Apes, but he might have had a common origin in the physical, chemical, and vital forces that produced the apes. One line of specialization made the ape, another line made man. Subsequently the separation of man into the various races and species came about by the survival of some races for a time, and then to be superseded by a branch of the same race which differentiated in a period of development before high specialization had taken place. _Methods of Recounting Prehistoric Time_.[1]--Present time is measured in terms of centuries, years, months, weeks, days, hours, minutes, and seconds, but the second is the determining power of mechanical measurement, though it is derived mainly by the movement of the earth around the sun and the turning of the earth on its axis. Mechanically we have derived the second as the unit. It is easy for us to think in hours or days or weeks, though it may be the seconds tick off unnoticed {59} and the years glide by unnoticed; but it is difficult to think in centuries--more difficult in millions of years. The little time that man has been on earth compared with the creation of the earth makes it difficult for us to estimate the time of creation. The much less time in the historical period makes it seem but a flash in the movement of the creation. ====================================================================== TWENTY-FOUR-HOUR DIAL ILLUSTRATING HUMAN CHRONOLOGY[2] Twenty-five thousand years equals one hour [Illustration: Twenty-four hour dial] Age of modern man 10,000 years = less than half an hour. Age of Crô-Magnon type 25,000 years = one hour. Age of Neanderthal type 50,000 years = two hours. Age of Piltdown type 150,000 years = six hours. Age of Heidelberg type 375,000 years = fifteen hours. Age of Pithecanthropus 500,000 years = twenty hours. Beginning of Christian era 2,000 years = 4.8 minutes. Discovery of America 431 years = about 1 minute. Declaration of Independence 137 years = about 21 seconds. ====================================================================== There are four main methods of determining prehistoric {60} time.[3] One is called the (1) _geologic method_, which is based upon the fact that, in a slowly cooling earth and the action of water and frost, cold and heat, storm and glacier and volcanic eruption, the rocks on the earth are of different ages. If they had never been disturbed from where they were first laid down, it would be very easy to reckon time by geological processes. If you had a stone column twenty feet high built by a machine in ten hours' time, and granting that it worked uniformly, it would be easy to see just at what hour of the period a layer of stone four feet from the bottom, or ten feet from the top, was laid. If, however, in the building of the wall, it should have toppled over several times and had to be rebuilt, it would require considerable study to see just at what hour a certain stone was put in the wall. Studying the geology of the earth in a large way, it is easy to determine what strata of the earth are oldest, and this may be verified by a consideration of the process in which these rocks were being made. Chemistry and physics are thus brought to the aid of geology. It is easy to determine whether a rock has been fused by a fire or whether it has been constructed by the slow action of water and pressure of other rocks. If to-day we should find in an old river bed which had been left high and dry on a little mesa or plateau above the present river bottom, layers of earth that had been put down by water, and we could find how much of each layer was made in a single year, it would be easy to estimate the number of years it took to make the whole deposit. Also if we could find in the lowest layer certain relics of the human race, we could know that the race lived at that time. If we should find relics later on of a different nature, we should be able to estimate the progress of civilization. The second method is of (2) _paleontology_, which is developed along with geology. In this we have both the vertebrate and invertebrate paleontology, which are divisions of the science which treats of ancient forms of animal and vegetable life. There are many other divisions of paleontology, some {61} devoting themselves entirely to animal life and others to vegetable, as, for instance, paleobotany. As plants and animals have gradually developed from lower to higher forms and the earth has been built gradually by formations at different periods of existence, by a comparison of the former development with the latter, that is, comparison with the earth, or inorganic, development to the life, or organic, development, we are enabled to get a comparative view of duration. Thus, if in a layer of earth, geological time is established and there should be found bones of an animal, the bones of a man, and fossilized forms of ancient plants, it would be easy to determine their relative ages. The third method is that of (3) _anatomy_, which is a study of the comparative size and shape of the bones of man and other animals as a method of showing relative periods of existence. Also, just as the structure of the bones of a child, as compared with that of a man, would determine their relative ages, so the bones of the species that have been preserved through fossilization may show the relative ages of different types of animals. The study of the skeletons of animals, including those of man, has led to the science of anthropometry. The fourth method is to study the procession of man by (4) _cultures_, or the industrial and ornamental implements that have been preserved in the river drift, rocks, and caves of the earth from the time that man used them until they were discovered. Just as we have to-day models of the improvement of the sewing-machine, the reaper, or the flying-machine, each one a little more perfect, so we shall find in the relics of prehistoric times this same gradual development--first a stone in its natural state used for cutting, then chipped to make it more perfect, and finally beautified in form and perfected by polishing. Thus we shall find progress from the natural stone boulder used for throwing and hammering, the developed product made by chipping and polishing the natural boulder, making it more useful and more beautiful, and so for all the {62} multitude of implements used in the hunt and in domestic affairs. Not only do we have here an illustration of continuous progress in invention and use, but also an adaptation of new material, for we pass from the use of stone to that of metals, probably in the prehistoric period, although the beginnings of the use of bronze and iron come mainly within the periods of historical records. It is not possible here to follow the interesting history of the glacial movement, but a few words of explanation seem necessary. The Ice Age, or the glacial period, refers to a span of time ranging from 500,000 years ago, at the beginning of the first glaciation, to the close of the post-glacial period, about 25,000 years ago. During this period great ice caps, ranging in the valleys and spreading out on the plains over a broad area, proceeded from the north of Europe to the south, covering at the extreme stages nearly the entire surface of the continent. This great movement consists of four distinct forward movements and their return movements. There is evidence to show that before the south movement of the first great ice cap, a temperate climate extended very far toward the pole and gave opportunity for vegetation now extinct in that region. But as the river of ice proceeded south, plants and animals retreated before it, some of them changing their nature to endure the excessive cold. Then came a climatic change which melted the ice and gradually drove the margin of the glacier farther north. Immediately under the influence of the warm winds the vegetation and animals followed slowly at a distance the movement of the glacier. Then followed a long inter-glacial period before the southerly movement of the returning ice cap. This in turn retreated to the north, and thus four separate times this great movement, one of the greatest geological phenomena of the earth, occurred, leaving an opportunity to study four different glacial periods with three warmer interglacial and one warm post-glacial. This movement gave great opportunity for the study of {63} geology, paleontology, and the archeology of man. That is, the story of the relationship of the earth to plant, animal, and man was revealed. The regularity of these movements and the amount of material evidence found furnish a great opportunity for measuring geological time movements and hence the life of plants and animals, including man. The table on page 64 will contribute to the clearness of this brief statement about the glacial periods. ====================================================================== {64} THE ICE AGE IN EUROPE[5] Geological time-unit 25,000 years RELA- TIVE TOTAL TIME TIME HUMAN ANIMAL AND GLACIERS UNIT YRS. YRS. LIFE PLANT LIFE ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- Post-Glacial 1 25,000 25,000 Crô-Magnon Horse, Stag, Rein- Daum Azilian deer, Musk-Ox, Geschintz Magdalenian Arctic Fox, Pine, Bühl Solutrian Birch, Oak Aurignacian ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- 4th Glacial 1 25,000 50,000 Mousterian Reindeer, period of Wurm Ice Neanderthal Tundra, Alpine, Steppe, Meadow ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- Q 3d Inter- 4 100,000 150,000 Pre-Neander- Last warm Asiatic U glacial thal and African ani- A Piltdown mals R --------------------------------------------------------------------------- T 3d Glacial 1 25,000 175,000 Woolly Mammoth, E Riss Rhinoceros, R Reindeer N --------------------------------------------------------------------------- A 2d Inter- 8 200,000 375,000 Heidelberg African and Asiatic R glacial Race Animals, Ele- Y Mindel-Riss phant, Hippo- potamus ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- 2d Glacial 1 25,000 400,000 Cold weather Mindel animals ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- 1st Inter- 3 75,000 475,000 Pithecan- Hippopotamus, glacial thropus Elephant, Afri- Erectus can and Asiatic plants ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- 1st Glacial 1 25,000 500,000 ============================================================================= T E R T I A R Y ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- ====================================================================== _Prehistoric Types of the Human Race_.--The earliest record of human life yet discovered is the _Pithecanthropus Erectus_ (Trinil), the apelike man who walked upright, found in Java by Du Bois, about the year 1892. Enough of the skeletal remains of human beings were found at this time to indicate a man of rather crude form and low brain capacity (about 885 c.c.), with possible powers of speech but with no probably developed language or no assumption of the acquaintance with the arts of life.[4] The remains of this man associated with the remains of one other skeleton, probably a woman, and with the bones of extinct animals, were found in a geological stratum which indicates his age at about 500,000 years. Professor McGregor, after a careful anatomical study, has reproduced the head and bust of Pithecanthropus, which helps us to visualize this primitive species as of rather low cultural type. The low forehead, massive jaw, and receding chin give us a vision of an undeveloped species of the human race, in some respects not much above the anthropoid apes, yet in other characters distinctly human. There follows a long interval of human development which is only conjectural until the discovery of the bones of the Heidelberg man, found at the south of the River Neckar. These are the first records of the human race found in southern Europe. The type of man is still apelike in some respects, but far in advance of the Pithecanthropus in structure and general appearance. The restoration by the Belgian artist Mascré {65} under the direction of Professor A. Rotot, of Brussels, is indicative of larger brain capacity than the Trinil race. It had a massive jaw, distinctive nose, heavy arched brows, and still the receding chin. Not many cultural remains were found in strata of the second interglacial period along with the remains of extinct animals, such as the ancient elephant, Etruscan rhinoceros, primitive bison, primitive ox, Auvergne bear, and lion. A fauna and a flora as well as a geological structure were found which would indicate that this race existed at this place about 375,000 years ago. From these evidences very little may be determined of the Heidelberg man's cultural development, but much may be inferred. Undoubtedly, like the Pithecanthropus, he was a man without the tools of civilization, or at least had not developed far in this way. About 150,000 years ago there appeared in Europe races of mankind that left more relics of their civilization.[6] These were the Neanderthaloid races. There is no evidence of the connection of these races with the Java man or the Heidelberg man. Here, as elsewhere in the evolution of races and species, nature does not work in a straight line of descent, but by differentiation and variation. In 1856 the first discovery of a specimen of the Neanderthal man was found at the entrance of a small ravine on the right bank of the River Dussel, in Rhenish Prussia. This was the first discovery of the Paleolithic man to cause serious reflection on the possibility of a prehistoric race in Europe. Its age is estimated at 50,000 years. This was followed by other discoveries of the Mid-Pleistocene period, until there were a number of discoveries of similar specimens of the Neanderthal race, varying in some respects from each other. The first had a brain capacity of 1230 c.c., while that of the average European is about 1500 c.c. Some of the specimens showed a skull capacity larger than the first specimen, but the average is lower than that of any living race, unless it be that of the Australians. {66} Later were discovered human remains of a somewhat higher type, known as the Aurignacian, of the Crô-Magnon race. These are probably ancestors of the living races of Europe existing 25,000 to 50,000 years ago. They represent the first races to which may be accorded definite relationship with the recent races. Thus we have evidences of the great antiquity of man and a series of remains showing continual advancement over a period of nearly 500,000 years--the Pithecanthropus, Heidelberg, Piltdown, and Neanderthal, though expressing gradations of development in the order named, appear to be unrelated in their origin and descent, and are classed as separate species long since extinct. The Crô-Magnon people seem more directly related to modern man. Perhaps in the Neolithic Age they may have been the forebears of present races, either through direct or indirect lines. _The Unity of the Human Race_.--Though there are evidences, as shown above, that there were many branches of the human race, or species, some of which became extinct without leaving any records of the passing on of their cultures to others, there is a pretty generally concerted opinion that all branches of the human race are related and have sprung from the same ancestors. There have been differences of opinion regarding this view, some holding that there are several centres of development in which the precursor of man assumed a human form (polygenesis), and others holding that according to the law of differentiation and zoological development there must have been at some time one origin of the species (monogenesis). So far as the scientific investigation of mankind is concerned, it is rather immaterial which theory is accepted. We know that multitudes of tribes and races differ in minor parts of structure, differ in mental capacity, and hence in qualities of civilization, and yet in general form, brain structure, and mental processes, it is the same human being wherever found. So we may assume that there is a unity of the race. If we consider the human race to have sprung from a single {67} pair, or even the development of man from a single species, it must have taken a long time to have developed the great marks of racial differences that now exist. The question of unity or plurality of race origins has been much discussed, and is still somewhat in controversy, although the predominance of evidence is much in favor of the descent of man from a single species and from a single place. The elder Agassiz held that there were several separate species of the race, which accounts for the wide divergence of characteristics and conditions. But it is generally admitted from a zoological standpoint that man originated from a single species, although it does not necessarily follow that he came from a single pair. It is the diversity or the unity of the race from a single pair which gives rise to the greatest controversy. There is a wide diversity of opinion among ethnologists on this question. Agassiz was followed by French writers, among whom were Topinard and Hervé, who held firmly to the plurality of centres of origin and distribution. Agassiz thought there were at least nine centres in which man appeared, each independent of the others. Morton thought he could point out twenty-two such centres, and Nott and Gliddon advanced the idea that there were distinct races of people. But Darwin, basing his arguments upon the uniformity of physical structure and similarity of mental characteristics, held that man came from a single progenitor. This theory is the most acceptable, and it is easily explained, if we admit time enough for the necessary changes in the structure and appearance of man. It is the simplest hypothesis that is given, and explains the facts relative to the existence of man much more easily than does the theory in reference to diversity of origins. The majority of ethnologists of America and Europe appear to favor the idea that man came from a single pair, arose from one place, and spread thence over the earth's surface. _The Primitive Home of Man May Be Determined in a General Way_.--The location of the cradle of the race has not {68} yet been satisfactorily established. The inference drawn from the Bible story of the creation places it in or near the valley of the Euphrates River. Others hold that the place was in Europe, and others still in America. A theory has also been advanced that a continent or group of large islands called Lemuria, occupying the place where the Indian Ocean now lies, and extending from Ceylon to Madagascar, was the locality in which the human race originated. The advocates of this theory hold to it chiefly on the ground that it is necessary to account for the peopling of Australia and other large islands and continents, and that it is the country best fitted by climate and other physical conditions for the primitive race. This submerged continent would enable the races to migrate readily to different parts of the world, still going by dry land. There is little more than conjecture upon this subject, and the continent called Lemuria is as mythical as the Ethiopia of Ptolemy and the Atlantis of Plato. It is a convenient theory, as it places the cradle of the race near the five great rivers, the Tigris, Euphrates, Indus, Ganges, and the Nile. The supposed home also lies in a zone in which the animals most resembling man are found, which is an important consideration; as, in the development of the earth, animals appeared according to the conditions of climate and food supply, so the portion of the earth best prepared for man's early life is most likely to be his first home. Although it is impossible to determine the first home of man, either from a scientific or an historical standpoint, there are a few well-acknowledged theories to be observed: First, as the islands of the ocean were not peopled when first discovered by modern navigators, it is reasonable to suppose that the primitive home of man was on one of the continents. As man is the highest and last development of organic nature, it is advocated, with considerable force of argument, that his first home was in a region suitable to the life of the anthropoid apes. As none of these, either living or fossil, are found in Australia or America, these continents are practically excluded from the probable list of places for the early home of man. {69} In considering the great changes which have taken place in the earth's surface, southern India and southern Africa were large islands at the time of man's appearance; hence, there is little probability of either of these being the primitive home. None of the oldest remains of man have been found in the high northern latitudes of Europe or America. We have then left a strip of country on the southern slope of the great mountain chain which begins in western Europe and extends to the Himalaya Mountains, in Asia, which appears to be the territory in which was situated the early home of man. The geological relics and the distribution of the race both point to the fact that in this belt man's life began; but it is not determined whether it was in Europe or in Asia, there being adherents to both theories. _The Antiquity of Man Is Shown in Racial Differentiation_.--Granted that the life of the human race has originated from a common biological origin and from a common geographical centre, it has taken a very long time for the races to be differentiated into the physical traits they possess to-day, as it has taken a long time for man to spread over the earth. The generalized man wandering along the streams and through the forests in search of food, seeking for shelter under rocks and in caves and trees, was turned aside by the impassable barriers of mountains, or the forbidding glacier, the roaring torrent, or the limits of the ocean itself, and spread over the accessible parts of the earth's surface until he had covered the selected districts on the main portions of the globe. Then came race specialization, where a group remained a long time in the same environment and inbred in the same stock, developing specialized racial characters. These changes were very slow, and the wide difference to-day between the Asiatic, the African, and the European is indicative of the long period of years which brought them about. Certainly, six thousand years would not suffice to make such changes. Of course one must realize that just as, in the period of childhood, the plastic state of life, changes of structure and appearance are more rapid than in the mature man, after {70} traits and characters have become more fixed, so by analogy we may assume that this was the way of the human race and that in the earlier period changes were more rapid than they are to-day. Thus in the cross-fertilizations and amalgamation of races we would expect a slower development than under these earlier conditions, yet when we realize the persistence of the types of Irish and German, of Italian and Greek, of Japanese and Chinese, even though the races become amalgamated, we must infer that the racial types were very slow in developing. If we consider the variations in the structure and appearance of the several tribes and races with which we come in contact in every-day life, we are impressed with the amount of time necessary to make these changes. Thus the Anglo-American, whom we sometimes call Caucasian, taken as one type of the perfection of physical structure and mental habit, with his brown hair, having a slight tendency to curl, his fair skin, high, prominent, and broad forehead, his great brain capacity, his long head and delicately moulded features, contrasts very strongly with the negro, with his black skin, long head, with flat, narrow forehead, thick lips, projecting jaw, broad nose, and black and woolly hair. The Chinese, with his yellow skin, flat nose, black, coarse hair, and oblique, almond-shaped eyes, and round skull, marks another distinct racial type. Other great races have different characteristics, and among our own race we find a further separation into two great types, the blonds and the brunettes. What a long period of time must have elapsed to have changed the racial characteristics! From pictures made three thousand years ago in Egypt the differences of racial characteristics were very clearly depicted in the hair, the features of the face, and, indeed, the color of the skin. If at this period the racial differences were clearly marked, at what an early date must they have been wanting! So, also, the antiquity of man is evinced in the fact that the oldest skeletons found show him at that early period to be in possession of an average {71} brain capacity and a well-developed frame. If changes in structure have taken place, they have gradually appeared only during a long period of years. Yet, when it is considered that man is a migratory creature, who can adapt himself to any condition of climate or other environment, and it is realized that in the early stage of his existence his time was occupied for a long period in hunting and fishing, and that from this practice he entered the pastoral life to continue, to a certain extent, his wanderings, it is evident that there is sufficient opportunity for the development of independent characteristics. Also the effects of sun and storm, of climate and other environments have a great influence in the slow changes of the race which have taken place. The change in racial traits is dependent largely upon biological selection, but environment and social selection probably had at least indirect influence in the evolution of racial characters. _The Evidences of Man's Ancient Life in Different Localities_.--The sources of the remains of the life of primitive man are (1) Caves, (2) Shell Mounds, (3) River and Glacial Drift, (4) Burial Mounds, (5) Battlefields and Village Sites, and (6) Lake Dwellings. It is from these sources that most of the evidence of man's early life has come. _Caves_ (1).--It has been customary to allude to the cave man as if he were a distinct species or group of the human race, when in reality men at all times through many thousands of years dwelt in caves according to their convenience. However, there was a period in European life when groups of the human race used caves for permanent habitations and thus developed certain racial types and habits. Doubtless these were established long enough in permanent seats to develop a specialized type which might be known as the cave man, just as racial types have been developed in other conditions of habitation and life. What concerns us most here is that the protection which the cave afforded this primitive man has been a means of protecting the records of his life, and thus added to the evidence of human progress. Many of these {72} caves were of limestone with rough walls and floor, and in most instances rifts in the roof allowed water to percolate and drop to the floor. Frequently the water was impregnated with limestone solution, which became solidified as each drop left a deposit at the point of departure. This formed rough stalactites, which might be called stone icicles, because their formation was similar to the formation of an icicle of the water dropping from the roof. So likewise on the floor of the cave where the limestone solution dropped was built up from the bottom a covering of limestone with inverted stone icicles called stalagmites. Underneath the latter were found layer after layer of relics from the habitation of man, encased in stone to be preserved forever or until broken into by some outside pressure. Of course, comparatively few of all the relics around these habitations were preserved, because those outside of the stone encasement perished, as did undoubtedly large masses of remains around the mouth of the cave. In these caves of Europe are found the bones of man, flint implements, ornaments of bone with carvings, and the necklaces of animals' teeth, along with the bones of extinct animals. In general the evidence shows the habits of the life of man and also the kind of animals with which he associated whose period of life was determined by other evidence. Besides this general evidence, there was a special determination of the progress of man, because the relics were in layers extending over a long period of years, giving evidence that from time to time implements of higher order were used, either showing progress or that different races may have occupied the cave at different times and left evidences of their industrial, economic, and social life. In some of the caves skulls have been discovered showing a brain case of an average capacity, along with others of inferior size. Probably the greater part of this cave life was in the upper part of the Paleolithic Stone Age. In some of these caves at the time of the Magdalenian {73} culture, which was a branch of the Crô-Magnon culture, there are to be found drawings and paintings of the horse, the cave bear, the mammoth, the bison, and many other animals, showing strong beginnings of representative art. Also, in these caves were found bones and stone implements of a more highly finished product than those of the earlier primitive types of Europe. _Shell Mounds_ (2).--Shell mounds of Europe and America furnish definite records of man's life. The shell mounds of greatest historic importance are found along the shores of the Baltic in Denmark. Here are remains of a primitive people whose diet seems to be principally shell-fish obtained from the shores of the sea. Around their kitchens the shells of mussels, scallops, and oysters were piled in heaps, and in these shell mounds, or Kitchenmiddens, as they are called (Kjokkenmoddings), are found implements, the bones of birds and mammals, as well as the remains of plants. Also, by digging to the bottom of these mounds specimens of pottery are found, showing that the civilization belonged largely to the Neolithic period of man. There are evidences also of the succession of the varieties of trees corresponding to the evidences found in the peat bogs, the oak following the fir, which in turn gave way to the beech. These refuse heaps are usually in ridgelike mounds, sometimes hundreds of yards in length. The weight of the millions of shells and other refuse undoubtedly pressed the shells down into the soft earth and still the mound enlarged, the habitation being changed or raised higher, rather than to take the trouble to clear away the shells from the habitation. The variety of implements and the degrees of culture which they exhibit give evidence that men lived a long time in this particular locality. Undoubtedly it was the food quest that caused people to assemble here. The evidences of the coarse, dark pottery, the stone axes, clubs, and arrow-heads, and the bones of dogs show a state of civilization in which differentiation of life existed. Shell mounds are also found along the {74} Pacific coast, showing the life of Indians from the time when they first began to use shell-fish for food. In these mounds implements showing the relative stages of development have been found. _River and Glacial Drift_ (3).--The action of glaciers and glacial rivers and lakes has through erosion changed the surface of the soil, tearing out some parts of the earth's surface and depositing the soil elsewhere. These river floods carried out bones of man and the implements in use, and deposited them, together with the bones of animals with which he lived. Many of these relics have been preserved through thousands of years and frequently are brought to light. The geological records are thus very important in throwing light upon the antiquity of man. It is in the different layers or strata of the earth caused by these changes that we find the relics of ancient life. The earth thus reveals in its rocks and gravel drift the permanent records of man's early life. Historical geology shows us that the crust of the earth has been made by a series of layers, one above the other, and that the geologist determining the order of their creation has a means of ascertaining their relative age, and thus can measure approximately the life of the plants and animals connected with each separate layer.[7] The relative ages of fishes, reptiles, and mammals, including man, are thus readily determined. It is necessary to refer to the method of classification adopted by geologists, who have divided the time of earth-making into three great periods, representing the growth of animal life, determined by the remains found in the strata or drift. These periods mark general portions of time. Below the first is the period of earliest rock formation (Archaean), in which there is no life, and which is called Azoic for that reason. There is a short period above this, usually reckoned as outside the ancient life, on account of the few forms of animals found there; but the first great period (Paleozoic) represents non-vertebrate life, as well as the life of fishes and reptiles, and includes {75} also the coal measures, which represent a period of heavy vegetation. The middle period (Mesozoic) includes the more completely developed lizards and crocodiles, and the appearance of mammals and birds. The animal life of the third period (Cenozoic) resembles somewhat the modern species. This period includes the Tertiary and the Quaternary and the recent sub-periods. Man, the highest being in the order of creation, appears in the Quaternary period. Of the immense ages of time represented by the geological periods the life of man represents but a small portion, just as the existence of man as recorded in history is but a modern period of his great life. The changes, then, which have taken place in the animals and plants and the climate in the different geological periods have been instrumental in determining the age of man; that is, if in a given stratum human remains are found, and the relative age of that stratum is known, it is easy to estimate the relative age of man. Whether man existed prior to the glacial epoch is still in doubt. Some anthropologists hold that he appeared at the latter part of the Tertiary, that is, in the Pliocene. Reasons for assumption exist, though there is not sufficient evidence to make it conclusive. The question is still in controversy, and doubtless will be until new discoveries bring new evidence. If there is doubt about the finding of human relics in the Tertiary, there is no doubt about the evidence of man during the Quaternary, including the whole period of the glacial epoch, extending 500,000 years into the past. The relics of man which are found in the drift and elsewhere are the stone implements and the flakes chipped from the flint as he fashioned it into an axe, knife, or hatchet. The implements commonly found are arrow-heads, knives, lance-heads, pestles, etc. Human bones have been found imbedded in the rock or the sand. Articles made of horn, bones of animals, especially the reindeer, notched or cut pieces of wood have been found. Also there are evidences of rude drawings on stone, bone, or ivory; fragments of charcoal, which give {76} evidence of the use of fire in cooking or creating artificial heat, are found, and long bones split longitudinally to obtain marrow for food, and, finally, the remnants of pottery. These represent the principal relics found in the Stone Age; to these may be added the implements in bronze and iron of later periods. A good example of the use of these relics to determine chronology is shown in the peat bogs of Denmark. At the bottom are found trees of pine which grew on the edges of the bog and have fallen in. Nearer the top are found oak and white birch-trees, and in the upper layer are found beech-trees closely allied to the species now covering the country. The pines, oaks, and birches are not to be seen in that part of the country at present. Here, then, is evidence of the successive replacement of different species of trees. It is evident that it must have taken a long time for one species thus to replace another, but how long it is impossible to say. In some of these bogs is found a gradation of implements, unpolished stone at the bottom, polished stone above, followed by bronze, and finally iron. These are associated with the different forms of vegetable remains. In Europe stone implements occur in association with fossil remains of the cave lion, the cave hyena, the old elephant and rhinoceros--all extinct species. Also the bones and horns of the reindeer are prominent in these remains, for at that time the reindeer came farther south than at present. In southern France similar implements are associated with ivory and bones, with rude markings, and the bones of man--even a complete skeleton being found at one place. These are all found in connection with the bones of the elk, ibex, aurochs, and reindeer. _Burial Mounds_ (4).--It is difficult to determine at just what period human beings began to bury their dead. Primarily the bodies were disposed of the same as any other carrion that might occur--namely, they were left to decay wherever they dropped, or were subject to the disposal by wild {77} animals. After the development of the idea of the perpetuation of life in another world, even though it were temporary or permanent, thoughts of preparing the body for its journey into the unknown land and for its residence thereafter caused people to place food and implements and clothing in the grave. This practice probably occurred about the beginning of the Neolithic period of man's existence, and has continued on to the present date. Hence it is that in the graves of primitive man we find deposited the articles of daily use at the period in which he lived. These have been preserved many centuries, showing something of the life of the people whose remains were deposited in the mounds. Also in connection with this in furtherance of a religious idea were great dolmens and stone temples, where undoubtedly the ancients met to worship. They give some evidence at least of the development of the religious and ceremonial life among these primitive people and to that extent they are of great importance. It is evidence also, in another way, that the religious idea took strong hold of man at an early period of his existence. Evidences of man in Britain from the tumuli, or burial mounds, from rude stone temples like the famous Stonehenge place his existence on the island at a very early date. Judging from skulls and skeletons there were several distinct groups of prehistoric man in Britain, varying from the extreme broad skulls to those of excessive length. They carry us back to the period of the Early Stone Age. Relics, too, of the implements and mounds show something of the primitive conditions of the inhabitants in Britain of which we have any permanent record. _Battlefields and Village Sites_ (5).--In the later Neolithic period of man the tribes had been fully developed over a great part of the earth's surface, and fought for their existence, principally over territories having a food supply. Other reasons for tribal conflict, such as real or imagined race differences and the ambition for race survival, caused constant warfare. {78} Upon these battlefields were left the implements of war. Those of stone, and, it may be said secondarily, of iron and bronze, were preserved. It is not uncommon now in almost any part of the United States where the rains fall upon a ploughed field over which a battle had been fought, to find exposed a large number of arrow-heads and stone axes, all other perishable implements having long since decayed. Or in some instances the wind blowing the sand exposes the implements which were long ago deposited during a battle. Also, wherever the Indian villages were located for a period of years, the accumulations of utensils and implements occurred which were buried by the action of wind or water. This represents a source of evidence of man's early life. _Lake Dwellings_ (6).--The idea of protection is evidenced everywhere in the history of primitive man; protection against the physical elements, protection against wild beasts and wilder men. We find along the lakes and bays in both Europe and America the tendency to build the dwelling out in the water and approach it from the land with a narrow walk which could be taken up when not used, or to approach it by means of a rude boat. In this way the dwellers could defend themselves against the onslaughts of tribal enemies. These dwellings have been most numerous along the Swiss lakes, although some are found in Scotland, in the northern coast of South America, and elsewhere. Their importance rests in the fact that, like the shell mounds (Kitchenmiddens), the refuse from these cabins shows large deposits of the implements and utensils that were in use during the period of tribal residence. Here we find not only stone implements, running from the crude form of the Unpolished Stone Age to the highly polished, but also records of implements of bronze and small implements for domestic use of bone and polished stone. Also there are evidences that different tribes or specialized races occupied these dwellings at different times, because of the variation of civilization implied by the implements in use. The British Museum has a very large classified collection of {79} the implements procured from lake dwellings of Switzerland. Other museums also have large collections. A part of them run back into the prehistoric period of man and part extend even down to the historic. _Knowledge of Man's Antiquity Influences Reflective Thinking_.--The importance of studying the antiquity of man is the light which it throws upon the causes of later civilization. In considering any phase of man's development it is necessary to realize he has been a long time on earth and that, while the law of the individual life is development, that of the human race is slowly evolutionary; hence, while we may look for immediate and rapid change, we can only be assured of a very slow progressive movement at all periods of man's existence. The knowledge of his antiquity will give us a historical view which is of tremendous importance in considering the purpose and probable result of man's life on earth. When we realize that we have evidence of the struggle of man for five hundred thousand years to get started as far as we have in civilization, and that more changes affecting man's progress may occur in a single year now than in a former thousand years, we realize something of the background of struggle before our present civilization could appear. We realize, also, that his progress in the arts has been very slow and that, while there are many changes in art formation of to-day, we still have the evidences of the primitive in every completed picture, or plastic form, or structural work. But the slow progress of all this shows, too, that the landmarks of civilization of the past are few and far between--distant mile-posts appearing at intervals of thousands of years. Such a contemplation gives us food for thought and should invite patience when we wish in modern times for social transformations to become instantaneous, like the flash of the scimitar or the burst of an electric light. The evidence that man has been a long time on earth explodes the long-accepted theory of six thousand years as the age of man. It also explodes the theory of instantaneous {80} creation which was expressed by some of the mediaeval philosophers. Indeed, it explodes the theory of a special creation of man without connection with the creation of other living beings. No doubt, there was a specialized creation of man, otherwise he never would have been greater than the anthropoids nor, indeed, than other mammals, but his specialization came about as an evolutionary process which gave him a tremendous brain-power whereby he was enabled to dominate all the rest of the world. So far as philosophy is concerned as to man's life, purpose, and destiny, the influence of the study of anthropology would change the philosopher's vision of life to a certain extent. The recognition that man is "part and parcel" of the universe, subject to cosmic law, as well as a specialized type, subject to the laws of evolution, and, indeed, that he is of a spiritual nature through which he is subjected to spiritual law, causes the philosopher to pause somewhat before he determines the purpose, the life, or the destiny of man. If we are to inquire how man came into the world, when he came, what he has been doing, how he developed, and whither the human trail leads, we shall encounter many unsolved theories. Indeed, the facts of his life are suggestive of the mystery of being. If it be suggested that he is "part and parcel" of nature and has slowly arisen out of lower forms, it should not be a humiliating thought, for his daily life is dependent upon the lower elements of nature. The life of every day is dependent upon the dust of the earth. The food he eats comes from the earth just the same as that of the hog, the rabbit, or the fish. If, upon this foundation, he has by slow evolution built a more perfect form, developed a brain and a mind which give him the greatest flights of philosophy, art, and religion, is it not a thing to excite pride of being? Could there be any greater miracle than evolving nature and developing life? Indeed, is there any greater than the development of the individual man from a small germ not visible to the naked eye, through the egg, the embryo, infant, youth, to full-grown man? Why not the working of the same law to {81} the development of man from the beginning. Does it lessen the dignity of creation if this is done according to law? On the other hand, does it not give credit to the greatness and power of the Creator if we recognize his wisdom in making the universe, including man, the most important factor, according to a universal plan worked out by far-reacting laws? SUBJECTS FOR FURTHER STUDY 1. Evidences of the great antiquity of man. 2. Physical and mental traits of the anthropoid apes. 3. The life and culture of the Neanderthal Race. 4. What are the evidences in favor of the descent of man from a single progenitor? 5. Explain the law of differentiation as applied to plants and animals. 6. Compare in general the arts of man in the Old Stone Age with those of the New Stone Age. 7. What has been the effect of the study of prehistoric man on modern thought as shown in the interpretation of History? Philosophy? Religion? [1] See Diagram, p. 59. [2] See Haeckel, Schmidt, Ward, Robinson, Osborn, Todd. [3] See Osborn, _Men of the Old Stone Age_. [4] See Chapter II. [5] After Osborn. Read from bottom up. [6] Estimates of Neanderthal vary from 150,000 to 50,000 years ago. [7] See p. 64. {82} CHAPTER V THE ECONOMIC FACTORS OF PROGRESS _The Efforts of Man to Satisfy Physical Needs_.--All knowledge of primitive man, whether derived from the records of cultures he has left or assumed from analogy of living tribes of a low order of civilization, discovers him wandering along the streams in the valleys or by the shores of lakes and oceans, searching for food and incidentally seeking protection in caves and trees. The whole earth was his so far as he could appropriate it. He cared nothing for ownership; he only wanted room to search for the food nature had provided. When he failed to find sufficient food as nature left it, he starved. So in his wandering life he adapted himself to nature as he found it. In the different environments he acquired different customs and habits of life. If he came in contact with other tribes, an exchange of knowledge and customs took place, and both tribes were richer thereby. However, the universality of the human mind made it possible for two detached tribes, under similar environment and similar stimuli, to develop the same customs and habits of life, provided they had the same degree of development. Hence, we have independent group development and group borrowing. When nature failed to provide him with sufficient food, he learned to force her to yield a larger supply. When natural objects were insufficient for his purposes, he made artificial tools to supplement them. Slowly he became an inventor. Slowly he mastered the art of living. Thus physical needs were gradually satisfied, and the foundation for the superstructure of civilization was laid. _The Attempt to Satisfy Hunger and to Protect from Cold_.--To this statement must be added the fact that struggle with {83} his fellows arose from the attempt to obtain food, and we have practically the whole occupation of man in a state of savagery. At least, the simple activities represent the essential forces at the foundation of human social life. The attempt to preserve life either through instinct, impulse, emotion, or rational selection is fundamental in all animal existence. The other great factor at the foundation of human effort is the desire to perpetuate the species. This, in fact, is the mere projection of the individual life into the next generation, and is fundamentally important to the individual and to the race alike. All modern efforts can be traced to these three fundamental activities. But in seeking to satisfy the cravings of hunger and to avoid the pain of cold, man has developed a varied and active life. About these two centres cluster all the simple forces of human progress. Indeed, invention and discovery and the advancement of the industrial arts receive their initial impulses from these economic relations. We have only to turn our attention to the social life around us to observe evidences of the great importance of economic factors. Even now it will be observed that the greater part of economic activities proceeds from the effort to procure food, clothing, and shelter, while a relatively smaller part is engaged in the pursuit of education, culture, and pleasure. The excellence of educational systems, the highest flights of philosophy, the greatest achievement of art, and the best inspiration of religion cannot exist without a wholesome economic life at the foundation. It should not be humiliating to man that this is so, for in the constitution of things, labor of body and mind, the struggle for existence and the accumulations of the products of industry yield a large return in themselves in discipline and culture; and while we use these economic means to reach higher ideal states, they represent the ladder on which man makes the first rounds of his ascent. _The Methods of Procuring Food in Primitive Times_.--Judging from the races and tribes that are more nearly in a state of nature than any other, it may be reasonably assumed that {84} in his first stage of existence, man subsisted almost wholly upon a vegetable diet, and that gradually he gave more and more attention to animal food. His structure and physiology make it possible for him to use both animal and vegetable food. Primarily, with equal satisfaction the procuring of food must have been rather an individual than a social function. Each individual sought his own breakfast wherever he might find it. It was true then, as now, that people proceeded to the breakfast table in an aggregation, and flocked around the centres of food supply; so we may assume the picture of man stealing away alone, picking fruits, nuts, berries, gathering clams or fish, was no more common than the fact of present-day man getting his own breakfast alone. The main difference is that in the former condition individuals obtained the food as nature left it, and passed it directly from the bush or tree to the mouth, while in modern times thousands of people have been working indirectly to make it possible for a man to wait on himself. Jack London, in his _Before Adam_, gives a very interesting picture of the tribe going out to the carrot field for its breakfast, each individual helping himself. However, such an aggregation around a common food supply must eventually lead to co-operative economic methods. But we do find even among modern living tribes of low degree of culture the group following the food quest, whether it be to the carrot patch, the nut-bearing trees, the sedgy seashore for mussels and clams, the lakes for wild rice, or to the forest and plains where abound wild game. We find it difficult to think otherwise than that the place of man's first appearance was one abounding in edible fruits. This fact arises from the study of man's nature and evidences of the location of his first appearance, together with the study of climate and vegetation. There are a good many suggestions also that man in his primitive condition was prepared for a vegetable diet, and indications are that later he acquired use of meat as food. Indeed, the berries and edible roots of {85} certain regions are in sufficient quantity to sustain life throughout a greater part of the year. The weaker tribes of California at the time of the first European invaders, and for many centuries previous, found a greater part of their sustenance in edible roots extracted from the soil, in nuts, seeds of wild grains, and grasses. It is true they captured a little wild game, and in certain seasons many of them made excursions to the ocean or frequented the streams for fish or shell-fish, but their chief diet was vegetable. It must be remembered, also, that all of the cultivated fruits to-day formerly existed, in one variety or another, in the wild species. Thus the citrous fruits, the date, the banana, breadfruit, papaw, persimmon, apple, cherry, plum, pear, all grew in a wild state, providing food for man if he were ready to take it as provided. Rational selection has assisted nature in improving the quality of grains and fruits and in developing new varieties. In the tropical regions was found the greatest supply of edible fruits. Thus the Malays and the Papuans find sufficient food on trees to supply their wants. Many people in some of the groups in the South Sea Islands live on cocoanuts. In South America several species of trees are cultivated by the natives for the food they furnish. The palm family contributes much food to the natives, and also furnishes a large supply of food to the markets of the world. The well-known breadfruit tree bears during eight successive months in the year, and by burying the fruit in the ground it may be preserved for food for the remaining four months. Thus a single plant may be made to provide a continuous food supply for the inhabitants of the Moluccas and Philippines. Many other instances of fruits in abundance, such as the nuts from the araucarias of South America, and beans from the mesquite of Mexico, might be given to show that it is possible for man to subsist without the use of animal food. _The Variety of Food Was Constantly Increased_.--Undoubtedly, one of the chief causes of the wandering of primitive man over the earth, in the valleys, along stream, lake, and ocean, {86} over the plains and through the hills, was the quest for food to preserve life; and even after tribes became permanent residents in a certain territory, there was a constant shifting from one source of food supply to another throughout the seasons. However, after tribes became more settled, the increase of population encroached upon the native food supply, and man began to use his invention for the purpose of its increase. He learned how to plant seeds which were ordinarily believed to be sown by the gods, and to till the soil and raise fruits and vegetables for his own consumption. This was a period of accidental agriculture, or hoe culture, whereby the ground was tilled by women with hoes of stone, or bone, or wood. In the meantime, the increase of animal food became a necessity. Man learned how to snare and trap animals, to fish and to gather shell-fish, learning by degrees to use new foods as discovered as nature left them. Life become a veritable struggle for existence as the population increased and the lands upon which man dwelt yielded insufficient supply of food. The increased variety of food allowed man to adapt himself to the different climates. Thus in the colder climates animal food became desirable to enable him to resist more readily the rigors of climate. It was not necessary, it is supposed, to give him physical courage or intellectual development, for there appear to be evidences of tribes like the Maoris of New Zealand, who on the diet of fish and roots became a most powerful and sagacious people. But the change from a vegetable diet to a meat-and-fish diet in the early period brought forth renewed energy of body and mind, not only on account of the necessary physical exertion but on account of the invention of devices for the capture of fish and game. _The Food Supply Was Increased by Inventions_.--Probably the first meat food supply was in the form of shell-fish which could be gathered near the shores of lakes and streams. Probably small game was secured by the use of stones and sticks and by running the animal down until he was exhausted or until he hid in a place inaccessible to the pursuer. The {87} boomerang, as used by the Australians in killing game, may have been an early product of the people of Neolithic Europe. In the latter part of the Paleolithic Age, fish-hooks of bone were used, and probably snares invented for small game. The large game could not be secured without the use of the spear and the co-operation of a number of hunters. In all probability this occurred in the New Stone Age. The invention of the bow-and-arrow was of tremendous importance in securing food. It is not known what led to its invention, although the discovery of the flexible power of the shrub, or the small sapling, must have occurred to man as he struggled through the brush. It is thought by some that the use of the bow fire-drill, which was for the purpose of striking fire by friction, might have displayed driving power when the drill wound up in the string of the bow flew from its confinement. However, this is conjectural; but, judging from the inventions of known tribes, it is evident that necessity has always been the moving power in invention. The bow-and-arrow was developed in certain centres and probably through trade and exchange extended to other tribes and groups until it was universally used. It is interesting to note how many thousands of years this must have been the chief weapon for destroying animals or crippling game at a distance. Even as late as the Norman conquest, the bow-and-arrow was the chief means of defense of the Anglo-Saxon yeoman, and for many previous centuries in the historic period had been the chief implement in warfare and in the chase. The use of the spear in fishing supplemented that of the hook, and is found among all low-cultured tribes of the present day. The American Indian will stand on a rock in the middle of a stream, silently, for an hour if necessary, watching for a chance to spear a salmon. These small devices were of tremendous importance in increasing the food supply, and the making of them became a permanent industry. Along with the bow and arrow were developed many kinds of spears, axes, and hammers, invented chiefly to be used in {88} war, but also used for economic reasons. In the preparation of animal food, in the tanning of skins, in the making of clothing, another set of stone implements was developed. So, likewise, in the grinding of seeds, the mortar and pestle were used, and the small hand-mill or grinder was devised. The sign of the mortar and pestle at the front of drug-stores brings to mind the fact that its first use was not for preparing medicines, but for grinding grains and seeds. _The Discovery and Use of Fire_.--The use of fire was practised in the early history of man. Among the earliest records in caves are found evidences of the use of fire. Charcoal is practically indestructible, and, although it may be crushed, the small particles maintain their shape in the clays and sands. In nearly all of the relics of man discovered in caves, the evidences of fire are to be found, and no living tribe has yet been discovered so low in the scale of life as to be without the knowledge of fire and probably its simple uses, although a few tribes have been for the time being without fire when first discovered. This might seem to indicate that at a very early period man did not know how to create fire artificially, but carried it and preserved it in his wanderings. There are indications that a certain individual was custodian of the fire, and later it was carried by the priest or _cacique_. Here, as in other instances in the development of the human race, an economic factor soon assumes a religious significance, and fire becomes sacred. There are many conjectures respecting the discovery of fire. Probably the two real sources are of lightning that struck forest trees and set them on fire and the action of volcanoes in throwing out burning lava, which ignited combustible material. Either one or the other, and perhaps both, of these methods may have furnished man with fire. Others have suggested that the rubbing together of dead limbs of trees in the forests after they were moved by the winds, may have created fire by friction. It is possible, also, that the sun's rays may have, when concentrated on combustible {89} material, caused spontaneous ignition. The idea has been advanced that some of the forest fires of recent times have been ignited in this way. However, it is evident that there are enough natural sources in the creation of fire to enable tribes to use it for the purposes of artificial heat, cooking, and later, in the age of metals, of smelting ores. There has always been a mystery connected with the origin and use of fire, which has led to many myths. Thus, the Greeks insisted that Prometheus, in order to perform a great service to humanity, stole fire from heaven and gave it to man. For this crime against the authority of the gods, he was chained to a rock to suffer the torture of the vulture who pecked at his vitals. Aeschylus has made the most of this old legend in his great drama of _Prometheus Bound_. Nearly every tribe or nation has some tradition regarding the origin of fire. Because of its mystery and its economic value, it was early connected with religion and made sacred in many instances. It was thus preserved at the altar, never being allowed to become extinct without the fear of dire calamity. Perhaps the economic and religious ideas combined, because tribes in travelling from place to place exercised great care to preserve it. The use of fire in worship became almost universal among tribes and ancient nations. Thus the Hebrews and the Aryans, including Greeks, Romans, and Persians, as well as the Chinese and Japanese, used fire in worship. Among other tribes it was worshipped as a symbol or even as a real deity. Even in the Christian religion, the use of the burning incense may have some psychological connection with the idea of purification through fire. Whether its mysterious nature led to its connection with worship, and the superstition connected with its continued burning, or whether from economic reasons it became a sacred matter, has never been determined. The custom that a fire should never go out upon the altar, and that it should be carried in migrations from place to place, would seem to indicate that these two motives were closely allied, if not related in cause and effect. {90} Evidently, fire was used for centuries before man invented methods of reproducing it. Simple as the process involved, it was a great invention; or it may be stated that many devices were resorted to for the creation of artificial fire. Perhaps the earliest was that of rubbing two pieces of dry wood together, producing fire by friction. This could be accomplished by persistent friction of two ordinary pieces of dry wood, or by drilling a hole in a dry piece of wood with a pointed stick until heat was developed and a spark produced to ignite pieces of dry bark or grass. Another way was to make a groove in a block of wood and run the end of a stick rapidly back and forth through the groove. An invention called the fire-drill was simply a method of twirling rapidly in the hand a wooden drill which was in contact with dry wood, or by winding a string of the bow several times around the drill and moving the bow back and forth horizontally, giving rapid motion to the drill. As tribes became more advanced, they used two pieces of flint with which to strike fire, and after the discovery of iron, the flint and iron were used. How many centuries these simple devices were essential to the progress and even to the life of tribes, is not known; but when we realize that but a few short years ago our fathers lighted the fire with flint and steel, and that before the percussion cap was invented, the powder in the musket was ignited by flint and hammer, we see how important to civilization were these simple devices of producing fire artificially. So simple an invention as the discovery of the friction match saved hours of labor and permitted hours of leisure to be used in other ways. It is one of the vagaries of human progress that a simple device remains in use for thousands of years before its clumsy method gives way to a new invention only one step in advance of the old. _Cooking Added to the Economy of the Food Supply_.--Primitive man doubtless consumed his food raw. The transition of the custom of uncooked food to cooked food must have been gradual. We only know that many of the backward tribes of {91} to-day are using primitive methods of cooking, and the man of the Stone Ages had methods of cooking the meat of animals. In all probability, the suggestion came as people were grouped around the fire for artificial heat, and then, either by intention or desire, the experiment of cooking began. After man had learned to make water-tight baskets, a common device of cooking was to put water in the basket and, after heating stones on a fire, put them in the basket to heat the water and then place the food in the basket to be cooked. This method is carried on by the Indians in some parts of Alaska to this day, where they use a water-tight basket for this purpose. Probably this method of cooking food was a later development than the roasting of food on coals or in the ashes, or in the use of the wooden spit. Catlin, in his _North American Indians_, relates that certain tribes of Indians dig a hole in the ground and line it with hide filled with water, then place hot stones in the water, in which they place their fish, game, or meat for cooking. This is interesting, because it carries out a more or less universal idea of adaptation to environment. Probably the plains Indians had no baskets or other vessels to use for this purpose, but they are found to have used similar methods of cooking grasshoppers. They dig a hole in the ground, build a fire in the hole, and take the fire out and put in the grasshoppers. Thus, they have an exhibition of the first fireless cooker. It is thought by some that the need of vessels which would endure the heat was the cause of the invention of pottery. While there seems to be little evidence of this, it is easy to conjecture that when water was needed to be heated in a basket, a mass of clay would be put on the bottom of the basket before it was put over the coals of fire. After the cooking was done, the basket could easily be detached from the clay, leaving a hard-baked bowl. This led to the suggestion of making bowls of clay and baking them for common use. Others suggest that the fact of making holes in the ground for cooking purposes gave the suggestion that by the use of clay a portable vessel might be made for similar purposes. {92} The economic value of cooking rests in the fact that a larger utility comes from the cooked than from the raw food. Though the phenomena of physical development of tribes and nations cannot be explained by the chemical constituents of food, although they are not without a positive influence. Evidently the preparation of food has much to do with man's progress, and the art of cooking was a great step in advance. The better utilization of food was a time-saving process--and, indeed, in many instances may have been a life-saving affair. _The Domestication of Animals_.--The time and place of the domestication of animals are not satisfactorily determined. We know that Paleolithic man had domesticated the dog, and probably for centuries this was the only animal domesticated; but it is known that low forest tribes have tamed monkeys and parrots for pets, and savage tribes frequently have a band of dogs for hunting game or guarding the hut. While it may be supposed that domestication of animals may have occurred in the prehistoric period, the use of such animals has been in the historic period. There are many evidences of the domesticated dog at the beginning of the Neolithic period. However, these animals may have still been nearly half wild. It is not until the period of the Lake Dwellings of Switzerland that we can discriminate between the wild animals and those that have been tamed. In the Lake Dwelling débris are found the bones of the wild bull, or _urus_, of Europe. Probably this large, long-horned animal was then in a wild state, and had been hunted for food. Alongside of these remains are those of a small, short-horned animal, supposed to have been domesticated. Later, though still in the Neolithic period, remains of short-horned tame cattle appear in the refuse of the Lake Dwellings. It is thought by some that these two varieties--the long-horned _urus_ and the short-horned domesticated animal brought from the south--were crossed, which gave rise to the origin of the present stock of modern cattle in central Europe. Pigs and sheep were probably domesticated in Asia {93} and brought into Europe during the later Neolithic or early Bronze period. The horse was domesticated in Asia, and Clark Wissler[1] shows that to be one great centre of cultural distribution for this animal. It spread from Asia into Europe, and from Europe into America. The llama was early domesticated in South America. The American turkey had its native home in Mexico, the hen in Asia. The dog, though domesticated very early in Asia, has gone wherever the human race has migrated, as the constant companion of man. The horse, while domesticated in Asia, depends upon the culture of Europe for his large and extended use, and has spread over the world. We find that in the historic period the Aryan people everywhere made use of the domesticated goat, horse, and dog. In the northern part of Europe, the reindeer early became of great service to the inhabitants for milk, meat, and clothing. The great supply of milk and meat from domesticated animals added tremendously to the food supply of the race, and made it possible for it to develop in other lines. Along with the food supply has been the use of these animals for increasing the clothing supply through hides, furs, skins, and wool. The domestication of animals laid the foundation for great economic advancement. _The Beginnings of Agriculture Were Very Meagre_.--Man had gathered seeds and fruit and berries for many years before he conceived the notion of planting seeds and cultivating crops. It appears to be a long time before he knew enough to gather seeds and plant them for a harvest. Having discovered this, it was only necessary to have the will and energy to prepare the soil, sow the seed, and harvest a crop in order to enter upon agriculture. But to learn this simple act must have required many crude experiments. In the migrations of mankind they adopted a little intermittent agriculture, planting the grains while the tribe paused for pasture of flocks and herds, and resting long enough for a crop to be harvested. {94} They gradually began to supplement the work of the pastoral with temporary agriculture, which was used as a means of supplementing the food supply. It was not until people settled in permanent habitations and ceased their pastoral wanderings that real agriculture became established. Even then it was a crude process, and, like every other economic industry of ancient times, its development was excessively slow. The wandering tribes of North America at the time of the discovery had reached the state of raising an occasional crop of corn. Indeed, some tribes were quite constant in limited agriculture. The sedentary Indians of New Mexico, old Mexico, and Peru also cultivated corn and other plants, as did those of Central America. The first tillage of the soil was meagre, and the invention of agricultural implements proceeded slowly. At first wandering savages carried a pointed stick to dig up the roots and tubers used for food. The first agriculturists used sticks for stirring the soil, which finally became flattened in the form of a paddle or rude spade. The hoe was evolved from the stone pick or hatchet. It is said that the women of the North American tribes used a hoe made of an elk's shoulder-blade and a handle of wood. In Sweden the earliest records of tillage represent a huge hoe made from a stout limb of spruce with the sharpened root. This was finally made heavier, and men dragged it through the soil in the manner of ploughing. Subsequently the plough was made in two pieces, a handle having been added. Finally a pair of cows yoked together were compelled to drag the plough. Probably this is a fair illustration of the manner of the evolution of the plough in other countries. It is also typical of the evolution of all modern agricultural implements. We need only refer to our own day to see how changes take place. The writer has cut grain with the old-fashioned sickle, the scythe, the cradle, and the reaper, and has lived to see the harvester cut and thresh the grain in the field. The Egyptians use until this day wooden ploughs of an ancient type formed from limbs of trees, having a share pointed with metal. {95} The old Spanish colonists used a similar plough in California and Mexico as late as the nineteenth century. From these ploughs, which merely stirred the soil imperfectly, there has been a slow evolution to the complete steel plough and disk of modern times. A glance at the collection of perfected farm machinery at any modern agricultural fair reveals what man has accomplished since the beginning of the agricultural art. In forest countries the beginning of agriculture was in the open places, or else the natives cut and burned the brush and timber, and frequently, after one or two crops, moved on to other places. The early settlers of new territories pursue the same method with their first fields, while the turning of the prairie sod of the Western plains was frequently preceded by the burning of the prairie grass and brush. The method of attachment to the soil determined economic progress. Man in his early wanderings had no notion of ownership of the land. All he wished was to have room to go wherever the food quest directed him, and apparently he had no reflections on the subject. The matters of fact regarding mountain, sea, river, ocean, and glacier which influenced his movements were practically no different from the fact of other tribes that barred his progress or interfered with his methods of life. In the hunter-fisher stage of existence, human contacts became frequent, and led to contention and warfare over customary hunting grounds. Even in the pastoral period the land was occupied by moving upon it, and held as long as the tribe could maintain itself against other tribes that wished the land for pasture. Gradually, however, even in temporary locations, a more permanent attachment to the soil came through clusters of dwellings and villages, and the habit of using territory from year to year for pastorage led to a claim of the tribe for that territory. So the idea of possession grew into the idea of permanent ownership and the idea of rights to certain parts of the territory became continually stronger. This method of settlement had much to do with not only the economic life of people, but in determining the nature of their {96} social organizations and consequently the efficiency of their social activity. Evidently, the occupation of a certain territory as a dwelling-place was the source of the idea of ownership in land. Nearly all of Europe, at least, came into permanent cultivation through the village community.[2] A tribe settled in a given valley and held the soil in common. There was at a central place an irregular collection of rude huts, called the village. Each head of the family owned and permanently occupied one of these. The fertile or tillable land was laid out in lots, each family being allowed the use of a lot for one or more years, but the whole land was the common property of the tribe, and was under the direction of the village elders. The regulation of the affairs of the agricultural community developed government, law, and social cohesion. The social advancement after the introduction of permanent agriculture was great in every way. The increased food supply was an untold blessing; the closer association necessary for the new kind of life, the building of distinct homes, and the necessity of a more general citizenship and a code of public law brought forth the social or community idea of progress. Side by side with the village community system there was a separate development of individual ownership and tillage, which developed into the manorial system. It is not necessary to discuss this method here except to say that this, together with the permanent occupation of the house-lot in the village, gave rise to the private ownership of property in land. As to how private ownership of personal property began, it is easy to suppose that, having made an implement or tool, the person claimed the right of perpetual possession or ownership; also, that in the chase the captured game belonged to the one who made the capture; the clothing to the maker. In some instances where game was captured by the group, each was given a share in proportion to his station in life, or again in proportion to the service each performed in the capture. Yet, in this {97} early period possessory right was frequently determined on the basis that might makes right. _The Manufacture of Clothing_.--The motive of clothing has been that of ornament and protection from the pain of cold. The ornamentation of the body was earlier in its appearance in human progress than the making of clothing for the protection of the body; and after the latter came into use, ornamentation continued, thus making clothing more and more artistic. As to how man protected his body before he began to kill wild animals for food, is conjectural. Probably he dwelt in a warm climate, where very little clothing was needed, but, undoubtedly, the cave man and, in fact, all of the groups of the race occurring in Europe and Asia in the latter part of the Old Stone Age and during the New Stone Age used the skins of animals for clothing. Later, after weaving had begun, grasses and fibres taken from plants in a rude way were plaited for making clothing. Subsequently these fibres were prepared, twisted into thread, and woven regularly into garments. The main source of supply came from reeds, rushes, wild flax, cotton, fibres of the century plant, the inner bark of trees, and other sources according to the environment. Nothing can be more interesting than the progress made in clothing, combining as it does the objects of protection from cold, the adornment of the person, and the preservation of modesty. Indians of the forests of the tropical regions and on the Pacific coast, when first discovered, have been found entirely naked. These were usually without modesty. That is, they felt no need of clothing on account of the presence of others. There are many evidences to show that the first clothing was for ornament and for personal attraction rather than for protection. The painting of the body, the dressing of the hair, the wearing of rings in the nose, ears, and lips, the tattooing of the body, all are to be associated with the first clothing, which may be merely a narrow belt or an ornamental piece of cloth--all merely for show, for adornment and attraction. {98} There are relics of ornaments found in caves of early man, and, as before mentioned, relics of paints. The clothing of early man can be conjectured by the implements with which he was accustomed to dress the skins of animals. Among living tribes the bark of trees represents the lowest form of clothing. In Brazil there is found what is known as the "shirt tree," which provides covering for the body. When a man wants a new garment he pulls the bark from a tree of a suitable size, making a complete girdle. This he soaks and beats until it is soft, and, cutting holes for the arms, dons his tailor-made garment. In some countries, particularly India, aprons are made of leaves. But the garment made of the skins of animals is the most universal among living savage and barbarous tribes, even after the latter have learned to spin and weave fabrics. The tanning of skins is carried on with a great deal of skill, and rich and expensive garments are worn by the wealthier members of savage tribes. The making of garments from threads, strings, or fibres was an art discovered a little later. At first rude aprons were woven from long strips of bark. The South Sea Islanders made short gowns of plaited rushes, and the New Zealanders wore rude garments from strings made of native flax. These early products were made by the process of working the fibres by hand into a string or thread. The use of a simple spindle, composed of a stone like a large button, with a stick run through a hole in the centre, facilitated the making of thread and the construction of rude looms. It was but a step from these to the spinning-wheels and looms of the Middle Ages. When the Spaniards discovered the Pueblo Indians, they were wearing garments of their own weaving from cotton and wood fibres. Strong cords attached to the limbs of trees and to a piece of wood on the ground formed the framework of the loom, and the native sat down to weave the garment. With slight improvements on this old style, the Navajos continue to weave their celebrated blankets. What an effort it must have cost, what a necessity must have crowded man to have compelled him to resort to this method of procuring clothing! {99} The artistic taste in dress has always accompanied the development of the useful, although dress has always been used more or less for ornament, and taste has changed by slow degrees. The primitive races everywhere delighted in bright colors, and in most instances these border on the grotesque in arrangement and combination. But many people not far advanced in barbarism have colors artistically arranged and dress with considerable skill. Ornaments change in the progress of civilization from coarse, ungainly shells, pieces of wood, or bits of metal, to more finely wrought articles of gold and silver. _Primitive Shelters and Houses_.--The shelters of primitive man were more or less temporary, for wherever he happened to be in his migrations he sought shelter from storm or cold in the way most adaptable to his circumstances. There was in this connection, also, the precaution taken to protect against predatory animals and wild men. As his stay in a given territory became more permanent, the home or shelter gradually grew more permanent. So far as we can ascertain, man has always been known to build some sort of shelter. As apes build their shelters in trees, birds build their nests, and beavers dam water to make their homes, it is impossible to suppose that man, with superior intelligence, was ever simple enough to continue long without some sort of shelter constructed with his own hands. At first the shelter of trees, rocks, and caves served his purpose wherever available. Subsequently, when he had learned to build houses, their structure was usually dependent more upon environment than upon his inventive genius. Whether he built a platform house or nest in a tree, or provided a temporary brush shelter, or bark hut, or stone or adobe building, depended a good deal upon the material at hand and the necessity of protection. The main thing was to protect against cold or storm, wild animals, and, eventually, wild men. The progress in architecture among the nations of ancient civilization was quite rapid. Massive structures were built for capacity and strength, which the natives soon learned to {100} decorate within and without. The buildings were made of large blocks of hewn stone, fitted together mechanically by the means of cement, which made secure foundations for ages. When in the course of time the arch was discovered, it alone became a power to advance the progress of architecture. We have seen pass before our eyes a sudden transition in dwelling houses. The first inhabitants of some parts of the Western prairies dwelt in tents. These were next exchanged for the "dugout," and this for a rude hut. Subsequently the rude hut was made into a barn or pig-pen, and a respectable farmhouse was built; and finally this, too, has been replaced by a house of modern style and conveniences. If we could consider this change to have extended over thousands of years, from the first shelter of man to the finished modern building, it would be a picture of the progress of man in the art of building. In this slow process man struggled without means and with crude notions of life in every form. The aim, first, was for protection, then comfort and durability, and finally for beauty. The artistic in building has kept pace with other forms of civilization evinced in other ways. One of the most interesting exhibits of house-building for protection is found in the cliff dwellings, whose ruins are to be seen in Arizona and New Mexico. Tradition and other evidences point to the conclusion that certain tribes had developed a state of civilization as high as a middle period of barbarism, on the plains, where they had made a beginning of systematic agriculture, and that they were afterward driven out by wilder tribes and withdrew, seeking the cliffs for protection. There they built under the projecting cliffs the large communal houses, where they dwelt for a long period of time. Subsequently their descendants went into the valleys and developed the Pueblo villages, with their large communal houses of _adobe_. _Discovery and Use of Metals_.--It is not known just when the human race first discovered and used any one of the metals {101} now known to commerce and industry, but it can be assumed that their discovery occurred at a very early period and their use followed quickly. Reasoning back from the nature and condition of the wild tribes of to-day, who are curiously attracted by bright colors, whether in metals or beads or clothing, and realizing how universally they used the minerals and plants for coloring, it would be safe to assume that the satisfaction of the curiosity of primitive man led to the discovery of bright metals at a very early time. Pieces of copper, gold, and iron would easily have been found in a free state in metal-bearing soil, and treasured as articles of value. Copper undoubtedly was used by the American Indians, and probably by the inhabitants of Europe during the Neolithic Age--it being found in a native state in sufficient quantities to be hammered into implements. Thus copper has been found in large pieces in its native state, not only in Europe but in Mexico and other parts of North America, particularly in the Lake Superior region; but as the soft hematite iron was found in larger quantities in a free state, it would seem that the use of iron in a small degree must have occurred at about the same time, or perhaps a little later. The process of smelting must have been suggested by the action of fire built on or near ore beds, where a crude process of accidental smelting took place. Combined with tin ore, the copper was made into bronze in Peru and Mexico at the time of the discovery. In Europe there are abundant remains to show the early use of metals. Probably copper and tin were in use before iron, although iron may have been discovered first. There are numerous tin mines in Asia and copper mines in Cyprus. At first, metals were probably worked while cold through hammering, the softest metals doubtless being used before others. It is difficult to tell how smelting was discovered, although the making and use of bronze implements is an indication of the first process of smelting ores and combining metals. When tin was first discovered is not known, but we know that bronze {102} implements made from an alloy of copper, tin, and usually other metals were used by the Greeks and other Aryan peoples in the early historic period, about six thousand years ago. In Egypt and Babylon many of the inscriptions make mention of the use of iron as well as bronze, although the extended use of the former must have come about some time after the latter. At first all war instruments were stone and wood and later bronze, which were largely replaced by iron at a still later period. The making of spears, swords, pikes, battle-axes, and other implements of war had much to do with the development of ingenious work in metals. The final perfection of metal work could only be attained by the manufacture of finely treated steel. Probably the tempering of steel began at the time iron came prominently into use. Other metals, such as silver, quicksilver, gold, and lead, came into common use in the early stages of civilization, all of which added greatly to the arts and industries. Nearly all of the metals were used for money at various times. The aids to trade and commerce which these metals gave on account of their universal use and constant measure of value cannot be overestimated. _Transportation as a Means of Economic Development_.--Early methods of carrying goods from one place to another were on the backs of human beings. Many devices were made for economy of service and strength in carrying. Bands over the shoulders and over the head were devised for the purpose of securing the pack on the back. An Indian woman of the Southwest would carry a large basket, or _keiho_, on her back, secured by a band around her head for the support of the load. A Pueblo woman will carry a large bowl filled with water or other material, on the top of her head, balancing it by walking erect. Indeed, in more recent times washerwomen in Europe, and of the colored race in America, carry baskets of clothes and pails of water on their heads. The whole process of the development of transportation came about through invention to be relieved from this bodily service. {103} As the dog was the first animal domesticated, he was early used to help in transportation by harnessing him to a rude sled, or drag, by means of which he pulled articles from one place to another. The Eskimos have used dogs and the sled to a greater extent than any other race. The use of the camel, the llama, the horse, and the ass for packing became very common after their domestication. Huge packs were strapped upon the backs of these animals, and goods thus transported from one place to another. To such an extent was the camel used, even in the historic period, for transportation in the Orient that he has been called the "ship of the desert." The plains Indians had a method of attaching two poles, one at each side of an Indian pony, which extended backward, dragging on the ground. Upon these poles was built a little platform, on which goods were deposited and thus transported from one camp to another. It must have been a long time before water transportation performed any considerable economic service. It is thought by some that primitive man conceived the idea of the use of water for transportation through his experience of floating logs, or drifts, or his own process of swimming and floating. Jack London pictures two primitives playing on the logs near the shore of a stream. Subsequently the logs cast loose, and the primitives were floated away from the shore. They learned by putting their hands in the water and paddling that they could make the logs move in the direction which they wished to go. Perhaps this explanation is as good as any, inasmuch as the beginnings of modern transportation still dwell in the mist of the past. However, in support of the log theory is the fact that modern races use primitive boats made of long reeds tied together, forming a loglike structure. The _balsa_ of the Indians of the north coasts of South America is a very good representation of this kind of boat. Evidently, the first canoes were made by hollowing logs and sharpening the ends at bow and stern. This form of boat-making has been carried to a high degree of skill by the {104} Indians of the northwest coast of America and by the natives of the Hawaiian Islands. The birch-bark canoe, made for lighter work and overland transportation, is more suggestive of the light reed boat than of the log canoe. Also, the boats made of a framework covered with the skins of animals were prominent at certain periods of the development of races who lived on animal food. But later the development of boats with frames covered with strips of board and coated with pitch became the great vehicle of commerce through hundreds of years. It certainly is a long journey from the floating log to the modern floating passenger palace, freight leviathan, or armed dreadnought, but the journey was accomplished by thousands of steps, some short and some long, through thousands of years of progress. _Trade, or Exchange of Goods_.--In Mr. Clark Wissler's book on _Man and Culture_, he has shown quite conclusively that there are certain culture areas whereby certain inventions, discoveries, or customs have originated and spread over a given territory. This recognition of a centre of origin of custom or invention is in accordance with the whole process of social development. For instance, in a given area occupied by modern civilized people, there are a very few who invent or originate things, and others follow through imitation or suggestion. So it was with the discoveries and inventions of primitive man. For example, we know that in Oklahoma and Arkansas, as well as in other places in the United States, certain stone quarries or mines are found that produce a certain kind of flint or chert used in making arrow-heads or spearheads and axes. Tribes that developed these traded with other tribes that did not have them, so that from these centres implements were scattered all over the West. A person may pick up on a single village site or battle-ground different implements coming from a dozen or more different quarries or centres and made by different tribes hundreds of miles apart in residence. This diffusion of knowledge and things of material {105} workmanship, or of methods of life, is through a system of borrowing, trading, or swapping--or perhaps sometimes through conquest and robbery; but as soon as an article of any kind could be made which could be subjected to general use of different tribes in different localities, it began to travel from a centre and to be used over a wide area. Certain tribes became special workers in specialized lines. Thus some were bead-makers, others expert tanners of hides, others makers of bows and arrows of peculiar quality, and others makers of stone implements. The incidental swapping of goods by tribes finally led to a systematic method of a travelling trader who brought goods from one tribe to another, exchanging as he went. This early trade had an effect in more rapid extension of culture, because in that case one tribe could have the invention, discovery, and art of all tribes. In connection with this is to be noted the slow change of custom regarding religious belief and ceremony or tribal consciousness. The pride of family and race development, the assumption of superiority leading to race aversion, interfered with intelligence and the spread of ideas and customs; but most economic processes that were not bound up with religious ceremonies or tribal customs were easily exchanged and readily accepted between the tribes. Exchange of goods and transportation went hand in hand in their development, very slowly and surely. After trade had become pretty well established, it became necessary to have a medium of exchange. Some well-known article whose value was very well recognized among the people who were trading became the standard for fixing prices in exchange. Thus, in early Anglo-Saxon times the cow was the unit of the measure of value. Sometimes a shell, as a _cowrie_ of India or the wampum of the American Indian, was used for this purpose. Wheat has been at one time in America, and tobacco in another, a measure of exchange because of the scarcity of money. Gradually, as the discovery and use of precious metals became common and desirable because of their brightness {106} and service in implement and ornament, they became the medium of exchange. Thus, copper and gold, iron and bronze have been used as metallic means of exchange--that is, as money. So from the beginning of trade and swapping article for article, it came to be common eventually to swap an article for something called money and then use the money for the purchase of other desirable articles. This made it possible for the individual to carry about in a small compass the means of obtaining any article in the market within the range of the purchasing power of his money. Trade, transportation, and exchange not only had a vast deal to do with economic progress but were of tremendous importance in social development. They were powerful in diffusion, extension, and promotion of culture. _The Struggle for Existence Develops the Individual and the Race_.--The remnants and relics of the arts and industries of man give us a fair estimate of the process of man's mind and the accomplishment of his physical labor. It is through the effort involved in the struggle for existence that he has made his various steps forward. Truly the actual life of primitive man tends to verify the adage that "necessity is the mother of invention." It was this tremendous demand on him for the means of existence that caused him to create the things that protected and improved his life. It was the insistent struggle which forced him to devise means of taking advantage of nature and thus led to invention and discovery. Every new invention and every new discovery showed the expansion of his mind, as well as gave him the means of material improvement. It also added to his bodily vigor and added much to the development of his physical powers. Upon this economic foundation has been built a superstructure of intellectual power, of moral worth and social improvement, for these in their highest phases of existence may be traced back to the early beginnings of life, where man was put to his utmost effort to supply the simplest of human wants. {107} SUBJECTS FOR FURTHER STUDY 1. The change in social life caused by the cultivation of the soil. 2. The effect of the discovery and use of fire on civilization. 3. What was the social effect of the exchange of economic products? 4. What influence had systematic labor on individual development? 5. Show how the discovery and use of a new food advances civilization. 6. Compare primitive man's food supply with that of a modern city dweller. 7. Trace a cup of coffee to its original source and show the different classes of people engaged in its production. [1] _Man and Culture_. [2] See Chapter III. {108} CHAPTER VI PRIMITIVE SOCIAL LIFE _The Character of Primitive Social Life_.--Judging from the cultures of prehistoric man in Europe and from analogies of living races that appear to have the same state of culture, strong inferences may be drawn as to the nature of the beginnings of human association. The hypothesis that man started as an individual and developed social life through mutual aid as he came in contact with his fellows does not cover the whole subject. It is not easy to conceive man in a state of isolation at any period of his life, but it appears true that his early associations were simple and limited to a few functions. The evidence of assemblage in caves, the kind of implements used, and the drawings on the walls of caves would appear to indicate that an early group life existed from the time of the first human cultures. The search for food caused men to locate at the same place. The number that could be supplied with food from natural subsistence in a given territory must have been small. Hence, it would appear that the early groups consisted of small bands. They moved on if the population encroached upon the food supply. Also, the blood-related individuals formed the nucleus of the group. The dependency of the child on the mother led to the first permanent location as the seat of the home and the foundation of the family. As the family continued to develop and became the most permanent of all social institutions, it is easy to believe as a necessity that it had a very early existence. It came out of savagery into barbarism and became one of the principal bulwarks of civilization. It may be accepted as a hypothesis that there was a time in the history of every branch of the human race when social order was indefinite and that out of this incoherence came by {109} degrees a complex organized society. It was in such a rude state that the relations of individuals to each other were not clearly defined by custom, but were temporary and incidental. Family ties were loose and irregular, custom had not become fixed, law was unheard of, government was unknown unless it was a case of temporary leadership, and unity of purpose and reciprocal social life were wanting. Indeed, it is a picture of a human horde but little above the animal herd in its nature and composition. Living tribes such as the Fuegians and Australians, and the extinct Tasmanians, represent very nearly the status of the horde--a sort of social protoplasm. They wander in groups, incidentally through the influence of temporary advantage or on account of a fitful social instinct. Co-operation, mutual aid, and reciprocal mental action were so faint that in many cases life was practically non-social. Nevertheless, even these groups had aggregated, communicated, and had language and other evidences of social heredity. _The Family Is the Most Persistent of Social Origins_.--The relation of parent and child was the most potent influence in establishing coherency of the group, and next to it, though of later development, was the relation of man and woman--that is, the sex relation. While the family is a universal social unit, it appears in many different forms in different tribes and, indeed, exhibits many changes in its development in the same tribe. There is no probability that mankind existed in a complete state of promiscuity in sex relations, yet these relations varied in different tribes. Mating was always a habit of the race and early became regulated by custom. The variety of forms of mating leads us to think the early sex life of man was not of a degraded nature. Granted that matrimony had not reached the high state of spiritual life contemplated in modern ideals, there are instances of monogamic marriage and pure, dignified rites in primitive peoples. Polygamy and polyandry were of later development. A study of family life within the historic period, especially of Greeks, Romans, and Teutons, and possibly the Hebrews, {110} compared with the family life of the Australian and some of the North American Indian tribes, reveals great contrasts in the prevailing customs of matrimony. All forms of marriage conceivable may be observed from rank animalism to high spiritual union; of numerous ideals, customs, and usages and ceremonies, as well as great confusion of purpose. It may be assumed, therefore, that there was a time in the history of every branch of the human race when family customs were indefinite and family coherence was lacking. Also that society was in a rude state in which the relations of individuals to each other and to the general social group were not clearly defined. There are found to-day among the lower races, in the Pacific islands, Africa, and South America, evidences of lack of cohesive life. They represent groups of people without permanent organization, held together by temporary advantage, with crude, purposeless customs, with the exercise of fitful social instinct. However, it is out of such conditions that the tribes, races, and nations of the early historic period have evolved into barbaric organization. Reasoning backward by the comparative method, one may trace the survivals of ancient customs. Following the social heredity of the oldest civilized tribes, such as the Egyptians, Babylonians, Greeks, Romans, and Teutonic peoples, there is evidence of the rise from a rude state of savagery to a higher social life. Historical records indicate the passage from the middle state of barbarism to advanced civil life, even though the earlier phases of social life of primitive man remain obscure. The study of tradition and a comparison of customs and language of races yield a definite knowledge of the evolution of society. _Kinship Is a Strong Factor in Social Organization_.--Of all causes that held people in coherent union, perhaps kinship, natural and artificial, was the most potent. All of the direct and indirect offspring of a single pair settled in the same family group. This enlarged family took its place as the only organ of social order. Not only did all the relatives settle and {111} become members of one body, but also strangers who needed protection were admitted to the family by subscribing to their customs and religion. Thus the father of the family had a numerous following, composed of relatives by birth and by adoption. He was the ruler of this enlarged household, declaring the customs of his fathers, leading the armed men in war, directing the control of property, for he alone was the owner of all their possessions, acting as priest in the administration of religious ceremonies--a service performed only by him--and acting as judge in matters of dispute or discipline. Thus the family was a compact organization with a central authority, in which both chief and people were bound by custom. Individuals were born under status and must submit to whatever was customary in the rule of the family or tribe. There was no law other than custom to determine the relation of individuals to one another. Each must abide in the sphere of activity into which he was born. He could not rise above it, but must submit to the arbitrary rule of traditional usage. The only position an individual had was in the family, and he must observe what custom had taught. This made family life arbitrary and conventional. _The Earliest Form of Social Order_.--The family is sometimes called the unit of society. The best historical records of the family are found in the Aryan people, such as the Greeks, the Romans, and the Teutons. Outside of this there are many historical references to the Aryans in their primitive home in Asia, and the story of the Hebrew people, a branch of the Semitic race, shows many phases of tribal and family life. The ancient family differed from the modern in organization and composition. The first historical family was the patriarchal, by which we mean a family group in which descent was traced in the male line, and in which authority was vested in the eldest living male inhabitant. It is held by some that this is the original family type, and that the forms which we find among savage races are degenerate forms of the above. Some have {112} advocated that the patriarchal family was the developed form of the family, and only occurred after a long evolution through states of promiscuity, polygamy, and polyandry. There is much evidence that the latter assumption is true. But there is evidence that the patriarchal family was the first political unit of all the Aryan races, and also of the Semitic as well, and that monogamic marriage was developed in these ancient societies so far as historical evidence can determine. The ancient Aryans in their old home, those who came into India, Greece, Rome, and the northern countries of Europe, whether Celt or Teuton, all give evidence of the permanency of early family organization. _The Reign of Custom_.--For a long period custom reigned supreme, and arbitrary social life became conventionalized, and the change from precedent became more and more difficult. The family was despotic, exacting, unyielding in its nature, and individual activity was absorbed in it. So powerful was this early sway of customary law that many tribes never freed themselves from its bondage. Others by degrees slowly evolved from its crystallizing influences. Changes in custom came about largely through the migration of tribes, which brought new scenes and new conditions, the intercourse of one tribe with another in trade and war, and the gradual shifting of the internal life of the social unit. Those tribes that were isolated were left behind in the progress of the race, and to many of them still clung the customs practised thousands of years before. Those that went forward from this first status grew by practice rather than by change of ideals. It is the law of all progress that ideals are conservative, and that they can be broken away from only by the procedure of actual practice. Gradually the reign of customary law gave way to the laws framed by the people. The family government gave way to the political; the individual eventually became the political unit, and freedom of action prevailed in the entire social body. _The Greek and Roman Family Was Strongly Organized_.--In Greece and Rome the family enlarged and formed the gens, {113} the gentes united into a tribe, and the tribe passed into the nation. In all of this formulated government the individual was represented by his family and received no recognition except as a member of such. The tribal chief became the king, or, as he is sometimes called, the patriarchal president, because he presided over a band of equals in power, namely, the assembled elders of the tribe. The heads of noble families were called together to consider the affairs of government, and at a common meal the affairs of the nation were discussed over viands and wine. The king thus gathered the elders about him for the purpose of considering measures to be laid before the people. The popular assembly, composed of all the citizens, was called to sanction what the king and the elders had decreed. Slowly the binding forms of traditional usage were broken down, and the king and his people were permitted to enact those laws which best served the immediate ends of government. True, the old formal life of the family continued to exist. There were the gentes, tribes, and phratries, or brotherhoods, that still existed, and the individual entered the state in civil capacity through his family. But by degrees the old family régime gave way to the new political life, and sovereign power was vested in monarchy, democracy, or aristocracy, according to the nature of the sovereignty. The functions or activities and powers of governments, which were formerly vested in the patriarchal chief, or king, and later in king, people, and council, gradually became separated and were delegated to different authorities, though the sharp division of legislative, judicial, and executive functions which characterizes our modern governments did not exist. These forms of government were more or less blended, and it required centuries to distribute the various powers of government into special departments and develop modern forms. _In Primitive Society Religion Occupied a Prominent Place_.--While kinship was first in order in the foundation of units of social organization, religion was second to it in importance. {114} Indeed, it is considered by able writers as the foundation of the family and, as the ethnic state is but the expanded family, the vital power in the formation of the state. Among the Aryan tribes religion was a prominent feature of association. In the Greek household stood the family altar, resting upon the first soil in possession of the family. Only members of the household could worship at this shrine, and only the eldest male members of the family in good standing could conduct religious service. When the family grew into the gens it also had a separate altar and a separate worship. Likewise, the tribe had its own worship, and when the city was formed it had its own temple and a particular deity, whom the citizens worshipped. In the ancient family the worship of the house spirit or a deified ancestor was the common practice. This practice of the worship of departed heroes and ancestors, which prevailed in all of the various departments of old Greek society, tended to develop unity and purity of family and tribe. As family forms passed into political, the religion changed from a family to a national religion. Among the lower tribes the religious life is still most powerful in influencing their early life. Mr. Tylor, in his valuable work on _Primitive Culture_, has devoted a good part of two large volumes to the treatment of early religious belief. While recognizing that there is no complete definition of religion, he holds that "belief in spiritual beings" is a minimum definition which will apply to all religions, and, indeed, about the only one that will. The lower races each had simple notions of the spiritual world. They believed in a soul and its existence after death. Nearly all believed in both good and evil spirits, and in one or more greater gods or spirits who ruled and managed the universe. In this early stage of religious belief philosophy and religion were one. The belief in the after life of the spirit is evidenced by implements which were placed in the grave for the use of the departed, and by food which was placed at the grave for his subsistence on the journey. Indeed, some even set aside food at each meal for the departed; others, as {115} instanced by the Greeks, placed tables in the burying ground for the dead. Many views were entertained by the early people concerning the origin of the soul and its course after death. But in all of the rude conditions of life religion was indefinite and uncultured. From lower simple forms it arose to more complex systems and to higher generalizations. Religious influence on progress has been very great. There are those who have neglected the subject of religion in the discussion of the history of civilization. Other writers have considered it of little importance, and still others believe it to have been a positive hindrance to the development of the race. Religion, in general, as practised by savage and barbarous races, based, as it is largely, on superstition, must of a necessity be conservative and non-progressive. Yet the service which it performs in making the tribe or family cohesive and in giving an impetus to the development of the mind before the introduction of science and art as special studies is, indeed, great. The early forms of culture are found almost wholly in religious belief and practice. The religious ceremonies at the grave of a departed companion, around the family altar or in the congregation, whether in the temple or in the open air, tended to social cohesion and social activity. The exercise of religious belief in a superior being and a recognition of his authority, had a tendency to bring the actions of individuals into orderly arrangement and to develop unity of life. It also had a strong tendency to prepare the simple mind of the primitive man for later intellectual development. It gave the mind something to contemplate, something to reason about, before it reached a stage of scientific investigation. Its moral influence is unquestioned. While some of the early religions are barbarous in the extreme in their degenerate state, as a whole they teach man to consider himself and his fellows, and develop an ethical relationship. And while altruism as a great factor in religious and in social progress appeared at a comparatively recent period, it has been in existence from the earliest associations of men to {116} the present time, and usually makes its strongest appeal through religious belief. Religion thus becomes a great society-builder, as well as a means of individual culture. _Spirit Worship_.--The recognition of the continued journey of the spirit after death was in itself an altruistic practice. Much of the worship of the controlling spirit was conducted to secure especial favor to the departed soul. The burial service in early religious practice became a central idea in permanent religious rites. Perhaps the earliest phase of religious belief arises out of the idea that the spirit or soul of man has control over the body. It gives rise to the notion of spirit and the idea of continued existence. Considering the universe as material existence, according to primitive belief, it is the working of the superior spirit over the physical elements that gives rise to natural phenomena. One of the early stages of religious progress is to attempt to form a meeting-place with the spirit. This desire is seen in the lowest tribes and in the highest civilization of to-day. When Cabrillo came to the coast of southern California he found natives that had never before come in contact with civilized people. He describes a rude temple made by driving stakes in the ground in a circular form, and partitioning the enclosure by similar rows of stakes. At the centre was a rude platform, on which were placed the feathers of certain birds pleasing to the spirit. The natives came to this temple occasionally, and, circling around it, went through many antics of worship. This represents the primitive idea of location in worship. Not different in its fundamental conception from the rude altar of stones built by Abraham at Bethel, the Greek altar, or the mighty columns of St. Peter's, it was the simple meeting-place of man and the spirit. For all of these represent location in worship, and just as the modern worshipper enters the church or cathedral to meet God, so did the primitive savage fix locations for the meeting of the spirit. Man finally attempted to control the spirit for his own advantage. A rude form of religion was reached, found in {117} certain stages of the development of all religions, in which man sought to manipulate or exorcise the spirits who existed in the air or were located in trees, stones, and other material forms. Out of this came a genuine worship of the powerful, and supplication for help and support. Seeking aid and favor became the fundamental ideas in religious worship. Simple in the beginning, it sought to appease the wrath of the evil spirit and gain the favor of the good. But finally it sought to worship on account of the sublimity and power possessed by the object of worship. With the advancement of religious practice, religious beliefs and religious ceremonies became more complex. Great systems of mythology sprang up among nations about to enter the precincts of civilization, and polytheism predominated. Purely ethical religions were of a later development, for the notion of the will of the gods concerning the treatment of man by his fellows belongs to an advanced stage of religious belief. The ethical importance of religion reaches its culmination in the religion of Jesus Christ. _Moral Conditions_.--The slow development of altruistic notions presages a deficiency of moral action in the early stages of human progress. True it is that moral conditions seem never to be entirely wanting in this early period. There are many conflicting accounts of the moral practice of different savage and barbarous tribes when first discovered by civilized man. Tribes differ much in this respect, and travellers have seen them from different standpoints. Wherever a definite moral practice cannot be observed, it may be assumed that the standard is very low. Moral progress seems to consist in the constantly shifting standards of right and wrong, of justice and injustice. Perhaps the moral action of the savage should be viewed from two standpoints--namely, the position of the average savage of the tribe, and from the vantage of modern ethical standards. It is only by considering it from these two views that we have the true estimation of his moral status. There must be a difference between conventionality and morality, and many who have judged the moral status of {118} the savage have done so more from a conventional than from a moral standard. True that morality must be judged from the individual motive and from social effects of individual action. Hence it is that the observance of conventional rules must be a phase of morality; yet it is not all of morality. Where conventionality does not exist, the motive of action must be the true moral test. The actions of some savages and of barbarous people are revolting in the extreme, and so devoid of sympathy for the sufferings of their fellow-beings as to lead us to assume that they are entirely without moral sentiment. The repulsive spectacle of human sacrifice is frequently brought about by religious fervor, while the people have more or less altruistic practice in other ways. This practice was common to very many tribes, and indeed to some nations entering the pale of civilization. Cannibalism, revolting as it may seem, may be practised by a group of people which, in every other respect, shows moral qualities. It is composed of kind husbands, mothers, brothers, and sisters, who look after each other's welfare. The treatment of infants, not only by savage tribes but by the Greek and Roman nations after their entrance into civilized life, represents a low status of morality, for it was the common custom to expose infants, even in these proud nations. The degraded condition of woman, as slave and tool of man in the savage state, and indeed in the ancient civilization, does not speak well for the high standard of morality of the past. More than this, the disregard of the rights of property and person and the common practice of revolting brutality, are conclusive evidence of the low moral status of early mankind. Speaking of the Sioux Indians, a writer says: "They regard most of the vices as virtues. Theft, arson, rape, and murder are among them regarded with distinction, and the young Indian from childhood is taught to regard killing as the highest of virtues." And a writer who had spent many years among the natives of the Pacific coast said that "whatever is {119} falsehood in the European is truth in the Indian, and vice versa." Whether we consider the savages or barbarians of modern times, or the ancient nations that laid claim to civilization, we find a gradual evolution of the moral practice and a gradual change of the standard of right. This standard has constantly advanced until it rests to-day on the Golden Rule and other altruistic principles of Christian teaching. _Warfare and Social Progress_.--The constant warfare of savages and barbarians was not without its effects in developing the individual and social life. Cruel and objectionable as it is, the study and practice of war was an element of strength. It developed physical courage, and taught man to endure suffering and hardships. It developed intellectual power in the struggle to circumvent and overcome enemies. It led to the device and construction of arms, machines, engines, guns, and bridges, for facilitating the carrying on of successful warfare; all of this was instrumental in developing the inventive genius and engineering skill of man. In a political way warfare developed tribal or national unity, and bound more closely together the different groups in sympathy and common interest. It thus became useful in the preparation for successful civil government. It prepared some to rule and others to obey, and divided the governing from the governed, an essential characteristic of all forms of government. Military organization frequently accompanied or preceded the formation of the modern state. Sparta and Rome, and in more modern times Prussia, were built upon military foundations. The effect of war in depopulating countries has proved a detriment to civilization by disturbing economic and social development and by destroying thousands of lives. Looking back over the track which the human race has made in its persistent advance, it is easy to see that the ravages of war are terrible. While ethical considerations have entered into warfare and made its effects less terrible, it still is deplorable. It is not a necessity to modern civilization for the {120} development of intellectual or physical strength, nor for the development of either patriotism or courage. Modern warfare is a relic of barbarism, and the sooner we can avoid it the better. Social progress means the checking of war in every way and the development of the arts of peace. It is high time that the ethical process between nations should take the place of the art of war. _Mutual Aid Developed Slowly_.--Owing to ignorance and to the instinct for self-preservation, man starts on his journey toward progress on an individualistic and selfish basis. Gradually he learns to associate with his fellows on a co-operative basis. The elements which enter into this formal association are the exercise of a general blood relationship, religion, economic life, social and political organization. With the development of each of these, social order progresses. Yet, in the clashing interests of individuals and tribes, in the clumsy methods adopted in the mastery of nature, what a waste of human energy; what a loss of human life! How long it has taken mankind to associate on rational principles, to develop a pure home life, to bring about toleration in religion, to develop economic co-operation, to establish liberality in government, and to promote equality and justice! By the rude master, experience, has man been taught all this at an immense cost. Yet there was no other way possible. SUBJECTS FOR FURTHER STUDY 1. Study your community to determine that society is formed by the interactions of individuals. 2. Discuss the earliest forms of mutual aid. 3. Why is the family called the unit of social organization? 4. Why did religion occupy such an important place in primitive society? 5. To what extent and in what manner did the patriarchal family take the place of the state? 6. What is the relation of morals to religion? 7. What are the primary social groups? What the secondary? {121} CHAPTER VII LANGUAGE AND ART AS A MEANS OF CULTURE AND SOCIAL DEVELOPMENT _The Origin of Language Has Been a Subject of Controversy_.--Since man began to philosophize on the causes of things, tribes and races and, indeed, philosophers of all times have attempted to determine the origin of language and to define its nature. In early times language was a mystery, and for lack of better explanation it was frequently attributed to the direct gift of the Deity. The ancient Aryans deified language, and represented it by a goddess "which rushes onward like the wind, which bursts through heaven and earth, and, awe-inspiring to each one that it loves, makes him a Brahmin, a poet, and a sage." Men used language many centuries before they seriously began to inquire into its origin and structure. The ancient Hindu philosophers, the Greeks, and all early nations that had begun a speculative philosophy, wonderingly tried to ascertain whence language came. Modern philologists have carried their researches so far as to ascertain with tolerable accuracy the history and life of language and to determine with the help of other scientists the facts and phenomena of its origin. Language, in its broadest sense, includes any form of expression by which thoughts and feelings are communicated from one individual to another. Words may be spoken, gestures made, cries uttered, pictures or characters drawn, or letters made as means of expression. The deaf-mute converses with his fingers and his lips; the savage communicates by means of gesticulation. It is easy to conceive of a community in which all communication is carried on in sign language. It is said that the Grebos of Africa carry this mode of expression {122} to such an extent that the persons and tenses of the mood are indicated with the hands alone. It has been advocated by some that man first learned to talk by imitating the sounds of nature. It is sometimes called the "bow-wow" theory of the origin of language. Words are used to express the meaning of nature. Thus the purling of the brook, the lowing of the cow, the barking of the dog, the moaning of the wind, the rushing of water, the cry of animals, and other expressions of nature were imitated, and thus formed the root words of language. This theory was very commonly upheld by the philosophers of the eighteenth century, but is now regarded as an entirely inadequate explanation of the process of the development of language. It is true that every language has words formed by the imitation of sound, but these are comparatively few, and as languages are traced toward their origin, such words seem to have continually less importance. Nothing conclusive has been proved concerning the origin of any language by adopting this theory. Another theory is that the exclamations and interjections suddenly made have been the formation of root words, which in turn give rise to the complex forms of language. This can scarcely be considered of much force, for the difference between sudden explosive utterance and words expressing full ideas is so great as to be of little value in determining the real formation of language. These sudden interjections are more of the nature of gesture than of real speech. The theologians insisted for many years that language was a gift of God, but failed to show how man could learn the language after it was given him. They tried to show that man was created with his full powers of speech, thought, and action, and that a vocabulary was given him to use on the supposition that he would know how to use it. But, in fact, nothing yet has been proved concerning the first beginnings of language. There is no reason why man should be fully equipped in language any more than in intellect, moral quality, or economic condition, and it is shown conclusively that in all these {123} characteristics he has made a slow evolution. Likewise the further back towards its origin we trace any language or any group of languages the simpler we find it, coming nearer and yet nearer to the root speech. If we could have the whole record of man, back through that period into which historical records cannot go, and into which comparative philology throws but a few rays of light, doubtless we should find that at one time man used gesture, facial expression, and signs, interspersed with sounds at intervals, as his chief means of expression. Upon this foundation mankind has built the superstructure of language. Some philosophers hold that the first words used were names applied to familiar objects. Around these first names clustered ideas, and gradually new words appeared. With the names and gestures it was easy to convey thought. Others, refuting this idea, have held that the first words represented general notions and not names. From these general notions there were gradually instituted the specific words representing separate ideas. Others have held that language is a gift, and springs spontaneously in the nature of man, arising from his own inherent qualities. Possibly from different standpoints there is a grain of truth in each one of these theories, although all combined are insufficient to explain the whole truth. No theory yet devised answers all the questions concerning the origin of language. It may be truly asserted that language is an acquisition, starting with the original capacity for imperfect speech found in the physiological structure of man. This is accompanied by certain tendencies of thought and life which furnish the psychical notion of language-formation. These represent the foundations of language, and upon this, through action and experience, the superstructure of language has been built. There has been a continuous evolution from simple to complex forms. _Language Is an Important Social Function_.--Whatever conjectures may be made by philosophers or definite knowledge determined by philologists, it is certain that language has been {124} built up by human association. Granted that the physiological function of speech was a characteristic of the first beings to bear the human form, it is true that its development has come about by the mental interactions of individuals. No matter to what extent language was used by a given generation, it was handed on through social heredity to the next generation. Thus, language represents a continuous stream of word-bearing thought, moving from the beginning of human association to the present time. It is through it that we have a knowledge of the past and frame the thoughts of the present. While it is easy to concede that language was built up in the attempt of man to communicate his feelings, emotions, and thoughts to others, it in turn has been a powerful coercive influence and a direct social creation. Only those people who could understand one another could be brought into close relationships, and for this purpose some generally accepted system of communicating ideas became essential. Moreover, the tribes and assimilated nations found the force of common language in the coherency of group life. Thus it became a powerful instrument in developing tribal, racial, or national independence. If the primal force of early family or tribal organization was that of sex and blood relationship, language became a most powerful ally in forcing the group into formal social action, and in furnishing a means of defense against the social encroachments of other tribes and nations. It must be observed, however, that the social boundaries of races are not coincident with the divisions of language. In general the tendency is for a race to develop an independent language, for racial development was dependent upon isolation from other groups. But from the very earliest associations to the present time there has been a tendency for assimilation of groups even to the extent of direct amalgamation of those occupying contiguous territory, or through conquest. In the latter event, the conquered group usually took the language of the conquerors, although this has not always followed, as eventually the stronger language becomes the more important {125} through use. For instance, for a time after the Norman Conquest, Norman French became, in the centres of government and culture at least, the dominant language, but eventually was thrown aside by a more useful language as English institutions came to the front. As race and language may not represent identical groups, it is evident that a classification of language cannot be taken as conclusive evidence in the classification of races. However, in the main it is true. A classification of all of the languages of the Indians of North America would be a classification of all the tribes that have been differentiated in physical structure and other racial traits, as well as of habits and customs. Yet a tribe using a common language may be composed of a number of racial elements. When it comes to the modern state, language does not coincide with natural boundaries. Thus, in Switzerland German is spoken in the north and northeast, French in the southwest, and Italian in the southeast. However, in this case, German is the dominant language taught in schools and used largely in literature. Also, in Belgium, where one part of the people speak Flemish and the other French, they are living under the same national unity so far as government is concerned, although there have always remained distinctive racial types. In Mexico there are a number of tribes that, though using the dominant Spanish language, called Mexican, are in their closer associations speaking the primitive languages of their race or tribe which have come down to them through long ages of development. Sometimes, however, a tribe shows to be a mosaic of racial traits and languages, brought about by the complete amalgamation of tribes. A very good example of this complete amalgamation would be that of the Hopi Indians of New Mexico, where distinctive group words and racial traits may be traced to three different tribes. But to refer to a more complete civilization, where the Spanish language is spoken in Spain, we find the elements of Latin, Teutonic, Arabic, and Old Iberian speech, which are suggestive of different racial traits pointing to different racial origins. {126} Regardless of origin and tradition, language gradually conforms to the type of civilization in existence. A strong, vigorous industrial nation would through a period of years develop a tendency for a vigorous language which would express the spirit and life of the people, while a dreamy, conservative nation would find little change in the language. Likewise, periods of romance or of war have a tendency to make changes in the form of speech in conformity to ideals of life. On the other hand, social and intellectual progress is frequently dependent upon the character of the language used to the extent that it may be said that language is an indication of the progress of a people in the arts of civilized life. It is evident in comparing the Chinese language with the French, great contrasts are shown in the ease in which ideas are represented and the stream of thought borne on its way. The Chinese language is a clumsy machine as compared with the flexible and smooth-gliding French. It appears that if it were possible for the Chinese to change their language for a more flexible, smooth-running instrument, it would greatly facilitate their progress in art, science, and social life. _Written Language Followed Speech in Order of Development_.--Many centuries elapsed before any systematic writing or engraving recorded human events. The deeds of the past were handed on through tradition, in the cave, around the campfire, and in the primitive family. Stories of the past, being rehearsed over and over, became a permanent heritage, passing on from generation to generation. But this method of descent of knowledge was very indefinite, because story-tellers, influenced by their environment, continually built the present into the past, and so the truth was not clearly expressed. Slowly man began to make a permanent record of deeds and events, the first beginnings of which were very feeble, and were included in drawings on the walls of caves, inscriptions on bone, stone, and ivory, and symbols woven in garments. All represented the first beginnings of the representative art of language. {127} Gradually picture-writing became so systematized that an expression of continuous thought might be recorded and transferred from one to another through the observation of the symbols universally recognized. But these pictures on rocks and ivory, and later on tablets, have been preserved, and are expressive of the first steps of man in the art of written language. The picture-writing so common to savages and barbarians finally passes from a simple _rebus_ to a very complex written language, as in the case of the Egyptian or Mexican. The North American Indians used picture-writing in describing battles, or an expedition across a lake, or an army on a march, or a buffalo hunt. A simple picture shows that fifty-one warriors, led by a chief and his assistant, in five canoes, took three days to cross a lake and land their forces on the other side. The use of pictographs is the next step in the process of written language. It represents a generalized form of symbols which may be put together in such a way as to express complete thoughts. Originally they were merely symbols or signs of ideas, which by being slightly changed in form or position led to the expression of a complete thought. Following the pictograph is the ideograph, which is but one more step in the progress of systematic writing. Here the symbol has become so generalized that it has a significance quite independent of its origin. In other words, it becomes idealized and conventionalized, so that a specific symbol stood for a universal idea. It could be made specific by changing its form or position. All that was necessary now was to have a sufficient number of general symbols representing ideas, to build up a constructive language. The American Indian and the Chinese have apparently passed through all stages of the picture-writing, the use of the pictograph and of the ideograph. In fact, the Chinese language is but an extension of these three methods of expression. The objects were originally designated by a rude drawing, and then, to modify the meaning, different characters were attached to the picture. Thus a monosyllabic {128} language was built up, and the root word had many meanings by the modification of its form and sometimes by the change of its position. The hieroglyphic writings of the Egyptians, Moabites, Persians, and Assyrians went through these methods of language development, as their records show to this day. _Phonetic Writing Was a Step in Advance of the Ideograph_.--The difference between the phonetic writing and the picture-writing rests in the fact that the symbol representing the object is expressive of an idea or a complete thought, while in phonetic writing the symbol represents a sound which combined with other sounds expresses an idea called a word and complete thoughts through combination of words. The discovery and use of a phonetic alphabet represent the key to modern civilization. The invention of writing elevated man from a state of barbarism to a state of civilization. About the tenth century before Christ the Phoenicians, Hebrews, and other allied Semitic races began to use the alphabet. Each letter was named from a word beginning with it. The Greeks learned the alphabet from the Phoenicians, and the Greeks, in turn, passed it to the Romans. The alphabet continually changed from time to time. The old Phoenician was weak in vowel sounds, but the defect was remedied in the Greek and Roman alphabets and in the alphabets of the Teutonic nations. Fully equipped with written and spoken speech, the nations of the world were prepared for the interchange of thought and ideas and for the preservation of knowledge in an accurate manner. History could be recorded, laws written and preserved, and the beginnings of science elaborated. _The Use of Manuscripts and Books Made Permanent Records_.--At first all records were made by pen, pencil, or stylus, and manuscripts were represented on papyrus paper or parchment, and could only be duplicated by copying. In Alexandria before the Christian era one could buy a copy of the manuscript of a great author, but it was at a high price. It finally became customary for monks, in their secluded retreats, to spend a good part of their lives in copying and preserving {129} the manuscript writings of great authors. But it was not until printing was invented that the world of letters rapidly moved forward. Probably about the sixth century A.D. the Chinese began to print a group of characters from blocks, and by the tenth century they were engaged in keeping their records in this way. Gutenberg, Faust, and others improved upon the Chinese method by a system of movable type. But what a wonderful change since the fourteenth century printing! Now, with modern type-machines, fine grades of paper made by improved machinery, and the use of immense steam presses, the making of an ordinary book is very little trouble. Looking back over the course of events incident to the development of the modern complex and flexible language we observe, first, the rude picture scrawled on horn or rock. This was followed by the representation of the sound of the name of the picture, which passed into the mere sound sign. Finally, the relation between the figure and the sound becomes so arbitrary that the child learns the a, b, c as pure signs representing sounds which, in combination, make words which stand for ideas. _Language Is an Instrument of Culture_.--Culture areas always spread beyond the territory of language groups. Culture depends upon the discovery and utilization of the forces of nature through invention and adaptation. It may spread through imitation over very large human territory. Man has universal mental traits, with certain powers and capacities that are developed in a relative order and in a degree of efficiency; but there are many languages and many civilizations of high and low degree. Through human speech the life of the past may be handed on to others and the life of the present communicated to one another. The physiological power of speech which exists in all permits every human group to develop a language in accordance with its needs and as influenced by its environment. Thus language advanced very rapidly as an instrument of communication even at a very early period of cultural development. A recent study of the {130} languages of the American Indians has shown the high degree of the art of expression among people of the Neolithic culture. This would seem to indicate that primitive peoples are more definite in thought and more observant in the relation of cause and effect than is usually supposed. Thus, definite language permits more precise thought, and definite thought, in turn, insists on more exact expression in language. The two aid each other in development of cultural ideas, and invention and language move along together in the development of the human race. It becomes a great human invention, and as such it not only preserves the thoughts of the past but unlocks the knowledge of the present. Not only is language the means of communication, and the great racial as well as social bond of union, but it represents knowledge, culture, and refinement. The strength and beauty of genuine artistic expression have an elevating influence on human life and become a means of social progress. The drama and the choicest forms of prose and poetry in their literary aspects furnish means of presenting great thoughts and high ideals, and, thus combined with the beauty of expression, not only furnish the best evidence of moral and intellectual progress but make a perennial source of information in modern social life. Hence it is that language and culture in all of their forms go hand in hand so closely that a high degree of culture is not attained without a dignified and expressive language. _Art as a Language of Aesthetic Ideas_.--The development of aesthetic ideas and aesthetic representations has kept pace with progress in other phases of civilization. The notion of beauty as entertained by the savage is crude, and its representation is grotesque. Its first expression is observed in the adornment of the body, either by paint, tattooing, or by ornaments. The coarse, glaring colors placed upon the face or body, with no regard for the harmony of color, may attract attention, but has little expression of beauty from a modern standard. The first adornment in many savage tribes consisted in tattooing the body, an art which was finally rendered {131} useless after clothing was fully adopted, except as a totemic design representing the unity of the tribe. This custom was followed by the use of rude jewelry for arms, neck, ears, nose, or lips. Other objects of clothing and ornament were added from time to time, the bright colors nearly always prevailing. There must have been in all tribes a certain standard of artistic taste, yet so low in many instances as to suggest only the grotesque. The taste displayed in the costumes of savages within the range of our own observation is remarkable for its variety. It ranges all the way from a small piece of cloth to the elaborate robes made of highly colored cotton and woollen goods. The Celts were noted for their highly colored garments and the artistic arrangement of the same. The Greeks displayed a grace and simplicity in dress never yet surpassed by any other nation. Yet the dress of early Greeks, Romans, and Teutons was meagre in comparison with modern elaborate costumes. All of this is a method of expression of the emotions and ideas and, in one sense, is a language of the aesthetic. Representative art, even among primitive peoples, carries with it a distinctive language. It is a representation of ideas, as well as an attempt at beauty of expression. The figures on pottery and basketry frequently carry with them religious ideas for the expression and perpetuation of religious emotion and belief. Even rude drawings attempt to record the history of the deeds of the race. Progress is shown in better lines, in better form, and a more exquisite blending of colors. That many primitive people display a high degree of art and a low degree of general culture is one of the insoluble problems of the race. Perhaps it may be attributed primarily to the fact that all artistic expression originally sprang from the emotional side of life, and, in addition, may be in part attributed to the early training in the acute observation of the forms of nature by primitive people upon which depended their existence. _Music Is a Form of Language_.--Early poetry was a recital of deeds, and a monotonous chant, which finally became recorded as language developed. The sagas and the war songs {132} were the earliest expressions which later were combined with dramatic action. The poetry of primitive races has no distinguishing characteristics except metre or rhythm. It is usually an oft-recurring expression of the same idea. Yet there are many fragmentary examples of lyric poetry, though it is mostly egoistic, the individual reciting his deeds or his desires. From the natives of Greenland we have the following about the hovering of the clouds about the mountain: "The great Koonak mountain, over there-- I see it; The great Koonak mountain, over there-- I am looking at it; The bright shining in the South, over there-- I admire it; The other side of Koonak-- It stretches out-- That which Koonak-- Seaward encloses. See how they in the South Move and change-- See how in the South They beautify one another; While it toward the sea Is veiled--by changing clouds Veiled toward the sea Beautifying one another." The emotional nature of savages varies greatly in different tribes. The lives of some seem to be moved wholly through the emotions, while others are stolid or dull. The variations in musical ability and practice of savage and barbarous races are good evidence of this. Many of the tribes in Africa have their rude musical instruments, and chant their simple, monotonous music. The South Sea Islanders beat hollow logs with clubs, marking time and creating melody by these notes. The Dahomans use a reed fife, on which they play music of several notes. In all primitive music, time is the chief element, and this is not always kept with any degree of accuracy. The {133} chanting of war songs, the moaning of the funeral dirge, or the sprightly singing with the dance, shows the varied expression of the emotional nature. No better illustration of the arts of pleasure may be observed than the practices of the Zuñi Indians and other Pueblo Indians of New Mexico. The Zuñi melodies are sung on various festival occasions. Some are sacred melodies, used in worship; others are on the occasion of the celebration of the rabbit hunt, the rain dances, and the corn dances. Among the Pueblo Indians the cachina dance is for the purpose of invoking bountiful rains and good harvests. In all of their feasts, games, plays, and dances there are connected ceremonies of a religious nature. Religion occupies a very strong position in the minds of the people. Possessed of a superstitious nature, it was inevitable that all the arts of pleasure should partake somewhat of the religious ceremony. The song and the dance and the beating of the drums always accompanied every festival. _The Dance as a Means of Dramatic Expression_.--Among primitive peoples the dance, poetry, and music were generally introduced together, and were parts of one drama. As such it was a social institution, with the religious, war, or play element fully represented. Most primitive dances were conducted by men only. In the celebrated _Corroboree_ of the Australians, men danced and the women formed the orchestra.[1] This gymnastic dance was common to many tribes. The dances of the Moros and Igorrotes at the St. Louis Exposition partook, in a similar way, of the nature of the gymnastic dance. The war dances of the plains Indians of America are celebrated for their grotesqueness. The green-corn dance and the cachina of the Pueblos and the snake dance of the Moqui all have an economic foundation. In all, however, the play element in man and the desire for dramatic expression and the art of mimicry are evident. The chief feature of the dance of the primitive people is the regular time beat. This is more prominent than the grace of movement. Yet this agrees with {134} the nature of their music, for in this the time element is more prominent than the tune. Rhythm is the strong element in the primitive art of poetry, music, or the dance, but all have an immense socializing influence. The modern dance has added to rhythm the grace of expression and developed the social tendencies. In it love is a more prominent feature than war or religion. Catlin, in his _North American Indians_, describes the buffalo dance of the Mandan Indians, which appears to be more of a service toward an economic end than an art of pleasure. After an unsuccessful hunt the returned warriors bring out their buffalo masks, made of the head and horns and tail of the buffalo. These they don, and continue to dance until worn out. Ten or fifteen dancers form a ring and, accompanied by drumming, yelling, and rattling, dance until the first exhausted one goes through the pantomime of being shot with the bow and arrow, skinned, and cut up; but the dance does not lag, for another masked dancer takes the place of the fallen one. The dance continues day and night, without cessation, sometimes for two or three weeks, or until a herd of buffaloes appears in sight; then the warriors change the dance for the hunt. The dancing of people of lower culture was carried on in many instances to express feelings and wishes. Many of the dances of Egypt, Greece, and other early civilizations were of this nature. Sacred hymns to the gods were chanted in connection with the dancing; but the sacred dance has become obsolete, in Western civilization its place being taken by modern church music. _The Fine Arts Follow the Development of Language_.--While art varied in different tribes, we may assume in general that there was a continuity of culture development from the rude clay idol of primitive folk to the Venus de Milo or the Winged Victory; from the pictures on rocks and in caves to the Sistine Madonna; from the uncouth cooking bowl of clay to the highest form of earthenware vase; and from the monotonous {135} strain of African music to the lofty conception of Mozart. But this is a continuity of ideas covering the whole human race as a unit, rather than the progressive development of a single branch of the race. Consider for a moment the mental and physical environment of the ancient cave or forest dweller. The skies to him were marked only as they affected his bodily comfort in sunshine or storm; the trees invited his attention as they furnished him food or shelter; the roaring torrent was nothing to him except as it obstructed his journey; the sun and the moon and the stars in the heavens filled him with portentous awe, and the spirits in the invisible world worked for his good or for his evil. Beyond his utilitarian senses no art emotion stirred in these signs of creation. Perhaps the first art emotion was aroused in contemplation of the human body. Through vanity, fear, or love he began to decorate it. He scarifies or tattoos his naked body with figures upon his back, arms, legs, and face to represent an idea of beauty. While the tribal or totemic design may have originated the custom, he wishes to be attractive to others, and his first emotions of beauty are thus expressed. The second step is to paint his face and body to express love, fear, hate, war, or religious emotions. This leads on to the art of decorating the body with ornaments, and subsequently to the ornamentation of clothing. The art of representation at first possessed little artistic beauty, though the decorations on walls of caves show skill in lines and color. The first representations sought only intelligence in communicating thought. The bas-reliefs of the ancients showed skill in representation. The ideal was finally developed until the aesthetic taste was improved, and the Greek sculpture shows a high development of artistic taste. In it beauty and truth were harmoniously combined. The arts of sculpture and painting are based upon the imagination. Through its perfect development, and the improvement in the art of execution, have been secured the aesthetic products of man. Yet there is always a mingling of the emotional nature {136} in the development of fine arts. The growth of the fine arts consists in intensifying the pleasurable sensations of eye and ear. This is done by enlarging the capacity for pleasure and increasing the opportunity for its satisfaction. The beginnings of the fine arts were small, and the capacity to enjoy must have been slowly developed. Of the arts that appeal to the eye there may be enumerated sculpture, painting, drawing, landscape-gardening, and architecture. The pleasure from all except the last comes from an attempt to represent nature. Architecture is founded upon the useful, and combines the industrial and the fine arts in one. The attempt to imitate nature is to satisfy the emotions aroused in its contemplation. _The Love of the Beautiful Slowly Develops_.--There must have developed in man the desire to make a more perfect arrow-head, axe, or celt for the efficiency of service, and later for beauty of expression. There must early have developed an idea of good form and bright colors in clothing. So, too, in the mixing of colors for the purpose of expressing the emotions there gradually came about a refinement in blending. Nor could man's attention be called constantly to the beautiful plants and flowers, to the bright-colored stones, metals, and gems found in the earth without developing something more than mere curiosity concerning them. He must early have discovered the difference between objects which aroused desire for possession and those that did not. Ultimately he preferred a more beautifully finished stone implement than one crudely constructed--a more beautiful and showy flower than one that was imperfect, and likewise more beautiful human beings than those that were crude and ugly. The pleasure of sound manifested itself at an earlier stage than the pleasure of form, although the degree of advancement in music varies in different tribes. Thus the inhabitants of Africa have a much larger capacity for recognizing and enjoying the effect of harmonious sounds than the aborigines of America. While all nations have the faculty of obtaining pleasure from harmonious sounds, it varies greatly, yet not more {137} widely than between separate individuals. It may be considered quite a universal faculty. The love of the beautiful in form, color, and in harmonious sound, is a permanent social force, and has much to do in the progress of civilization. Yet it is not an essential force, for the beginnings of civilization could have been made without it. However, it gives relief to the cold business world; the formal association of men is softened and embellished by painting, poetry, and music. Thus considered, it represents an important part of the modern social development. Art culture, which represents the highest expression of our civilization, has its softening influences on human life. SUBJECTS FOR FURTHER STUDY 1. The importance of language in the development of culture. 2. Does language always originate the same way in different localities? 3. Does language develop from a common centre or from many centres? 4. What bearing has the development of language upon the culture of religion, music, poetry, and art? 5. Which were the more important impulses, clothing for protection or for adornment? 6. Show that play is an important factor in society-building. 7. Compare pictograph, ideograph, and phonetic writing. [1] Keane, _The World's Peoples_, p. 49. {141} _PART III_ THE SEATS OF EARLY CIVILIZATIONS CHAPTER VIII THE INFLUENCE OF PHYSICAL NATURE ON HUMAN PROGRESS _Man Is a Part of Universal Nature_.--He is an integral part of the universe, and as such he must ever be subject to the physical laws which control it. Yet, as an active, thinking being, conscious of his existence, it is necessary to consider him in regard to the relations which he sustains to the laws and forces of physical nature external to himself. He is but a particle when compared to a planet or a sun, but he is greater than a planet because he is conscious of his own existence, and the planet is not. Yet his whole life and being, so far as it can be reasoned about, is dependent upon his contact with external nature. By adaptation to physical environment he may live; without adaptation he cannot live. As a part of evolved nature, man comes into the world ignorant of his surroundings. He is ever subject to laws which tend to sweep him onward with the remaining portions of the system of which he is a part, but his slowly awakening senses cause him to examine his surroundings. First, he has a curiosity to know what the world about him is like, and he begins a simple inquiry which leads to investigation. The knowledge he acquires is adapted to his use day by day as his vision extends. Through these two processes he harmonizes his life with the world about him. By degrees he endeavors to bring the materials and the forces of nature into subjection to his will. Thus he progresses from the student to the master. External nature is unconscious, submitting passively to the laws that control it, but man, ever conscious of himself and his effort, attempts to dominate the forces surrounding him and this struggle to overcome environment has characterized his {142} progress. But in this struggle, nature has reciprocated its influence on man in modifying his development and leaving her impress on him. Limited he has ever been and ever will be by his environment. Yet within the limits set by nature he is master of his own destiny and develops by his own persistent endeavor. Indeed, the epitome of civilization is a struggle of nature and thought, the triumph of the psychical over the physical; and while he slowly but surely overcomes the external physical forces and makes them subordinate to his own will and genius, civilization must run along natural courses even though its products are artificial. In many instances nature appears bountiful and kind to man, but again she appears mean and niggardly. It is man's province to take advantage of her bounty and by toil and invention force her to yield her coveted treasures. Yet the final outcome of it all is determined by the extent to which man masters himself. _Favorable Location Is Necessary for Permanent Civilization_.--In the beginning only those races have made progress that have sought and obtained favorable location. Reflect upon the early civilizations of the world and notice that every one was begun in a favorable location. Observe the geographical position of Egypt, in a narrow, fertile valley bounded by the desert and the sea, cut off from contact with other races. There was an opportunity for the Egyptians to develop continuity of life sufficient to permit the beginnings of civilization. Later, when wealth and art had developed, Egypt became the prey of covetous invading nations. So ancient Chaldea, for a time far removed from contact with other tribes, and protected by desert, mountain, and sea, was able to begin a civilization. But far more favorable, not only for a beginning of civilization but for a high state of development, was the territory occupied by the Grecian tribes. Shut in from the north by a mountain range, surrounded on every other side by the sea, a fertile and well-watered land, of mild climate, it was protected {143} from the encroachments of "barbarians." The influence of geographical contour is strongly marked in the development of the separate states of Greece. The small groups that settled down on a family basis were separated from each other by ranges of hills, causing each community to develop its own characteristic life. These communities had a common language, differing somewhat in dialect, and the foundation of a common religion, but there never could exist sufficient similarity of character or unity of sentiment to permit them to unite into a strong central nation. A variety of life is evinced everywhere. Those who came in contact with the ocean differed from those who dwelt in the interior, shut in by the mountains. The contact with the sea gives breadth of thought, largeness of life, while those who are enclosed by mountains lead a narrow life, intense in thought and feeling. Without the protection of nature, the Grecian states probably would never have developed the high state of civilization which they reached. Rome presents a similar example. It is true that the Italian tribes that entered the peninsula had considerable force of character and thorough development as they were about to enter upon a period of civilization. Like the Greeks, the discipline of their early Aryan ancestors had given them much of strength and character. Yet the favorable location of Italy, bounded on the north by a high mountain range and enclosed by the sea, gave abundant opportunity for the national germs to thrive and grow. Left thus to themselves, dwelling under the protection of the snow-capped Alps, and surrounded by the beneficent sea, national life expanded, government and law developed and thrived, and the arts of civilized life were practised. The national greatness of the Romans may in part be attributed to the period of repose in which they pursued unmolested the arts of peace before their era of conquest began. Among the mountains of Switzerland are people who claim never to have been conquered. In the wild rush of the {144} barbarian hordes into the Roman Empire they were not overrun. They retain to this day their early sentiments of liberty; their greatness is in freedom and equality. The mountains alone protected them from the assaults of the enemy and the crush of moving tribes. Other nations might be mentioned that owe much to geographical position. More than once in the early part of her history it protected Spain from destruction. The United States, in a large measure, owes her independent existence to the fact that the ocean rolls between her and the mother country. On the other hand, Ireland has been hampered in her struggle for independent government on account of her proximity to England. The natural defense against enemies, the protection of mountains and forests, the proximity to the ocean, all have had their influence in the origin and development of nations. Yet races, tribes, and nations, once having opportunity to develop and become strong, may flourish without the protecting conditions of nature. They may defy the mountains, seas, and the streams, and the onslaughts of the wild tribes. _The Nature of the Soil an Essential Condition of Progress_.--But geography alone, although a great factor in progress, is powerless without a fertile soil to yield a food supply for a large population. The first great impetus of all early civilizations occurred through agriculture. Not until this had developed so as to give a steady food supply were people able to have sufficient leisure to develop the other arts of life. The abundant food supply furnished by the fertility of the Nile valley was the key to the Egyptian civilization. The valley was overflowed annually by the river, which left a fertilizing sediment upon the land already prepared for cultivation. Thus annually without excessive labor the soil was watered, fertilized, and prepared for the seed. Even when irrigation was introduced, in order to obtain a larger supply of food, the cultivation of the soil was a very easy matter. Agriculture consisted primarily in sowing seed on ready prepared ground and {145} reaping the harvest. The certainty of the crop assured a living. The result of cheap food was to rapidly multiply the race, which existed on a low plane. It created a mass of inferior people ruled by a few despots. What is true of Egypt is true of all of the early civilizations, as they each started where a fertile soil could easily be tilled. The inhabitants of ancient Chaldea developed their civilization on a fertile soil. The great cities of Nineveh and Babylon were surrounded by rich valleys, and the yield of agricultural products made civilization possible. The earliest signs of progress in India were along the valleys of the Ganges and the Indus. Likewise, in the New World, the tribes that approached the nearest to civilization were situated in fertile districts in Peru, Central America, Mexico, and New Mexico. _The Use of Land the Foundation of Social Order_.--The manner in which tribes and nations have attached themselves to the soil has determined the type of social organization. Before the land was treated as property of individuals or regarded as a permanent possession by tribes, the method in which the land was held and its use determined the quality of civilization, and the land factor became more important as a determiner of social order as civilization progressed. It was exceedingly important in determining the quality of the Greek life, and the entire structure of Roman civilization was based on the land question. Master the land tenure of Rome and you have laid the foundation of Roman history. The desire for more land and for more room was the chief cause of the barbarian invasion of the empire. All feudal society, including lords and vassals, government and courts, was based upon the plan of feudal land-holding. In modern times in England the land question has been at times the burning political and economic question of the nation, and is a disturbing factor in recent times. In the United States, rapid progress is due more to the bounteous supply of free, fertile lands than to any other single cause. Broad, fertile valleys are more pertinent as the foundation {146} of nation-building than men are accustomed to believe; and now that nearly all the public domain has been apportioned among the citizens, intense desire for land remains unabated, and its method of treatment through landlord and tenant is rapidly becoming a troublesome question. The relation of the soil to the population presents new problems, and the easy-going civilization will be put to a new test. _Climate Has Much to Do with the Possibilities of Progress_.--The early seats of civilization mentioned above were all located in warm climates. Leisure is essential to all progress. Where it takes man all of his time to earn a bare subsistence there is not much room for improvement. A warm climate is conducive to leisure, because its requirements of food and clothing are less imperative than in cold countries. The same quantity of food will support more people in warm than in cold climates. This, coupled with the fact that nature is more spontaneous in furnishing a bountiful supply in warm climates than in cold, renders the first steps in progress much more possible. The food in warm climates is of a light vegetable character, which is easily prepared for use; indeed, in many instances it is already prepared. In cold countries, where it is necessary to consume large amounts of fatty food to sustain life, the food supply is meagre, because this can only be obtained from wild animals. In this region it costs immense labor to obtain sufficient food for the support of life; likewise, in a cold climate it takes much time to tame animals for use and to build huts to protect from the storm and the cold. The result is that the propagation of the race is slow, and progress in social and individual life is retarded. We should expect, therefore, all of the earliest civilization to be in warm regions. In this we are not disappointed, in noting Egypt, Babylon, Mexico, and Peru. Soil and climate co-operate in furnishing man a suitable place for his first permanent development. There is, however, in this connection, one danger to be pointed out, arising from the conditions of cheap food--namely, a rapid propagation of the race, which {147} entails misery through generations. In these early populous nations, great want and misery frequently prevailed among the masses of the people. Thousands of laborers, competing for sustenance, reduce the earning capacity to a very small amount, and this reduces the standard of life. Yet because food and shelter cost little, they are able to live at a low standard and to multiply rapidly. Human life becomes cheap, is valued little by despotic rulers, who enslave their fellows. Another danger in warm climates which counteracts the tendency of nations to progress, is the fact that warm climates enervate man and make him less active; hence it occurs that in colder climates with unfavorable surroundings great progress is made on account of the excessive energy and strong will-force of the inhabitants. In temperate climates man has reached the highest state of progress. In this zone the combination of a moderately cheap food supply and the necessity of excessive energy to supply food, clothing, and protection has been most conducive to the highest forms of progress. While, therefore, the civilization of warm climates has led to despotism, inertia, and the degradation of the masses, the civilization of temperate climates has led to freedom, elevation of humanity, and progress in the arts. This illustrates how essential is individual energy in taking advantage of what nature has provided. _The General Aspects of Nature Determine the Type of Civilization_.--While the general characteristics of nature have much to do with the development of the races of the earth, it is only a single factor in the great complex of influences. People living in the mountain fastnesses, those living at the ocean side, and those living on great interior plains vary considerably as to mental characteristics and views of life in general. Buckle has expanded this idea at some length in his comparison of India and Greece. He has endeavored to show that "the history of the human mind can only be understood by connecting with it the history and aspects of the material universe." He holds that everything in India tended to depress the {148} dignity of man, while everything in Greece tended to exalt it. After comparing these two countries of ancient civilization in respect to the development of the imagination, he says: "To sum up the whole, it may be said that the Greeks had more respect for human powers; the Hindus for superhuman. The first dealt with the known and available, the second with the unknown and mysterious." He attributes this difference largely to the fact that the imagination was excessively developed in India, while the reason predominated in Greece. The cause attributed to the development of the imagination in India is the aspect of nature. Everything in India is overshadowed with the immensity of nature. Vast plains, lofty mountains, mighty, turbulent rivers, terrible storms, and demonstrations of natural forces abound to awe and terrify. The causes of all are so far beyond the conception of man that his imagination is brought into play to furnish images for his excited and terrified mind. Hence religion is extravagant, abstract, terrible. Literature is full of extravagant poetic images. The individual is lost in the system of religion, figures but little in literature, and is swallowed up in the immensity of the universe. While, on the other hand, the fact that Greece had no lofty mountains, no great plains; had small rivulets in the place of rivers, and few destructive storms, was conducive to the development of calm reflection and reason. Hence, in Greece man predominated over nature; in India, nature overpowered man.[1] There is much of truth in this line of argument, but it must not be carried too far. For individual and racial characteristics have much to do with the development of imagination, reason, and religion. The difference, too, in the time of development, must also be considered, for Greece was a later product, and had the advantage of much that had preceded in human progress. And so far as can be determined, the characteristics of the Greek colonists were quite well established {149} before they left Asia. The supposition, also, that man is subject entirely to the influence of physical nature for his entire progress, must be taken with modification. His mind-force, his individual will-force, must be accounted for, and these occupy a large place in the history of his progress. No doubt the thunders of Niagara and the spectacle of the volume of water inspire poetic admiration in the minds of the thousands who have gazed on this striking physical phenomenon of nature. It is awe-inspiring; it arouses the emotions; it creates poetic imagination. But the final result of contact with the will of man is to turn part of that force from its channels, to move the bright machinery engaged in creating things useful and beautiful which contribute to the larger well-being of man. Granting that climate, soil, geographical position, and the aspects of nature have a vast influence in limiting the possibilities of man's progress, and in directing his mental as well as physical characteristics, it must not be forgotten that in the contact with these it is his mastery over them which constitutes progress, and this involves the activity of his will-power. Man is not a slave to his environment. He is not a passive creature acted upon by sun and storm and subjected to the powers of the elements. True, that there are set about him limitations within which he must ever act. Yet from generation to generation he forces back these limits, enlarges the boundary of his activities, increases the scope of his knowledge, and brings a larger number of the forces of nature in subjection to his will. _Physical Nature Influences Social Order_.--Not only is civilization primarily based upon the physical powers and resources of nature, but the quality of social order is determined thereby. Thus, people following the streams, plains, and forests would develop a different type of social order from those who would settle down to permanent seats of agriculture. The Bedouin Arabs of the desert, although among the oldest of organized groups, have changed very little through the passing centuries, because their mode of life permits only a {150} simple organization. Likewise, it is greatly in contrast with the modern nations, built upon industrial and commercial life, with all of the machinery run by the powers of nature. When Rome developed her aristocratic proprietors to whom the land was apportioned in great estates, the old free farming population disappeared and slavery became a useful adjunct in the methods adopted for cultivating the soil. On the other hand, the old village community where land was held in common developed a small co-operative group closely united on the basis of mutual aid. The great landed estates of England and Germany must, so long as they continue, influence the type of social order and of government that will exist in those countries. As the individual is in a measure subservient to the external laws about him, so must the social group of which he forms a part be so controlled. The flexibility and variability of human nature, with its power of adaptation, make it possible to develop different forms of social order. The subjective side of social development, wherein the individual seeks to supply his own wants and follow the directions of his own will, must ever be a modifying power acting upon the social organization. Thus society becomes a great complex of variabilities which cannot be reduced to exact laws similar to those found in physical nature. Nevertheless, if society in its development is not dependent upon immutable laws similar to those discovered in the forces of nature, yet as part of the great scheme of nature it is directly dependent upon the physical forces that permit it to exist the same as the individual. This would give rise to laws of human association which are modified by the laws of external nature. Thus, while society is psychical in its nature, it is ever dependent upon the material and the physical for its existence. However, through co-operation, man is able to more completely master his environment than by working individually. It is only by mutual aid and social organization that he is able to survive and conquer. {151} SUBJECTS FOR FURTHER STUDY 1. Give examples coming within your own observation of the influence of soil and climate on the character of society. 2. Does the character of the people in Central America depend more on climate than on race? 3. In what ways does the use of land determine the character of social order? 4. Are the ideals and habits of thought of the people living along the Atlantic Coast different from those of the Middle West? If so, in what respect? 5. Is the attitude toward life of the people of the Dakota wheat belt different from those of New York City? 6. Compare a mining community with an agricultural community and record the differences in social order and attitude toward life. [1] Henry Thomas Buckle, _History of Civilization in England_. General Introduction. {152} CHAPTER IX CIVILIZATION OF THE ORIENT _The First Nations with Historical Records in Asia and Africa_.--The seats of the most ancient civilizations are found in the fertile valleys of the Euphrates and the Nile. These centres of civilization were founded on the fertility of the river valleys and the fact of their easy cultivation. Just when the people began to develop these civilizations and whence they came are not determined. It is out of the kaleidoscopic picture of wandering humanity seeking food and shelter, the stronger tribes pushing and crowding the weaker, that these permanent seats of culture became established. Ceasing to wander after food, they settled down to make the soil yield its products for the sustenance of life. Doubtless they found other tribes and races had been there before them, though not for permanent habitation. But the culture of any one group of people fades away toward its origins, mingling its customs and life with those who preceded them. Sometimes, indeed, when a tribe settled down to permanent achievement, its whole civilization is swept away by more savage conquerors. Sometimes, however, the blood of the invaders mingled with the conquered, and the elements of art, religion, and language of both groups have built up a new type of civilization. The geography of the section comprising the nations where the earliest achievements have left permanent records, indicates a land extending from a territory east of the Tigris and Euphrates westward to the eastern shore of the Mediterranean and southward into Egypt. Doubtless, this region was one much traversed by tribes of various languages and cultures. Emerging from the Stone Age, we find the civilization ranging from northern Africa and skirting Arabia through Palestine {153} and Assyria down into the valley of the Tigris and the Euphrates. Doubtless, the civilization that existed in this region was more or less closely related in general type, but had derived its character from many primitive sources. As history dawns on the achievements of these early nations, it is interesting to note that there was a varied rainfall within this territory. Some parts were well watered, others having long seasonal periods of drought followed by periodical rains. It would appear, too, the uncertainty of rainfall seemed to increase rather than diminish, for in the valley of the Euphrates, as well as in the valley of the Nile, the inhabitants were forced to resort to artificial irrigation for the cultivation of their crops. It is not known at what time the Chaldeans began to build their artificial systems of irrigation, but it must have been brought about by the gain of the population on the food supply, or perhaps an increased uncertainty of rainfall. At any rate, the irrigation works became a systematic part of their industry, and were of great size and variety. It took a great deal of engineering skill to construct immense ditches necessary to control the violent floods of the Euphrates and the Tigris. So far as evidence goes, the irrigation was carried on by the gravity system, by which canals were built from intakes from the river and extended throughout the cultivated district. In Egypt for a long time the periodical overflow of the Nile brought in the silt for fertilizer and water for moisture. When the flood subsided, seed was planted and the crop raised and harvested. As the population spread, the use of water for irrigation became more general, and attempts were made to distribute its use not only over a wider range of territory but more regularly throughout the seasons, thus making it possible to harvest more than one crop a year, or to develop diversified agriculture. The Egyptians used nearly all the modern methods of procuring, storing, and distributing water. Hence, in these centres of warm climate, fertile land, and plenty of moisture, the earth was made to yield an immense harvest, which made it possible to support a large population. {154} The food supply having been established, the inhabitants could devote themselves to other things, and slowly developed the arts and industries. _Civilization in Mesopotamia_.--The Tigris and Euphrates, two great rivers having their sources in mountain regions, pouring their floods for centuries into the Persian Gulf, made a broad, fertile valley along their lower courses. The soil was of inexhaustible fertility and easy of cultivation. The climate was almost rainless, and agriculture was dependent upon artificial irrigation. The upper portion of this great river valley was formed of undulating plains stretching away to the north, where, almost treeless, they furnished great pasture ranges for flocks and herds, which also added to the permanency of the food supply and helped to develop the wealth and prosperity of the country. It was in this climate, so favorable for the development of early man, and with this fertile soil yielding such bountiful productions, that the ancient Chaldean civilization started, which was followed by the Babylonian and Assyrian civilizations, each of which developed a great empire. These empires, ruling in turn, not only represented centres of civilization and wealth, but they acquired the overlordship of territories far and wide, their monarchs ruling eastward toward India and westward toward Phoenicia. In early times ancient Chaldea, located on the lower Euphrates, was divided into two parts, the lower portion known as Sumer, and the other, the upper, known as Akkad. While in the full development of these civilizations the Semitic race was dominant, there is every appearance that much of the culture of these primitive peoples came from farther east. _Influences Coming from the Far East_.--The early inhabitants of this country have sometimes been called Turanian to distinguish them from Aryans, Semites, and other races sometimes called Hamitic. They seem to have been closely allied to the Mongolian type of people who developed centres of culture in the Far East and early learned the use of metals and developed a high degree of skill in handicraft. The Akkadians, {155} or Sumer-Akkadians, appear to have come from the mountain districts north and east, and entered this fertile valley to begin the work of civilization at a very early period. Their rude villages and primitive systems of life were to be superseded by civilizations of other races that, utilizing the arts and industries of the Akkadians, carried their culture to a much higher standard. The Akkadians are credited with bringing into this country the methods of making various articles from gold and iron which have been found in their oldest tombs. They are credited with having laid the foundation of the industrial arts which were manifested at an early time in ancient Chaldea, Egypt, and later in Babylonia and Phoenicia. Whatever foundation there may be for this theory, the subsequent history of the civilizations which have developed from Thibet as a centre would seem to attribute the early skill in handiwork in the metals and in porcelain and glass to these people. They also early learned to make inscriptions for permanent record in a crude way and to construct buildings made of brick. The Akkadians brought with them a religious system which is shown in a collection of prayers and sacred texts found recorded in the ruins at the great library at Nineveh. Their religion seemed to be a complex of animism and nature-worship. To them the universe was peopled with spirits who occupied different spheres and performed different services. Scores of evil spirits working in groups of seven controlled the earth and man. Besides these there were numberless demons which assailed man in countless forms, which worked daily and hourly to do him harm, to control his spirit, to bring confusion to his work, to steal the child from the father's knee, to drive the son from the father's house, or to withhold from the wife the blessings of children. They brought evil days. They brought ill-luck and misfortune. Nothing could prevent their destructiveness. These spirits, falling like rain from the skies to the earth, could leap from house to house, penetrating the doors like serpents. Their dwelling-places were scattered in {156} the marshes by the sea, where sickly pestilence arose, and in the deserts, where the hot winds drifted the sands. Sickness and disease were represented by the demons of pestilence and of fever, which bring destruction upon man. It was a religion of fatalism, which held that man was ever attacked by unseen enemies against whom there was no means of defense. There was little hope in life and none after death. There was no immortality and no eternal life. These spirits were supposed to be under the control of sorcerers and magicians or priests, resembling somewhat the medicine men of the wild tribes of North America, who had power to compel them, and to inflict death or disaster upon the objects of their censure and wrath. Thus, these primitive peoples of early Chaldea were terrorized by the spirits of the earth and by the wickedness of those who manipulated the spirits. The only bright side of this picture was the creation of other spirits conceived to be essentially good and beneficial, and to whom prayers were directed for protection and help. Such beings were superior to all evil spirits, provided their support could be invoked. So the spirit of heaven and the spirit of earth both appealed to the imagination of these primitive people, who thought that these unseen creatures called gods possessed all knowledge and wisdom, which was used to befriend and protect. Especially would they look to the spirit of earth as their particular protector, who had power to break the spell of the spirits, compel obedience, and bring terror into the hearts of the wicked ones. Such, in brief, was the religious system which these people created for themselves. Later, after the Semitic invasion, a system of religion developed more colossal in its imagination and yet not less cruel in its final decrees regarding human life and destiny. It passed into the purely imaginative religion, and the worship of the sun and moon and the stars gave man's imagination a broader vision, even if it did not lift him to a higher standard of moral conduct. It is not known at what date these early civilizations began, {157} but there is some evidence that the Akkadians appeared in the valley not less than four thousand years before Christ, and that subsequently they were conquered by the Elamites in the east, who obtained the supremacy for a season, and then were reinforced by the Semitic peoples, who ranged northeast, and, from northern Africa through Arabia, eastward to the Euphrates.[1] _Egypt Becomes a Centre of Civilization_.--The men of Egypt are supposed to be related racially to the Caucasian people who dwelt in the northern part of Africa, from whom they separated at a very early period, and went into the Nile valley to settle. Their present racial connection makes them related to the well-known Berber type, which has a wide range in northern Africa. Some time after the departure of the Hamitic branch of the Caucasian race into Egypt, it is supposed that another people passed on beyond, entering Arabia, later spreading over Assyria, Babylon, Palestine, and Phoenicia. These were called the Semites. Doubtless, this passage was long continued and irregular, and there are many intermixtures of the races now distinctly Berber and Arabic, so that in some parts of Egypt, and north of Egypt, we find an Arab-Berber mongrel type. Doubtless, when the Egyptian stock of the Berber type came into Egypt they found other races whose life dates back to the early Paleolithic, as the stone implements found in the hills and caves and graves showed not only Neolithic but Paleolithic culture. Also, the wavering line of Sudan negro types extended across Africa from east to west and came in contact with the Caucasian stock of northern Africa, and we find many negroid intermixtures. The Egyptians, however, left to themselves for a number of centuries, began rapid ascendency. First, as before stated, their food supply was permanent and abundant. Second, there were inducements also for the development of the art of measurement of land which later led to the development of general principles of measurement. There was observation of {158} the sun and moon and the stars, and a development of the art of building of stone and brick, out of which the vast pyramid tombs of kings were built. The artificers, too, had learned to work in precious stones and metals and weave garments, also to write inscriptions on tombs and also on the papyrus. It would seem as if the civilization once started through so many centuries had become sufficiently substantial to remain permanent or to become progressive, but Egypt was subject to a great many drawbacks. The nation that has the food supply of the world is sooner or later bound to come into trouble. So it appears in the case of Egypt, with her vast food resources and accumulation of wealth; she was eventually doomed to the attacks of jealous and envious nations. The history of Egypt is represented by dynasties of kings and changes of government through a long period interrupted by the invasion of tribes from the west and the north, which interfered with the uniformity of development. It is divided into two great centres of development, Lower Egypt, or the Delta, and Upper Egypt, frequently differing widely in the character of civilization. Yet, in the latter part of her supremacy Egypt went to war with the Semitic peoples of Babylon and Assyria for a thousand years. It was the great granary of the world and a centre of wealth and culture. The kings of Egypt were despots who were regarded by the people as gods. They were the head not only of the state but of the religious system, and consequently through this double headship were enabled to rule with absolute sway. The priesthood, together with a few nobles, represented the intellectual and social aristocracy of the country. Next to them were the warriors, who were an exclusive class. Below these came the shepherds and farmers, and finally the slaves. While the caste system did not prevail with as much rigidity here as in India, all groups of people were bound by the influence of class environment, from which they were unable to extricate themselves. Poorer classes became so degraded that in times of famine they were obliged to sell their liberty, their lives, or {159} their labor to kings for food. They became merely toiling animals, forced for the want of bread to build the monuments of kings. The records of Egyptian civilization through art, writing, painting, sculpture, architecture, and the great pyramids, obelisks, and sphinxes were but the records of the glory of kings, built upon the shame of humanity. True, indeed, there was some advance in the art of writing, in the science of astronomy and geometry, and the manufacture of glass, pottery, linens, and silk in the industrial arts. The revelations brought forth in recent years from the tombs of these kings, where were stored the art treasures representing the civilization of the time, exhibit something of the splendors of royalty and give some idea of the luxuries of the civilization of the higher classes. Here were stored the finest products of the art of the times. The wonders of Egypt were manifested in the structure of the pyramids, which were merely tombs of kings, which millions of laborers spent their lives in building. They represent the most stupendous structures of ancient civilization whose records remain. Old as they appear, as we look backward to the beginning of history, they represent a culminating period of Egyptian art. Sixty-seven of these great structures extended for about sixty miles above the city of Cairo, along the edge of the Libyan Desert. They are placed along the great Egyptian natural burying place in the western side of the Nile valley, as a sort of boulevard of the tombs of kings and nobles. Most of them are constructed of stone, although several are of adobe or sun-dried brick. The latter have crumbled into great conical mountains, like those of the pyramid temples of Babylon. The largest pyramid, Cheops, rises to a height of 480 feet, having a base covering 13 acres. The historian Herodotus relates that 120,000 men were employed for 20 years in the erection of this great structure. It has never been explained how these people, not yet well developed in practical mechanics, and not having discovered the use of steam and with no {160} use of iron, could have reared these vast structures. Besides the pyramids, great palaces and temples of the kings of Thebes in Upper Egypt rivalled in grandeur the lonely pyramids of Memphis. Age after age, century after century, witnessed the building of these temples, palaces, and tombs. It is said that the palace of Karnak, the most wonderful structure of ancient or modern times, was more than five hundred years in the process of building, and it is unknown how many hundreds of thousands of men spent their lives for this purpose. So, too, the mighty sphinxes and colossal statues excite the wonder and admiration of the world. Especially to be mentioned in this connection are the colossi of Thebes, which are forty-seven feet high, each hewn from a single block of granite. Upon the solitary plain these mute figures sat, serene and vigilant, keeping their untiring watch through the passage of the centuries. _The Coming of the Semites_.--While the ancient civilization at the mouth of the Euphrates had its origin in primitive peoples from the mountains eastward beyond the Euphrates, and the ancient Egyptian civilization received its impetus from a Caucasian tribe of northern Africa, the great civilization from the Mediterranean Sea to the Indus River was developed by the Semites. Westward from the Euphrates, over Arabia, and through Syria to the Mediterranean coast were wandering tribes of Arabs. Perhaps the most typical ancient type of the Semitic race is found in Arabia. In these desert lands swarms of people have passed from time to time over the known world. Their early life was pastoral and nomadic; hence they necessarily occupied a large territory and were continually on the move. The country appears to have been, from the earliest historic records, gradually growing drier--having less regular rainfall. So these people were forced at times to the mountain valleys and the grasslands of the north, and as far as the agricultural lands in the river valleys, hovering around the settled districts for food supplies for themselves and their herds. After {161} the early settlement of Sumer and Akkad, these Semitic tribes moved into the valley of the Euphrates, and under Sargon I conquered ancient Babylonia at Akkad and afterward extended the conquest south over Sumer. They found two main cities to the west of the Euphrates, Ur and Eridu. Having invaded this territory, they adopted the arts and industries already established, but brought in the dominant power and language of the conquerors. Four successive invasions of these people into this territory eventually changed the whole life into Semitic civilization. Later a branch moved north and settled higher up on the Tigris, founding the city of Nineveh. The Elamites, another Semitic tribe on the east of the Euphrates, founded the great cities of Susa and Ecbatana. Far to the northwest were the Armenian group of Semites, and directly east on the shores of the Mediterranean were the Phoenicians. This whole territory eventually became Semitic in type of civilization. Also, the Hixos, or shepherd kings, invaded Egypt and dominated that territory for two hundred years. Later the Phoenicians became the great sea-going people of the world and extended their colonies along the coasts through Greece, Italy, northern Africa, and Spain. So there was the Semitic influence from the Pillars of Hercules far east to the River Indus, in India. Strange to say, the mighty empires of Babylon and Nineveh and Phoenicia and Elam failed, while a little territory including the valley of the Jordan, called Palestine, containing a small and insignificant branch of the Semitic race, called Hebrews, developed a literature, language, and religion which exercised a most powerful influence in all civilizations even to the present time. _The Phoenicians Became the Great Navigators_.--While the Phoenicians are given credit for establishing the first great sea power, they were not the first navigators. Long before they developed, boats plied up and down the Euphrates River, and in the island of Crete and elsewhere the ancient Aegeans carried on their trade in ships with Egypt and the eastern {162} Mediterranean. The Aegean civilization preceded the Greeks and existed at a time when Egypt and Babylon were young. The principal city of Cnossus exhibited also a high state of civilization, as shown in the ruins discovered by recent explorers in the island of Crete. It is known that they had trade with early Egypt, but whether their city was destroyed by an earthquake or by the savage Greek pirates of a later day is undetermined. The Phoenicians, however, developed a strip of territory along the east shore of the Mediterranean, and built the great cities of Tyre and Sidon. From these parent cities they extended their trade down through the Mediterranean and out through the Pillars of Hercules, and founded their colonies in Africa, Greece, Italy, and Spain. Long after Tyre and Sidon, the parent states, had declined, Carthage developed one of the most powerful cities and governments of ancient times. No doubt, the Phoenicians deserve great credit for advancing shipbuilding, trade, and commerce, and in extending their explorations over a wide range of the known earth. To them, also, we give credit for the perfection of the alphabet and the manufacture of glass, precious stones, and dyes; but their prominence in history appears in the long struggle between the Carthaginians and the Romans. _A Comparison of the Egyptian and Babylonian Civilizations_.--Taken as a whole, there is a similarity in some respects between the Egyptian and the Babylonian civilizations. Coming from different racial groups, from different centres, there must necessarily be contrasts in many of the arts of life. Egypt was an isolated country with a long river flowing through its entire length, which brought from the mountains the detritus which kept its valleys fertile. Communication was established through the whole length by boats, which had a tendency to promote social intercourse and establish national life. With the Mediterranean on the north, the Red Sea on the east, and the Libyan Desert to the west, it was tolerably well protected even though not shut in by high mountain ranges. Yet it was open at all times for the hardy invaders who sought food for {163} flocks and herds and people. There was always "corn in Egypt" to those people suffering from drought in the semi-arid districts of Africa and Arabia. Nevertheless, while Egypt suffered many invasions, she maintained with considerable constancy the ancient racial traits, and had a continuity of development through the passing centuries which retained many of the primitive characteristics. The valley of the Euphrates was kept fertile by the flow of the great rivers, the Tigris and Euphrates, which, having a large watershed in the mountains, brought floods down through the valleys bearing the silt which made the land fertile. But in both countries at an early period the population encroached upon the natural supply of food, and methods of irrigation were introduced to increase the food supply. The attempts to build palaces, monuments, and tombs were characteristic of both peoples. On account of the dryness of the climate, these great monuments have been preserved with a freshness through thousands of years. In the valley of the Euphrates many of the cities that were reduced to ruin were covered with the drifting sands and floods until they are buried beneath the surface. In sculpture, painting, and in art, as well as in permanency of her mighty pyramids, sphinxes, and tombs, Egypt stands far ahead of Babylonia. The difference is mainly expressed in action, for in Egypt there is an expression of calm, solemnity, and peace in the largest portions of the architectural works, while in Babylonia there is less skill and more action. The evidences of the type of civilization are similar in one respect, namely, that during the thousand years of development the great monuments were left to show the grandeur of kings, monarchs, and priests, built by thousands of slaves suffering from the neglect of their superiors through ages of toil. Undoubtedly, this failure to recognize the rights of suffering humanity gradually brought destruction upon these great nations. If the strength of a great nation was spent in building up the mighty representations of the glory and power of kings {164} to the neglect of the improvement of the race as a whole, it could mean nothing else but final destruction. While we contemplate with wonder the greatness of the monuments of the pyramids and the sphinxes of Egypt and the winged bulls of Assyria, it is a sad reflection on the cost of material and life which it took to build them. No wonder, then, that to-day, where once people lived and thought and toiled, where nations grew and flourished, where fields were tilled and harvests were abundant, and where the whole earth was filled with national life, there is nothing remaining but a barren waste and drifting sands, all because men failed to fully estimate real human values and worth. Marvellous as many of the products of these ancient civilizations appear, there is comparatively little to show when it is considered that four thousand years elapsed to bring them about. Mighty as the accomplishments were, the slow process of development shows a lack of vital progress. We cannot escape the idea that the despotism existing in Oriental nations must have crushed out the best life and vigor of a people. It is mournful to contemplate the destruction of these mighty civilizations, yet we may thoughtfully question what excuse could be advanced for their continuance. It is true that Egypt had an influence on Greece, which later became so powerful in her influences on Western civilizations; and doubtless Babylon contributed much to the Hebrews, who in turn have left a lasting impression upon the world. The method of dispersion of cultures of a given centre shows that all races have been great borrowers, and usually when one art, industry, or custom has been thoroughly established, it may continue to influence other races after the race that gave the product has passed away, or other nations, while the original nation has perished. _The Hebrews Made a Permanent Contribution to World Civilization_.--Tradition, pretty well supported by history, shows that Abraham came out of Ur of Chaldea about 1,900 years before Christ, and with his family moved northward into {165} Haran for larger pasture for his flocks on the grassy plains of Mesopotamia. Thence he proceeded westward to Palestine, made a trip to Egypt, and returned to the upper reaches of the Jordan. Here his tribe grew and flourished, and finally, after the manner of pastoral peoples, moved into Egypt for corn in time of drought. There his people lived for several hundred years, attached to the Egyptian nation, and adopting many phases of the Egyptian civilization. When he turned his back upon his people in Babylon, he left polytheism behind. He obtained conception of one supreme being, ruler and creator of the universe, who could not be shown in the form of an image made by man. This was not the first time in the history of the human race when nations had approximated the idea of one supreme God above all gods and men, but it was the first time the conception that He was the only God and pure monotheism obtained the supremacy. No doubt, in the history of the Hebrew development this idea came as a gradual growth rather than as an instantaneous inspiration. In fact, all nations who have reached any advanced degree of religious development have approached the idea of monotheism, but it remained for the Hebrews to put it in practice in their social life and civil polity. It became the great central controlling thought of national life. Compared with the great empires of Babylon and Nineveh and Egypt, the Hebrew nation was small, crude, barbarous, insignificant, but the idea of one god controlling all, who passed in conception from a god of authority, imminence, and revenge, to a god of justice and righteousness, who controlled the affairs of men, developed the Hebrew concept of human relations. It led them to develop a legal-ethical system which became the foundation of the Hebrew commonwealth and established a code of laws for the government of the nation, which has been used by all subsequent nations as the foundation of the moral element in their civil code. Moses was not the first lawgiver of the world of nations. Indeed, before {166} Abraham left his ancient home in Chaldea there was ruling in Babylon King Hammurabi, who formulated a wise code of laws, said to be the first of which we have any record in the history of the human race. The Hebrew nation was always subordinate to other nations, but after its tribes developed into a kingdom and their king, Saul, was succeeded by David and Solomon, it reached a high state of civilization in certain lines. Yet, at its best, under the reign of David and Solomon, it was upon the whole a barbarous nation. When the Hebrews were finally conquered and led into captivity in Babylon, they reflected upon their ancient life, their laws, their literature, and there was compiled a greater part of the Bible. This instrument has been greater than the palaces of Babylon or the pyramids of Egypt, or great conquests of military hosts in the perpetuation of the life of a nation. Its history, its religion, its literature in proverbs and songs, its laws, its moral code, all have been enduring monuments that have lasted and will last as long as the human race continues its attempt to establish justice among men. _The Civilizations of India and China_.--Before leaving the subject of the Oriental civilizations, at least brief mention must be made of the development of the Hindu philosophy and religion. In the valleys of the great rivers of India, in the shadow of the largest mountains rising to the skies, there developed a great people of great learning and wonderful philosophy. In their abstract conceptions they built up the most wonderful and complex theogony and theology ever invented by men. This system, represented by elements of law, theology, philosophy and language, literature and learning, is found in the Vedas and the great literary remnants of the poets. They reveal to us the intensity of learning at the time of the highest development of the Indian philosophy. However, its influence, wrapped up in the Brahminical religion of fatalism, was largely non-progressive. Later, about 500 years before Christ, when Gautama Buddha developed his ethical philosophy of life, new hope came {167} into the world. But this did not stay for the regeneration of India, but, rather, declined and passed on into China and Japan. The influence of Indian civilization on Western civilization has been very slight, owing to the great separation between the two, and largely because their objectives have been different. The former devoted itself to the reflection of life, the latter resolved itself into action. Nevertheless, we shall find in the Greek philosophy and Greek religion shadows of the learning of the Orient. But the Hindu civilization, while developing much that is grand and noble, like many Oriental civilizations, left the great masses of the people unaided and unhelped. When it is considered what might have been accomplished in India, it is well characterized as a "land of regrets." In the dispersion of the human race over the earth, one of the first great centres of culture was found in Thibet, in Asia. Here is supposed to be the origin of the Mongolian peoples, and the Chinese represent one of the chief branches of the Mongolian race. At a very early period they developed an advanced stage of civilization with many commendable features. Their art, the form of pottery and porcelain, their traditional codes of law, were influential in the Far East. Their philosophy culminated in Confucius, who lived about 500 years before Christ, and their religion was founded by Tao Tse, who existed many centuries before. He was the founder of the Taoan religion of China. But the civilization of China extended throughout the Far East, spread into Korea, and then into Japan. It has had very little contact with the Western civilization, and its history is still obscure, but there are many marvellous things done in China which are now in more recent years being faithfully studied and recorded. Their art in porcelain and metals had its influence on other nations and has been of a lasting nature. _The Coming of the Aryans_.--The third great branch of the Caucasian people, whose primitive home seems to have been in central Asia, is the Aryan. Somewhere north of the great {168} territory of the Semites, there came gradually down into Nineveh and Babylon and through Armenia a people of different type from the Semites and from the Egyptians. They lived on the great grassy plains of central Asia, wandering with their flocks and herds, and settling down long enough to raise a crop, and then move on. They lived a simple life, but were a vigorous, thrifty, and family-loving people; and while the great civilization of Babylon, Assyria, and Egypt was developing, they were pushing down from the north. They finally developed in Persia a great national life. Subsequently, under Darius I, a great Aryan empire was established in the seats of the old civilization which he had conquered, whose extent was greater than the world had hitherto known. It extended over the old Assyrian and Babylonian empires, Egypt, Asia Minor, and Syria, in Caucasian and Caspian regions; covered Media and Persia, and extended into India as far as the Indus. The old Semitic civilizations were passing away, and the control of the Aryan race was appearing. Later these Persians found themselves at war with the Greeks, who were of the same racial stock. The Persian Empire was no great improvement over the later Babylonian and Assyrian Empires. It had become more specifically a world empire, which set out to conquer and plunder other nations. It might have been enlightened to a certain extent, but it had received the idea of militarism and conquest. It was the first great empire of the Orient to come in contact with a rising Western civilization, then centering in Greece. This Aryan stock, when considered in Europe or Western civilization, is known as the Nordic race. In the consideration of Western civilization further discussion will be given of the origin and dispersion of this race. SUBJECTS FOR FURTHER STUDY 1. Study the economic foundation of Egypt. Babylon. Arabia. 2. Why did Oriental nations go to war? Show by example. 3. What did Egypt and Babylon contribute of lasting value to civilization? {169} 4. What was the Hebrew contribution? 5. Why did these ancient empires decline and disappear? 6. Study the points of difference between the civilization of Babylon and Egypt and Western civilization. 7. Contrast the civilization of India and China with Western civilization. [1] L. W. King, _History of Sumer and Akkad_. _History of Babylon_. {170} CHAPTER X THE ORIENTAL TYPE OF CIVILIZATION _The Governments of the Early Oriental Civilizations_.--In comparing the Oriental civilizations which sprang up almost independently in different parts of Asia and Africa with European civilizations, we shall be impressed with the despotism of these ancient governments. It is not easy to determine why this feature should have been so universal, unless it could be attributed to human traits inherent in man at this particular stage of his development. Perhaps, also, in emerging from a patriarchal state of society, where small, independent groups were closely united with the oldest male member as leader and governor of all, absolute authority under these conditions was necessary for the preservation of the tribe or group, and it became a fixed custom which no one questioned. Subsequently, when the population increased around a common centre and various tribes and groups were subjected to a central organization, the custom of absolute rule was transferred from the small group to the king, who ruled over all. Also, the nature of most of these governments may have been influenced by the type of religion which prevailed. It became systematized under the direction of priests, who stood between the people and the great unknown, holding absolute sway but working on the emotion of fear. Perhaps, also, a large group of people with a limited food supply were easily reduced to a state of slavery and dwelt in a territory as a mass of unorganized humanity, subservient only to the superior directing power. It appears to be a lack of organized popular will. The religions, too, looked intensely to the authority of the past, developing fixity of customs, habits, laws, {171} and social usages. These conditions were conducive to the exercise of the despotism of those in power. _War Existed for Conquest and Plunder_.--The kings of these Oriental despotisms seemed to be possessed with inordinate vanity, and when once raised to power used not only all the resources of the nation and of the people for magnifying that power, but also used the masses of the people at home at labor, and abroad in war, for the glory of the rulers. Hence, wars of conquest were frequent, always accompanied with the desire for plunder of territory, the wealth of temples, and the coffers of the rulers. Many times wars were based upon whims of kings and rulers and trivial matters, which can only be explained through excessive egoism and vanity; yet in nearly every instance the idea of conquest was to increase the wealth of the nation and power of the king by going to war. There was, of course, jealousy of nations and rivalry for supremacy, as the thousand years of war between Egypt and Babylonia illustrates, or as the conquest of Babylon by Assyria, or, indeed, the later conquest of the whole East by the Persian monarchs, testifies. These great wars were characterized by the crude struggle and slaughter of hordes of people. Not until the horse and chariot came into use was there any great improvement in methods of warfare. Bronze weapons and, later, iron were used in most of these wars. It was merely barbarism going to war with barbarism in order to increase barbaric splendor. _Religious Belief Was an Important Factor in Despotic Government_.--In the beginning we shall find that animism, or the belief in spirits, was common to all nations and tribes. There was in the early religious life of people a wild, unorganized superstition, which brought them in subjection to the control of the spirits of the world. In the slow development of the masses, these ideas always remained prominent, and however highly developed religious life became, however pure the system of religious philosophy and religious worship, as represented by the most intelligent and farthest advanced of the {172} people, it yet remains true that the masses of the people were mastered and ruled by a gross superstition; and possibly this answers the question to a large extent as to why the religion of the Orient could, on the one hand, reach such heights of purity of spirit and worship and, on the other, such a degradation in thought, conception, and practice. It could reach to the skies with one arm and into the grossest phases of nature-worship with the other. It appears the time came when, as a matter of self-defense, man must manipulate and control spirits to save himself from destruction, and there were persons particularly adapted to this process, who formed the germs of the great system of priesthood. They stood between the masses and the spirits, and as the system developed and the number of priests increased, they became the ones who ruled the masses in place of the spirits. The priesthood, then, wherever it has developed a great system, has exercised an almost superhuman power over the ignorant, the debased, and the superstitious. It was the policy of kings to cultivate and protect this priesthood, and it was largely this which enabled them to have power over the masses. Having once obtained this power, and the military spirit having arisen in opposition to foreign tribes, the priests were at the head of the military, religious, and civil systems of the nation. Indeed, the early king was the high priest of the tribe, and he inherited through long generations the particular function of leader of religious worship. It will be easy to conceive that where the art of embalming was carried on, people believed in the future life of the soul. The religious system of the Egyptians was, indeed, of very remarkable character. The central idea in their doctrine was the unity of God, whom they recognized as the one Supreme Being, who was given the name of Creator, Eternal Father, to indicate the various characters in which he appeared. This pure monotheism was seldom grasped by the great masses of the people; indeed, it is to be supposed that many of the priestly order scarcely rose to its pure conceptions. But there {173} were other groups or dynasties of gods which were worshipped throughout Egypt. These were mostly mythical beings, who were supposed to perform especial functions in the creation and control of the universe. Among these Osiris and Isis, his wife and sister, were important, and their worship common throughout all Egypt. Osiris came upon the earth in the interests of mankind, to manifest the true and the good in life. He was put to death by the machinations of the evil spirit, was buried and rose, and became afterward the judge of the dead. In this we find the greatest mystery in the Egyptian religion. Typhon was the god of the evil spirits, a wicked, rebellious devil, who held in his grasp all the terrors of disease and of the desert. Sometimes he was in the form of a frightful serpent, again in the form of a crocodile or hippopotamus. Seeking through the light of religious mystery to explain all the natural phenomena observed in physical nature, the Egyptians fell into the habit of coarse animal worship. The cat, the snake, the crocodile, and the bull became sacred animals, to kill which was the vilest sacrilege. Even if one was so unfortunate as to kill one of these sacred animals by accident, he was in danger of his life at the hands of the infuriated mob. It is related that a Roman soldier, having killed a sacred cat, was saved from destruction by the multitude only by the intercession of the great ruler Ptolemy. The taking of the life of one of these sacred creatures caused the deepest mourning, and frequently the wildest terror, while every member of the family shaved his head at the death of a dog. There was symbolism, too, in all this worship. Thus the scarabeus, or beetle, which was held to be especially sacred, was considered as the emblem of the sun. Thousands of these relics may be found in the different museums, having been preserved to the present time. The bull, Apis, not only was a sacred creature, but was held to be a real god. It was thought that the soul of Osiris pervaded the spirit of the bull, and at the bull's death it passed on into that of his successor. The worship of the lower forms of life led to a coarseness in religious {174} belief and practice. How it came about is difficult to ascertain. It is supposed by some scholars that the animal worship had its origin in the low form of worship belonging to the indigenous tribes of Egypt, and that the higher order was introduced by the Hamites, or perhaps by the Semites who mingled with and overcame the original inhabitants of the Nile valley. In all probability, the advanced ideas of religious belief and thought were the essential outcome of the learning and speculative philosophy of the Egyptians, while the old animal worship became the most convenient for the great masses of low and degraded beings who spent their lives in building tombs for the great. The religious life of the Egyptians was protected and guarded by an elaborate priesthood. It formed a perfect hierarchy of priest, high priest, scribes, keepers of the sacred robes and animals, sculptors, embalmers, besides all the attendants upon the services of worship and religion. Not only was this class privileged among all the castes of Egypt as representing the highest class of individuals, but it enjoyed immunity from taxation and had the privilege of administering the products of one-third of the land to carry on the expenses of the temple and religious worship. The ceremonial life of the priests was almost perfect. Scrupulous in the care of their person, they bathed twice each day and frequently at night, and every third day shaved the entire body. Their linen was painfully neat, and they lived on plain, simple food, as conducive to the service of religion. They exerted a great power not only over the religious life of the Egyptians but, on account of the peculiar relation of religion to government, over the entire development of Egypt. The religion of Oriental nations was non-progressive in its nature. It had a tendency to repress freedom of thought and freedom of action. Connected as it was with the binding influence of caste, man could not free himself from the dictates of religion. The awful sublimity of nature found its counterpart in the terrors of religion; and that religion attempted to {175} answer all the questions that might arise concerning external nature. It rested upon the basis of authority built through ages of tradition, and through a continuous domineering priest-craft. The human mind struggling within its own narrow bounds could not overcome the stultifying and sterilizing influence of such a religion. The lower forms of religion were "of the earth, earthy." The higher forms consisted of such abstract conceptions concerning the creation of the earth, and the manipulation of all the forces of nature and the control of all the powers of man, as to be entirely non-progressive. There could be no independent scientific investigation. There could be no rational development of the mind. The religion of the Orient brought gloom to the masses and cut off hope forever. The people became subject to the grinding forces of fate. How, then, could there be intellectual development based upon freedom of action? How could there be any higher life of the soul, any moral culture, any great advancement in the arts and sciences, or any popular expression regarding war and government? _Social Organization Was Incomplete_.--All social organization tended toward the common centre, the king, and there was very little local organization except as it was necessary to bring the people under control of official rule. There were apparently very few voluntary associations. Among the nobility, the priests, and ladies of rank, we find frequently elaborate costumes of dress, manifold ornaments, necklaces, rings, and earrings; but whatever went to the rich seemed to be a deprivation of the poor. Indeed, when we consider that it cost only a few shillings at most to rear a child to the age of twenty-one years in Egypt, we can imagine how meagre and stinted that life must have been. The poorer classes of people dressed in a very simple style, wearing a single linen shirt and over it a woollen mantle; while among the very poor much less was worn. However, it seems that there was time for some of the population to engage in sports such as laying snares for birds, {176} angling for fish, popular hunts, wrestling, playing checkers, chess, and ball, and it appears that many of these people were gifted in these sports. Just what classes of people engaged in this leisure is difficult to determine. Especially in the case of Egypt, most of the people were condemned to hard and toilsome labor. Probably the nobility and people of wealth were the only classes who had time for sports. The great temples and palaces were built with solid masonry of stone and brick, but the dwelling-houses were constructed in a light, graceful style, surrounded with long galleries and terraces common at this period of development in Oriental civilization. The gardening was symmetrical and accurate, the walks led in well-defined lines and were carefully conventional. The rooms of the houses, too, were well arranged and tastefully decorated, and members of the household distributed in its generous apartments, each individual finding his special place for position and service. For the comparatively small number of prosperous and influential people, life was refined and luxurious so far as the inventions and conveniences for comfort would permit. They had well-constructed and well-appointed houses, and, judging from the relics discovered in tombs and from the records and inscriptions, people wore richly decorated clothing and lovely jewels. They had numerous feasts with music and dancing and servants to wait upon them in every phase of life. It is related, too, that excursions were common in summer on the great rivers. But even though there was a life of ease among the wealthy, they were without many comforts known to modern times. They had cotton and woollen fabrics for clothing, but no silk. They had dentists and doctors in those days, and teeth were filled with gold as in modern times. Their articles of food consisted of meat and vegetables, but there were no hens and no eggs. They used the camel in Mesopotamia and walked mostly in Egypt, or went by boat on the river. However, when we consider the change of ancient Babylon to Nineveh, and the Egyptian civilization of old Thebes to that {177} which developed later, there is evidence of progress. The religious life lost a good many of its crudities, abolished human sacrifice, and developed a refined mysticism which was more elevating than the crude nature-worship. The rule of caste which settled down over the community in this early period relegated every individual to his particular place. From this place there could be no escape. The common laborers moving the great blocks of stone to build the mighty pyramids of the valley of the Nile could be nothing but common laborers. And their sons and their daughters for generation after generation must keep the same sphere of life. And though the warriors fared much better, they, too, were confined to their own group. The shepherd class must remain a shepherd class forever; they could never rise superior to their own surroundings. So, too, in Babylon and India. There was, indeed, a slight variation from the caste system in Egypt and in Babylon, but in India it settled down from the earliest times, and the people and their customs were crystallized; they were bound by the chain of fate in the caste system forever. We shall see, then, that the relation of the population to the soil and the binding influences of early custom tended to develop despotism in Oriental civilization. The result of all this was that there was no freedom or liberty of the individual anywhere. With caste and despotism and degradation men moved forward in political and religious life as on a plane which inclined so slightly that, except as we look over its surface through the passing centuries, little change can be observed. The king was a god; the government possessed supernatural power; its authority was not to be questioned. The rule of the army was final. The cruelty of kings and the oppression of government were customary, and thus crushed and oppressed, the ordinary individual had no opportunity to arise and walk in the dignity of his manhood. The government, if traced to its source at all, was of divine origin, and though those who ruled might stop to consider for an instant their own despotic actions, and in special cases yield {178} in clemency to their subjects, from the subject's standpoint there could be nothing but to yield to the despotism of kings and the unrelenting rule of government. We shall find, then, that with all of the efforts put forth the greater part was wasted. Millions of people were born, lived, and died, leaving scarcely a mark of their existence. No wonder that, as the great kings of Egypt saw the wasting elements of time, the waste of labor in its dreary rounds, having employed the millions in building the mighty temples dedicated to the worship of the gods; or having built great canals and aqueducts to develop irrigation that greater food supply might be assured, thus observing the majesty of their condition in relation to other human beings, they should have employed these millions of serfs in building their own tombs and monuments to remain the only lasting vestige of the civilization long since passed away. Everywhere in the Oriental civilization, then, are lack of freedom and the appearance of despotism. Everywhere is evidence of waste of individual life. No deep conception can be found in either the philosophy or the practice of the Egyptians or the Babylonians of the real object of human life. And yet the few meagre products of art and of learning handed down to European civilization from these Oriental countries must have had a vast influence in laying the foundations of modern civilized life. _Economic Influences_.--In the first place, the warm climate of these countries required but little clothing; for a few cents a year a person could be clothed sufficiently to protect himself from the climate and to observe the rules of modesty so far as they existed in those times. In the second place, in hot climates less food is required than in cold. In cold countries people need a large quantity of heavy, oily foods, while in hot climates they need a lighter food and, indeed, less of it. Thus we have in these fertile valleys of the Orient the conditions which supply sustenance for millions at a very small amount of exertion or labor. Now, it is a well-established fact that cheap food among classes of people who have not developed {179} a high state of civilization favors a rapid increase of population. The records show in Babylon and Egypt, as well as in Palestine, that the population multiplied at a very rapid rate. And this principle is enhanced by the fact that in tropical climates, where less pressure of want and cold is brought to bear, the conditions for successful propagation of the human race are present. And this is one reason why the earliest civilizations have always been found in tropical climates, and it was not until man had more vigor of constitution and higher development of physical and mental powers that he could undertake the mastery of himself and nature under less favorable circumstances. The result was that human life became cheap. The great mass of men became so abundant as to press upon the food supply to its utmost limit. And they who had the control of this food supply controlled the bodies and souls of the great poverty-stricken mass who toiled for daily bread. Here we find the picture of abject slavery of the masses. The rulers, through the government, strengthened by the priests, who held over the masses of the lower people in superstitious awe the tenets of their faith, forced them into subjection. There was no value placed upon a human life; why, then, should there be upon the masses of individuals? We shall find, too, as the result of all this, that the civilization became more or less stationary. True, there must have been a slow development of religious ideas, a slow development of art, a slow development of government, and yet when the type was once set there was but little change from century to century in the relation of human beings to one another, and their relation to the products of nature. When we consider the accomplishments of these people we must not forget the length of time it took to produce them. Reckon back from the present time 6,000 years, and then consider what has been accomplished in America in the last century. Think back 2,000 years, and see what had been accomplished in Rome from the year of the founding of the imperial city until the Caesars lived {180} in their mighty palaces, a period of seven and a half centuries. Observe, too, what was accomplished in Greece from the time of Homer until the time of Aristotle, a period of about six and a half centuries; then observe the length of time it took to develop the Egyptian civilization, and we shall see its slow progress. It is also to be observed that the Egyptian civilization had reached its culmination when Greece began, and had begun its slow decline. After considering this we shall understand that the civilization of Egypt finally became stationary, conventionalized, non-progressive; that it was only a question of time when other nations should rule the land of the Pharaohs, and that sands should drift where once were populous cities, covering the relics of this ancient civilization far beneath the surface. The progress in industrial arts and the use of implements was, of necessity, very slow. Where the laboring man was considered of little value, treated as a mere physical machine, to be fed and used for mechanical purposes alone, it mattered little with what tools he worked. In the building of the pyramids we find no mighty engines for the movement of the great stones, we find no evidence of mechanical genius to provide labor-saving machines. The inclined plane and rollers, the simplest of all contrivances, were about the only inventions. Also, in the buildings of Babylon, the tools with which men worked must of necessity have been very poor. It is remarkable to what extent modern invention depends upon the elevation of the standard of life of labor, and how man through intelligence continually makes certain contrivances for the perfection of human industry. However, if we consider the ornaments used to adorn the person, or for the service of the rich, or the elaborate clothing of the wealthy, we shall find quite a high state of development in these lines, showing the greatest contrast between the condition of the laboring multitudes on the one hand and the luxurious few on the other. Along this line of the rapid development of ornaments we find evidence of luxury and ease, and, in the slow development of {181} industrial arts, the sacrifice of labor. And all of the advancement in the mighty works of art and industry was made at the sacrifice of human labor. To sum this up, we find, then, that the influence of despotic government, of the binding power of caste, of the prevalence of custom, of the influence of priestcraft, the retarding power of a non-progressive religion, concentration of intelligence in a privileged class that seeks its own ease, the slow development of industrial implements, and the rapid development of ornaments, brought decay. We see in all of this a retarding of improvement, a stagnation of organizing effort, and the crystallization of ancient civilization about old forms, to be handed down from generation to generation without progress. _Records, Writing, and Paper_.--At an early period papyrus, a paper made of a reed that grows along the Nile valley, was among the first inventions. It was the earliest artificial writing material discovered by any nation of which we have a record; and we are likely to remember it from its two names, _biblos_ and _papyrus_, for from these come two of our most common words, bible and paper. Frequently, however, leather, pottery, tiles, and stone, and even wooden tablets, were used as substitutes for the papyrus. In the early period the Egyptians used the hieroglyphic form of writing, which consisted of rude pictures of objects which had a peculiar significance. Finally the hieratic simplified this form by symbolizing and conventionalizing to a large extent the hieroglyphic characters. Later came the demotic, which was a further departure from the old concrete form of representation, and had the advantage of being more readily written than either of the others.[1] These characters were used to inscribe the deeds of kings on monuments and tablets, and when in 1798 the key to the Egyptian writing was obtained through means of the Rosetta stone, the opportunity for a large addition to the history of Egypt was made. Strange as it may seem, these ancient people had written romances and fairy tales; one especially to be mentioned {182} is the common _Cinderella and the Glass Slipper_, written more than thirteen centuries B.C. But in addition to these were published documents, private letters, fables, epics, and autobiographies, and treatises on astronomy, medicine, history, and scientific subjects. The Babylonians and Assyrians developed the cuneiform method of writing. They had no paper, but made their inscriptions on clay tablets and cylinders. These were set away in rooms called libraries. The discovery of the great library of Ashur-bani-pal, of Nineveh, revealed the highest perfection of this ancient method of recording events. The art of Egypt was manifested in the dressing of precious stones, the weaving of fine fabrics, and fine work in gold ornaments. Sculpture and painting were practically unknown as arts, although the use of colors was practised to a considerable extent. Artistic energy was worked out in the making of the tombs of kings, the obelisks, the monuments, the sphinxes, and the pyramids. It was a conception of the massive in artistic expression. In Babylon and Nineveh, especially the latter, the work of sculpture in carving the celebrated winged bulls gives evidence of the attempt to picture power and strength rather than beauty. Doubtless the Babylonians developed artistic taste in the manufacture of jewelry out of precious stones and gold. _The Beginnings of Science Were Strong in Egypt, Weak in Babylon_.--The greatest expression of the Egyptian learning was found in science. The work in astronomy began at a very early date from a practical standpoint. The rising of the Nile occurred at a certain time annually, coinciding with the time of the rise of the Dog-star, which led these people to imagine that they stood in the relation of effect and cause, and from these simple data began the study of astronomy. The Egyptians, by the study of the movement of the stars, were enabled to determine the length of the sidereal year, which they divided into twelve months, of thirty days each, adding five days to complete the year. This is the calendar which was {183} introduced from Egypt into the Roman Empire by Julius Caesar. It was revised by Pope Gregory XIII in 1582, and has since been the universal system for the Western civilized world. Having reached their limit of fact in regard to the movement of the heavenly bodies, their imagination related the stars to human conduct, and astrology became an essential outcome. It was easy to believe that the heavenly bodies, which, apparently, had such great influence in the rise of the river and in the movement of the tides, would have either a good influence or a baneful influence, not only over the vegetable world but upon human life and human destiny as well. Hence, astrology, in Egypt as in Babylonia, became one of the important arts. From the measurement of the Nile and the calculation of the lands, which must be redistributed after each annual overflow, came the system of concrete measurement which later developed into the science of geometry. Proceeding from the simple measurement of land, step by step were developed the universal abstract problems of geometry, and the foundation for this great branch of mathematics was laid. The use of arithmetic in furnishing numerical expressions in the solution of geometrical and arithmetical problems became common. The Egyptians had considerable knowledge of many drugs and medicines, and the physicians of Egypt had a great reputation among the ancients; for every doctor was a specialist and pursued his subject and his practice to the utmost limit of fact and theory. But the physician must treat cases according to customs already established in the past. There was but little opportunity for the advancement of his art. Yet it became very much systematized and conventionalized. The study of anatomy developed also the art of embalming, one of the most distinctive features of Egyptian civilization. This art was carried on by the regular physicians, who made use of resins, oils, bitumens, and various gums. It was customary to embalm the bodies of wealthy persons by filling them with resinous substances and wrapping them closely in linen {184} bandages. The poorer classes were cured very much as beef is cured before drying, and then wrapped in coarse garments preparatory to burial. The number of individuals who were thus disposed of after death is estimated at not less than 420,000,000 between 2000 B.C. and 700 A.D. _The Contribution to Civilization_.--The building of the great empires on the Tigris and Euphrates had a tendency to collect the products of civilization so far as they existed, and to distribute them over a large area. Thus, the industries that began in early Sumer and Akkad, coming from farther east, were passed on to Egypt and Phoenicia and were further distributed over the world. Especially is this true in the work of metals, the manufacture of glass, and the development of the alphabet, which probably originated in Babylon and was improved by the Phoenicians, and, through them as traders, had a wide dispersion. Perhaps one ought to consider that the study of the stars and the heavenly bodies, although it led no farther than astrology and the development of magic, was at least a beginning, although in a crude way, of an inquiry into nature. In Egypt, however, we find that there was more or less scientific study and invention and development of reflective thinking. Moreover, the advancement in the arts of life, especially industrial, had great influence over the Greeks, whose early philosophers were students of the Egyptian system. Also, the contact of the Hebrews and Phoenicians with Egypt gave a strong coloring to their civilization. Especially is this true of the Hebrews, who dwelt so long in the shadow of the Egyptian civilization. The Hebrews, after their captivity in Babylon, contributed the Bible, with its sacred literature, to the world, which with its influence through the legal-ethicalism, or moral code, its monotheistic doctrines, and its attempted development of a commonwealth based on justice, had a lasting influence on civilization. But in the life of the Hebrew people in Palestine its influence on surrounding nations was not so great as in the later times when the Jews were scattered over the {185} world. The Bible has been a tremendous civilizer of the world. Hebrewism became a universal state of mind, which influenced all nations that came in contact with it. But what did this civilization leave to the world? The influence of Egypt on Greece and Greek philosophy must indeed have been great, for the greatest of the Greeks looked upon the Egyptian philosophy as the expression of the highest wisdom. Nor can we hesitate in claiming that the influence of the Egyptians upon the Hebrews was considerable. There is a similarity in many respects between the Egyptian and the Hebrew code of learning; but the art and the architecture, the learning and the philosophy, had their influence likewise on all surrounding nations as soon as Egypt was opened up to communication with other parts of the world. A careful study of the Greek philosophy brings clearly before us the influence of the Egyptian learning. Thus Thales, the first of the philosophers to break away from the Grecian religion and mythology to inquire into the natural cause of the universe, was a student of Egyptian life and philosophy. SUBJECTS FOR FURTHER STUDY 1. What are the evidences of civilization discovered in Tut-Ankh-Amen's tomb? 2. Give an outline of the chief characteristics of Egyptian civilization? 3. What caused the decline of Egyptian civilization? 4. What did Oriental civilization contribute to the subsequent welfare of the world? 5. The influence of climate on industry in Egypt and Babylon. 6. Why did the Egyptian religion fail to improve the lot of the common man? 7. Retarding influence of the caste system in India and Egypt. [1] See Chapter VII. {186} CHAPTER XI BEGINNINGS OF CIVILIZATION IN AMERICA _America Was Peopled from the Old World_.--The origin of the people of America has been the subject of perennial controversy. Gradually, however, as the studies of the human race and their migrations have increased, it is pretty well established that the one stream of migration came from Asia across a land connection along the Aleutian Islands, which extended to Alaska. At an early period, probably from 15,000 to 20,000 years age, people of the Mongoloid type crossed into America and gradually passed southward, some along the coast line, others through the interior of Alaska and thence south. This stream of migration continued down through Mexico, Central America, South America, and even to Patagonia. It also had a reflex movement eastward toward the great plains and the Mississippi valley. There is a reasonable conjecture, however, that another stream of migration passed from Europe at a time when the British Islands were joined to the mainland, and the great ice cap made a solid bridge to Iceland, Greenland, and possibly to Labrador. It would have been possible for these people to have come during the third glacial period, at the close of the Old Stone Age, or soon after in the Neolithic period. The traditions of the people on the west coast all state their geographical origin in the northwest. The traditions of the Indians of the Atlantic coast trace their origins to the northeast. The people of the west coast are mostly of the round-headed type (brachycephalic), while those of the east coast have been of the long-headed type (dolichocephalic). The two types have mingled in their migration southward until we have the long heads and the round or broad heads extending the whole {187} length of the two continents. Intermingled with these are those of the middle derivative type, or mesocephalic. From these sources there have developed on the soil of America, the so-called American Indians of numerous tribes, each with its own language and with specialized physical and mental types. While the color of the skin has various shades, the coarse, straight black hair and brown eyes are almost general features of the whole Indian race. At different centres in both North and South America, tribes have become more or less settled and developed permanent phases of early civilization, strongly marked by the later Neolithic cultures. In some exceptional cases, the uses of copper, bronze, and gold are to be noted. Perhaps the most important centres are those of the Incas in Peru, the Mayas, Aztecs, and Terra-humares of Mexico, the cliff-dwellers and Pueblos of southwestern United States, the mound-builders of the Mississippi valley, and the Iroquois nation of northeastern United States and Canada. At the time of the coming of the Europeans to America, the Indian population in general was nomadic, in the hunter-fisher stage of progress; but many of the tribes had tentatively engaged in agriculture, cultivating maize, squashes, and in some cases fruits. Probably the larger supply of food was from animals, birds, fish, and shell-fish, edible roots and grains, such as the wild rice, and fruits from the native trees in the temperate and tropical countries. The social organization was based upon the family and the tribe, and, in a few instances, a federation of tribes like that of the Iroquois nation. _The Incas of Peru_.--When the Spaniards under Pizarro undertook the conquest of the Peruvians, they found the Inca civilization at its highest state of development. However, subsequent investigations discovered other and older seats of civilization of a race in some ways more highly developed than those with whom they came in contact. Among the evidences of this ancient civilization were great temples built of stone, used as public buildings for the administration of religious {188} rights [Transcriber's note: rites?], private buildings of substantial order, and paved roads with numerous bridges. There were likewise ruins of edifices apparently unfinished, and traditions of an ascendent race which had passed away before the development of the Incas of Pizarro's time. In the massive architecture of their buildings there was an attempt to use sculpture on an elaborate scale. They showed some skill in the arts and industries, such as ornamental work in gold, copper, and tin, and the construction of pottery on a large scale. They had learned to weave and spin, and their clothing showed some advancement in artistic design. In agriculture they raised corn and other grains, and developed a state of pastoral life, although the llama was the only domesticated animal of service. Great aqueducts were built and fertilizers were used to increase the productive value of the soil. The dry climate of this territory necessitated the use of water by irrigation, and the limited amount of tillable soil had forced them to use fertilizers to get the largest possible return per acre. The Peruvians, or Incas, were called the children of the sun. They had a sacred feeling for the heavenly bodies, and worshipped the sun as the creator and ruler of the universe. They had made some progress in astronomy, by a characterization of the sun and moon and chief planets, mostly for a religious purpose. However, they had used a calendar to represent the months, the year, and the changing seasons. Here, as elsewhere in primitive civilization, religion becomes an important factor in social control. The priest comes in as the interpreter and controller of mysteries, and hence an important member of the community. Religious sacrifices among the Peruvians were commonly of an immaculate nature, being mostly of fruits and flowers. This relieved them of the terrors of human sacrifices so prevalent in early beginnings of civilization where religion became the dominant factor of life. Hence their religious life was more moderate than that of many nations where religious control was more powerful. Yet in governmental {189} affairs and in social life, here as in other places, religion was made the means of enslaving the masses of the people. The government of the Incas was despotic. It was developed through the old family and tribal life to a status of hereditary aristocracy. Individuals of the oldest families became permanent in government, and these were aided and supported by the priestly order. Caste prevailed to a large extent, making a great difference between the situation of the nobility and the peasants and slaves. Individuals born into a certain group must live and die within that group. Hence the people were essentially peaceable, quiet, and not actively progressive. But we find that the social life, in spite of the prominence of the priest and the nobility, was not necessarily burdensome. Docile and passive in nature, they were ready to accept what appeared to them a well-ordered fate. If food, clothing, and shelter be furnished, and other desires remain undeveloped, and life made easy, what occasion was there for them to be moved by nobler aspirations? Without higher ideals, awakened ambition, and the multiplication of new desires, there was no hope of progress. The people seemed to possess considerable nobility of character, and were happy, peaceful, and well disposed toward one another, even though non-progressive conditions gave evidence that they had probably reached the terminal bud of progress of their branch of the human race. As to what would have been the outcome of this civilization had not the ruthless hand of the Spaniard destroyed it, is a matter of conjecture. How interesting it would have been if these people could have remained unmolested for 400 years as an example of progress or retardation of a race. Students then could, through observation, have learned a great lesson concerning the development of the human race. Is it possible when a branch of the human race has only so much potential power based upon hereditary development, upon attitude toward life, and upon influence of environmental conditions, that after working out its normal existence it grows old and decays and dies, just as even the sturdy oak has its normal life {190} and decay? At any rate, it seems that the history of the human race repeats itself over and over again with thousands of examples of this kind. When races become highly specialized along certain lines and are unadaptable along other lines, changes in climate, soil, food supply, or conflict with other races cause them to perish. If we admit this to be the universal fate of tribes and races, there is one condition in which the normal life of the race can be prolonged, and that is by contact with other races which bring in new elements, and make new accommodations, not only through biological heredity, but through social heredity which causes a new lease of life to the tribe. Of course the deteriorating effects of a race of less culture would have a tendency to shorten the spiritual if not the physical life of the race. Whatever conjecture we may have as to the past and the probable future of such a race, it is evident that the Peruvians had made a strong and vigorous attempt at civilization. Their limited environment and simple life were not conducive to progressive ideas, and gave little inducement for inventive genius to lead the race forward. But even as we find them, the sum-total of their civilization compares very favorably with the sum-total of the civilization of the Spaniards, who engaged to complete their destruction. Different were these Spaniards in culture and learning, it is true, but their great difference is in the fact that the Spaniards had the tools and equipment for war and perhaps a higher state of military organization than the peace-loving Peruvians. _Aztec Civilization in Mexico_.--When Cortez in 1525 began his conquest of Mexico, he found a strong political organization under the Emperor Montezuma, who had through conquest, diplomacy, and assumption of power united all of the tribes in and around Mexico City in a strong federation. These people were made up of many different tribes. At this period they did not show marked development in any particular line, except that of social organization. The people that occupied this great empire ruled by Montezuma, with the seat of power {191} at Mexico City, were called Aztecs. The empire extended over all of lower Mexico and Yucatan. As rapidly as possible Montezuma brought adjacent tribes into subjection, and at the time of the Spanish conquest he exercised lordship over a wide country. So far as can be ascertained, arts and industries practised by most of these tribes were handed down from extinct races that had a greater inventive genius and a higher state of progress. The conquering tribes absorbed and used the arts of the conquered, as the Greeks did those of the conquered Aegeans. The practice of agriculture, of the industrial arts, such as clothing, pottery, and implements of use and ornaments for adornment, showed advancement in industrial life. They built large temples and erected great buildings for the worship of their gods. There was something in their worship bordering on sun-worship, although not as distinctive as the sun-worship of the Peruvians. They were highly developed in the use of gold and copper, and produced a good quality of pottery. They had learned the art of decorating the pottery, and their temples also were done in colors and in bas-relief. They had developed a language of merit and had a hieroglyphic expression of the same. They had a distinct mythology, comprising myths of the sun and of the origin of various tribes, the origin of the earth and of man. They had developed the idea of charity, and had a system of caring for the poor, with hospitals for the sick. Notwithstanding this altruistic expression, they offered human sacrifices of maidens to their most terrible god. As before stated, there were many tribes, consequently many languages, although some of them were near enough alike that members of different tribes could be readily understood. Also the characteristic traits varied in different tribes. It is not known whence they came, although their tradition points to the origin of the northwest. Undoubtedly, each tribe had a myth of its own origin, but, generally speaking, they all came from the northwest. Without doubt, at the time of the coming of the Spaniards, the tribes were non-progressive except in {192} government. The coming of the Spaniards was a rude shock to their civilization, and with a disintegration of the empire, the spirit of thrift and endeavor was quenched. They became, as it were, slaves to a people with so-called higher civilization, who at least had the tools with which to conquer if they had not higher qualities of human character than those of the conquered. _The Earliest Centres of Civilization in Mexico_.--Prior to the formation of the empire of the Aztecs, conquered by the Spaniards, there existed in Mexico centres of development of much greater antiquity. The more important among these were Yucatan and Mitla. A large number of the ruins of these ancient villages have been discovered and recorded. The groups of people who developed these contemporary civilizations were generally known as Toltecs. The Maya race, the important branch of the Toltecs, which had its highest development in Yucatan, was supposed to have come from a territory northeast of Mexico City, and traces of its migrations are discovered leading south and east into Yucatan. It is not known at what period these developments began, but probably their beginnings might have been traced back to 15,000 years, although the oldest known tablet found gives a record of 202 years B.C. Other information places their coming much later, at about 387 A.D. All through Central America and southern Mexico ruins of these ancient villages have been discovered. While the civilizations of all were contemporaneous, different centres show different lines of development. There is nothing certain concerning the origin of the Toltecs, and they seemed to have practically disappeared so far as independent tribal life existed after their conquest by the Aztecs, although the products of their civilization were used by many other tribes that were living under the Aztec rule, and, indeed, traces of their civilization exist to-day in the living races of southern and central Mexico. Tradition states that the Toltecs reached their highest state of power between the seventh and the twelfth {193} centuries, but progress in the interpretation of their hieroglyphics gives us but few permanent records. The development of their art was along the line of heavy buildings with bas-reliefs and walls covered with inscriptions recording history and religious symbols. One bas-relief represents the human head, with the facial angle shown at forty-five degrees. It was carved in stone of the hardest composition and was left unpainted. Ethnologists have tried repeatedly and in vain to show there was a resemblance of this American life to the Egyptian civilization. In art, architecture, and industry, in worship and the elements of knowledge, there may be some resemblance to Egyptian models, but there is no direct evidence sufficient to connect these art products with those of Egypt or to assume that they must have come from the same centre. The construction of pyramids and terraces on a large scale does remind us of the tendency of the Oriental type of civilization. In all of their art, however, there was a symmetrical or conventional system which demonstrated that the indigenous development must have been from a common centre. Out of the fifty-two cities that have been explored which exhibit the habitations of the Toltec civilization, many exhibit ruins of art and architecture worthy of study. In the construction of articles for use and ornament, copper and gold constituted the chief materials, and there was also a great deal of pottery. The art of weaving was practised, and the soil cultivated to a considerable extent. The family life was well developed, though polygamy appears to have been practised as a universal custom. The form of government was the developed family of the patriarchal type, and, where union of tribes had taken place, an absolute monarchy prevailed. War and conquest here, as in all other places where contact of tribes appeared, led to slavery. The higher classes had a large number of slaves, probably taken as prisoners of war. This indicates a degree of social progress in which enemies were preserved for slavery rather than exterminated in war. Their laws and regulations indicate a high sense of {194} justice in establishing the relationship of individuals within the tribe or nation. These people were still in the later Neolithic Age, but with signs of departure from this degree of civilization in the larger use of the metals. There were some indications that bronze might have been used in making ornaments. Perhaps they should be classified in the later Neolithic Age of the upper status of barbarism. Recent excavations in Central America, Yucatan, and more recently in the valley near Mexico City, have brought to light many new discoveries. Representations of early and later cultures show a gradual progress in the use of the arts, some of the oldest of which show a great resemblance to the early Mongolian culture of Asia. _The Pueblo Indians of the Southwest_.--In northern Mexico and Arizona there are remains of ancient buildings which seem to indicate that at one time a civilization existed here that has long since become extinct. Long before the arrival of the Spaniards, irrigation was practised in this dry territory. Indeed, in the Salt River valley of Arizona, old irrigation ditches were discovered on the lines of which now flow the waters that irrigate the modern orchards and vineyards. The discoveries in recent years in the southwest territory indicate that this ancient civilization had been destroyed by the warlike tribes that were ever ready to take possession of centres of culture and possess or destroy the accumulation of wealth of the people who toiled. If one could fill in the missing links of history with his imagination, it would be easy to conjecture that the descendants of these people fled to the mountains, and became the Cliff-Dwellers of the Southwest. These people built their homes high on the cliffs, in caves or on projecting prominences. Here they constructed great communal dwellings, where they could defend themselves against all enemies. They were obliged to procure their food and water from the valley, and to range over the surrounding _mesas_ in the hunt. Gradually they stole down out of the cliffs to live in the valleys and built large communal houses, many of which now are in existence in this territory. {195} These people have several centres of civilization which are similar in general, but differ in many particulars. They are classed as Pueblo Indians. Among these centres are the Hopi Indians, the Zuñian, Taoan, Shoshonean, and many others.[1] The pre-history of these widely extended groups of Indians is not known, but in all probability they have been crowded into this southwest arid region by warlike tribes, and for the shelter and protection of the whole tribe have built large houses of stone or adobe. The idea of protection seems to have been the dominant one in building the cliff houses and the adobe houses of the plain. The latter were entered by means of ladders placed upon the wall, so that they could ascend from one story to another. The first story had no doors or windows, but could be entered by means of a trap-door. The Pueblos were, as a rule, people of low stature, but of an intelligent and pleasing appearance. They dressed in cotton goods or garments woven from the fibre of the yucca plant, or from coarse bark, and later, under Spanish rule, from specially prepared wool. Their feet were protected by sandals made from the yucca, or moccasins from deer or rabbit skins. Leggings coming above the knee were formed by wrapping long strips of buckskin around the leg. The women and men dressed very much alike. The women banged their hair to the eyebrows, allowing it to hang loosely behind, although in some instances maidens dressed their hair with two large whirls above the ears. The Zuñi Indians practised this custom after the coming of the Spaniards. The Pueblos were well organized into clans, and descent in the female line was recognized. The clans were divided usually into the north, south, east, and west clans by way of designation, showing that the communal idea had been established with recognition of government by locality. Here, as elsewhere among the American aborigines, the clans were named after the animals chosen as their totem, but there were in addition {196} to these ordinary clans, the Sun clan, the Live Oak, the Turquoise, or others named from objects of nature. Each group of clans was governed by a priest chief, who had authority in all religious matters and, consequently, through religious influences, had large control in affairs pertaining to household government, and to social and political life in general. The duties and powers of these chiefs were carefully defined. The communal houses in which the people lived were divided into apartments for different clans and families. In some instances there was a common dining-hall for the members of the tribe. The men usually resided outside of the communal house, but came to the common dining-hall for their meals. There were many secret societies among these people which seemed to mingle religious and political sentiments. The members of these societies dwelt to a large extent in the Estufa, or Kiva, a large half-subterranean club-house where they could meet in secret. In every large tribe there were four to seven of these secret orders, and they were recognized as representing the various organizations. These "cult societies," so called by Mr. Powell, had charge of the mythical rites, the spirit lore, the mysteries, and the medicines of the part of the tribe which they represented. They conducted the ceremonies at all festivals and celebrations. It is difficult to determine the exact nature of their religion. It was a worship full of superstition, recognizing totemism and direct connection with the spirits of nature. Their religion was of a joyous nature, and always was associated with their games and feasts. The games were usually given in the celebration of some great event, or for some economic purpose, and were accompanied with dancing, music, pantomime, and symbolism. Perhaps of all of the North American Indians, the Pueblos showed the greatest fondness for music and had made some advancement in the arts of poetry and song. The noted snake dance, the green-corn dance, and the cachina all had at foundation an economic purpose. They were done ostensibly to gain the favor of the gods of nature. {197} When discovered by the Spaniards, the Pueblos had made good beginnings in agriculture and the industrial arts, were living in a state of peace and apparently contented, there seeming to be little war between the tribes. Their political organization in connection with the secret societies and their shamanistic religion gave them a good development of social order. After nearly 400 years of Spanish and American rule, they appear to have retained many of their original traits and characteristics, and cherish their ancient customs. Apparently the Spanish and the American civilization is merely a gloss over their ancient life which they seek every opportunity to express. They are to-day practically non-assimilative and live to a large extent their own life in their own way, although they have adopted a few of the American customs. While quite a large number of these villages are now to be seen very much in their primitive style of architecture and life, more than 3,000 architectural ruins in the Southwest, chiefly in Arizona and New Mexico, have been discovered. Many of them are partially obscured in the drifting sands, but they show attempts at different periods by different people to build homes. The devastation of flood and famine and the destruction of warlike tribes retarded their progress and caused their extinction. The Pueblo Indians were in the middle status of barbarism when the Spaniards arrived, and there they would have remained forever or become extinct had not the Spanish and American civilizations overtaken them. Even now self-determined progress seems not to possess them. However, through education the younger generations are being slowly assimilated into American life. But it appears that many generations will pass before their tribal life is entirely absorbed into a common democracy. _The Mound-Builders of the Mississippi Valley_.--At the coming of the Europeans this ancient people had nearly all disappeared. Only a few descendants in the southern part of the great valley of the Mississippi represented living traces of the Mound-Builders. They had left in their burial mounds {198} and monuments many relics of a high type of the Neolithic civilization which they possessed. As to their origin, history has no direct evidence. However, they undoubtedly were part of that great stream of early European migration to America which gradually spread down the Ohio valley and the upper Mississippi. At what time they flourished is not known, although their civilization was prehistoric when compared with that of the Algonquins, Athabascans, and Iroquois tribes that were in existence at the time of the coming of the Europeans. Although the tradition of these Indians traces them to the Southwest, and that they became extinct by being driven out by more savage and more warlike people, whence they came and whither they went are both alike open to conjecture. Their civilization was not very different from that of many other tribes of North American Indians. Their chief characteristic consisted in the building of extensive earth mounds as symbolical of their religious and tribal life. They also built immense enclosures for the purpose of fortification. Undoubtedly on the large mounds were originally built public houses or dwellings or temples for worship or burial. Those in the form of a truncated pyramid were used for the purposes of building sites for temples and dwellings, and those having circular bases and a conical shape were used as burial places. Besides these two kinds was another, called effigy mounds, which represented the form of some animal or bird, which undoubtedly was the totem of the tribe. These latter mounds were seldom more than three or four feet high, but were of great extent. They indicated the unity of the gens, either by representing it through the totem or a mythical ancestry. Other mounds of less importance were used in religious worship, namely, for the location of the altar to be used for sacrificial purposes. All were used to some extent as burial mounds. Large numbers of their implements made of quartz, chert, bone, and slate for the household and for the hunt have been found. They used copper to some extent, which was obtained in a free or native state and hammered into implements and ornaments. {199} Undoubtedly, the centre of the distribution of copper was the Lake Superior region, which showed that there was a diffusion of cultures from this centre at this early period. They made some progress in agriculture, cultivating maize and tobacco. Apparently their commerce with surrounding tribes was great, which no doubt gave them a variety of means of life. The pottery, judging from specimens that have been preserved, was inferior to that of the Mexicans or the Arizona Indians, but, nevertheless, in the lower Mississippi fine collections of pottery showing beautiful lines and a large number of designs were found. It fills one with wonder that a tribe of such power should have begun the arts of civilization and developed a powerful organization, and then have been so suddenly destroyed--why or how is not known. In all probability it is the old story of a sedentary group being destroyed by the more hardy, savage, and warlike conquerors. _Other Types of Indian Life_.--While the great centres of culture were found in Peru, Central America, Mexico, southwest United States, and the Mississippi valley, there were other cultures of a less pronounced nature worthy of mention. On the Pacific coast, in the region around Santa Barbara, are the relics of a very ancient tribe of Indians who had developed some skill in the making of pottery and exhibit other forms of industrial life. Recently an ancient skeleton has been discovered which seems to indicate a life of great antiquity. Nevertheless, it is a lower state of civilization than those of the larger centres already mentioned. Yet it is worthy of note that there was here started a people who had adopted village habits and attained a considerable degree of progress. Probably they were contemporary with other people of the most ancient civilizations of America. So far as the advancement of government is concerned, the Iroquois Indians of Canada and New York showed considerable advancement. As represented by Mr. Lewis H. Morgan, who made a careful study of the Iroquois, their tribal divisions and their federation of tribes show an advancement along {200} governmental lines extending beyond the mere family or tribal life. Their social order showed civil progress, and their industrial arts, in agriculture especially, were notable. _Why Did the Civilization of America Fail?_--There is a popular theory that the normal advancement of the Indian races of America was arrested or destroyed by the coming of the Europeans. Undoubtedly the contact of the higher civilization with the latter had much to do with the hastening of the decay of the former. The civilizations were so widely apart that it was not easy for the primitive or retarded race to adopt the civilization of the more advanced. But when it is assumed that if the Europeans had never come to the American continent, native tribes and races would eventually, of their own initiative, develop a high state of civilization, such an assumption is not well founded, because at the time of the coming of the Europeans there was no great show of progress. It seems as if no branch of the race could go forward very far without being destroyed by more warlike tribes. Or, if let alone, they seemed to develop a stationary civilization, reaching their limit, beyond which they could not go. As the races of Europe by specialization along certain lines became inadaptable to new conditions and passed away to give place to others, so it appears that this was characteristic of the civilization of America. Evidently the prehistoric Peruvians, Mexicans, Pueblos, and Mound-Builders had elements of civilization greater than the living warring Indian tribes which came in contact with the early European settlers in America. It may not be wise to enter a plea that all tribes and races have their infancy, youth, age, and decay, with extinction as their final lot, but it has been repeated so often in the history of the human race that one may assume it to be almost, if not quite, universal. The momentum of racial power gained by biological heredity and social achievement, reaches its limit when it can no longer adapt itself to new conditions, with the final end and inevitable result of extinction. The Nordic race, with all of its vigor and persistency, has {201} had a long and continuous life on account of its roving disposition and its perpetual contact with new conditions of its own choice. It has always had power to overcome, and its vigor has kept it exploiting and inventing and borrowing of others the elements of civilization, which have continually forced it forward. When it, too, reaches a state when it cannot adapt itself to new conditions, perhaps it will give way to some other branch of the human race, which, gathering new strength or new vigor from sources not available to the Nordic, will be able to overpower it; but the development of science and art with the power over nature, is greater in this race than in any other, and the maladies which destroy racial life are less marked than in other races. It would seem, then, that it still has great power of continuance and through science can adapt itself to nature and live on. But what would the American Indian have contributed to civilization? Would modern civilization have been as far advanced as now, had the Europeans found no human life at all on the American continent? True, the Europeans learned many things of the Indians regarding cultivation of maize and tobacco, and thus increased their food supply, but would they not have learned this by their own investigations, had there been no Indians to teach? The arts of pottery have been more highly developed by the Etruscans, the Aegeans, and the Greeks than by the American Indians. The Europeans had long since passed the Stone Age and entered the Iron Age, which they brought to the American Indians. But the studies of ethnology have been greatly enlarged by the fact of these peculiar and wonderful people, who exhibited so many traits of nobility of character in life. Perhaps it would not be liberal to say the world would have been just as well off had they never existed. At any rate, we are glad of the opportunity to study what their life was and what it was worth to them, and also its influence on the life and character of the Europeans. The most marked phases of this civilization are found in the development of basketry and pottery, and the exquisite work {202} in stone implements. Every conceivable shape of the arrow-head, the spear, the stone axe and hammer, the grinding board for grains, the bow-and-arrow, is evidence of the skill in handiwork of these primitive peoples. Also, the skill in curing and tanning hides for clothing, and the methods of hunting and trapping game are evidences of great skill. Perhaps, also, there is something in the primitive music of these people which not only is worthy of study but has added something to the music culture of more advanced peoples. At least, if pressed to learn the real character of man, we must go to primitive peoples and primitive life and customs. SUBJECTS FOR FURTHER STUDY 1. What contributions did the American Indians make to European civilization? 2. What are the chief physical and mental traits of the Indian? 3. What is the result of education of the Indian? 4. How many Indians are there in the United States? (_a_) Where are they located? (_b_) How many children in school? Where? 5. If the Europeans made a better use of the territory than did the Indians, had the Europeans the right to dispossess them? Did they use the right means to gain possession? 6. Study an Indian tribe of your own selection regarding customs, habits, government, religion, art, etc. [1] Recent discoveries in Nevada and Utah indicate a wide territorial extension of the Pueblo type. {205} _PART IV_ WESTERN CIVILIZATION CHAPTER XII THE OLD GREEK LIFE _The Old Greek Life Was the Starting Point of Western Civilization_.--Civilization is a continuous movement--hence there is a gradual transition from the Oriental civilization to the Western. The former finally merges into the latter. Although the line of demarcation is not clearly drawn, some striking differences are apparent when the two are placed in juxtaposition. Perhaps the most evident contrast is observed in the gradual freedom of the mind from the influences of tradition and religious superstition. Connected with this, also, is the struggle for freedom from despotism in government. It has been observed how the ancient civilizations were characterized by the despotism of priests and kings. It was the early privilege of European life to gradually break away from this form of human degradation and establish individual rights and individual development. Kings and princes, indeed, ruled in the Western world, but they learned to do so with a fuller recognition of the rights of the governed. There came to be recognized, also, free discussion as the right of people in the processes of government. It is admitted that the despotic governments of the Old World existed for the few and neglected the many. While despotism was not wanting in European civilization, the struggle to be free from it was the ruling spirit of the age. The history of Europe centres around this struggle to be free from despotism and traditional learning, and to develop freedom of thought and action. Among Oriental people the idea of progress was wanting in their philosophy. True, they had some notion of changes that take place in the conditions of political and social life, and in individual accomplishments, yet there was nothing hopeful in their presentation of the theory of life or in their practices {206} of religion; and the few philosophers who recognized changes that were taking place saw not in them a persistent progress and growth. Their eyes were turned toward the past. Their thoughts centred on traditions and things that were fixed. Life was reduced to a dull, monotonous round by the great masses of the people. If at any time a ray of light penetrated the gloom, it was turned to illuminate the accumulated philosophies of the past. On the other hand, in European civilization we find the idea of progress becoming more and more predominant. The early Greeks and Romans were bound to a certain extent by the authority of tradition on one side and the fixity of purpose on the other. At times there was little that was hopeful in their philosophy, for they, too, recognized the decline in the affairs of men. But through trial and error, new discoveries of truth were made which persisted until the revival of learning in the Middle Ages, at the time of the formation of new nations, when the ideas of progress became fully recognized in the minds of the thoughtful, and subsequently in the full triumph of Western civilization came the recognition of the possibility of continuous progress. Another great distinction in the development of European civilization was the recognition of humanity. In ancient times humanitarian spirit appeared not in the heart of man nor in the philosophy of government. Even the old tribal government was for the few. The national government was for selected citizens only. Specific gods, a special religion, the privilege of rights and duties were available to a few, while all others were deprived of them. This invoked a selfishness in practical life and developed a selfish system even among the leaders of ancient culture. The broad principle of the rights of an individual because he was human was not taken into serious consideration even among the more thoughtful. If he was friendly to the recognized god he was permitted to exist. If he was an enemy, he was to be crushed. On the other hand, the triumph of Western civilization is the recognition of the value of a human being and his right to engage in all human associations {207} for which he is fitted. While the Greeks came into contact with the older civilizations of Egypt and Asia, and were influenced by their thought and custom, they brought a vigorous new life which gradually dominated and mastered the Oriental influences. They had sufficient vigor and independence to break with tradition, wherever it seemed necessary to accomplish their purpose of life. _The Aegean Culture Preceded the Coming of the Greeks_.--Spreading over the islands of the Aegean Sea was a pre-Greek civilization known as Minoan. Its highest centre of development was in the Island of Crete, whose principal city was Cnossos. Whence these people came and what their ethnological classification are still unsettled.[1] They had a number of centres of development, which varied somewhat in type of culture. They were a dark-haired people, who probably came from Africa or Asia Minor, settling in Crete about 5,000 years B.C. It is thought by some that the Etruscans of Italy were of Aegean origin. Prior to the Minoans there existed a Neolithic culture throughout the islands of Greece. In the great city of Cnossos, which was sacked and burned about the fourteenth century B.C., were found ruins which show a culture of relatively high degree. By the excavations in Crete at this point a stratum of earth twenty feet thick was discovered, in which were found evidences of all grades of civilization, from the Neolithic implements to the highest Minoan culture. Palaces with frescoes and carvings, ornaments formed of metal and skilfully wrought vases with significant colorings, all evinced a civilization worthy of intensive study. These people had developed commerce and trade with Egypt, and their boats passed along the shores of the Mediterranean, carrying their civilization to Italy, northern Africa, and everywhere among the islands of Greece, as well as on the mainland. The cause of the decline of their civilization is {208} not known, unless it could be attributed to the Greek pirates who invaded their territory, and possibly, like all nations that decline, they were beset by internal maladies which marked their future destiny. Possibly, high specialization along certain lines of life rendered them unadaptable to new conditions, and they passed away because of this lack. _The Greeks Were of Aryan Stock_.--Many thousand years ago there appeared along the shores of the Baltic, at the beginning of the Neolithic period of culture, a group of people who seem to have come from central Asia. It is thought by some that these were at least the forerunners of the great Nordic race. Whatever conjectures there may be as to their origin, it is known that about 2,000 years before Christ, wandering tribes extended from the Baltic region far eastward to the Caspian Sea, to the north of Persia, down to the borderland of India. These people were of Caucasian features, with fair hair and blue eyes--a type of the Nordic race. They were known as the Aryan branch of the Caucasian race. Whether this was their primitive abode, or whether their ancestors had come at a much earlier time from a central home in northern Africa, which is considered by ethnologists as the centre from which developed the Caucasian race, is not known. They were not a highly cultured people, but were living a nomadic life, engaged in hunting, fishing, piratical exploits, and carrying on agriculture intermittently. They had also become acquainted with the use of metals, having passed during this period from the Neolithic into the Bronze Age. About the year 1500 B.C. they had become acquainted with iron, and about the same time had come into possession of the horse, probably through their contact with central Asia. The social life of these people was very simple. While they undoubtedly met and mingled with many tribes, they had a language sufficiently common for ordinary intercourse. They had no writing or means of records at all, but depended upon the recital of deeds of warriors and nations and tribes. Wherever the Aryan people have been found, whether in Greece, {209} Italy, Germany, along the Danube, central Asia, or India, they have been noted for their epics, sagas, and vedas, which told the tales of historic deeds and exploits of the tribal or national life. It is thought that this was the reason they developed such a strong and beautiful language. They came in contact with Semitic civilization in northern Persia, with the primitive tribes in Italy, with the Dravidian peoples of India, and represented the vigorous fighting power of the Scythians, Medes, and Persians. They or their kindred later moved up the Danube into Spain and France, with branches into Germany and Russia, and others finally into the British Islands. It was a branch of these people that came into the Grecian peninsula and overthrew and supplanted the Aegean civilization--where they were known as the Greeks. _The Coming of the Greeks_.--It is not known when they came down through Asia Minor. Not earlier than 2000 B.C. nor later than 1500 B.C. the invasion began. In successive waves came the Phrygians, Aeolians, the Ionians, and the Dorians--different divisions of the same race. Soon they spread over the mainland of Greece and all the surrounding islands, and established their trading cities along the borders of the Mediterranean Sea. These people, though uncultured, seemed to absorb culture wherever they went. They learned the methods of the civilization that had been established in the Orient wherever they came in contact with other peoples, and also in the Aegean country. In fact, though they conquered and occupied the Aegean country, they took on the best of the Minoan civilization.[2] As marauders, pirates, and conquerors, they were masterful, but they came in conflict with the ideas developed among the Semitic people of Asia and the Hamitic of Egypt. Undoubtedly, this conquest of the Minoan civilization furnished the origin of many of the tales or folklore that afterward were woven into the _Iliad_ and the _Odyssey_ by {210} Homer. It is not known how early in Greek life these songs originated, but it is a known fact that in the eighth century the Greeks were in possession of their epics, and at this period not only had conquered the Minoan civilization but had absorbed it so far as they had use for it. They came into this territory in the form of the old tribal government, with their primitive social customs, and as they settled in different parts of the territory in tribes, they developed independent communities of a primitive sort. They had what was known in modern historical literature as the village community, which was always found in the primitive life of the Aryans. Their mode of life tended to develop individualism, and when the group life was established, it became independent and was lacking in co-operation--that is, it became a self-sufficient social order. Later in the development of the Greek life the individual, so far as political organization goes, was absorbed in the larger state, after it had developed from the old Greek family life. These primitive Greeks soon had a well-developed language. They began systematic agriculture, became skilled in the industrial arts, domesticated animals, and had a pure home life with religious sentiments of a high order. Wherever they went they carried with them the characteristics of nation-building and progressive life. They mastered the earth and its contents by living it down with force and vigor. The Greek peninsula was favorably situated for development. Protected on the north by a mountain range from the rigors of a northern climate and from the predatory tribes, with a range of mountains through the centre, with its short spurs cutting the entire country into valleys, in which were developed independent community states, circumstances were favorable to local self-government of the several tribes. This independent social life was of great importance in the development of Greek thought. In the north the grains and cereals were grown, and in the south the citrus and the orange. This wide range from a temperate to a semi-tropical climate {211} furnished a variety of fruits and diversity of life which gave great opportunity for development. The variety of scenery caused by mountain and valley and proximity to the sea, the thousand islands washed by the Aegean Sea, brought a new life which tended to impress the sensitive mind of the Greek and to develop his imagination and to advance culture in art. _Character of the Primitive Greeks_.--The magnificent development of the Greeks in art, literature, philosophy, and learning, together with the fortunate circumstance of having powerful writers, gives us rather an exaggerated notion of the Greeks, if we attempt to apply a lofty manner and a magnificent culture to the Homeric period. They had a good deal of piratical boldness, and, after the formation of their small states, gave examples of spurts of courage such as that at Marathon and Thermopylae. Yet these evidences were rare exceptions rather than the rule, for even the Spartan, trained on a military basis, seldom evinced any great degree of bravery. Perhaps the gloomy forebodings of the future, characteristic of the Greeks, made them fear death, and consequently caused them to lack in courage. However, this is a disputed point. Pages of the earlier records are full of the sanction of deception of enemies, friends, and strangers. Evidently, there was a low moral sense regarding truth. While the Greek might be loyal to his family and possibly to his tribe, there are many examples of disloyalty to one another, and, in the later development, a disloyalty of one state toward another. Excessive egoism seems to have prevailed, and this principle was extended to the family and local government group. Each group appeared to look out for its own interests, irrespective of the welfare of others. How much a united Greece might have done to have continued the splendors and the service of a magnificent civilization is open to conjecture. The Greeks were not sympathetic with children nor with the aged. Far from being anxious to preserve the life of the aged, their greatest trouble was in disposing of them. The honor and rights of women were not observed. In war women {212} were the property of their captors. Yet the home life of the Greeks seems to have been in its purity and loyalty an advance on the Oriental home life. In their treatment of servants and slaves, in the care of the aged and helpless, the Greeks were cold and without compassion. While the poets, historians, and philosophers have been portraying with such efficiency the character of the higher classes; while they have presented such a beautiful exterior of the old Greek life; the Greeks, in common with other primitive peoples, were not lacking in coarseness, injustice, and cruelty in their internal life. Here, as elsewhere in the beginnings of civilization, only the best of the real and the ideal of life was represented, while the lower classes were suffering a degraded life. The family was closely organized in Greece. Monogamic marriage and the exclusive home life prevailed at an early time. The patriarchal family, in which the oldest male member was chief and ruler, was the unit of society. Within this group were the house families, formed whenever a separate marriage took place and a separate altar was erected. The house religion was one of the characteristic features of Greek life. Each family had its own household gods, its own worship, its private shrine. This tended to unify the family and promote a sacred family life. A special form of ancestral worship, from the early Aryan house-spirit worship, prevailed to a certain extent. The worship of the family expanded with the expansion of social life. Thus the gens, and the tribe, and the city when founded, had each its separate worship. Religion formed a strong cement to bind the different social units of a tribe together. The worship of the Greeks was associated with the common meal and the pouring of libations to the gods. As religion became more general, it united to make a more common social practice, and in the later period of Greek life was made the basis of the games and general social gatherings. Religion brought the Greeks together in a social way, and finally led to the mutual advantage of members of society. {213} Later, mutual advantage superseded religion in its practice. The Greeks, at an early period, attempted to explain the origin of the earth and unknown phenomena by referring it to the supernatural powers. Every island had its myth, every phenomenon its god, and every mountain was the residence of some deity. They sought to find out the causes of the creation of the universe, and developed a theogony. There was the origin of the Greeks to be accounted for, and then the origin of the earth, and the relation of man to the deities. Everything must be explained, but as the imagination was especially strong, it was easier to create a god as a first cause than to ascertain the development of the earth by scientific study. _Influence of Old Greek Life_.--In all of the traditions and writings descriptive of the old Greek social life, with the exception of the _Works and Days_ of Hesiod, the aristocratic class appears uppermost. Hesiod "pictures a hopeless and miserable existence, in which care and the despair of better things tended to make men hard and selfish and to blot out those fairer features which cannot be denied to the courts and palaces of the _Iliad_ and _Odyssey_." It appears that the foundation of aristocracy--living in comparative luxury, in devotion to art and the culture of life--was early laid by the side of the foundation of poverty and wretchedness of the great mass of the people. While, then, the Greeks derived from their ancestry the beautiful pictures of heroic Greece, they inherited the evils of imperfect social conditions. As we pass to the historical period of Greece, these different phases of life appear and reappear in changeable forms. If to the nobleman life was full of inspiration; if poetry, religion, art, and politics gave him lofty thoughts and noble aspirations; to the peasant and the slave, life was full of misery and degradation. If one picture is to be drawn in glowing colors, let not the other be omitted. The freedom from great centralized government, the development of the individual life, the influences of the early ideas of art and life, and the religious conceptions, were of great importance in shaping the Greek philosophy and the Greek {214} national character. They had a tendency to develop men who could think and act. It is not surprising, therefore, that the first real historical period was characterized by struggles of citizens within the town for supremacy. Fierce quarrels between the upper and the lower classes prevailed everywhere, and resulted in developing an intense hatred of the former for the latter. This hatred and selfishness became the uppermost causes of action in the development of Greek social polity. Strife led to compromise, and this in turn to the recognition of the rights and privileges of different classes. SUBJECTS FOR FURTHER STUDY 1. The Aegean culture. 2. The relation of Greek to Egyptian culture. 3. What were the great Greek masterpieces of (_a_) Literature, (_b_) Sculpture, (_c_) Architecture, (_d_) Art, (_e_) Philosophy? 4. Compare Greek democracy with American democracy. 5. What historical significance have Thermopylae, Marathon, Alexandria, Crete, and Delphi? [1] Sergi, in his _Mediterranean Race_, says that they came from N. E. Africa. Beginning about 5000 years B.C., they gradually infiltrated the whole Mediterranean region. This is becoming the general belief among ethnologists, archaeologists, and historians. [2] Recent studies indicate that some of the Cretan inscriptions are prototypes of the Greece-Phoenician alphabet. The Phoenicians evidently derived the original characters of their alphabet from a number of sources. The Greeks adopted the Phoenician alphabet about 800-1000 B.C. {215} CHAPTER XIII GREEK PHILOSOPHY _The Transition from Theology to Inquiry_.--The Greek theology prepared the way for the Ionian philosophy. The religious opinions led directly up to the philosophy of the early inquirers. The Greeks passed slowly from accepting everything with a blind faith to the rational inquiry into the development of nature. The beginnings of knowing the scientific causes were very small, and sometimes ridiculous, yet they were of immense importance. To take a single step from the "age of credulity" toward the "age of reason" was of great importance to Greek progress. To cease to accept on faith the statements that the world was created by the gods, and ordered by the gods, and that all mysteries were in their hands, and to endeavor to find out by observation of natural phenomena something of the elements of nature, was to gradually break from the mythology of the past as explanatory of the creation. The first feeble attempt at this was to seek in a crude way the material structure and source of the universe. _Explanation of the Universe by Observation and Inquiry_.--The Greek mind had settled down to the fact that there was absolute knowledge of truth, and that cosmogony had established the method of creation; that theogony had accounted for the creation of gods, heroes, and men, and that theology had foretold their relations. A blind faith had accepted what the imagination had pictured. But as geographical study began to increase, doubts arose as to the preconceived constitution of the earth. As travel increased and it was found that none of the terrible creatures that tradition had created inhabited the islands of the sea or coasts of the mainland, earth lost its terrors and disbelief in the system of established {216} knowledge prevailed. Free inquiry was slowly substituted for blind credulity. This freedom of inquiry had great influence on the intellectual development of man. It was the discovery of truth through the relation of cause and effect, which he might observe by opening his eyes and using his reason. The development of theories of the universe through tradition and the imagination gave exercise to the emotions and beliefs; but change from faith in the fixity of the past to the future by observation led to intellectual development. The exercise of faith and the imagination even in unproductive ways prepared the way for broader service of investigation. But these standing alone could permit nothing more than a childish conception of the universe. They could not discover the reign of law. They could not advance the observing and reflecting powers of man; they could not develop the stronger qualities of his intellect. Individual action would be continually stultified by the process of accepting through credulity the trite sayings of the ancients. The attempt to find out how things were made was an acknowledgment of the powers of the individual mind. It was a recognition that man has a mind to use, and that there is truth around him to be discovered. This was no small beginning in intellectual development. _The Ionian Philosophy Turned the Mind Toward Nature_.--Greek philosophy began in the seventh century before Christ. The first philosopher of note was Thales, born at Miletus, in Asia Minor, about 640 B.C. Thales sought to establish the idea that water is the first principle and cause of the universe. He held that water is filled with life and soul, the essential element in the foundation of all nature. Thales had great learning for his time, being well versed in geometry, arithmetic, and astronomy. He travelled in Egypt and the Orient, and became acquainted with ancient lore. It is said that being impressed with the importance of water in Egypt, where the Nile is the source of all life, he was led to assert the importance of water in animate nature. In his attempts to break away from the {217} old cosmogony, he still exhibits traces of the old superstitions, for he regarded the sun and stars as living beings, who received their warmth and life from the ocean, in which they bathed at the time of setting. He held that the whole world was full of soul, manifested in individual daemons, or spirits. Puerile as his philosophy appears in comparison with the later development of Greek philosophy, it created violent antagonism with mythical theology and led the way to further investigation and speculation. Anaximander, born at Miletus 611 B.C., an astronomer and geographer, following Thales chronologically, wrote a book on "Nature," the first written on the subject in the philosophy of Greece. He held that all things arose from the "infinite," a primordial chaos in which was an internal energy. From a universal mixture things arose by separation, the parts once formed remaining unchanged. The earth was cylindrical in shape, suspended in the air in the centre of the universe, and the stars and planets revolved around it, each fastened in a crystalline ring; the moon and sun revolved in the same manner, only at a farther distance. The generation of the universe was by the action of contraries, by heat and cold, the moist and the dry. From the moisture all things were originally generated by heat. Animals and men came from fishes by a process of evolution. There is evidence in his philosophy of a belief in the development of the universe by the action of heat and cold on matter. It is also evident that the principles of biology and the theory of evolution are hinted at by this philosopher. Also, he was the first to observe the obliquity of the ecliptic; he taught that the moon received its light from the sun and that the earth is round. Anaximenes, born at Miletus 588 B.C., asserted that air was the first principle of the universe; indeed, he held that on it "the very earth floats like a broad leaf." He held that air was infinite in extent; that it touched all things, and was the source of life of all. The human soul was nothing but air, since life consists in inhaling and exhaling, and when this is no longer {218} continued death ensues. Warmth and cold arose from rarefaction and condensation, and probably the origin of the sun and planets was caused by the rarefaction of air; but when air underwent great condensation, snow, water, and hail appeared, and, indeed, with sufficient condensation, the earth itself was formed. It was only a step further to suppose that the infinite air was the source of life, the god of the universe. Somewhat later Diogenes of Apollonia asserted that all things originated from one essence, and that air was the soul of the world, eternal and endowed with consciousness. This was an attempt to explain the development of the universe by a conscious power. It led to the suggestion of psychology, as the mind of man was conscious air. "But that which has knowledge is what men call air; it is it that regulates all and governs all, and hence it is the use of air to pervade all, and to dispose all, and to be in all, for there is nothing that has not part in it." Other philosophers of this school reasoned or speculated upon the probable first causes in the creation. In a similar manner Heraclitus asserted that fire was the first principle, and states as the fundamental maxim of his philosophy that "all is convertible into fire, and fire into all." There was so much confusion in his doctrines as to give him the name of "The Obscure." "The moral system of Heraclitus was based on the physical. He held that heat developed morality, moisture immorality. He accounted for the wickedness of the drunkard by his having a moist soul, and inferred that a warm, dry soul was noblest and best." Anaxagoras taught the mechanical processes of the universe, and advanced many theories of the origin of animal life and of material objects. Anaxagoras was a man of wealth, who devoted all of his time and means to philosophy. He recognized two principles, one material and the other spiritual, but failed to connect the two, and in determining causes he came into open conflict with the religion of the times, and asserted that the "divine miracles" were nothing more than natural {219} causes. He was condemned for his atheism and thrown into prison, but, escaping, he was obliged to end his days in exile. Another notable example of the early Greek philosophy is found in Pythagoras, who asserted that number was the first principle. He and his followers found that the "whole heaven was a harmony of number." The Pythagoreans taught that all comes from one, but that the odd number is finite, the even infinite; that ten was a perfect number. They sought for a criterion of truth in the relation of numbers. Nothing could exist or be formed without harmony, and this harmony depended upon number, that is, upon the union of contrary elements. The musical octave was their best example to illustrate their meaning. The union of the atoms in modern chemistry illustrates in full the principle of number after which they were striving. It emphasized the importance of measurements in investigation. Much more might be said about the elaborate system of the Pythagoreans; but the main principle herein stated must suffice. _The Weakness of Ionian Philosophy_.--Viewed from the modern standpoint of scientific research, the early philosophers of Greece appear puerile and insignificant. They directed their thoughts largely toward nature, but instead of systematic observation and comparison they used the speculative and hypothetical methods to ascertain truth. They had turned from the credulity of ancient tradition to simple faith in the mind to determine the nature and cause of the universe. But this was followed by a scepticism as to the sense perception, a scepticism which could only be overcome by a larger observation of facts. Simple as it appears, this process was an essential transition from the theology of the Greeks to the perfected philosophy built upon reason. The attitude of the mind was of great value, and the attention directed to external nature was sure to turn again to man, and the supernatural. While there is a mixture of the physical, metaphysical, and mystical, the final lesson to be learned is the recognition of reality of nature as external to mind. {220} _The Eleatic Philosophers_.--About 500 B.C., and nearly contemporary with the Pythagoreans, flourished the Eleatic philosophers, among whom Xenophanes, Parmenides, Zeno, and Melissus were the principal leaders. They speculated about the nature of the mind, or soul, and departed from the speculations respecting the origin of the earth. The nature of the infinite and the philosophy of being suggested by the Ionian philosophers were themes that occupied the attention of this new school. Parmenides believed in the knowledge of an absolute being, and affirmed the unity of thought and being. He won the distinction of being the first logical philosopher among the Greeks, and was called the father of idealism. Zeno is said to have been the most remarkable of this school. He held that if there was a distinction between _being_ and _not being_, only _being_ existed. This led him to the final assumption that the laws of nature are unchangeable and God remains permanent. His method of reasoning was to reduce the opposite to absurdity. Upon the whole, the Eleatic philosophy is one relating to knowledge and being, which considered thought primarily as dependent upon being. It holds closely to monism, that is, that nature and mind are of the same substance; yet there is a slight distinction, for there is really a dualism expressed in knowledge and being. Many other philosophers followed, who discoursed upon nature, mind, and being, but they arrived at no definite conclusions. The central idea in the early philosophy up to this time was to account for the existence and substance of nature. It gave little consideration to man in himself, and said little of the supernatural. Everything was speculative in nature, hypothetical in proposition, and deductive in argument. The Greek mind, departing from its dependence upon mythology, began boldly to assert its ability to find out nature, but ended in a scepticism as to its power to ascertain certainty. There was a final determination as to the distinction of reality as external to mind, and this represents the best product of the early philosophers. {221} _The Sophists_.--Following the Eleatics was a group of philosophers whose principle characteristic was scepticism. Man, not nature, was the central idea in their philosophy, and they changed the point of view from objective to subjective contemplation. They accomplished very little in their speculation except to shift the entire attitude of philosophy from external nature to man. They were interested in the culture of the individual, yet, in their psychological treatment of man, they relied entirely upon sense perception. In the consideration of man's ethical nature they were individualistic, considering private right and private judgment the standards of truth. They led the way to greater speculation in this subject and to a higher philosophy. _Socrates the First Moral Philosopher (b. 469 B.C.)_.--Following the sophists in the progressive development of philosophy, Socrates turned his attention almost exclusively to human nature. He questioned all things, political, ethical, and theological, and insisted upon the moral worth of the individual man. While he cast aside the nature studies of the early philosophy and repudiated the pseudo-wisdom of the sophists, he was not without his own interpretation of nature. He was interested in questions pertaining to the order of nature and the wise adaptation of means to an end. Nature is animated by a soul, yet it is considered as a wise contrivance for man's benefit rather than a living, self-determining organism. In the subordination of all nature to the good, Socrates lays the foundation of natural theology. But the ethical philosophy of Socrates is more prominent and positive. He asserted that scientific knowledge is the sole condition to virtue; that vice is ignorance. Hence virtue will always follow knowledge because they are a unity. His ethical principles are founded on utility, the good of which he speaks is useful, and is the end of individual acts and aims. Wisdom is the foundation of all virtues; indeed, every virtue is wisdom. Socrates made much of friendship and love, and thought temperance to be the fundamental virtue. Without {222} temperance, men were not useful to themselves or to others, and temperance meant the complete mastery of self. Friendship and love were cardinal points in the doctrine of ethical life. The proper conduct of life, justice in the treatment of man by his fellow-man, and the observance of the duties of citizenship, were part of the ethical philosophy of Socrates. Beauty is only another name for goodness, but it is only a harmony or adaptation of means to an end. The Socratic method of ascertaining truth by the art of suggestive questioning was a logical mode of procedure. The meeting of individuals in conversation was a method of arriving at the truth of ethical conduct and ethical relations. It was made up of induction and definition. No doubt the spirit of his teaching was sceptical in the extreme. While having a deeper sense of the reality of life than others, he realized that he did not know much. He criticized freely the prevailing beliefs, customs, and religious practice. For this he was accused of impiety, and forced to drink the hemlock. With an irony in manner and thought, Socrates introduced the problem of self-knowledge; he hastened the study of man and reason; he instituted the doctrine of true manhood as an essential part in the philosophy of life. Conscience was enthroned, and the moral life of man began with Socrates. _Platonic Philosophy Develops the Ideal_.--Plato was the pupil of Socrates and the teacher of Aristotle. These three represent the culmination of Greek philosophy. In its fundamental principles the Platonic philosophy represents the highest flight of the mind in its conception of being and of the nature of mind and matter, entertained by the philosophers. The doctrine of Plato consisted of three primary principles: matter, ideas, and God. While matter is co-eternal with God, he created all animate and inanimate things from matter. Plato maintained that there was a unity in design. And as God was an independent and individual creator of the world, who fashioned the universe, and is father to all creatures, there was unity in God. Plato advanced the doctrine of reminiscences, {223} in which he accounted for what had otherwise been termed innate ideas. Plato also taught, to a certain extent, the transmigration of souls. He was evidently influenced in many ways by the Indian philosophy; but the special doctrine of Plato made ideas the most permanent of all things. Visible things are only fleeting shadows, which soon pass away; only ideas remain. The universal concept, or notion, is the only real thing. Thus the perfect globe is the concept held in the mind; the marble, ball, or sphere of material is only an imperfect representation of the same. The horse is a type to which all individual horses tend to conform; they pass away, but the type remains. His work was purely deductive. His major premise was accepted on faith rather than determined by his reason. Yet in philosophical speculations the immortality of the soul, future rewards and punishments, the unity of the creation and the unity of the creator, and an all-wise ruler of the universe, were among the most important points of doctrine. _Aristotle the Master Mind of the Greeks_.--While Aristotle and Plato sought to prove the same things, and agreed with each other on many principles of philosophy, the method employed by the former was exactly the reverse of that of the latter. Plato founded his doctrine on the unity of all being, and observed the particular only through the universal. For proof he relied on the intuitive and the synthetic. Aristotle, on the contrary, found it necessary to consider the particular in order that the universal might be established. He therefore gathered facts, analyzed material, and discoursed upon the results. He was patient and persistent in his investigations, and not only gave the world a great lesson by his example, but he obtained better results than any other philosopher of antiquity. It is generally conceded that he showed the greatest strength of intellect, the deepest insight, the greatest breadth of speculative thought, and the clearest judgment of all philosophers, either ancient or modern. Perhaps his doctrine of the necessity of a final cause, or sufficient reason, which gives a rational explanation of individual {224} things, is Aristotle's greatest contribution to pure philosophy. The doctrine of empiricism has been ascribed to Aristotle, but he fully recognized the universal, and thought it connected with the individual, and not separated from it, as represented by Plato. The universal is self-determining in its individualization, and is, therefore, a process of identification rather than of differentiation. The attention which Aristotle gave to fact as opposed to theory, to investigation as opposed to speculation, and to final cause, led men from a condition of necessity to that of freedom, and taught philosophers to substantiate their theories by reason and by fact. There is no better illustration of his painstaking investigation than his writing 250 constitutional histories as the foundation of his work on "Politics." In this masterly work will be found an exposition of political theories and practice worthy the attention of all modern political philosophers. The service given by Aristotle to the learning of the Middle Ages, and, in fact, to modern philosophy, was very great. Aristotle was of a more practical turn of mind than Plato. While he introduced the formal syllogism in logic, he also introduced the inductive method. Perhaps Aristotle represented the wisest and most learned of the Greeks, because he advanced beyond the speculative philosophy to a point where he attempted to substantiate theory by facts, and thus laid the foundation for comparative study. _Other Schools_.--The Epicureans taught a philosophy based upon pleasure-seeking--or, as it may be stated, making happiness the highest aim of life. They said that to seek happiness was to seek the highest good. This philosophy in its pure state had no evil ethical tendency, but under the bad influences of remote followers of Epicurus it led to the degeneration of ethical practice. "Beware of excesses," says Epicurus, "for they will lead to unhappiness." Beware of folly and sin, for they lead to wretchedness. Nothing could have been better than this, until people began to follow sensuality as the immediate return of efforts to secure happiness. Then it led to {225} corruption, and was one of the causes of the downfall of Greek as well as the Roman civilization. The Stoics were a group of philosophers who placed great emphasis upon ethics in comparison with logic and physics. They looked on the world from the pessimistic side and made themselves happy by becoming martyrs. They taught that suffering, the endurance of pain without complaint, was the highest virtue. To them logic was the science of thought and of expression, physics was the science of nature, and ethics the science of the good. All ideas originated from sensation, and perception was the only criterion of truth. "We know only what we perceive (by sense); only those ideas contain certain knowledge for us which are ideas of real objects." The soul of man was corporeal and material, hence physics and metaphysics were almost identical. There is much incoherency in their philosophy; it abounds in paradoxes. For instance, it recognizes sense as the criterion and source of knowledge, and asserts that reason is universal and knowable. Yet it asserts that there is no rational element in sense that is universal. It confuses individual human nature and universal nature, though its final result was to unite both in one concept. The result of their entire philosophy was to create confusion, although they had much influence on the practical life. The Sceptics doubted all knowledge obtained by the senses. There was no criterion of truth in the intellect, consequently no knowledge. If truth existed it was in conduct, and thus the judgment must be suspended. They held that there was nothing that could be determined of specific nature, nothing that could be of certainty. Eventually the whole Greek philosophy went out in scepticism. The three schools, the sceptic, the Epicurean, and the stoic, though widely differing in many ways, agreed upon one thing, in basing their philosophy on subjectivity, on mind rather than on objective nature. _Results Obtained in Greek Philosophy_.--The philosophical conclusions aimed at by the Greeks related to the origin and destiny of the world. The world is an emanation from God, {226} and in due time it will return to Him. It may be considered as a part of the substance of God, or it may be considered as something objective proceeding from him. The visible world around us becomes thus but an expression of the God mind. But as it came forth a thing of beauty, so it will return again to Him after its mission is fulfilled. On the existence and attributes of God the Greeks dwelt with great force. There is established first a unity of God, and this unity is the first cause in the creation. To what extent this unity is independent and separate in existence from nature, is left in great doubt. It was held that God is present everywhere in nature, though His being is not limited by time or space. Much of the philosophy bordered upon, if it did not openly avow, a belief in pantheism. The highest conception recognizes design in creation, which would give an individual existence to the Creator. Yet the most acute mind did not depart from the assumption of the idea of an all-pervading being of God extending throughout the universe, mingling with nature and to a certain extent inseparable from it. In their highest conception the most favored of the Greeks were not free from pantheistic notions. The nature of the soul occupied much of the attention of the Greeks. They began by giving material characteristics to the mind. They soon separated it in concept from material nature and placed it as a part of God himself, who existed apart from material form. The soul has a past life, a present, and a future, as a final outcome of philosophical speculations. The attributes of the soul were confused with the attributes of the Supreme Being. These conceptions of the Divine Being and of the soul border on the Hindu philosophy. Perhaps the subject which caused the most discussion was the attempt to determine a criterion of truth. Soon after the time when they broke away from the ancient religious faith, the thinkers of Greece began to doubt the ability of the mind to ascertain absolute truth. This arose out of the imperfections of knowledge obtained through the senses. Sense perception {227} was held in much doubt. The world is full of delusions. Man thinks he sees when he does not. The rainbow is but an illusion when we attempt to analyze it. The eye deceives, the ear hears what does not exist; even touch and taste frequently deceive us. What, then, can be relied upon as accurate in determining knowledge? To this the Greek mind answers, "Nothing"; it reaches no definite conclusion, and this is the cardinal weakness of the philosophy. Indeed, the great weakness of the entire age of philosophy was want of data. It was a time of intense activity of the mind, but the lack of data led to much worthless speculation. The systematic method of scientific observation had not yet been discovered. But how could this philosophical speculation affect civilization? It determined the views of life entertained by the Greeks, and human progress depended upon this. The progress of the world depends upon the attitude of the human mind toward nature, toward man and his life. The study of philosophy developed the mental capacity of man, gave him power to cope with nature, and enhanced his possibility of right living. More than this, it taught man to rely upon himself in explaining the origin and growth of the universe and the development of human life. Though these points were gained only by the few and soon lost sight of by all, yet they were revived in after years, and placed man upon the right basis for improvement. The quickening impulse of philosophy had its influence on art and language. The language of the Greeks stands as their most powerful creation. The development of philosophy enlarged the scope of language and increased its already rich vocabulary. Art was a representation of nature. The predominance given to man in life, the study of heroes and gods, gave ideal creations and led to the expression of beauty. Philosophy, literature, language, and art, including architecture, represent the products of Greek civilization, and as such have been the lasting heritage of the nations that have followed. The philosophy and practice of social life and government {228} received a high development in Greece. They will be treated in a separate chapter. SUBJECTS FOR FURTHER STUDY 1. What was the importance of Socrates' teaching? Why was he put to death? 2. What has been the influence of Plato's teaching on modern life? 3. Why is Aristotle considered the greatest of the Greeks? 4. What was the influence of the library at Alexandria? 5. What caused the decline in Greek philosophy? 6. What was the influence on civilization of the Greek attitudes of mind toward nature? 7. Compare the use of Greek philosophy with modern science as to their value in education. {229} CHAPTER XIV THE GREEK SOCIAL POLITY _The Struggle for Greek Equality and Liberty_.--The greater part of the activity of Western nations has been a struggle for social equality and for political and religious liberty. These phases of European social life are clearly discerned in the development of the Greek states. The Greeks were recognized as having the highest intellectual culture and the largest mental endowments of all the ancients, characteristics which gave them great prestige in the development of political life and social philosophy. The problem of how communities of people should live together, their relations to one another, and their rights, privileges, and duties, early concerned the philosophers of Greece; but more potent than all the philosophies that have been uttered, than all of the theories concerning man's social relation, is the vivid portrayal of the actual struggle of men to live together in community life, pictured in the course of Grecian history. In the presentation of this life, writers have differed much in many ways. Some have eulogized the Greeks as a liberty-loving people, who sought to grant rights and duties to every one on an altruistic basis; others have pictured them as entirely egoistic, with a morality of a narrow nature, and with no sublime conception of the relation of the rights of humanity as such. Without entering into a discussion of the various views entertained by philosophers concerning the characteristics of the Greeks, it may be said that, with all their noble characteristics, the ideal pictures which are presented to us by the poet, the philosopher, and the historian are too frequently of the few, while the great mass of the people remained in a state of ignorance, superstition, and slavery. With a due recognition of the existence of the germs of democracy, {230} we find that Greece, after all, was in spirit an aristocracy. There was an aristocracy of birth, of wealth, of learning, and of hereditary power. While we must recognize the greatness of the Greek life in comparison with that of Oriental nations, it must still be evident to us that the best phases of this life and the magnificent features of Greek learning have been emphasized much by writers, while the wretched and debasing conditions of the people of Greece have seldom been recounted. _The Greek Government an Expanded Family_.--The original family was ruled by the father, who acted as king, priest, and lawgiver. As long as life lasted he had supreme control over all members of his family, whether they were so by birth or adoption. All that they owned, all of the products of their hands, all the wealth of the family, belonged to him; even their lives were at his disposal. As the family becomes stronger and is known as a gens, it represents a close, compact organization, looking after its own interests, and with definite customs concerning its own government. As the gentes are multiplied they form tribes, and the oldest male member of the tribal group acts as its leader and king, while the heads of the various gentes thus united become his counsellors and advisers in later development, and the senate after democratic government organization takes place. As time passes the head of this family is called a king or chief, and rules on the ground that he has descended from the gods, is under the divine protection, and represents the oldest aristocratic family in the tribe. In the beginning this tribal chief holds unlimited sway over all of his subjects. But to maintain his power well he must be a soldier who is able to command the forces in war; he must be able to lead in the councils with the chiefs and, when occasion requires, discuss matters with the people. Gradually passing from the ancient hereditary power, he reaches a stage when it becomes a custom to consult with all the chiefs of the tribe in the management of the affairs. The earliest picture of Greek government represents a king who is equal in birth with {231} other heads of the gentes, presiding over a group of elders deliberating upon the affairs of the state. The influence of the nobles over whom he presided must have been great. It appears that the king or chief must convince his associates in council before any decision could be considered a success. The second phase of Greek government represents this same king as appearing in the assembly of all the people and presenting for their consideration the affairs of the state. It is evident from this that, although he was a hereditary monarch, deriving his power from aristocratic lineage traced even to the gods themselves, he was responsible to the people for his government, and this principle extends all the way through the development of Greek social and political life. The right to free discussion of affairs in open council, the right to object to methods of procedure, were cardinal principles in Greek politics; but while the great mass of people were not taken into account in the affairs of the government, there was an equality among all those called citizens which had much to do with the establishment of the civil polity of all nations. The whole Greek political life, then, represents the slow evolution from aristocratic government of hereditary chiefs toward a complete democracy, which unfortunately it failed to reach before the decline of the Greek state. As before related, the Greeks had established a large number of independent communities which developed into small states. These small states were mostly isolated from one another, hence they developed an independent social and political existence. This was of great consequence in the establishing of the character of the Greek government. In the first place, the kings, chiefs, and rulers were brought closely in contact with the people. Everybody knew them, understood the character of the men, realizing that they had passions and prejudices similar to other men, and that, notwithstanding they were elevated to positions of power, they nevertheless were human beings like the people themselves. This led to a democratic feeling. {232} Again, the development of these separate small states led to great diversity of government. All kinds of government were exercised in Greece, from the democracy to the hereditary monarchy. Many of these governments passed in their history through all stages of government to be conceived of--the monarchy, absolute and constitutional, the aristocracy, the oligarchy, the tyranny, the democracy, and the polity. All phases of politics had their representation in the development of the Greek life. In a far larger way the development of these isolated communities made local self-government the primary basis of the state. When the Greek had developed his own small state he had done his duty so far as government was concerned. He might be on friendly terms with the neighboring states, especially as they might use the same language as his own and belonged to the same race, but he could in no way be responsible for the success or the failure of men outside of his community. This was many times a detriment to the development of the Greek race, as the time arrived when it should stand as a unit against the encroachments of foreign nations. No unity of national life found expression in the repulsion of the Persians, no unity in the Peloponnesian war, no unity in the defense against the Romans; indeed, the Macedonians found a divided people, which made conquering easy. There was another phase of this Greek life worthy of notice: the fact that it developed extreme selfishness and egoism respecting government. We shall find in this development, in spite of the pretensions for the interests of the many, that government existed for the few; notwithstanding the professions of an enlarged social life, we shall find a narrowness almost beyond belief in the treatment of Greeks by one another in the social life. It is true that the recognition of citizenship was much wider than in the Orient, and that the individual life of man received more marked attention than in any ancient despotism; yet, after all, when we recognize the multitudes of slaves, who were considered not worthy to take part in {233} government affairs, the numbers of the freedmen and non-citizens, and realize that the few who had power or privilege of government looked with disdain upon all others, it gives us no great enthusiasm for Greek democracy when compared with the modern conception of that term. As Mr. Freeman says in his _Federal Government_, the citizen "looked down upon the vulgar herd of slaves, the freedmen and unqualified residents, as his own plebeian fathers had been looked down upon by the old Eupatrides in the days of Cleisthenes and Solon." Whatever phase of this Greek society we discuss, we must not forget that there was a large class excluded from rights of government, and that the few sought always to maintain their own rights and privileges supported by the many, and the pretensions of an enlarged privilege of citizenship had little effect in changing the actual conditions of the aristocratic government. _The Athenian Government a Type of Grecian Democracy_.--Indeed, it was the only completed government in Greece. The civilization of Athens shows the character of the Greek race in its richest and most beautiful development. Here art, learning, culture, and government reached their highest development. It was a small territory that surrounded the city of Athens, containing a little over 850 English square miles, possibly less, as some authorities say. The soil was poor, but the climate was superb. It was impossible for the Athenian to support a high civilization from the soil of Attica, hence trade sprang up and Athens grew wealthy on account of its great maritime commerce. The population of all Attica in the most flourishing times was about 500,000 people, 150,000 of whom were slaves, 45,000 settlers, or unqualified people, while the free citizens did not exceed 90,000--so that the equality so much spoken of in Grecian democracies belonged to only 90,000 out of 500,000, leaving 410,000 disfranchised. The district was thickly populous for Greece, and the stock of the Athenian had little mixture of foreign blood in it. The city itself was formed of {234} villages or cantons, united into one central government. These appear to be survivals of the old village communities united under the title of city-state. It was the perfection of this city-state that occupied the chief thought of the Athenian political philosophers. The ancient kingship of Athens passed, on deposition of the last of the Medoutidae, about 712 B.C., into the hands of the nobles. This was the first step in the passage from monarchy toward democracy; it was the beginning of the foundation of the republican constitution. In 682 B.C. the government passed into the hands of nine archons, chosen from all the rest of the nobles. It was a movement on the part of the nobles to obtain a partition of the government, while the common people were not improved at all by the process. The kings, indeed, in the ancient time made a better government for the people than did the nobles. The people at this period were in great trouble. The nobles had loaned money to their wretched neighbors and, as the law was very strict, the creditor might take possession of the property and even of the person of the debtor, making of him a slave. In this way the small proprietors had become serfs, and the masters took from them five-sixths of the products of the soil, and would, no doubt, have taken their lands had these not been inalienable. Sometimes the debtors were sold into foreign countries as slaves, and at other times their children were taken as slaves according to the law. On account of the oppression of the poor by the nobility, there sprang up a hatred between these two classes. A few changes were made by the laws of Draco and others, but nothing gave decided relief to the people. The nine archons, representing the power of the state, managed nearly all of its affairs, and retained likewise their seats in the council of nobles. The old national council formed by the aristocratic members of the community still retained its hold, and the council of archons, though it divided the country into administrative districts and sought to secure more specific {235} management of the several districts, failed to keep down internal disorders or to satisfy the people. The people were formed into three classes: the wealthy nobility, or land-owners of the plain, the peasants of the mountains districts, and the people of the coast country, the so-called middle classes. The hatred of the nobility by the peasants of the mountains was intense. The nobles demanded their complete suppression and subordination to the rule of their own class. The people of the coast would have been contented with moderate concessions from the nobility, which would give them a part in the government and leave them unmolested. _Constitution of Solon Seeks a Remedy_.--Such was the condition of affairs when Solon proposed his reforms. He sought to remove the burdens of the people, first, by remitting all fines which had been imposed; second, by preventing the people from offering their persons as security against debt; and third, by depreciating the coin so as to make payment of debt easy. He replaced the Pheidonian talent by that of the Euboic coinage, thus increasing the debt-paying capacity of money twenty-seven per cent, or, in other words, reduced the debt about that amount. It was further provided that all debts could be paid in three annual instalments, thus allowing poor farmers with mortgages upon their farms an opportunity to pay their debts. There was also granted an amnesty to all persons who had been condemned to payment of money penalties. By further measures the exclusive privileges of the old nobility were broken down, and a new government established on the basis of wealth. People were divided into classes according to their property, and their privileges in government, as well as their taxes, were based upon these classes. Revising the old council of 401, Solon established a council (Boule) of 400, 100 from each district. These were probably elected at first, but later were chosen by lot. The duties of this council were to prepare all business for passage in the popular assembly. No business could come before the assembly of the people except by decree of the council, and in nearly {236} every case the council could decide what measures should be brought before the assembly. While in some instances the law made it obligatory for certain cases to be brought before the assembly, there were some measures which could be disposed of by the council without reference to the assembly. The administration of justice was distributed among the nine archons, each one of whom administered some particular department. The archon as judge could dispose of matters or refer them to an arbitrator for decision. In every case the dissatisfied party had a right to appeal to the court made up of a collective body of 6,000 citizens, called the Heliaea. This body was annually chosen from the whole body of citizens, and acted as jurors and judges. In civil matters the services of the Heliaea were slight. They consisted in holding open court on certain matters appealed to them from the archons. In criminal matters the Heliaea frequently acted immediately as a sole tribunal, whose decision was final. It is one of the remarkable things in the Greek polity that the supreme court or court of appeals should be elected from the common people, while in other courts judges should hold their offices on account of position. Solon also recognized what is known as the Council of the Areopagus. The functions of this body had formerly belonged to the old council included in the Draconian code. The Council of the Areopagus was formed from the ex-archons who had held the office without blame. It became a sort of supreme advisory council, watching over the whole collective administration. It took account of the behavior of the magistrates in office and of the proceedings of the public assembly, and could interpose in other cases when, in its judgment, it thought it necessary. It could advise as to the proper conducting of affairs and criticise the process of administration. It could also administer private discipline and call citizens to account for their individual acts. In this respect it somewhat resembled the Ephors of Sparta. {237} The popular assembly would meet and consider the questions put before it by the council, voting yes or no, but the subject was not open for discussion. However, it was possible for the assembly to bring other subjects up for discussion and, through motion, refer them to the consideration of the council. It was also possible to attach to the proposition of the council a motion, called in modern terms "a rider," and thus enlarge upon the work of the council; but it was so arranged that the preponderance of all the offices went to the nobility and that the council be made up of this class, and hence there was no danger that the government would fall into the hands of the people. Solon claimed to have put into the hands of the people all the power that they deserved, and to have established numerous checks on government which made it possible for each group of people to be well represented. Thus the council limited the power of the assembly, the Areopagus supervised the council, while the courts of the people had the final decision in cases of appeal. As is well known, Solon could not carry out his own reforms, but was forced to leave the country. Had he been of a different nature and at once seized the government, or appealed to the people, as did his successor, Pisistratus, he might have made his measures of reform more effective. As it was, he was obliged to leave their execution to others. _Cleisthenes Continues the Reforms of Solon_.--Some years later (509 B.C.) Cleisthenes instituted other reforms, increasing the council to 500, the members of which might be drawn from the first three classes rather than the first, limiting the archonship to the first class, and breaking up the four ancient tribes formed from the nobility. He formed ten new tribes of religious and political unions, thus intending to break down the influence of the nobility. Although the popular assembly was composed of all citizens of the four classes, the functions of this body in the early period were very meagre. It gave them the privilege of voting on the principal affairs of the nation when the council desired them to assume the responsibility. The {238} time for holding it was in the beginning indefinite, it being only occasionally convened, but in later times there were ten[1] assemblies in each year, when business was regularly placed before it. Meetings were held in the market-place at first; later a special building was erected for this purpose. Sometimes, however, special assemblies were held elsewhere. The assembly was convoked by the prytanes, while the right of convoking extraordinary assemblies fell to the lot of the strategi. There were various means for the compulsion of the attendance of the crowd. There was a fine for non-attendance, and police kept out people who ought not to appear. Each assembly opened with religious service. Usually sucking pigs were sacrificed, which were carried around to purify the place, and their blood was sprinkled over the floor. This ceremony was followed by the offering of incense. This having been done, the president stated the question to be considered and summoned the people to vote. As the assembly developed in the advanced stage of Athenian life, every member in good standing had a right to speak. The old men were called upon first and then the younger men. This discussion was generally upon open questions, and not upon resolutions prepared by the council, though amendments to these resolutions were sometimes allowed. No speaker could be interrupted except by the presiding officer, and no member could speak more than once. As each speaker arose, he mounted the rostrum and placed a wreath of myrtle upon his head, which signified that he was performing a duty to the state. The Greeks appear to have developed considerable parliamentary usage and to have practised a system of voting similar to our ballot reform. Each individual entered an enclosure and voted by means of pebbles. Subsequently the functions of the assembly grew quite large. The demagogues found it to their interests to extend its powers. They tried to establish the principle in Athens that the people were the rulers of everything by right. {239} The powers of the assembly were generally divided into four groups, the first including the confirmation of appointments, the accusation of offenders against the state, the confiscation of goods, and claims to succession of property. The second group considered petitions of the people, the third acted upon motions for the remission of sentences, and the fourth had charge of dealings with foreign states and religious matters in general. It is observed that the Athenians represented the highest class of the Greeks and that government received its highest development among them. But the only real political liberty in Greece may be summed up in the principle of hearing both sides of a question and of obtaining a decision on the merits of the case presented. Far different is this from the old methods of despotic rule, under which kings were looked upon as authority in themselves, whose will must be carried out without question. The democracy of Athens, too, was the first instance of the substitution of law for force. It is true that in the beginning all of the Greek communities rested upon a military basis. Their foundations were laid in military exploits, and they maintained their position by the force of arms for a long period. But this is true of nearly all states and nations when they make their first attempt at permanent civilization. But after they were once established they sought to rule their subjects by the introduction of well-regulated laws and not by the force of arms. The military discipline, no doubt, was the best foundation for a state of primitive people, but as this passed away the newer life was regulated best by law and civil power. Under this the military became subordinate. To Greece must be given the credit of founding the city, and, indeed, this is one of the chief characteristics of the Greek people. They established the city-state, or polis. It represented a full and complete sovereignty in itself. When they had accomplished this idea of sovereignty the political organization had reached its highest aim. {240} _Athenian Democracy Failed in Obtaining Its Best and Highest Development_.--It is a disappointment to the reader that Athens, when in the height of power, when the possibilities for extending and promoting the best interests of humanity in social capacity were greatest, should end in decline and failure. In the first place, extreme democracy in that early period was more open than now to excessive dangers. It was in danger of control by mobs, who were ignorant of their own real interests and the interests of popular government; it was in danger of falling into the hands of tyrants, who would rule for their own private interests; it was in danger of falling into the hands of a few, which frequently happened. And this democracy in the ancient time was a rule of class--class subordination was the essence of its constitution. There was no universal rule by the majority. The franchise was an exclusive privilege extended to a minority, hence it differed little from aristocracy, being a government of class with a rather wider extension. The ancient democracies were pure in form, in which the people governed immediately. For every citizen had a right to appear in the assembly and vote, and he could sit in the assembly, which acted as an open court. Indeed, the elective officers of the democracy were not considered as representatives of the people. They were the state and not subject to impeachment, though they should break over all law. After they returned among the citizens and were no longer the state they could be tried for their misdemeanors in office. Now, a state of this nature and form must of necessity be small, and as government expanded and its functions increased, the representative principle should have been introduced as a mainstay to the public system. The individual in the ancient democracy lived for the state, being subordinate to its existence as the highest form of life. We find this entirely different from the modern democracy, in which slavery and class subordination are both excluded, as opposed to its theory and antagonistic to its very being. Its citizenship is wide, extending to its native population, and its suffrage is universal to all who qualify as citizens. The citizens, too, in {241} modern democracies, live for themselves, and believe that the state is made by them for themselves. The decline of the Athenian democracy was hastened, also, by the Peloponnesian war, caused first by the domineering attitude of Athens, which posed as an empire, and the jealousy of Sparta. This struggle between Athens and Sparta amounted almost to civil war. And although it brought Sparta to the front as the most powerful state in all Greece, she was unable to advance the higher civilization, but really exercised a depressing influence upon it. It might be mentioned briefly, too, that the overthrow of Athens somewhat later, and the establishment of the 400 as rulers, soon led to political disintegration. It was the beginning of the founding of Athenian clubs, or political factions, which attempted to control the elections by fear or force. These, by their power, forced the decrees of the assembly to suit themselves, and thus gave the death-blow to liberty. There was the reaction from this to the establishment of 5,000 citizens as a controlling body, and restricting the constitution, which attempted to unite all classes into one body and approximated the modern democracy, or that which is represented in the "polity" of Aristotle. After the domination of Sparta, Lysander and the thirty tyrants rose to oppress the citizens, and deposed a previous council of ten made for the ruling of the city. But once more after this domination democracy was restored, and under the Theban and Macedonian supremacies the old spirit of "equality of equals" was once more established. But Athens could no longer maintain her ancient position; her warlike ambitions had passed away, her national intelligence had declined; the dangers of the populace, too, threatened her at every turn, and the selfishness of the nobility in respect to the other classes, as well as the selfishness of the Spartan state outside, soon led to her downfall. At first, too, all the officers were not paid, it being considered a misdemeanor to take pay for office; but finally regular salaries were paid, and this forced the leaders to establish free theatres for the people. And finally, it may be said, that the power for good or evil {242} in the democracy lacking in permanent foundations is so great that it can never lead on to perfect success. It will prosper to-day and decline to-morrow. So the attempt of the Athenians to found a democracy led not to permanent success; nevertheless, it gave to the world for the first time the principles of government founded upon equality and justice, and these principles have remained unchanged in the practice of the more perfect republics of modern times. _The Spartan State Differs from All Others_.--If we turn our attention to Sparta we shall find an entirely different state--a state which may be represented by calling it an aristocratic republic. Not only was it founded on a military basis, but its very existence was perpetuated by military form. The Dorian conquest brought these people in from the north to settle in the Peloponnesus, and by degrees they obtained a foothold and conquered their surrounding neighbors. Having established themselves on a small portion of the land, the Dorians, or Spartans, possessed themselves of superior military skill in order to obtain the overlordship of the surrounding territory. Soon they had control of nearly all of the Peloponnesus. Although Argos was at first the ruling city of the conquerors, Sparta soon obtained the supremacy, and the Spartan state became noted as the great military state of the Greeks. The population of Sparta was composed of the Dorians, or citizens, who were the conquerors, and the independent subjects, who had been conquered but who had no part in the government, and the serfs or helots, who were the lower class of the conquered ones. The total population is estimated at about 380,000 to 400,000, while the serfs numbered at least 175,000 to 224,000. These serfs were always a cause of fear and anxiety to the conquerors, and they were watched over by night and day by spies who kept them from rising. The helots were employed in peace as well as in war, and in all occupations where excessive toil was needed. The middle class (Perioeci) were subjects dependent upon the citizens. They had no share in the Spartan state except to obey its {243} administration. They were obliged to accept the obligations of military service, to pay taxes and dues when required. Their occupations were largely the promotion of agriculture and the various trades and industries. Their proportion to the citizens was about thirty to nine, or, as is commonly given, there was one citizen to four of the middle class and twelve of the helots, making the ratio of citizens to the entire population about one-seventeenth, or every seventeenth man was a citizen. Attempts were made to divide the lands of the rich among the poor, and this redistribution of lands occurred from time to time. There were other semblances of pure democracy of communistic nature. It was a pure military state, and all were treated as soldiers. There was a common table, or "mess," for a group, called the social union. There all the men were obliged to assemble at meal-time, the women remaining at home. The male children were taken at the age of seven years and trained as soldiers. These were then in charge of the state, and the home was relieved of its responsibility concerning them. The state also adopted many sumptuary laws regulating what should be eaten and what should be used, and what not. All male persons were subjected to severe physical training, for Sparta, in her education, always dwelt upon physical development and military training. The development of language and literature, art and sculpture, was not observed here as it was in Athens. The ideal of aristocracy was the rule of the nobler elements of the nation and the subordination of the mass. This was supposed to be the best that could be done for the state and hence the best for the people. There was no opportunity for subjects to rise to citizenship--nor, indeed, was this true in Athens, except by the gradual widening force of legal privilege. Individual life in Sparta was completely subordinate to the state life, and here the citizen existed more fully for the state than in Athens in her worst days. Finally abuses grew. It was the old story of the few rich {244} dominating and oppressing the many poor. The minority had grown insolent and overbearing, and attempted to rule a hopeless and discontented majority. The reforms of Lycurgus led to some improvements, by the institution of new divisions of citizens and territory and the division of the land, not only among citizens but the half-citizens and dependents. Nevertheless, it appears that in spite of these attempted reforms, in spite of the establishment of the council, the public assembly, and the judicial process, Sparta still remained an arbitrary military power. Yet the government continued to expand in form and function until it had obtained a complex existence. But there was a non-progressive element in it all. The denial of rights of marriage between citizens and other groups limited the increase of the number of citizens, and while powers were gradually extended to those outside of the pale of citizenship, they were given so niggardly, and in such a manner, as to fail to establish the great principle of civil government on the basis of a free democracy. The military régime was non-progressive in its nature. It could lead to conquest of enemies, but could not lead to the perpetuation of the rights and privileges of citizens; it could lead to domination of others, but could not bring about the subordination of universal citizenship to law and order, nor permit the expansion and growth of individual life under benevolent institutions of government. So the Greek government, the democracy with all of its great promises and glorious prospects, declined certainly from the height which was great in contrast to the Oriental despotisms. It declined at a time when, as we look back from the present, it ought apparently to have gone on to the completion of the modern representative government. Probably, had the Greeks adopted the representative principle and enlarged their citizenship, their government would have been more lasting. It is quite evident, also, that had they adopted the principle of federation and, instead of allowing the operation of government to cease when one small state had been perfected, united {245} these small states into a great nation throbbing with patriotism for the entire country, Greece might have withstood the warlike shocks of foreign nations. But, thus unprepared alike to resist internal dissension and foreign oppression, the Greek states, notwithstanding all of their valuable contributions to government and society, were forced to yield their position of establishing a permanent government for the people. Some attempts were made to unify and organize Greek national life, not entirely without good results. The first instance of this arose out of temple worship, where members of different states met about a common shrine erected to a special deity. This led to temporary organization and mutual aid. Important among these centres was the shrine of Apollo at Delphi. This assemblage was governed by a council of general representation. Important customs were established, such as the keeping of roads in repair which led to the shrine, and providing that pilgrims should have safe conduct and be free from tolls and taxes on their way to and from the shrine. The members of the league were sworn not to destroy a city member or to cut off running water from the city. This latter rule was the foundation of the law of riparian rights--one of the oldest and most continuous in Western civilization. The inspiration for the great national Olympic Games came from these early assemblages about shrines.[2] Also the Aetolian and Achaean leagues, which occurred in the later development of Greece, after the Macedonian conquest, were serious attempts for federal unity. Although they were meritorious and partially successful, they came too late to make a unified nation of Greece. In form and purpose these federal leagues are suggestive of the early federation of the colonies of America. _Greek Colonization Spreads Knowledge_.--The colonies of Greece, established on the different islands and along the shores of the Mediterranean, were among the important {246} civilizers of this early period. Its colonies were established for the purpose of relieving the population of congested districts, on the one hand, and for the purpose of increasing trade, on the other. They were always independent in government of the mother country, but were in sympathy with her in language, in customs, and in laws and religion. As the ships plied their trade between the central government and these distant colonies, they carried with them the fundamentals of civilization--the language, the laws, the customs, the art, the architecture, the philosophy and thought of the Greeks. There was a tendency, then, to spread abroad over a large territory the Grecian philosophy and life. More potent, indeed, than war is the civilizing influence of maritime trade. It brings with it exchange of ideas, inspiration, and new life; it enables the planting of new countries with the best products. No better evidence of this can be seen than in the planting of modern English colonies, which has spread the civilization of England around the world. This was begun by the Greeks in that early period, and in the dissemination of knowledge it represents a wide influence. _The Conquests of Alexander_.--Another means of the dissemination of Greek thought, philosophy, and learning was the Alexandrian conquest and domination. The ambitious Alexander, extending the plan of Philip of Macedon, who attempted to conquer the Greeks and the surrounding countries, desired to master the whole known world. And so into Egypt and Asia Minor, into Central Asia, and even to the banks of the Ganges, he carried his conquests, and with them the products of Greek learning and literature. And most potent of all these influences was the founding of Alexandria in Egypt, which he hoped to make the central city of the world. Into this place flowed the products of learning, not only of Greece but of the Orient, and developed a mighty city with its schools and libraries, with its philosophy and doctrines and strange religious influences. And for many years the learning of the world centred about Alexandria, forming a great rival to Athens, which, {247} though never losing its prominence in certain lines of culture, was dominated by the greater Alexandria. _The Age of Pericles_.--In considering all phases of life the splendors of Greece culminated in a period of 50 years immediately following the close of the Persian wars. This period is known as the Age of Pericles. Although the rule of Pericles was about thirty years (466-429), his influence extended long after. The important part Athens performed in the Persian wars gave her the political ascendancy in Greece and enabled her to assume the beginning of the states; in fact, enabled her to establish an empire. Pericles rebuilt Athens after the destructive work of the Persians. The public buildings, the Parthenon and the Acropolis, were among the noted structures of the world. A symmetrical city was planned on a magnificent scale hitherto unknown. Pericles gathered about him architects, sculptors, poets, dramatists, teachers, and philosophers. The age represents a galaxy of great men: Aeschylus, Sophocles, Euripides, Herodotus, Socrates, Thucydides, Phidias, Ictinus, and others. Greek government reached its culmination and society had its fullest life in this age. The glory of the period extended on through the Peloponnesian war, and after the Macedonian conquest it gradually waned and the splendor gradually passed from Athens to Alexandria. _Contributions of Greece to Civilization_.--It is difficult to enumerate all of the influences of Greece on modern civilization. First of all, we might mention the language of Greece, which became so powerful in the development of the Roman literature and Roman civilization and, in the later Renaissance, a powerful engine of progress. Associated with the language is the literature of the Greeks. The epic poems of Homer, the later lyrics, the drama, the history, and the polemic, all had their highest types presented in the Greek literature. Latin and modern German, English and French owe to these great originators a debt of gratitude for every form of modern literature. The architecture of Greece was broad enough to lay the foundation of the future, and so we find, even in our {248} modern life, the Grecian elements combined in all of our great buildings. Painting and frescoing were well established in principle, though not carried to a high state until the mediaeval period; but in sculpture nothing yet has exceeded the perfection of the Greek art. It stands a monument of the love of the beauty of the human form and the power to represent it in marble. The Greek philosophy finds its best results not only in developing the human mind to a high state but in giving to us the freedom of thought which belongs by right to every individual. An attempt to find out things as they are, to rest all philosophy upon observation, and to determine by the human reason the real essence of truth, is of such stupendous magnitude in the development of the human mind that it has entered into the philosophy of every educational system presented since by any people or any individual. The philosophers of modern times, while they may not adopt the principles of the ancient philosophy, still recognize their power, their forms of thought, and their activities, and their great influence on the intellectual development of the world. Last, but not least, are the great lessons recounted of the foundations of civil liberty. Incomplete as the ancient democracies were, they pointed to the world the great lessons of the duties of man to man and the relations of mankind in social life. When we consider the greatness of the social function and the prominence of social organization in modern life, we shall see how essential it is that, though the development of the individual may be the highest aim of civilization, the social organization must be established upon a right basis to promote individual interests. Freedom, liberty, righteousness, justice, free discussion, all these were given to us by the Greeks, and more--the forms of government, the assembly, the senate, the judiciary, the constitutional government, although in their imperfect forms, are represented in the Greek government. These represent the chief contributions of the Greeks to civilization. {249} SUBJECTS FOR FURTHER STUDY 1. What were the achievements of the Age of Pericles? 2. Which are more important to civilization, Greek ideals or Greek practice? 3. The ownership of land in Greece. 4. The characteristics of the city-state of Athens. 5. Alexandria as an educational centre. 6. Why did the Greeks fail to make a strong central nation? 7. The causes of the decline of Greek civilization. 8. Give a summary of the most important contributions of Greece to modern civilization. [1] Some authorities state forty assemblies were held each year. [2] The Confederation of Delos, the Athenian Empire, and the Peloponnesian League were attempts to federalize Greece. They were successful only in part. {250} CHAPTER XV ROMAN CIVILIZATION _The Romans Differed in Nature from the Greeks_.--Instead of being of a philosophic, speculative nature, the Romans were a practical, even a stoical, people of great achievement. They turned their ideas always toward the concrete, and when they desired to use the abstract they borrowed the principles and theories established by other nations. They were poor theorizers, both in philosophy and in religion, but were intensely interested in that which they could turn to immediate and practical benefit. They were great borrowers of the products of other people's imagination. In the very early period they borrowed the gods of the Greeks and somewhat of their forms of religion! Later they borrowed forms of art from other nations and developed them to suit their own, and, still later, they used the literary language of the Greeks to enrich their own. This method of borrowing the best products of others and putting them to practical service led to immense consequences in the development of civilization. The Romans lacked not in originality, for practical application leads to original creation, but their best efforts in civilization were wrought out from this practical standpoint. Thus, in the improvement of agriculture, in the perfection of the art of war, in the development of law and of government, their work was masterly in the extreme; and to this extent it was worked out rather than thought out. Indeed, their whole civilization was evolved from the practical standpoint. _The Social Structure of Early Rome and That of Early Greece_.--Rome started, like Greece, with the early patriarchal kings, who ruled over the expanded family, but with this difference, that these kings, from the earliest historical records, were {251} elected by the people. Nevertheless there is no evidence that the democratic spirit was greater in early Rome than in early Greece, except in form. In the early period all Italy was filled with tribes, mostly of Aryan descent, and in the regal period the small territory of Latium was filled with independent city communities; but all these cities were federated on a religious basis and met at Alba Longa as a centre, where they conducted their worship and duly instituted certain regulations concerning the government of all. Later, after the decline of Alba Longa, the seat of this federal government was removed to Rome, which was another of the federated cities. Subsequently this territory was invaded by the Sabines, who settled at Rome, and, as an independent community, allied themselves with the Romans. And, finally, the invasion of the Etruscans gave the last of three separate communities, which were federated into one state and laid the foundation of the imperial city. But if some leader founded Rome in the early period, it is quite natural that he should be called Romulus, after the name of Rome. Considering the nature of the Romans and the tendency to the old ancestral worship among them, it does not seem strange that they should deify this founder and worship him. Subsequently, we find that this priestly monarchy was changed to a military monarchy, in which everything was based upon property and military service. Whatever may be the stories of early Rome, so much may be mentioned as historical fact. The foundation was laid in three great tribes, composed of the ancient families, or patricians, who formed the body of the league. Those who settled at Rome at an early period became the aristocracy; they were members of the tribes of immemorial foundation. At first the old tribal exclusiveness prevailed, and people who came later into Rome were treated as unequal to those who long had a right to the soil. This led to a division among the people based on hereditary right, which lasted in its effect as long as Rome endured. It became the {252} custom to call those persons belonging to the first families patricians, and all who were not patricians plebeians, representing that class who did not belong to the first families. The plebeians were composed of foreigners, who had only commercial rights, of the clients who attached themselves to these ancient families, but who gradually passed into the plebeian rank, and of land-holders, craftsmen, and laborers. The plebeians were free inhabitants, without political rights. As there was no great opportunity for the patricians to increase in number, the plebeians, in the regal period, soon grew to outnumber them. They were increased by those conquered ones who were permitted to come to Rome and dwell. Also the tradesmen and immigrants who dwelt at Rome increased rapidly, for they could have the protection of the Roman state without having the responsibility of Roman soldiers. It was of great significance in the development of the Roman government that these two great classes existed. _Civil Organization of Rome_.--The organization of the government of early Rome rested in a peculiar sense upon the family group. The first tribes that settled in the territory were governed upon a family basis, and their land was held by family holdings. No other nation appears to have perpetuated such a power of the family in the affairs of the state. The father, as the head of the family, had absolute power over all; the son never became of age so far as the rights of property are considered as long as the father lived. The father was priest, king, and legislator for all in the family group. Parental authority was arbitrary, and when the head of the family passed away the oldest male member of the family took his place, and ruled as his father had ruled. A group of these families constituted a clan, and a group of clans made a tribe, and three tribes, according to the formula for the formation of Rome, made a state. Whether this formal process was carried out exactly remains to be proved, but the families related to one another by ties of blood were united in distinct groups, which were again reorganized into larger {253} groups, and the formula at the time of the organization of the state was that there were 30 cantons formed by 300 clans, and these clans averaged about 10 families each. This is based upon the number of representatives which afterward formed the senate, and upon the number of soldiers furnished by the various families. The state became then an enlarged family, with a king at the head, whose prerogatives were somewhat limited by his position. There were also a popular assembly, consisting of all the freeholders of the state, and the senate, formed by the heads of all the most influential families, for the government of Rome. These ancient hereditary forms of government extended with various changes in the progress of Rome. _The Struggle for Liberty_.--The members of the Roman senate were chosen from the noble families of Rome, and were elected for life, which made the senate of Rome a perpetual body. Having no legal declaration of legislative, judicial, executive, or administrative authority, it was, nevertheless, the most powerful body of its kind ever in existence. Representing the power of intellect, and having within its ranks men of the foremost character and ability of the city, this aristocracy overpowered and ruled the affairs of Rome until the close of the republic, and afterward became a service to the imperial government of the Caesars. From a very early period in the history of the Roman nation the people struggled for their rights and privileges against this aristocracy of wealth and hereditary power. At the expulsion of the kings, in 500 B.C., the senate lived on, as did the old popular assembly of the people, the former gaining strength, the latter becoming weakened. Realizing what they had lost in political power, having lost their farms by borrowing money of the rich patricians, and suffered imprisonment and distress on that account, the plebeians, resolved to endure no longer, marched out upon the hill, Mons Sacer, and demanded redress by way of tribunes and other officers. This was the beginning of an earnest struggle for 50 years {254} for mere protection, to be followed by a struggle of 150 years for equality of power and rights. The result of this was that a compromise was made with the senate, which allowed the people to have tribunes chosen from the plebeians, and a law was passed giving them the right of protection against the oppression of any official, and subsequently the right of intercession against any administrative or judicial act, except in the case when a dictator was appointed. This gave the plebeians some representation in the government of Rome. They worked at first for protection, and also for the privilege of intermarriage among the patricians. After this they began to struggle for equal rights and privileges. A few years after the revolt in 486 B.C. Spurius Cassius brought forward the first agrarian law. The lands of the original Roman territory belonged at first to the great families, and were divided and subdivided among the various family groups. But a large part of the land obtained by conquest of the Italians became the public domain, the property of the entire people of Rome. It became necessary for these lands to be leased by the Roman patricians, and as these same Roman patricians were members of the senate, they became careless about collecting rent of themselves, and so the lands were occupied year after year, and, indeed, century after century, by the Roman families, who were led to claim them as their own without rental. Cassius proposed to divide a part of these lands among the needy plebeians and the Latins as well, and to lease the rest for the profit of the public treasury. The patricians fought against Cassius because he was to take away their lands, and the plebeians were discontented with him because he had favored the Latins. The result was that at the close of his office he was sentenced and executed for the mere attempt to do justice to humanity. The tribunes of the people finally gained more power, and a resolution was introduced in the senate providing that a body of ten men should be selected to reduce the laws of the state to a written code. In 451 B.C. the ten men were chosen {255} from the patricians, who formed ten tables of laws, had them engraved on copper plates, and placed them where everybody could read them. The following year ten men were again appointed, three of whom were plebeians, who added two more tables; the whole body became known as the Laws of the Twelve Tables. It was a great step in advance when the laws of a community could be thus published. Soon after this the laws of Valerius and Horatius made the acts of the assembly of the tribunes of equal force with those of the assembly of the centuries, and established that every magistrate, including the dictator, was obliged in the future to allow appeals from his decision. They also recognized the inviolability of the tribunes of the people and of the aediles who represented them. But in order to circumvent the plebeians, two quaestors were appointed in charge of the military treasury. Indeed, at every step forward which the people made for equality and justice, the senate, representing the aristocracy, passed laws to circumvent the plebeians. In 445 B.C. the tribune Canuleius introduced a law legalizing marriage between the patricians and plebeians. The children were to inherit the rank of their father. This tribune further attempted to pass a law allowing consuls to be chosen from the plebeians. To this a fierce opposition sprang up, and a compromise measure was adopted which allowed military tribunes to be elected from the plebeians, who had consular power. But again the senate sought to circumvent the plebeians, and created the new patrician office of censor, to take the census, make lists of citizens and taxes, appoint senators, prepare the publication of the budget, manage the state property, farm out the taxes, and superintend public buildings; also he might supervise the public morality. With the year 587 B.C. came the invasion of the Gauls from the north and the famous battle of the Allia, in which the Romans suffered defeat and were forced to the right bank of the Tiber, leaving the city of Rome defenseless. Abandoned by the citizens, the city was taken, plundered, and burned by {256} the Gauls. Senators were slaughtered, though the capitol was not taken. Finally, surprised and overcome by a contingent of the Roman army, the enemy was forced to retire and the inhabitants again returned. But no sooner had they returned than the peaceful struggle of the plebeians against the patricians began again. First, there were the poor, indebted plebeians, who sought the reform of the laws relating to debtor and creditor and desired a share in the public lands. Second, the whole body of the plebeians were engaged in an attempt to open the consulate to their ranks. In 367 B.C. the Licinian laws were passed, which gave relief to the debtors by deducting the interest already accrued from the principal, and allowing the rest to be paid in three annual instalments; and a second law forbade that any one should possess more than 500 jugera of the public lands. This was to prevent the wealthy patricians from holding lands in large tracts and keeping them from the plebeians. This law also abolished the military tribuneship and insisted that one at least of the two consuls should be chosen from the plebeians--giving a possibility of two. The patricians, in order to counteract undue influence in this respect, established the praetorship, the praetor having jurisdiction and vicegerence of the consuls during their absence. There also sprang up about this time the new nobility (_optimates_), composed of the plebeians and patricians who had held office for a long time, and representing the aristocracy of the community. From this time on all the Roman citizens tended to go into two classes, the _optimates_ and, exclusive of these, the great Roman populace. In the former all the wealth and power were combined; in the latter the poverty, wretchedness, and dependence. Various other changes in the constitution succeeded, until the great wars of the Samnites and those of the Carthaginians directed the attention of the people to foreign conquest. After the close of these great wars and the firm establishment of the universal power of Rome abroad, there sprang up a great civil war, induced largely by the disturbance {257} of the Gracchi, who sought to carry out the will of the people in regard to popular democracy and the division of the public lands. Thus, step by step, the plebeians, by a peaceful civil struggle, had obtained the consulship, and, indeed, the right to all other civil offices. They had obtained a right to sit in the senate, had obtained the declaration of social equality, had settled the great land question; and yet the will of the people never prevailed. The great Roman senate, made up of the aristocracy of Rome, an aristocracy of both plebeians and patricians, ruled with unyielding sway, and the common people never obtained full possession of their rights and privileges. Civil strife continued; the gulf between the rich and the poor, the nobility and the proletariat representing a few rich political manipulators, on the one side, and the half-fed, half-mad populace, on the other, grew wider and wider, finally ending in civil war. In the midst of the strife the republic passed away, and only the coming of the imperial power of the Caesars perpetuated Roman institutions. _Rome Becomes a Dominant City_.--In all of this struggle at home and abroad, foreign conquest led to the establishment of Rome as the central city. The constitution of Rome was the typical constitution for all provincial cities, and from this one centre all provinces were ruled. No example heretofore had existed of the centralization of government similar to this. The overlordship of the Persians was only for the purpose of collecting tribute; there was little attempt to carry abroad the Persian institutions or to amalgamate the conquered provinces in one great homogeneous nation. The empire of Athens was but a temporary hegemony over tributary states. But the Roman government conquered and absorbed. Wherever went the Roman arms, there the Roman laws and the Roman government followed; there followed the Roman language, architecture, art, institutions, and civilization. Great highways passed from the Eternal City to all parts of the territory, binding together the separate elements of {258} national life, and levelling down the barriers between all nations. Every colony planted by Rome in the new provinces was a type of the old Roman life, and the provincial government everywhere became the type of this central city. Here was reached a state in the development of government which no nation had hitherto attained--the dominant city and the rule of a mighty empire from central authority. _The Development of Government_.--The remarkable development of Rome in government from the old hereditary nobility, in which priest-kings ruled the people, to a military king who was leader, subsequently into a republic which stood the test for several centuries of a fierce struggle for the rights of the people, finally into an imperial government to last for 450 years, represents the growth of one of the most remarkable governments in the world's history. The fundamental idea in government was the ruling of an entire state from the central city, and out of this idea grew imperialism as a later development, vesting all authority in a single monarch. The governments of conquered provinces were gradually made over into the Roman system. The Roman municipal government was found in all the cities of the provinces, and the provincial government became an integral part of the Roman system. The provinces were under the supervision of imperial officers appointed by the emperor. Thus the tendency was to bind the whole government into one unified system, with its power and authority at Rome. So long as this central authority remained and had its full sway there was little danger of the decline of Roman power, but when disintegration began in the central government the whole structure was doomed. One of the remarkable characteristics of the Roman government was a system of checks of one part by every other part. Thus, in the republic, the consuls were checked by the senate, the senate by the consular power, the various assemblies, such as the Curiata, Tributa, and Centuriata, each having its own particular powers, were checks upon each other and upon other departments of the government. The whole system of {259} magistrates was subject to the same checks or limits in authority. And while impeachment was not introduced, each officer, at the close of his term, was accountable for his actions while in office. But under imperialism the tendency was to break down the power of each separate form of government and to absorb it in the imperial power. Thus Augustus soon attributed to himself the power of the chief magistrates and obtained a dominating power in the senate until the functions of government were all centralized in the emperor. While this made a strong government, in many phases it was open to great dangers, and in due time it failed, as a result of the corruption that clustered around the despotism of a single ruler unchecked by constitutional power. _The Development of Law Is the Most Remarkable Phase of the Roman Civilization_.--Perhaps the most lasting effect of the Roman civilization is observed in the contribution of law to the nations which arose at the time of the decline of the imperial sway. From the time of the posting of the Twelve Tables in a public place, where they could be read by all the citizens of Rome, there was a steady growth of the Roman law. The decrees of the senate, as well as the influence of judicial decisions, gradually developed a system of jurisprudence. There sprang up, also, interpreters of the law, who had much influence in shaping its course. Also, in the early period of the republic, the acts of the popular assemblies became laws. This was before the senate became the supreme lawmaking body of the state. During the imperial period the emperor acted somewhat through the senate, but the latter body was more or less under his control, for he frequently dictated its actions. Having assumed the powers of a magistrate, he could issue an edict; as a judge he could give decrees and issue commands to his own officials, all of which tended to increase the body of Roman law. In the selection of jurists for the interpretation of the law the emperor also had great control over its character. The great accomplishment of the lawmaking methods of {260} the Romans was, in the first place, to allow laws to be made by popular assemblies and the senate, according to the needs of a developing social organization. This having once been established, the foundation of lawmaking was laid for all nations to follow. The Roman law soon passed into a complex system of jurisprudence which has formed a large element in the structure, principles, and practice of all modern legal systems. The character of the law in itself was superior and masterly, and its universality was accomplished through the universal rule of the empire. The later emperors performed a great service to the world by collecting and codifying Roman laws. The Theodosian code (Theodosius II, 408-450 A.D.) was a very important one on account of the influence it exercised over the various Teutonic systems of law practised by the different barbarian tribes that came within the borders of the Roman Empire. The jurists who gave the law a great development had by the close of the fourth century placed on record all the principal legal acts of the empire. They had collected and edited all the sources of law and made extensive commentaries of great importance upon them, but it remained for Theodosius to arrange the digests of these jurists and to codify the later imperial decrees. But the Theodosian code went but a little way in the process of digesting the laws. The Justinian code, however, gave a complete codification of the law in four distinct parts, known as (1) "the Pandects, or digest of the scientific law literature; (2) the Codex, or summary of imperial legislation; (3) the Institutes, a general review or text-book, founded upon the digest and code, an introductory restatement of the law; and (4) the Novels, or new imperial legislation issued after the codification, to fill the gaps and cure the inconsistencies discovered in the course of the work of codification and manifest in its published results."[1] Thus the whole body of the civil law was incorporated. Here, then, is seen the progress of the Roman law from the {261} semireligious rules governing the patricians in the early patriarchal period, whose practice was generally a form of arbitration, to the formal writing of the Twelve Tables, the development of the great body of the law through interpretation, the decrees of magistrates, acts of legislative assemblies, and finally the codification of the laws under the later emperors. This accumulation of legal enactments and precedents formed the basis of legislation under the declining empire and in the new nationalities. It also occupied an important place in the curriculum of the university. _Influence of the Greek Life on Rome_.--The principal influence of the Greeks on Roman civilization was found first in the early religion and its development in the Latin race at Rome. The religion of the Romans was polytheistic, but far different from that of the Greeks. The deification of nature was not so analytic, and their deities were not so human as those of the Greek religion. There was no poetry in the Roman religion; it all had a practical tendency. Their gods were for use, and, while they were honored and worshipped, they were clothed with few fancies. The Romans seldom speculated on the origin of the gods and very little as to their personal character, and failed to develop an independent theogony. They were behind the Greeks in their mental effort in this respect, and hence we find all the early religion was influenced by the ideas of the Latins, the Etruscans, and the Greeks, the last largely through the colonies which were established in Italy. Archaeology points conclusively to the fact of early Greek influence. In later development the conquest of the Greeks brought to Rome the religion, art, paintings, and philosophy of the conquered. The Romans were shrewd and acute in the appreciation of all which they had found that was good in the Greeks. From the time of this contact there was a constant and continued adoption of Grecian models in Rome. The first Roman writers, Fabius Pictor and Quintus Ennius, both wrote in Greek. All the early Roman writers considered Greek the {262} finished style. The influence of the Greek language was felt at Rome on the first acquaintance of the Italians with it, through trade and commerce and through the introduction of Greek forms of religion. The early influence of language was less than the influence of art. While the Phoenicians and Etruscans furnished some of the models, they were usually unproductive and barren types, and not to be compared with those furnished by Greece. The young Romans who devoted themselves to the state and its service were from the fifth century B.C. well versed in the Greek language. No education was considered complete in the latter days of the republic, and under the imperial power, until it had been finished at Athens or Alexandria. The effect on literature, particularly poetry and the drama, was great in the first period of Roman literature, and even Horace, the most original of all Latin poets, began his career by writing Greek verse, and no doubt his beautiful style was acquired by his ardent study of the Greek language. The plays of Plautus and Terence deal also with the products of Athens, and, indeed, every Roman comedy was to a certain extent a copy, either in form or spirit, of the Greek. In tragedy, the spirit of Euripides, the master, came into Rome. The influence of the Greek philosophy was more marked than that of language. Its first contact with Rome was antagonistic. The philosophers and rhetoricians, because of the disturbance they created, were expelled from Rome in the second century. As early as 161 A.D. those who pursued the study of philosophy always read and disputed in Greek. Many Greek schools of philosophy of an elementary nature were established temporarily at Rome, while the large number of students of philosophy went to Athens, and those of rhetoric to Rhodes, for the completion of their education. The philosophy of Greece that came into Rome was something of a degenerate Epicureanism, fragments of a broken-down system, which created an unwholesome atmosphere. The only science which Rome developed was that of {263} jurisprudence, and the scientific writings of the Greeks had comparatively little influence upon Roman culture. Mr. Duruy, in speaking of the influence of the Greeks on Rome, particularly in the days of its decline, says: "In conclusion, we find in certain sciences, for which Rome cared nothing, great splendor, but in art and poetry no mighty inspiration; in eloquence, vain chatter of words and images (the rhetoricians), habits but no faith; in philosophy, the materialism which came from the school of Aristotle, the doubt born of Plato, the atheism of Theodorus, the sensualism of Epicurus vainly combated by the moral protests of Zeno; and lastly, in the public life, the enfeeblement or the total loss of all of those virtues which make the man and the citizen; such were the Greeks at the time. And now we say, with Cato, Polybius, Livy, Pliny, Justinian, and Plutarch, that all this passed into the Eternal City. The conquest of Greece by Rome was followed by the conquest of Rome by Greece. _Graecia capta ferum victorem cepit_." _Latin Literature and Language_.--The importance of the Latin language and literature in the later history of the Romans and throughout the Middle Ages is a matter of common knowledge. The language of the Latin tribes congregating at Rome finally predominated over all Italy and followed the Roman arms through all the provinces. It became to a great extent the language of the common people and subsequently the literary language of the empire. It became finally the great vehicle of thought in all civil and ecclesiastical proceedings in the Middle Ages and at the beginning of the modern era. As such it has performed a great service to the world. Cato wrote in Latin, and so did the annalists of the early period of Latin literature. Livy became a master of his own language, and Cicero presents the improved and elevated speech. The study of these masterpieces, full of thought and beauty of expression, has had a mighty influence in the education of the youth of modern times. It must be conceded, however, that in Rome the productions of the great masters were not as universally {264} known or as widely celebrated as one would suppose. But, like all great works of art, they have lived on to bear their influence through succeeding ages. _Development of Roman Art_.--The elements of art and architecture were largely borrowed from the Greeks. We find, however, a distinctive style of architecture called Roman, which varies from that of the Greek, although the influence of Greek form is seen not only in the decorations but in the massive structure of the buildings. Without doubt, in architecture the Romans perfected the arch as their chief characteristic and contribution to art progress. But this in itself was a great step in advance and laid the foundation of a new style. As might be expected from the Romans, it became a great economic advantage in building. In artistic decoration they made but little advancement until the time of the Greek influence. _Decline of the Roman Empire_.--The evolution of the Roman nation from a few federated tribes with archaic forms of government to a fully developed republic with a complex system of government, and the passage of the republic into an imperialism, magnificent and powerful in its sway, are subjects worthy of our most profound contemplation; and the gradual decline and decay of this great superstructure is a subject of great interest and wonder. In the contemplation of the progress of human civilization, it is indeed a mournful subject. It seems to be the common lot of man to build and destroy in order to build again. But the Roman government declined on account of causes which were apparent to every one. It was an impossibility to build up such a great system without its accompanying evils, and it was impossible for such a system to remain when such glaring evils were allowed to continue. If it should be asked what caused the decline of this great civilization, it may be said that the causes were many. In the first place, the laws of labor were despised and capital was consumed without any adequate return. There was consequently nothing left of an economic nature to withstand the rude {265} shocks of pestilence and war. The few home industries, when Rome ceased to obtain support from the plunder of war, were not sufficient to supply the needs of a great nation. The industrial condition of Rome had become deplorable. In all the large cities there were a few wealthy and luxurious families, a small number of foreigners and freedmen who were superintending a large number of slaves, and a large number of free citizens who were too proud to work and yet willing to be fed by the government. The industrial conditions of the rural districts and small cities were no better. There were a few non-residents who cultivated the soil by means of slaves, or by _coloni_, or serfs who were bound to the soil. These classes were recruited from the conquered provinces. Farming had fallen into disrepute. The small farmers, through the introduction of slavery, were crowded from their holdings and were compelled to join the great unfed populace of the city. Taxation fell heavily and unjustly upon the people. The method of raising taxes by farming them out was a pernicious system that led to gross abuse. All enterprise and all investments were discouraged. There was no inducement for men to enter business, as labor had been dishonored and industry crippled. The great body of Roman people were divided into two classes, those who formed the lower classes of laborers and those who had concentrated the wealth of the country in their own hands and held the power of the nation in their own control. The mainstay of the nation had fallen with the disappearance of the sterling middle class. The lower classes were reduced to a mob by the unjust and unsympathetic treatment received at the hands of the governing class. In the civil administration there was a division of citizens into two classes: those who had influence in the local affairs of their towns or neighborhood, and those who were simply interested in the central organization. During the days of the republic these people were closely related, because all citizens were forced to come to Rome in order to have a voice in the political interests of the government. But during the empire {266} there came about a change, and the citizens of a distant province were interested only in the management of their own local affairs and lost their interest in the general government, so that when the central government weakened there was a tendency for the local interests to destroy the central. After the close of Constantine's reign very great evils threatened the Roman administration. First of these was the barbarians; second, the populace; and third, the soldiers. The barbarians continually made inroads upon the territory, broke down the governmental system, and established their own, not so much for the sake of destruction and plunder, as is usually supposed, but to seek the betterment of their condition as immigrants into a new territory. That they were in some instances detrimental to the Roman institutions is true, but in others they gave new life to the declining empire. The populace was a rude, clamorous mass of people, seeking to satisfy their hunger in the easiest possible way. These were fed by the politicians for the sake of their influence. The soldiery of Rome had changed. Formerly made up of patriots who marched out to defend their own country or to conquer surrounding provinces in the name of the Eternal City, the ranks were filled with mercenary soldiers taken from the barbarians, who had little interest in the perpetuation of the Roman institutions. They had finally obtained so much power that they set up an emperor, or dethroned him, at their will. And finally it may be said that of all these internal maladies and external dangers, the decline in moral worth of the Roman nation is the most appalling. Influenced by a broken-down philosophy, degenerated in morals, corrupt in family and social life, the whole system decayed, and could not withstand the shock of external influence. _Summary of Roman Civilization_.--The Roman contribution, then, to civilization is largely embraced in the development of a system of government with forms and functions which have been perpetuated to this day; the development of a system of law which has found its place in all modern legal {267} codes; a beautiful and rich language and literature; a few elements of art and architecture; the development of agriculture on a systematic basis; the tendency to unify separate races in one national life; the practice of the art of war on a humane basis, and the development of the municipal system of government which has had its influence on every town of modern life. These are among the chief contributions of the Roman system to the progress of humanity. While it is common to talk of the fall of the Roman Empire, Rome is greater to-day in the perpetuity of her institutions than during the glorious days of the republic or of the magnificent rule of the Caesars. Rome also left a questionable inheritance to the posterity of nations. The idea of imperialism revived in the empire of Charlemagne, and later in the Holy Roman Empire, and, cropping out again and again in the monarchies of new nations, has not become extinct to this day. The recent World War gave a great shock to the idea of czarism. The imperial crowns of the Hohenzollerns, the Hapsburgs, the Romanoffs, and the royal crowns of minor nations fell from the heads of great rulers, because the Emperor of Germany overworked the idea of czarism after the type of imperial Rome. But the idea is not dead. In shattered Europe, the authority and infallibility of the state divorced from the participation of the people, though put in question, is yet a smouldering power to be reckoned with. It is difficult to erase Rome's impress upon the world. SUBJECTS FOR FURTHER STUDY 1. How were the Greeks and Romans related racially? 2. Difference between the Greek and the Roman attitude toward life. 3. What were the land reforms of the Gracchi? 4. What advancement did the Romans make in architecture? 5. What were the internal causes of the decline of Rome? 6. Why did the Celts and the Germans invade Rome? 7. Enumerate the permanent contributions of Rome to subsequent civilization. [1] Hadley, _Introduction to Roman Law_. {268} CHAPTER XVI THE CHRISTIAN RELIGION _Important Factors in the Foundation of Western Civilization_.--When the European world entered the period of the Middle Ages, there were a few factors more important than others that influenced civilization.[1] (1) The Oriental cultures, not inspiring as a whole, left by-products from Mesopotamia, Palestine, and Egypt. These were widely spread through the influence of world wars and world empires. (2) The Greek cultures in the form of art, architecture, philosophy, and literature, and newer forms of political and social organization were widely diffused. (3) The Romans had established agriculture, universal centralized government and citizenship, and developed a magnificent body of law; moreover, they had formed a standing army which was used in the support of monarchy, added some new features to architecture and industrial structures, and developed the Latin language, which was to be the carrier of thought for many centuries. (4) The Christian religion with a new philosophy of life was to penetrate and modify all society, all thought, government, law, art, and, in fact, all phases of human conduct. (5) The barbarian invasion carried with it the Teutonic idea of individual liberty and established a new practice of human relationships. It was vigor of life against tradition and convention. With these contributions, the European world was to start out with the venture of mediaeval civilization, after the decline of the Roman Empire. _The Social Contacts of the Christian Religion_.--Of the factors enumerated above, none was more powerful than the teaching of the Christians. For it came in direct contrast and opposition to established opinions and old systems. It was also constructive, for it furnished a definite plan of social order different from all existing ones, which it opposed. The {269} religions of the Orient centred society around the temple. Among all the Semitic races, Babylonian, Assyrian, and Hebrew, temple worship was an expression of religious and national unity. National gods, national worship, and a priesthood were the rule. Egypt was similar in many respects, and the Greeks used the temple worship in a limited degree, though no less real in its influences. The Romans, though they had national gods, yet during the empire had liberalized the right of nations to worship whom they pleased, provided nothing was done to militate against the Roman government, which was committed to the worship of certain gods, in which the worship of the emperor became a more or less distinctive feature. The Christian teaching recognized no national gods, no national religion, but a world god who was a father of all men. Furthermore, it recognized that all men, of whatsoever race and country, were brethren. So this doctrine of love crossed boundaries of all nations and races, penetrated systems of religion and philosophy, and established the idea of international and universal brotherhood. _Social Conditions at the Beginning of the Christian Era_.--The philosophy of the Greeks and Romans had reached a state of degeneracy at the time of the coming of Christ. Thought had become weak and illogical. Trusting to the influence of the senses, which were at first believed to be infallible, scepticism of the worst nature influenced all classes of the people. Epicureanism, not very bad in the beginning, had come to a stage of decrepitude. To seek immediate pleasure regardless of consequences was far different from avoiding extravagance and intemperance, in order to make a higher happiness. Licentiousness, debauchery, the demoralized condition of the home and family ties, made all society corrupt. Stoicism had been taken up by the Romans; it agreed with their nature, and, coupled with Epicureanism, led to the extinction of faith. There was no clear vision of life; no hope, no high and worthy aspirations, no inspiration for a noble life. {270} The character of worship of the Romans of their various gods led to a non-religious attitude of mind. Religion, like everything else, had become a commercial matter, to be used temporarily for the benefit of all parties who indulged. While each separate nationality had its own shrine in the temple, and while the emperor was deified, all worship was carried on in a selfish manner. There was no reverence, no devout attitude of worship, and consequently no real benefit derived from the religious life. The Roman merchant went to the temple to offer petitions for the safety of his ship on the seas, laden with merchandise. After its safe entrance, the affair troubled him no more; his religious emotion was satisfied. Moral degeneration could be the only outcome of following a broken-down philosophy and an empty religion. Men had no faith in one another, and consequently felt no obligation to moral actions. Dishonesty in all business transactions was the rule. Injustice in the administration of the law was worked by the influence of factions and cliques. The Roman world was politically corrupt. Men were struggling for office regardless of the effect of their methods on the social welfare. The marriage relation became indefinite and unholy. The home life lost its hallowed influence as a support to general, social, and political life. The result of a superficial religion, an empty philosophy, and a low grade of morality, was to drive men to scepticism, to a doubt in all things, or to a stoic indifference to all things, or perhaps in a minority of cases to a search for light. To nearly all there was nothing in the world to give permanent satisfaction to the sensual nature, or nothing to call out the higher qualities of the soul. Men turned with loathing from their own revels and immoral practices and recognized nothing worthy of their thoughts in life. Those who held to a moral plane at all found no inspiration in living, had no enthusiasm for anything or any person. It were as well that man did not exist; that there was no earth, no starry firmament, no heaven, no hell, no present, no future. The few who sought for the {271} light did so from their inner consciousness or through reflection. Desiring a better life, they advocated higher aspirations of the soul and an elevated, moral life, and sought consolation in the wisdom of the sages. Their life bordered on the monastic. _The Contact of Christianity with Social Life_.--The most striking contrast to be observed in comparing the state of the world with Christianity is the novelty of its teachings. No doctrine like the fatherhood of God had hitherto been taught in the European world. Plato reached, in his philosophy, a conception of a universal creator and father of all, but his doctrine was influenced by dualism. There was no conception of the fatherly care which Christians supposed God to exercise over all of his creatures. It also taught the brotherhood of man, that all people of every nation are brethren, with a common father, a doctrine that had never been forcibly advanced before. The Jehovah of the Jews watched over their especial affairs and was considered in no sense the God of the Gentiles. For how could Jehovah favor Jews and also their enemies at the same time? So, too, for the Greek and the barbarian, the Roman and the Teuton, the jurisdiction of deities was limited by national boundaries, or, in case of family worship, by the tribe, for the household god belonged only to a limited number of worshippers. A common brotherhood of all men on a basis of religious equality of right and privilege was decidedly new. Christianity taught of the nature and punishment of sin. This, too, was unknown to the degenerate days of the Roman life. To sin against the Creator and Father was new in their conception, and to consider such as worthy of punishment was also beyond their philosophy. Christianity clearly pointed out what sin is, and asserted boldly that there is a just retribution to all lawbreakers. It taught of righteousness and justice, and that acts were to be performed because they were right. Individuals were to be treated justly by their fellows, regardless of birth or position. And finally, making marriage a {272} divine institution, Christianity introduced a pure moral code in the home. While a few philosophers, following after Plato, conjectured respecting the immortality of the soul, Christianity was the first religious system to teach eternal life as a fundamental doctrine. Coupled with this was the doctrine of the future judgment, at which man should give an account of his actions on this side of the grave. This was a new doctrine to the people of the world. The Christians introduced a new phase of social life by making their practice agree with their profession. It had been the fault of the moral sentiments of the ancient sages that they were never carried out in practice. Many fine precepts respecting right conduct had been uttered, but these were not realized by the great mass of humanity, and were put in practice by very few people. They had seldom been vitalized by humanizing use. Hence Christianity appeared in strong relief in the presence of the artificial system with which it came in contact. It had a faith and genuineness which were vigorous and refreshing. The Christians practised true benevolence, which was a great point in these latter days of selfishness and indifference. They systematically looked after their own poor and cared for the stranger at the gates. Later the church built hospitals and refuges and prepared for the care of all the oppressed. Thousands who were careworn, oppressed, or disgusted with the ways of the world turned instinctively to Christianity for relief, and were not disappointed. The Greeks and the Romans had never practised systematic charity until taught by the Christians. The Romans gave away large sums for political reasons, to appease the populace, but with no spirit of charity. But one of the most important of the teachings of the early church was to dignify labor. There was a new dignity lent to service. Prior to the dominion of the church, labor had become degrading, for slavery had supplanted free labor to such an extent that all labor appeared dishonorable. Another {273} potent cause of the demoralization of labor was the entrance of a large amount of products from the conquered nations. The introduction of these supplies, won by conquest, paralyzed home industries and developed a spirit of pauperism. The actions of the nobility intensified the evils. They spent their time in politics, and purchased the favor of the populace for the right of manipulating the wealth and power of the community. The Christians taught that labor was honorable, and they labored with their own hands, built monasteries, developed agriculture, and in many other ways taught that it is noble to labor. _Christianity Influenced the Legislation of the Times_.--At first Christians were a weak and despised group of individuals. Later they obtained sufficient force to become partners with the empire and in a measure dictate some of the laws of the community. The most significant of these were to abolish the inhuman treatment of criminals, who were considered not so well as the beasts of the field. Organized Christianity secured human treatment of prisoners while they were in confinement, and the abolition of punishment by crucifixion. Gladiatorial shows were suppressed, and laws permitting the freer manumission of slaves were passed. The exposure of children, common to both Greeks and Romans, was finally forbidden by law. The laws of marriage were modified so that the sanctity of the home was secured; and, finally, a law was passed securing Sunday as a day of rest to be observed by the whole nation. This all came about gradually as the church came into power. This early influence of the Christian religion on the legislation of the Roman government presaged a time when, in the decline of the empire, the church would exercise the greatest power of any organization, political or religious, in western Europe. _Christians Come Into Conflict with Civil Authority_.--It was impossible that a movement so antagonistic to the usual condition of affairs as Christianity should not come into conflict with the civil authority. Its insignificant beginning, although {274} it excited the hatred and the contempt of the jealous and the discontented, gave no promise of a formidable power sufficient to contend with the imperial authority. But as it gained power it excited the alarm of rulers, as they beheld it opposing cherished institutions. Nearly all of the persecutions came about through the attitude of the church toward the temporal rulers. The Roman religion was a part of the civil system, and he who would not subscribe to it was in opposition to the state. The Christians would not worship the emperor, nor indeed would they, in common with other nations, set up an image or shrine in the temple at Rome and worship according to the privilege granted. They recognized One higher in power than the emperor. The Romans in their practical view of life could not discriminate between spiritual and temporal affairs, and a recognition of a higher spiritual being as giving authority was in their sight the acknowledgment of allegiance to a foreign power. The fact that the Christians met in secret excited the suspicions of many, and it became customary to accuse them on account of any mishap or evil that came upon the people. Thus it happened at the burning of Rome that the Christians were accused of setting it on fire, and many suffered persecution on account of these suspicions. Christians also despised civic virtues, or made light of their importance. In this they were greatly mistaken in their practical service, for they could have wielded more power had they given more attention to civic life. Like many good people of modern times, they observed the corruption of government, and held themselves aloof from it rather than to enter in and attempt to make it better. The result of this indifference of the Christians was to make the Romans believe that they were antagonistic to the best interests of the community. The persecution of the Christians continued at intervals with greater or less intensity for more than two centuries; the Christians were early persecuted by the Jews, later by the Romans. In the first century they were persecuted under Nero and Domitian, through personal spite or selfish interests. After {275} this their persecution was political; there was a desire to suppress a religion that was held to be contrary to law. The persecution under Hadrian arose on account of the supposition that the Christians were the cause of plagues and troubles on account of their impiety. Among later emperors it became customary to attribute to them any unusual occurrence or strange phenomenon which was destructive of life or property. Organized Christianity grew so strong that it came in direct contact with the empire, and the latter had need of real apprehension, for the conflict brought about by the divergence of belief suddenly precipitated a great struggle within the empire. The strong and growing power of the Christians was observed everywhere. It was no insignificant opponent, and it attacked the imperial system at all points. Finally Constantine, who was a wise ruler as well as an astute politician, saw that it would be good policy to recognize the church as an important body in the empire and to turn this growing social force to his own account. From this time on the church may be said to have become a part of the imperial system, which greatly influenced its subsequent history. While in a measure it brought an element of strength into the social and political world, it rapidly undermined the system of government, and was a potent force in the decline of the empire by rendering obsolete many phases of the Roman government. _The Wealth of the Church Accumulates_.--As Rome declined and new governments arose, the church grew rapidly in the accumulation of wealth, particularly in church edifices and lands. It is always a sign of growing power when large ownership of property is obtained. The favors of Constantine, the gifts of Pepin and Charlemagne, and the large number of private gifts of property brought the church into the Middle Ages with large feudal possessions. This gave it prestige and power, which it could not otherwise have held, and hastened the development of a system of government which was powerful in many ways. {276} _Development of the Hierarchy_.--The clergy finally assumed powers of control of the church separate from the laity. Consequently there was a gradual decline in the power of lay members to have a voice in the affairs of the church. While the early church appeared as a simple democratic association, the organization had developed into a formal system or hierarchy, which extended from pope to simple lay members. The power of control falling into the hands of high officials, there soon became a distinction between the ordinary membership and the machinery of government. Moreover, the clergy were exempt from taxation and any control or discipline similar to that imposed on ordinary lay members. These conditions soon led to the exercise of undue authority of the hierarchy over the lay membership. This dominating principle became dogmatic, until the members of the church became slaves to an arbitrary government. The only saving quality in this was the fact that the members of the clergy were chosen from the laity, which kept up the connection between the higher and lower members of the church. The separation of the governors from the governed proceeded slowly but surely until the higher officers were appointed from the central authority of the church, and all, even to the clergy, were directly under the imperial control of the papacy. Moreover, the clergy assumed legal powers and attempted to regulate the conduct of the laymen. There finally grew up a great body of canon law, according to which the clergy ruled the entire church and, to a certain extent, civil life. But the church, under the canon law, must add a penalty to its enforcement and must assume the punishment of offenders within its own jurisdiction. This led to the assumption that all crime is sin, and as its particular function was to punish sin, the church claimed jurisdiction over all sinners and the right to apprehend and sentence criminals; but the actual punishment of the more grievous offenses was usually given over to the civil authority. {277} _Attempt to Dominate the Temporal Powers_.--Having developed a strong hierarchy which completely dominated the laity, from which it had separated, having amassed wealth and gained power, and having invaded the temporal power in the apprehension and punishment of crime, the church was prepared to go a step farther and set its authority above kings and princes in the management of all temporal affairs. In this it almost succeeded, for its power of excommunication was so great as to make the civil authorities tremble and bow down before it. The struggle of church and empire in the Middle Ages, and, indeed, into the so-called modern era, represents one of the important phases of history. The idea of a world empire had long dominated the minds of the people, who looked to the Roman imperialism as the final solution of all government. But as this gradually declined and was replaced by the Christian church, the idea of a world religion finally became prevalent. Hence the ideas of a world religion and a world empire were joined in the Holy Roman Empire, begun by Charlemagne and established by Otto the Great. In this combination the church assumed first place as representing the eternal God, as the head of all things temporal and spiritual. In this respect the church easily overreached itself in the employment of force to carry out its plans. Assuming to control by love, it had entered the lists to contend with force and intrigue, and it became subject to all forms of degradation arising from political corruption. In this respect its high object became degraded to the mere attempt to dominate. The greed for power and force was very great, and this again and again led the church into error and lessened its influence in the actual regeneration of man and society. _Dogmatism_.--The progress of the imperial power of the church finally settled into the condition of absolute authority over the thoughts and minds of the people. The church assumed to be absolutely correct in its theory of authority, and assumed to be infallible in regard to matters of right and wrong. It went farther, and prescribed what men should {278} believe, and insisted that they should accept that dictum without question, on the authority of the church. This monopoly of religious belief assumed by the church had a tendency to stifle free inquiry and to retard progress. It more than once led to irregularities of practice on the part of the church in order to maintain its position, and on the part of the members to avoid the harsh treatment of the church. Religious progress, except in government-building, was not rapid, spirituality declined, and the fervent zeal for the right and for justice passed into fanaticism for purity. This caused the church to fail to utilize the means of progress. It might have advanced its own interest more rapidly by encouraging free inquiry and developing a struggle for the truth. By exercising liberality it could have ingratiated itself into the government of all nations as a helpful adviser, and thus have conserved morality and justice; but by its illiberality it retarded the progress of the mind and the development of spirituality. While it lowered the conception of religion, on the one hand, it lowered the estimate of knowledge, on the other, and in all suppressed truth through dogmatic belief. This course not only affected the character and quality of the clergy, and created discontent in the laymen, but finally lessened respect for the church, and consequently for the gospel, in the minds of men. _The Church Becomes the Conservator of Knowledge_.--Very early in the days of the decline of the Roman Empire, when the inroads of the barbarian had destroyed reverence for knowledge, and, indeed, when within the tottering empire all philosophy and learning had fallen into contempt, the church possessed the learning of the times. Through its monasteries and its schools all the learning of the period was found. It sought in a measure to preserve, by copying, the manuscripts of many of the ancient and those of later times. Thus the church preserved the knowledge which otherwise must have passed away through Roman degeneration and barbarian influences. {279} _Service of Christianity_.[2]--The service of Christianity to European civilization consists chiefly in: (1) the respect paid to woman; (2) the establishment of the home and the enthronement of the home relation; (3) the advancement of the idea of humanity; (4) the development of morality; (5) the conservation of spiritual power; (6) the conservation of knowledge during the Dark Ages; (7) the development of faith; (8) the introduction of a new social order founded on brotherhood, which manifested itself in many ways in the development of community life. If the church fell into evil habits it was on account of the conditions under which it existed. Its struggle with Oriental despotism, as well as with Oriental mysticism, a degenerate philosophy, corrupt social and political conditions, could not leave it unscathed. If evil at times, it was better than the temporal government. If its rulers were dogmatic, arbitrary, and inconsistent, they were better, nevertheless, than the ruling temporal princes. The church represented the only light there was in the Dark Ages. It was far superior in morality and justice to all other institutions. If it assumed too much power it must be remembered that it came naturally to this assumption by attending specifically to its apparent duty in exercising the power that the civil authority failed to exercise. The development of faith in itself is a great factor in civilization. It must not be ignored, although it is in great danger of passing into dogmatism. A world burdened with dogmatism is a dead world; a world without faith is a corrupt world leading on to death. The Christian religion taught the value of the individual, but also taught of the Kingdom of God, which involved a community spirit--the universal citizenship of the Romans prepared the way, and the individual liberty of the Germans strengthened it. Whenever the church adhered to the teachings of the four gospels, it made for liberty of thought, freedom of life, progress in knowledge and in the arts of right living. {280} Whenever it ceased to follow these and put institutionalism first, it retarded progress, in learning, science, and philosophy, and likewise in justice and righteousness. To the church organization as an institution are due the preservation, perpetuation, and propagation of the teachings of Jesus, which otherwise might have been lost or passed into legend. All the way through the development of the Christian doctrine in Europe, under the direction of the church there are two conflicting forces--the rule by dogma and the freedom of individual belief. The former comes from the Greeks and Latins, the latter from the Nordic idea of personal liberty. Both have been essential to the development of the Christian religion and the political life alike. The dominant force in the religious dogma of the church was necessary to a people untutored in spiritual development. Its error was to insist that the individual had no right to personal belief. Yet the former established rules of faith and prevented the dissipation of the treasured teachings of Jesus. SUBJECTS FOR FURTHER STUDY 1. In what ways was the Christian religion antagonistic to other religions? 2. What new elements did it add to human progress? 3. How did the fall of Rome contribute to the power of the church? 4. What particular service did the church contribute to social order during the decline of the Roman Empire? 5. How did the church conserve learning and at the same time suppress freedom of thought? 6. How do you discriminate between Christianity as a religious culture and the church as an institution? [1] Adams, _Civilization During the Middle Ages_. [2] Adams, _Civilization During the Middle Ages_, chap. I. {281} CHAPTER XVII TEUTONIC INFLUENCE ON CIVILIZATION _The Coming of the Barbarians_.--The picture usually presented by the historical story-tellers of the barbarian hordes that invaded the Roman Empire is that of bold pirates, plunderers of civilization, and destroyers of property. No doubt, as compared with the Roman system of warfare and plunder, their conduct was somewhat irregular. They were wandering groups or tribes, who lived rudely, seeking new territory for exploitation after the manner of their lives. They were largely a pastoral people with cattle as the chief source of industry with intermittent agriculture. Doubtless, they were attracted by the splendor of Rome, its wealth and its luxury, but primarily they were seeking a chance to live. It was the old luring food quest, which is the foundation of most migrations, that was the impelling force of their invasion. In accordance with their methods of life, the northern territory was over-crowded, and tribe pressed upon tribe in the struggle for existence. Moreover, the pressure of the Asiatic populations drove one tribe upon another and forced those of northern Europe south and east. All of the invaders, except the Huns who settled in Pannonia, were of the Aryan branch of the Caucasian race. They were nearly all of the Nordic branch of the Aryan stock and were similar in racial characteristics and social life to the Greeks, who conquered the ancient Aegean races of Greece, and to those others who conquered the primitive inhabitants of Italy prior to the founding of the Roman nation. The Celts were of Aryan stock but not of Nordic race. They appeared at an early time along the Danube, moved westward into France, Spain, and Britain, and took side excursions into Italy, the most notable of which was the invasion of Rome {282} 390 B.C. Wherever the Nordic people have gone, they have brought vigor of life and achieved much after they had acquired the tools of civilization. If they were pirates of property, they also were appropriators of the civilization of other nations, into which they projected the vigor of their own life. _Importance of Teutonic Influence_.--Various estimates have been made as to the actual influence of the Teutonic races in shaping the civilization of western Europe. Mr. Guizot insists that this influence is entirely overestimated, and also, to a certain extent, misrepresented: that much has been done in their name which does not rightfully belong to them. He freely admits that the idea of law came from the Romans, morality from the Christian church, and the principle of liberty from the Germans. Yet he fails to emphasize the result of the union of liberty with the law, with morality, and with the church. It is just this leaven of liberty introduced into the various elements of civilization that gave it a new life and brought about progress, the primary element of civilization. France, in the early period of European history, had an immense prestige in the advancement of civilization. There was a large population in a compact territory, with a closely organized government, both civil and ecclesiastical, and a large use of the Roman products of language, government, law, and other institutions. Consequently, France took the lead in progress, and Mr. Guizot is quite right in assuming that every element of progress passed through France to give it form, before it became recognized. Yet, in the later development of political liberty, law, and education, the Teutonic element becomes more prominent, until it would seem that the native and acquired qualities of the Teutonic life have the stronger representation in modern civilization. In stating this, due acknowledgment must be made to the Roman influence through law and government. But the spirit of progress is Teutonic, although the form, in many instances, may be Roman. It must be observed, too, that the foundation of local government in Germany, England, and the United States was of Teutonic {283} origin; that the road from imperialism to democracy is lined with Teutonic institutions and lighted with Teutonic liberty, and that the whole system of individual rights and popular government has been influenced by the attitude of the Teutonic spirit toward government and law. _Teutonic Liberty_.--All writers recognize that the Germanic tribes contributed the quality of personal liberty to the civilization of the West. The Roman writers, in setting forth their own institutions, have left a fair record of the customs and habits of the so-called barbarians. Titus said of them: "Their bodies are, indeed, great, but their souls are greater." Caesar had a remarkable method of eulogizing his own generalship by praising the valor and strength of the vanquished foes. "Liberty," wrote Lucanus, "is the German's birthright." And Florus, speaking of liberty, said: "It is a privilege which nature has granted to the Germans, and which the Greeks, with all of their arts, knew not how to obtain." At a later period Montesquieu was led to exclaim: "Liberty, that lovely thing, was discovered in the wild forests of Germany." While Hume, viewing the results of this discovery, said: "If our part of the world maintains sentiments of liberty, honor, equity, and valor superior to the rest of mankind, it owes these advantages to the seeds implanted by the generous barbarians." More forcible than all these expressions of sentiment are the results of the study of modern historians of the laws and customs of the early Teutons, and the tracing of these laws in the later civilization. This shows facts of the vitalizing process of the Teutonic element. The various nations to-day which speak the Teutonic languages, of which the English is the most important, are carrying the burden of civilization. These, rather than those overcome by a preponderance of Roman influences, are forwarding the progress of the world. _Tribal Life_.--Referring to the period of Germanic history prior to the influence of the Romans on the customs, laws, and institutions of the people, which transformed them from {284} wandering tribes into settled nationalities, it is easy to observe, even at this time, the Teutonic character. The tribes had come in contact with Roman civilization, and many of them were already being influenced by the contact. Their social life and habits were becoming somewhat fixed, and the elements of feudalism were already prominent as the foundation of the great institution of the Middle Ages. This period also embraces the time when the tribes were about to take on the influence of the Christian religion, and when there was a constant mingling of the Christian spirit with the spirit of heathenism. In fact, the subject should cover all that is known of the Germanic tribes prior to the Roman contact and after it, down to the full entrance of the Middle Ages and the rise of new nationalities. In this period we shall miss the full interest of the society of the Middle Ages after the feudal system had transformed Europe or, rather, after Europe had entered into a great period of transformation from the indefinite, broken-down tribal life into the new life of modern nations. Tribal society has its limitations and types distinctive from every other. The very name "tribe" suggests to us something different from the conditions of a modern nation. Caesar and Tacitus were accustomed to speak of the Germanic tribes as _nationes_, although with no such fulness of meaning as we attach to our modern nations. The Germanic, like the Grecian, tribe is founded upon two cardinal principles, and is a natural and not an artificial assemblage of people. These two principles are religion and kinship, or consanguinity. In addition to this there is a growth of the tribe by adoption, largely through the means of matrimony and the desire for protection. These principles in the formation of the tribe are universal with the Aryan people, and, probably, with all other races. There is a clustering of the relatives around the eldest parent, who becomes the natural leader of the tribe and who has great power over the members of the expanded family. There is no state, there are no citizens, consequently the social life must be far different from that which we are accustomed to see. At {285} the time of our first knowledge of the Germans, the family had departed a step from the conditions which bound the old families of Greece and Rome into such compact and firmly organized bodies. There was a tendency toward individualism, freedom, and the private ownership of land. All of these points, and more, must be taken into consideration, as we take a brief survey of the characteristics of the early Teutonic society. What has been said in reference to the tribe, points at once to the fact that there must have been different ranks of society, according to the manner in which a person became a member of the tribe. _Classes of Society_.--The classes of people were the freemen of noble blood, or the nobility, the common freemen, the freedmen, or half-free, and the slaves. The class of the nobility was based largely upon ancient lineage, some of whom could trace their ancestry to such a distance that they made tenable the claim that they were descended from the gods. The position of a noble was so important in the community that he found no difficulty in making good his claim to pure blood and a title of reverence, but this in no way gave him any especial political privilege. It assured a consideration which put him in the way of winning offices of preferment by his wealth and influence, but he must submit to the decision of the people for his power rather than depend upon the virtues of his ancestry. This is why, in a later period, the formation of the new kingship left out the idea of nobility and placed the right of government upon personal service. The second class represented the rank and file of the German freemen, the long-haired and free-necked men, who had never felt the yoke of bondage. Those were the churls of society, but upon them fell the burden of service and the power of leadership. Out of this rank came the honest yeomen of England. The third class represented those who held lands of the freemen as serfs, and in the later period of feudal society they became attached to the soil and were bought with the land and {286} sold with the land, though not slaves in the common acceptation of the term. The fourth class were those who were reduced to the personal service of others. They were either captives taken in war or those who had lost their freedom by gambling. This body was not large in the early society, although it tended to increase as society developed. It will be seen at once that in the primitive life of a people like the one we are studying, there is a mingling of the political, religious, and social elements of society. There are no careful lines of distinction to be drawn as in present society, and more than this--there was a tendency to consolidate and simplify all of the forms of political and social life. There was a simplicity of forms and a lack of conventional usage, with a complexity of functions. _The Home and the Home Life_.--The family of the Germans, like the family of all other Aryan races, was the social, political, and religious unit of the larger organization. As compared with the Oriental nations, the family was monogamic and noted for purity and virtue. Add to this the idea of reverence for women that characterized the early German people, and we may infer that the home life, though of a somewhat rude nature, was genuine, and that the home circle was not without a salutary influence in those times of wandering and war. The mother, as we may well surmise, was the ruler of the home, had the care of the household, deliberated with the husband in the affairs of the tribe, and even took her place by his side in the field of battle when it seemed necessary. In truth, if we may believe the chroniclers, woman was supposed to be the equal of man. But returning to the tribal life, we find that the houses were of the rudest kind, made of undressed lumber or logs, with a hole in the roof for the smoke to pass out, with but one door and sometimes no window. There were no cities among the Germans until they were taught by contact with Rome to build them. The villages were, as a rule, an irregular collection of houses, more or less scattered, as is customary where land is {287} plentiful and of no particular value. There were no regularly laid out streets, the villagers being a group of kinsmen of the same tribe, grouped together for convenience. Around the village was constructed a ditch and a hedge as a rampart for protection. This was called a "tun" (German _Zoun_), from which word we derive our name "town." The house generally had but one room, which was used for all purposes. There was another class of houses, belonging to the nobility and the chiefs, called halls. They consisted of one long room, which sometimes had transepts or alcoves for the women, partitioned off by curtains from the main hall. This large room was the place where the lord and his companions were accustomed to sit at the great feasts after their return from a successful expedition. This is the "beer hall" that we read so much about in song, epic, and legend. Here the beer and the mead were passed; here arose the songs and the mirth of the warriors. On the walls of the hall might be seen the rude arms of the warrior, the shield and the spear, or decorations composed of the heads and the skins of wild beasts--all of which bring us to the early type of the hall of the great baron of the feudal age. Until the age of chivalry, women were not present at these rude feasts. The religious life of the early Germans was tribal rather than personal or of the simple family. There were certain times at which members of the same tribe were wont to assemble and sacrifice to the gods. There was a common meeting-place from year to year. As it has been related, this had a tendency to cement the tribe together and enhance political unity. This custom must have had its influence on social order and must have, in a measure, arrested the tendency of the people to an unsocial and selfish life. _Political Assemblies_.--The political assemblies, where all of the freemen met to discuss the affairs of the community, must have been powerful factors in the establishment of social customs and usage. The kinsmen or fellow tribesmen were grouped in villages, and each village maintained its privilege {288} of self-government, and consequently the freemen met in the village assembly to consider the affairs of the community. We find combined in the political representation the ideas of tribal unity and individuality, or at least family independence. As the tribes federated, there was a tendency to make the assemblies more general, and thus the family exclusiveness tended to give way in favor of the development of the individual as a member of the tribal state. It was a slow transition from an ethnic to a democratic type of society. This association created a feeling of common interest akin to patriotism. Mr. Freeman has given us a graphic representation of the survival of the early assembly in the Swiss cantons.[1] In the forest cantons the freemen met in the open field on stated occasions to enact the laws and transact the duties of legislators and judges. But although there was a tendency to sectional and clannish relations in society, this became much improved by the communal associations for political and economic life. But society, as such, could not advance very far when the larger part of the occupation of the freemen was that of war. The youth were educated in the field, and the warriors spent much of their time fighting with neighboring tribes. The entire social structure, resting as it did upon kinship, found its changes in developing economic, political, and religious life. Especially is this seen in the pursuit of the common industries. As soon as the tribes obtained permanent seats and had given themselves mostly to agriculture, the state of society became more settled, and new customs were gradually introduced. At the same time society became better organized, and each man had his proper place, not only in the social scale but also in the industrial and political life of the tribe. _General Social Customs_.--In the summer-time the clothing was very light. The men came frequently to the Roman camp clad in a short jacket and a mantle; the more wealthy ones {289} wore a woollen or linen undergarment. But in the cold weather sheepskins and the pelts of wild animals, as well as hose for the legs and shoes made of leather for the feet, were worn. The mantle was fastened with a buckle, or with a thorn and a belt. In the belt were carried shears and knives for daily use. The women were not as a general thing dressed differently from the men. After the contact with the Romans the methods of dress changed, and there was a greater difference in the garments worn by men and women. Marriage was a prominent social institution among the tribes, as it always is where the monogamic family prevails. There were doubtless traces of the old custom, common to most races, of wife capture, a custom which long continued as a mere fiction to some extent among the peasantry of certain localities in Germany. In this survival the bride makes feint to escape, and is chased and captured by the bridegroom. Some modern authorities have tried to show that there is a survival of this old custom of courtship, whereby the advances are supposed to be made by the men. The engagement to be married meant a great deal more in those days than at present. It was more than half of the marriage ceremony. Just as among the Hebrews, the engagement was the real marriage contract, and the latter ceremony only a form, so among the Germans the same custom prevailed. After engagement, until marriage they were called the Bräut and Bräutigam, but when wedded they ceased to be thus entitled. The betrothal contained the essential bonds of matrimony, and was far more important before the law than the later ceremony. In modern usage the opposite custom prevails. The woman was always under wardship; her father was her natural guardian and made the marriage contract or the engagement. When a woman married, she brought with her a dower, furnished by her parents. This consisted of all house furnishings, clothes, and jewelry, and a more substantial dower in lands, money, or live stock. On the morning of the day after marriage the husband gave to the wife the "Morgengabe," {290} which thereafter was her own property. It was the wedding-present of the groom. This is but a survival of the time when marriage among the Germans meant a simple purchase of a wife. It is said that "ein Weib zu kaufen" (to buy a wife) was the common term for getting engaged, and that this phrase was so used as late as the eleventh century. The wardship was called the _mundium_, and when the maid left her father's house for another home, her _mundium_ was transferred from her father to her husband. This dower began, indeed, with the engagement, and the price of the _mundium_ was paid over to the guardian at the time of the contract. From this time suit for breach of promise could be brought. These are the primitive customs of the marriage ceremony, but they were changed from time to time. Through the influence of Christianity, the woman finally attained prominence in the matter of choosing a husband, and learned, much to her satisfaction, to make her own contracts in matrimony. _The Economic Life_.--The economic life was of the most meagre kind in the earlier stages of society. We find that Tacitus, writing 150 years after Caesar, shows that there had been some changes in the people. In the time of Caesar, the tribes were just making their transition from the pastoral-nomadic to the pastoral-agricultural state, and by the time of Tacitus this transition was so general that most of the tribes had settled to a more or less permanent agricultural life. It must be observed that the development of the tribes was not symmetrical, and that which reads very pleasantly on paper represents a very confused state of society. However much the tribes practised agriculture, they had but little peace, for warfare continued to be one of their chief occupations. It was in the battle that a youth received his chief education, and in the chase that he occupied much of his spare time. But the ground was tilled, and barley, wheat, oats, and rye were raised. Flax was cultivated, and the good housewife did the spinning and weaving--all that was done--for the household. Greens, or herbage, were also cultivated, but {291} fruit-trees seldom were cultivated. With the products of the soil, of the chase, and of the herds, the Teutons lived well. They had bread and meat, milk, butter and cheese, beer and mead, as well as fish and wild game. The superintending of the fields frequently fell to the lot of the hausfrau, and the labor was done by serfs. The tending of the fields, the pursuit of wild animals or the catching of fish, the care of the cattle or herds, and the making of butter and cheese, the building of houses, the bringing of salt from the sea, the making of garments, and the construction of weapons of war and utensils of convenience--these represent the chief industries of the people. Later, the beginnings of commerce sprang up between the separate tribes, and gradually extended to other nationalities. _Contributions to Law_.--The principle of the trial by jury, which was developed in the English common law, was undoubtedly of Teutonic origin. That a man should be tried by his peers for any misdemeanor was considered to be a natural right. The idea of personal liberty made a personal law, which gradually gave way to civil law, although the personal element was never entirely obliterated. The Teutonic tribes had no written law, yet they had a distinct legal system. The comparison of this legal system with the Roman or with our modern system brings to light the individual character of the early Germanic laws. The Teuton claimed rights on account of his own personality and his relation to a family, not because he was a member of a state. When the Teutons came in contact with the Romans they mingled their principles of law with those of the latter, and thus made law more formal. Nearly all of the tribes, after this contact, had their laws codified and written in Latin, by Roman scholars, chiefly of the clergy, who incorporated not only many elements of Roman law but also more or less of the elements of Christian usage. Those tribes which had been the longer time in contact with the Romans had a greater body of laws, more systematized and of more Roman {292} characteristics. Finally, as modern nationality arose, the laws were codified, combining the Roman and the Teutonic practice. The forms of judicial procedure remained much the same on account of the character of Teutonic social organization. The personal element was so strong in the Teutonic system as to yield a wide influence in the development of judicial affairs. The trial by combat and the early ordeals, the latter having been instituted largely through the church discipline, and the idea of local courts based upon a trial of peers, had much to do with shaping the course of judicial practice. The time came, however, when nearly every barbarian judicial process was modified by the influence of the Roman law, until the predominance of the state, in judicial usage, was recognized in place of the personal element which so long prevailed in the early Teutonic customs. But in the evolution of the judicial systems of the various countries the Teutonic element of individual liberty and individual offenses never lost its influences. These simple elements of life indicate the origin of popular government, individual and social liberty, and the foundation of local self-government. Wherever the generous barbarians have gone they have carried the torch of liberty. In Italy, Greece, England, Germany, Spain, and the northern nations, wherever the lurid flames of revolt against arbitrary and conventional government have burst forth, it can be traced to the Teutonic spirit of freedom. This was the greatest contribution of the Teutonic people to civilization.[2] {293} SUBJECTS FOR FURTHER STUDY 1. The vital elements of modern civilization contributed by the Germans. 2. Teutonic influence on Roman civilization. 3. Compare the social order of the Teutons with that of the early Greeks. 4. Causes of the invasion of Rome by the Teutonic tribes. 5. What were the racial relations of Romans, Greeks, Germans, Celts, and English? 6. Modern contributions to civilization by Germany. [1] See Chapter XXI. [2] The modern Prussian military state was a departure from the main trend of Teutonic life. It represented a combination of later feudalism and the Roman imperialism. It was a perversion of normal development, a fungous growth upon institutions of freedom and justice. {294} CHAPTER XVIII FEUDAL SOCIETY _Feudalism a Transition of Social Order_.--Feudalism represents a change from the ancient form of imperialism to the newer forms of European government. It arose out of the ruins of the Roman system as an essential form of social order. It appears to be the only system fitted to bring order out of the chaotic conditions of society, but by the very nature of affairs it could not long continue as an established system. It is rather surprising, indeed, that it became so universal, for every territory in Europe was subjected to its control in a greater or less degree. Frequently those who were forced to adopt its form condemned its principle, and those who sought to maintain the doctrine of Roman imperialism were subjected to its sway. The church itself, seeking to maintain its autocracy, came into direct contact with feudal theory and opposed it bitterly. The people who submitted to the yoke of personal bondage which it entailed hated the system. Yet the whole European world passed under feudalism. But notwithstanding its universality, feudalism could offer nothing permanent, for in the development of social order it was forced to yield to monarchy, although it made a lasting influence on social life and political and economic usage. _There Are Two Elementary Sources of Feudalism_.--The spirit of feudalism arises out of the early form of Teutonic social life. It sprang from the personal obligation of the comitatus, which was composed of a military leader and his followers or companions. The self-constituted assembly elected the leader who was most noted for courage and prowess in battle. To him was consigned the task of leading in battle the host, which was composed of all the freemen in arms. Usually {295} these chiefs were chosen for a single campaign, but it not infrequently happened that their leadership was continuous, with all the force of hereditary selection. Another phase of the comitatus is represented by the leader's setting forth in time of peace with his companions to engage in fighting, exploiting, and plunder on his own account. The courageous young men of the tribe, thirsting for adventure in arms, gathered about their leader, whom they sought to excel in valor. He who was bravest and strongest in battle was considered most honorable. The principal feature to be noted is the personal allegiance of the companions to their leader, for they were bound to him with the closest ties. For the service which they rendered, the leader gave them sustenance and also reward for personal valor. They sat at his table and became his companions, and thus continually increased his power in the community. This custom represents the germ of the feudal system. The leader became the lord, the companions his vassals. When the lord became a tribal chief or king, the royal vassals became the king's thegns, or represented the nobility of the realm. The whole system was based upon service and personal allegiance. As conquest of territory was made, the land was parcelled out among the followers, who received it from the leader as allodial grants and, later, as feudal grants. The allodial grant resembled the title in fee simple, the feudal grant was made on condition of future service. The Roman element of feudalism finds its representation in clientage. This was a well-known institution at the time of the contact of the Romans with their invaders. The client was attached to the lord, on whom he depended for support and for representation in the community. Two of the well-known feudal aids, namely, the ransom of the lord from captivity and the gift of dowry money on the marriage of his eldest daughter, are similar to the services rendered by the Roman client to his lord. The personal tie of clientage resembled the personal {296} allegiance in the comitatus, with the difference that the client stood at a great distance from the patron, while in the comitatus the companions were nearly equal to their chief. The Roman influence tended finally to make the wide difference which existed between the lord and vassal in feudal relations. Other forms of Roman usage, such as the institution of the _coloni_, or half-slaves of the soil, and the custom of granting land for use without actual ownership, seem to have influenced the development of feudalism. Without doubt the Roman institutions here gave form and system to feudalism, as they did in other forms of government. _The Feudal System in Its Developed State Based on Land-Holding_.--In the early period in France, where feudalism received its most perfect development, several methods of granting land were in vogue. First, the lands in the immediate possession of the conquered were retained by them on condition that they pay tribute to the conquerors; the wealthy Romans were allowed to hold all or part of their large estates. Second, many lands were granted in fee simple to the followers of the chiefs. Third was the beneficiary grant, most common to feudal tenure in its developed state. By this method land was granted as a reward for services past or prospective. The last method to be named is that of commendation, by which the small holder of land needing protection gave his land to a powerful lord, who in turn regranted it to the original owner on condition that the latter became his vassal. Thus the lands conquered by a chief or lord were parcelled out to his principal supporters, who in turn regranted them to those under them, so that all society was formed in a gradation of classes based on the ownership of land. Each lord had his vassal, every vassal his lord. Each man swore allegiance to the one next above him, and this one to his superior, until the king was reached, who himself was but a powerful feudal lord. As the other forms and functions of state life developed, feudalism became the ruling principle, from which many strove in vain to free themselves. There were in France, in the time {297} of Hugh Capet, according to Kitchen, "about a million of souls living on and taking their names from about 70,000 separate fiefs or properties; of these about 3,000 carried titles with them. Of these again, no less than a hundred were sovereign states, greater or smaller, whose lords could coin money, levy taxes, make laws, and administer their own justice."[1] Thus the effect of feudal tenure was to arrange society into these small, compact social groups, each of which must really retain its power by force of arms. The method gave color to monarchy, which later became universal. _Other Elements of Feudalism_.--Prominent among the characteristics of feudalism was the existence of a close personal bond between the grantor and the receiver of an estate. The receiver did homage to the grantor in the form of oath, and also took the oath of fealty. In the former he knelt before the lord and promised to become his man on account of the land which he held, and to be faithful to him in defense of life and limb against all people. The oath of fealty was only a stronger oath of the same tenor, in which the vassal, standing before the lord, appealed to God as a witness. These two oaths, at first entirely separate, became merged into one, which passed by the name of the oath of fealty. When the lord desired to raise an army he had only to call his leading vassals, and they in turn called those under them. When he needed help to harvest his grain the vassals were called upon for service. Besides the service rendered, there were feudal aids to be paid on certain occasions. The chief of these were the ransom of the lord when captured, the amount paid when the eldest son was knighted, and the dowry on the marriage of the eldest daughter. There were lesser feudal taxes called reliefs. Of these the more important were the payment of a tax by the heir of a deceased vassal upon succession to property, one-half year's profit paid when a ward became of age, and the right to escheated lands of the vassal. The lord also had the right to land forfeited on account of certain heinous crimes. {298} Wardship entitled the lord to the use of lands during the minority of the ward. The lord also had a right to choose a husband for the female ward at the age of fourteen; if she refused to accept the one chosen, the lord had the use of her services and property until she was twenty-one. Then he could dispose of her lands as he chose and refuse consent for her to marry. These aids and reliefs made a system of slavery for serfs and vassals. _The Rights of Sovereignty_.--The feudal lord had the right of sovereignty over all of his own vassal domain. Not only did he have military sovereignty on account of allegiance of vassals, but political sovereignty also, as he ruled the assemblies in his own way. He had legal jurisdiction, for all the courts were conducted by him or else under his jurisdiction, and this brought his own territory completely under his control as proprietor, and subordinated everything to his will. In this is found the spirit of modern absolute monarchy. _The Classification of Feudal Society_.--In France, according to Duruy, under the perfection of feudalism, the people were grouped in the following classes: First, there was a group of Gallic or Frankish freemen, who were obliged to give military service to the king and give aids when called upon. Second, the vassals, who rendered service to those from whom they held their lands. Third, the royal vassals, from whom the king usually chose his dukes and counts to lead the army or to rule over provinces and cities. Fourth, the _liti_, who, like the Roman _coloni_, were bound to the soil, which they cultivated as farmers, and for which they paid a small rent. Finally, there were the ordinary slaves. The character of the _liti_, or _glebe_, serfs varied according to the degree of liberty with which they were privileged. They might have emancipation by charter or by the grant of the king or the church, but they were never free. The feudal custom was binding on all, and no one escaped from its control. Even the clergy became feudal, there being lords and vassals within the church. Yet the ministry, in their preaching, recognized the opportunity of {299} advancement, for they claimed that even a serf might become a bishop, although there was no great probability of this. _Progress of Feudalism_.--The development of feudalism was slow in all countries, and it varied in character in accordance with the condition of the country. In England the Normans in the eleventh century found feudalism in an elementary state, and gave formality to the system. In Germany feudalism was less homogeneous than in France. It lacked the symmetrical finish of the Roman institutions, although it was introduced from French soil through overlordship and proceeded from the sovereign to the serf, rather than springing from the serf to the sovereign. It varied somewhat in characteristics from French feudalism, although the essentials of the system were not wanting. In the Scandinavian provinces the Teutonic element was too strong, and in Spain and Italy the Romanic, to develop in these countries perfect feudalism. But in France there was a regular, progressive development. The formative period began in Caesar's time and ended with the ninth century. This was followed by the period of complete domination and full power, extending to the end of the thirteenth century, at the close of which offices and benefices were in the hands of the great vassals of Charles the Bald. Then followed a period of transformation of feudalism, which extended to the close of the sixteenth century. Finally came the period of the decay of feudalism, beginning with the seventeenth century and extending to the present time. There are found now, both in Europe and America, laws and usages which are vestiges of the ancient forms of feudalism, which the formal organization of the state has failed to eradicate. The autocratic practice of the feudal lord survived in the new monarch, and, except in the few cases of constitutional limitation, became imperialistic. The Prussian state, built upon a military basis, exercised the rights of feudal conquest over neighboring states. After the war with Austria, Prussia exercised an overlordship over part of the smaller German {300} states, with a show of constitutional liberty. After the Franco-Prussian War of 1870, the German Empire was formed, still with a show of constitutional liberty, but with the feudal idea of overlordship dominant. Having feudalized the other states of Germany, Prussia sought to extend the feudal idea to the whole world, but was checked by the World War of 1914. _State of Society Under Feudalism_.--In searching for the effects of feudalism on human progress, the family deserves our first consideration. The wife of the feudal lord and her equal associates were placed on a higher plane. The family in no wise represented the ancient patriarchal family nor the modern family. The head of the family stood alone, independent of every form of government. He was absolute proprietor of himself and of all positions under him. He was neither magistrate, priest, nor king, nor subordinate to any system except as he permitted. His position developed arbitrary power and made him proud and aristocratic. With a few members of his family, he lived in his castle, far removed from serfs and vassals. He spent his life alternately in feats of arms or in systematic idleness. Away from home much of the time, fighting to defend his castle or obtain new territory, or engaging in hunting, while the wife and mother cared for the home, he developed strength and power. It was in the feudal family that woman obtained her position of honor and power in the home. It was this position that developed the chivalry of the Middle Ages. The improvement of domestic manners and the preponderance of home society among the few produced the moral qualities of the home. Coupled with this was the idea of nobility on one side, and the idea of inheritance on the other, which had a tendency to unify the family under one defender and to perpetuate the right and title to property of future generations. It was that benign spirit which comes from the household in more modern life, giving strength and permanence to character. While there was a relation of common interest between the {301} villagers clustered around the feudal castle, the union was not sufficient to make a compact organization. Their rights were not common, as there was a recognized superiority on one hand and a recognized inferiority on the other. This grew into a common hatred of the lower classes for the upper, which has been a thousand times detrimental to human progress. The little group of people had their own church, their own society. Those who had a fellow-feeling for them had much influence directly, but not in bridging over the chasm between them and the feudal lord. Feudalism gave every man a place, but developed the inequalities of humanity to such an extent that it could not be lasting as a system. Society became irregular, in which extreme aristocracy was divorced from extreme democracy. Relief came slowly, through the development of monarchy and the citizenship of the modern state. It was a rude attempt to find the secret of social organization. The spirit of revolt of the oppressed lived on suppressed by a galling tyranny. To maintain his position as proprietor of the soil and ruler over a class of people treated as serfs required careful diplomacy on the part of the lord, or else intolerant despotism. He usually chose the latter, and sought to secure his power by force of arms. He cared little for the wants or needs of his people. He did not associate with them on terms of equality, and only came in contact with them as a master meets a servant. Consulting his own selfish interest, he made his rule despotic, and all opposition was suppressed with a high hand. The only check upon this despotism was the warlike attitude of other similar despotic lords, who always sought to advance their own interests by the force of arms. Feudalism in form of government was the antithesis of imperialism, yet in effect something the same. It substituted a horde of petty despots for one and it developed a petty local tyranny in the place of a general despotism. _Lack of Central Authority in Feudal Society_.--So many feudal lords, each master of his own domain, contending with one {302} another for the mastery, each resting his course on the hereditary gift of his ancestors, or, more probably, on his force of armed men and the strength of his castle, made it impossible that there should be any recognized authority in government, or any legal determination of the rights of the ruler and his subjects. Feudal law was the law of force; feudal justice the right of might. Among all of these feudal lords there was not one to force by will all others into submission, and thus create a central authority. There was no permanent legislative body, no permanent judicial machinery, no standing army, no uniform and regular system of taxation. There could be no guaranty to permanent political power under such circumstances. There was little progress in social order under the rule of feudalism. Although we recognize that it was an essential form of government necessary to control the excesses of individualism; although we realize that a monarchy was impossible until it was created by an evolutionary process, that a republic could not exist under the irregularity of political forces, yet it must be maintained that social progress did not exist under the feudal régime. There was no unity of social action, no co-operation of classes in government. The line between the governed and the governing, though clearly marked at times, was an irregular, wavering line. Outside of the family life--which was limited in scope--and of the power of the church--which failed to unify society--there was no vital social growth. _Individual Development in the Dominant Group_.--Feudalism established a strong individualism among leaders, a strong personality based on sterling intellectual qualities. It is evident that this excessive individual development became very prominent in the later evolution of social order, and is recognized as a gain in social advancement. Individual culture is essential to social advancement. To develop strong, independent, self-reliant individuals might tend to produce anarchy rather than social order, yet it must eventually lead to the latter; and so it proved in the case of feudalism, for its very {303} chaotic state brought about, as a necessity, social order. But it came about through survival of the fittest, in conquest and defense. Nor did the most worthy always succeed, but rather those who had the greatest power in ruthless conquest. Unity came about through the unbridled exercise of the predatory spirit, accompanied by power to take and to hold. This chaotic state of individualistic people was the means of bringing about an improvement in intellectual development. The strong individual character with position and leisure becomes strong intellectually in planning defense and in meditating upon the philosophy of life. The notes of song and of literature came from the feudal times. The determination of the mind to intellectual pursuits appeared in the feudal régime, and individual culture and independent intellectual life, though of the few and at the expense of the majority, were among the important contributions to civilization. SUBJECTS FOR FURTHER STUDY 1. What was the basis of feudal society? 2. What elements of feudalism were Roman and what Teutonic? 3. What service did feudalism render civilization? 4. Show that feudalism was transition from empire to modern nationality. 5. How did feudal lords obtain titles to their land? Give examples. 6. What survivals of feudalism may be observed in modern governments? 7. When King John of England wrote after his signature "King of _England_," what was its significance? 8. How did feudalism determine the character of monarchy in modern nations? [1] _History of France_. {304} CHAPTER XIX ARABIAN CONQUEST AND CULTURE The dissemination of knowledge, customs, habits, and laws from common centres of culture has been greatly augmented by population movements or migrations, by great empires established, by wars of conquest, and systems of intercommunication and transportation. The Babylonian, Assyrian, Persian, Alexandrian, and Roman empires are striking examples of the diffusion of knowledge and the spread of ideas over different geographical boundaries and through tribal and national organizations; and, indeed, the contact of the barbarian hordes with improved systems of culture was but a process of interchange and intermingling of qualities of strength and vigor with the conventionalized forms of human society. One of the most remarkable movements was that of the rise and expansion of the Arabian Empire, which was centred about religious ideals of Mohammed and the Koran. Having accepted the idea of one God universal, which had been so strongly emphasized by the Hebrews, and having accepted in part the doctrine of the teachings of Jesus regarding the brotherhood of man, Mohammed was able through the mysticism of his teaching, in the Koran, to excite his followers to a wild fanaticism. Nor did his successors hesitate to use force, for most of their conquests were accomplished by the power of the sword. At any rate, nation after nation was forced to bow to Mohammedanism and the Koran, in a spectacular whirlwind of conquest such as the world had not previously known. It is remarkable that after the decline of the old Semitic civilization, as exhibited in the Babylonian and Assyrian empires, the practical extinction of the Phoenicians, the conquest of Jerusalem, and the spread of the Jews over the whole world, there should have risen a new Semitic movement to disrupt {305} and disorganize the world. It is interesting to note in this connection, also, that wherever the Arabs went they came in contact with learned Jews of high mentality, who co-operated with them in advancing learning. _The Rise and Expansion of the Arabian Empire_.--Mohammedanism, which arose in the beginning of the seventh century, spread rapidly over the East and through northern Africa, and extended into Spain. All Arabia was converted to the Koran, and Persia and Egypt soon after came under its influence. In the period 623-640, Syria was conquered by the Mohammedans, upper Asia in 707, and Spain in 711. They established a great caliphate, extending from beyond the Euphrates through Egypt and northern Africa to the Pyrenees in Spain. They burned the great library at Alexandria, founded by Ptolemy, destroying the manuscripts and books in a relentless zeal to blot out all vestiges of Christian learning. In their passage westward they mingled with the Moors of northern Africa, whom they had subdued after various struggles, the last one ending in 709. In this year they crossed the Strait of Gibraltar and encountered the barbarians of the north. The Visigothic monarchy was in a ruined condition. Frequent internal quarrels had led to the dismemberment of the government and the decay of all fortifications, hence there was little organized resistance to the incoming of the Arabs. All Spain, except in the far north in the mountains of the Asturias, was quickly reduced to the sway of the Arabs. They crossed the Pyrenees, and the broad territory of Gaul opened before them, awaiting their conquest. But on the plains between Tours and Poitiers they met Charles Martel with a strong army, who turned the tide of invasion back upon itself and set the limits of Mohammedan dominion in Europe. In the tenth century the great Arabian Empire began to disintegrate. One after another of the great caliphates declined. The caliphate of Bagdad, which had existed so long in Oriental splendor, was first dismembered by the loss of Africa. The fatimate caliphate of northern Africa next lost its power, {306} and the caliphate of Cordova, in Spain, brilliant in its ascendancy, followed the course of the other two. The Arabian conquest of Spain left the country in a state of tolerable freedom, but Cordova, like the others, was doomed to be destroyed by anarchy and confusion. All the principal cities became in the early part of the eleventh century independent principalities. Thus the Mohammedan conquest, which built an extensive Arabian Empire, ruling first in Asia, then Africa, and finally Europe, spreading abroad with sudden and irresistible expansion, suddenly declined through internal dissensions and decay, having lasted but a few centuries. The peculiar tribal nature of the Arabian social order had not developed a strong central organization, nor permitted the practice of organized political effort on a large scale, so that the sudden transition from the small tribe, with its peculiar government, to that of the organization and management of a great empire was sufficient to cause the disintegration and downfall of the empire. So far as political power was concerned, the passion for conquest was the great impelling motive of the Mohammedans. _The Religious Zeal of the Arab-Moors_.--The central idea of the Mohammedan conquest seems to have been a sort of religious zeal or fanaticism. The whole history of their conquest shows a continual strife to propagate their religious doctrine. The Arabians were a sober people, of vivid imagination and excessive idealism, with religious natures of a lofty and peculiar character. Their religious life in itself was awe-inspiring. Originally dwelling on the plains of Arabia, where nature manifested itself in strong characteristics, living in one sense a narrow life, the imagination had its full play, and the mystery of life had centred in a sort of wisdom and lore, which had accumulated through long generations of reflection. There always dwelt in the minds of this branch of the Semitic people a conception of the unity of God, and when the revelation of God came to them through Mohammed, when they realized "Allah is Allah, and Mohammed is his prophet," they were swept entirely away by this religious conception. When once {307} this idea took firm hold upon the Arabian mind, it remained there a permanent part of life. Under military organization the conquest was rapidly extended over surrounding disintegrated tribes, and the strong unity of government built on the basis of religious zeal. So strong was this religious zeal that it dominated their entire life. It turned a reflective and imaginative people, who had sought out the hidden mysteries of life by the acuteness of their own perception, to base their entire operations upon faith. Faith dominated the reason to such an extent that the deep and permanent foundations of progress could not be laid, and the vast opportunities granted to them by position and conquest gradually declined for the lack of vital principles of social order. Not only had the Arabians laid the foundations of culture and learning through their own evolution, but they had borrowed much from other Oriental countries. Their contact with learning of the Far East, of Palestine, of Egypt, of the Greeks, and of the Italians, had given them an opportunity to absorb most of the elements of ancient culture. Having borrowed these products, they were able to combine them and use them in building an empire of learning in Spain. If their own subtle genius was not wanting in the combination of the knowledge of the ancients, and in its use in building up a system, neither lacked they in original conception, and on the early foundation they built up a superstructure of original knowledge. They advanced learning in various forms, and furnished means for the advancement of civilization in the west. _The Foundations of Science and Art_.--In the old caliphates of Bagdad and Damascus there had developed great interest in learning. The foundation of this knowledge, as has been related, was derived from the Greeks and the Orientals. It is true that the Koran, which had been accepted by them as gospel and law, had aroused and inspired the Arabian mind to greater desires for knowledge. Their knowledge, however, could not be set by the limitations of the Koran, and the desire {308} for achievement in learning was so great that scarcely a century had passed after the burning of the libraries of Alexandria before all branches of knowledge were eagerly cultivated by the Arabians. They ran a rapid course from the predominance of physical strength and courage, through blind adherence to faith, to the position of superior learning. The time soon came when the scholar was as much revered as the warrior. In every conquered country the first duty of the conquerors was to build a mosque in which Allah might be worshipped and his prophet honored. Attached to this mosque was a school, where people were first taught to read and write and study the Koran. From this initial point they enlarged the study of science, literature, and art, which they pursued with great eagerness. Through the appreciation of these things they collected the treasures of art and learning wherever they could be found, and, dwelling upon these, they obtained the results of the culture of other nations and other generations. From imitation they passed to the field of creation, and advances were made in the contributions to the sum of human knowledge. In Spain schools were founded, great universities established, and libraries built which laid the permanent foundation of knowledge and art and enabled the Arab-Moors to advance in science, art, invention, and discovery. _The Beginnings of Chemistry and Medicine_.--In chemistry the careful study of the elements of substances and the agents in composition was pursued by the Arab-Moors in Spain, but it must be remembered that the chemistry of their day is now known as alchemy. Chemistry then was in its formative period and not a science as viewed in the modern sense. Yet when we consider that the science of modern chemistry is but a little over a century old, we find the achievements of the Arabians in their own time, as compared with the changes which took place in the following seven centuries, to be worthy of note. In the eleventh century a philosopher named Geber knew the chemical affinities of quicksilver, tin, lead, copper, iron, {309} gold, and silver, and to each one was given a name of the planet which was supposed to have special influence over it. Thus silver was named for the moon, gold for the sun, copper for Venus, tin for Jupiter, iron for Vulcan, quicksilver for Mercury, and lead for Saturn. The influences of the elements were supposed to be similar to the influence of the heavenly bodies over men. This same chemist was acquainted with oxidizing and calcining processes, and knew methods of obtaining soda and potash salts, and the properties of saltpetre. Also nitric acid was obtained from the nitrate of potassium. These and other similar examples represent something of the achievements of the Arabians in chemical knowledge. Still, their lack of knowledge is shown in their continued search for the philosopher's stone and the attempt to create the precious metals. The art of medicine was practised to a large extent in the Orient, and this knowledge was transferred to Spain. The entire knowledge of these early physicians, however, was limited to the superficial diagnosis of cases and to a knowledge of medicinal plants. By the very law of their religion, anatomy was forbidden to them, and, indeed, the Arabians had a superstitious horror of dissection. By ignorance of anatomy their practice of surgery was very imperfect. But their physicians, nevertheless, became renowned throughout the world by their use of medicines and by their wonderful cures. They plainly led the world in the art of healing. It is true their superstition and their astrology constantly interfered with their better judgment in many things, but notwithstanding these drawbacks they were enabled to develop great interest in the study of medicine and to accomplish a great work in the advancement of the science. In _Al Makkari_ it is stated "that disease could be more effectively checked by diet than by medicine, and that when medicine became necessary, simples were far preferable to compound medicaments, and when these latter were required, as few drugs as possible ought to enter into their composition." This exhibits the thoughtful reflection that was {310} given to the administration of drugs in this early period, and might prove a lesson to many a modern physician. Toward the close of their career, the Arabian doctors began the practice of dissecting and the closer study of anatomy and physiology, which added much to the power of the science. Yet they still believed in the "elixir of life," and tried to work miracle cures, which in many respects may have been successful. It is a question whether they went any farther into the practice of miracle cures than the quacks and charlatans and faith doctors of modern times have gone. The influence of their study of medicine was seen in the great universities, and especially in the foundation of the University at Salerno at a later time, which was largely under the Arabian influence. _Metaphysics and Exact Science_.--It would seem that the Arab-Moors were well calculated to develop psychological science. Their minds seemed to be in a special measure metaphysical. They laid the foundation of their metaphysical speculations on the philosophy of the Greeks, particularly that of Aristotle, but later they attempted to develop originality, although they succeeded in doing little more, as a rule, than borrowing from others. In the early period of Arabian development the Koran stood in the way of any advancement in philosophy. It was only at intervals that philosophy could gain any advancement. Indeed, the philosophers were driven away from their homes, but they carried with them many followers into a larger field. The long list of philosophers who, after the manner of the Greeks, each attempted to develop his own separate system, might be mentioned, showing the zeal with which they carried on inquiry into metaphysical science. As may be supposed, they added little to the sum of human knowledge, but developed a degree of culture by their philosophical speculations. But it is in the exact sciences that the Arabs seem to have met with the greatest success. The Arabic numerals, probably brought from India to Bagdad, led to a new and larger use of arithmetic. The decimal system and the art of figures were {311} introduced into Spain in the ninth century, and gave great advancement in learning. But, strange to relate, these numerals, though used so early by the Arabs in Spain, were not common in Germany until the fifteenth century. The importance of their use cannot be overestimated, for by means of them the Arabians easily led the world in astronomy, mechanics, and mathematics. The science of algebra is generally attributed to the Arabians. Its name is derived from gabara, to bind parts together, and yet the origin of this science is not certain. It is thought that the Arabs derived their knowledge from the Greeks, but in all probability algebra had its first origin among the philosophers of India. The Arabians used geometry, although they added little to its advancement. Geometry had reached at this period an advanced stage of progress in the problems of Euclid. It was to the honor of the Arabians that they were the first of any of the Western peoples to translate Euclid and use it, for it was not until the sixteenth century that it was freely translated into the modern languages. But in trigonometry the Arabians, by the introduction of the use of the sine, or half-chord, of the double arc in the place of the arc itself, made great advancement, especially in the calculations of surveying and astronomy. In the universities and colleges of Spain under Arabian dominion we find, then, that students had an opportunity of mastering nearly all of the useful elementary mathematics. Great attention was paid to the study of astronomy. Here, as before, they used the Greek knowledge, but they advanced the study of the science greatly by the introduction of instruments, such as those for measuring time by the movement of the pendulum and the measurement of the heavenly bodies by the astrolabe. Likewise they employed the word "azimuth" and many other terms which show a more definite knowledge of the relation of the heavenly bodies. They were enabled, also, to {312} measure approximately a degree of latitude. They knew that the earth was of spheroid form. But we find astrology accompanying all this knowledge of astronomy. While the exact knowledge of the heavenly bodies had been developed to a certain degree, the science of star influence, or astrology, was cultivated to a still greater extent. Thus they sought to show the control of mind forces on earth, and, indeed, of all natural forces by the heavenly bodies. This placed mystical lore in the front rank of their philosophical speculations. _Geography and History_.--In the study of the earth the Arabians showed themselves to be practical and accurate geographers. They applied their mathematical and astronomical knowledge to the study of the earth, and thus gave an impulse to exploration. While their theories of the origin of the earth were crude and untenable, their practical writings on the subject derived from real knowledge, and the practical instruction in schools by the use of globes and maps, were of immense practical value. Their history was made up chiefly of the histories of cities and the lives of prominent men. There was no national history of the rise and development of the Arabian kingdom, for historical writing and study were in an undeveloped state. _Discoveries, Inventions, and Achievements_.--It cannot be successfully claimed that the Arabians exhibited very much originality in the advancement of the civilized arts, yet they had the ability to take what they found elsewhere developed by other scholars, improve upon it, and apply it to the practical affairs of life. Thus, although the Chinese discovered gunpowder over 3,000 years ago, it remained for the Arabs to bring it into use in the siege of Mecca in the year 690, and introduce it into Spain some years later. The Persians called it Chinese salt, the Arabians Indian snow, indicating that it might have originated in different countries. The Arab-Moors used it in their wars with the Christians as early as the middle of the thirteenth century. They excelled also in making paper from flax, or cotton, which was probably an imitation {313} of the paper made by the Chinese from silk. We find also that the Arabs had learned to print from movable type, and the introduction of paper made the printing-press possible. Linen paper made from old clothes was said to be in use as early as 1106. Without doubt the Arab-Moors introduced into Spain the use of the magnet in connection with the mariner's compass. But owing to the fact that it was not needed in the short voyages along the coast of the Mediterranean, it did not come into a large use until the great voyages on the ocean, in the beginning of the fourteenth century. Yet the invention of the mariner's compass, so frequently attributed to Flavio Giorgio, may be as well attributed to the Arab-Moors. Knives and swords of superior make, leather, silk, and glass, as well as large collections of delicate jewelry, show marked advancement in Arabian industrial art and mechanical skill. One of the achievements of the Arab-Moors in Spain was the introduction of agriculture, and its advancement to an important position among the industries by means of irrigation. The great, fertile valleys of Spain were thus, through agricultural skill, made "to blossom as the rose." Seeds were imported from different parts of the world, and much attention was given to the culture of all plants which could be readily raised in this country. Rice and cotton and sugar-cane were cultivated through the process of irrigation. Thus Spain was indebted to the Arab-Moors not only for the introduction of industrial arts and skilled mechanics, but the establishment of agriculture on a firm foundation. _Language and Literature_.--The language of the Arabians is said to be peculiarly rich in synonyms. For instance, it is said there are 1,000 expressions for the word "camel," and the same number for the word "sword," while there are 4,000 for the word "misfortune." Very few remnants of the Arabic remain in the modern European languages. Quite a number of words in the Spanish language, fewer in English and in {314} other modern languages, are the only remnants of the use of this highly developed Arabian speech. It represents the southern branch of the Semitic language, and is closely related to the Hebrew and the Aramaic. The unity and compactness of the language are very much in evidence. Coming little in contact with other languages, it remained somewhat exclusive, and retained its original form. When it came into Spain the Arabic language reigned almost supreme, on account of the special domination of Arabic influences. Far in the north of Spain, however, among the Christians who had adopted the Low Latin, was the formation of the Spanish language. The hatred of the Spaniards for the Arabs led these people to refuse to use the language of the conquerors. Nevertheless, the Arabic had some influence in the formation of the Spanish language. The isolated geographic terms, and especial names of things, as well as idioms of speech, show still that the Arabian influence may be traced in the Spanish language. In literature the Arabians had a marked development. The Arabian poetry, though light in its character, became prominent. There were among these Arabians in Spain ardent and ready writers, with fertile fancy and lively perception, who recited their songs to eager listeners. The poet became a universal teacher. He went about from place to place singing his songs, and the troubadours of the south of France received in later years much of their impulse indirectly from the Arabic poets. While the poetry was not of a high order, it was wide-reaching in its influence, and extended in later days to Italy, Sicily, and southern France, and had a quickening influence in the development of the light songs of the troubadours. The influence of this lighter literature through Italy, Sicily, and southern France on the literature of Europe and of England in later periods is well marked by the historians. In the great schools rhetoric and grammar were also taught to a considerable extent. In the universities these formed one of the great branches of special culture. We find, then, on the linguistic {315} side that the Arabians accomplished a great deal in the advancement of the language and literature of Europe. _Art and Architecture_.--Perhaps the Arabians in Spain are known more by their architecture than any other phase of their culture. Not that there was anything especially original in it, except in the combination which they made of the architecture of other nations. In the building of their great mosques, like that of Cordova and of the Alhambra, they perpetuated the magnificence and splendor of the East. Even the actual materials with which they constructed these magnificent buildings were obtained from Greece and the Orient, and placed in their positions in a new combination. The great original feature of the Mooresque architecture is found in the famous horseshoe arch, which was used so extensively in their mosques and palaces. It represented the Roman arch, slightly bent into the form of a horseshoe. Yet from architectural strength it must be considered that the real support resting on the pillar was merely the half-circle of the Roman arch, while the horseshoe was a continuation for ornamental purposes. The Arab-Moors were forbidden the use of sculpture, which they never practised, and hence the artistic features were limited to architectural and art decorations. Many of the interior decorations of the walls of these great buildings show advanced skill. Upon the whole, their buildings are remarkable mainly in the perpetuation of Oriental architecture rather than in the development of any originality except in skill of decoration and combination. _The Government of the Arab-Moors Was Peculiarly Centralized_.--The caliph was at the head as an absolute monarch. He appointed viceroys in the different provinces for their control. The only thing that limited the actual power of the caliph was the fact that he was a theocratic governor. Otherwise he was supreme in power. There was no constitutional government, and, indeed, but little precedent in law. The government depended somewhat upon the whims and caprices {316} of a single individual. It was said that in the beginning the caliph was elected by the people, but in a later period the office became hereditary. It is true the caliph, who was called the "vicar of God," or "the shadow of God," had his various ministers appointed from the wise men to carry out his will. Yet, such was the power of the people what when in Spain they were displeased with the rulings of the judges, they would pelt the officers or storm the palace, thus in a way limiting the power of these absolute rulers. The government, however, was in a precarious condition. There could be nothing permanent under such a régime, for permanency of government is necessary to the advancement of civilization. The government was non-progressive. It allowed no freedom of the people and gave no incentive to advancement, and it was a detriment many times to the progressive spirit. Closely connected with a religion which in itself was non-progressive, we find limitations set upon the advancement of the civilization of the Arab-Moors in Spain. _Arabian Civilization Soon Reached Its Limits_.--One views with wonder and astonishment the brilliant achievements of the Arabian civilization, extending from the Tagus to the Indus. But brilliant as it was, one is impressed at every turn with the instability of the civilization and with its peculiar limitations. It reached its culmination long before the Christian conquest. What the Arabians have given to the European world was formulated rapidly and given quickly, and the results were left to be used by a more slowly developing people, who rested their civilization upon a permanent basis. Much stress has been laid by Mr. Draper and others upon the great civilization of the Arabians, comparing it favorably with the civilization of Christian Europe. But it must be remembered that the Arab-Moors, especially in Spain, had come so directly in contact with Oriental nations that they were enabled to borrow and utilize for a time the elements of civilization advanced by these more mature peoples. However, built as it was upon borrowed materials, the structure once completed, {317} there was no opportunity for growth or original development. It reached its culmination, and would have progressed no further in Spain, even had not the Christians under Ferdinand and Isabella conquered the Arab-Moors and eventually overcome and destroyed their civilization. In this conquest, in which the two leading faiths of the Western world were fighting for supremacy, doubtless the Christian world could not fully appreciate what the Arab-Moors accomplished, nor estimate their value to the economic system of Spain. Subsequent facts of history show that, the Christian religion once having a dominant power in Spain, the church became less liberal in its views and its rule than that exhibited by the government of the Arab-Moors. Admitting that the spirit of liberty had burst forth in old Asturias, a seat of Nordic culture, it soon became obscure in the arbitrary domination of monarchy, and of the church through the instrumentality of Torquemada and the Inquisition. Nevertheless, the civilization of the Arab-Moors cannot be pictured as an ideal one, because it was lacking in the fundamentals of continuous progress. Knowledge had not yet become widely disseminated, nor truth free enough to arouse vigorous qualities of life which make for permanency in civilization. With all of its borrowed art and learning and its adaptation to new conditions, still the civilization was sufficiently non-progressive to be unsuited to carry the burden of the development of the human race. Nevertheless, in the contemplation of human progress, the Arab-Moors of Spain are deserving of attention because of their universities and their studies, which influenced other parts of mediaeval Europe at a time when they were breaking away from scholastic philosophy and assuming a scientific attitude of mind. SUBJECTS FOR FURTHER STUDY 1. What contributions to art and architecture did the Arab-Moors make in Spain? 2. The nature of their government. {318} 3. How did their religion differ from the Christian religion in principle and in practice? 4. The educational contribution of the universities of the Arab-Moors. 5. What contributions to science and learning came from the Arabian civilization? 6. Why and by whom were the Arab-Moors driven from Spain? What were the economic and political results? 7. What was the influence of the Arabs on European civilization? {319} CHAPTER XX THE CRUSADES STIR THE EUROPEAN MIND _What Brought About the Crusades_.--We have learned from the former chapters that the Arabs had spread their empire from the Euphrates to the Strait of Gibraltar, and that the Christian and Mohammedan religions had compassed and absorbed the entire religious life over this whole territory. As Christianity had become the great reforming religion of the western part of Europe, so Mohammedanism had become the reforming religion of Asia. The latter was more exacting in its demands and more absolute in its sway than the former, spreading its doctrines mainly by force, while the former sought more to extend its doctrine by a leavening process. Nevertheless, when the two came in contact, a fierce struggle for supremacy ensued. The meteorlike rise of Mohammedanism had created consternation and alarm in the Christian world as early as the eighth century. There sprang up not only fear of Islamism, but a hatred of its followers. After the Arabian Empire had become fully established, there arose to the northeast of Bagdad, the Moslem capital, a number of Turkish tribes that were among the more recent converts to Mohammedanism. Apparently they took the Mohammedan religion as embodied in the Koran literally and fanatically, and, considering nothing beyond these, sought to propagate the doctrine through conquest by sword. They are frequently known as Seljuks. It is to the credit of the Arabs, whether in Mesopotamia, Africa, or Spain, that their minds reached beyond the Koran into the wider ranges of knowledge, a fact which tempered their fanatical zeal, but the Seljuk Turks swept forward with their armies until they conquered the Byzantine Empire of the East, the last branch of the great Roman Empire. They had also conquered Jerusalem and {320} taken possession of the holy sepulchre, to which pilgrimages of Christians were made annually, and aroused the righteous indignation of the Christians of the Western world. The ostensible purpose of the crusades was to free Palestine, the oppressed Christians, and the holy sepulchre from the domination of the Turks. It must be remembered that the period of the Middle Ages was represented by fancies and theories and an evanescent idealism which controlled the movements of the people to a large extent. Born of religious sentiment, there dwelt in the minds of Christian people a reverence for the land of the birth of Christ, to which pilgrims passed every year to show their adoration for the Saviour and patriotism for the land of his birth. These pilgrims were interfered with by the Mohammedans and especially by the Seljuk Turks. The Turks in their blind zeal for Mohammedanism could see nothing in the Christian belief worthy of respect or even civil treatment. The persecution of Christians awakened the sympathy of all Europe and filled the minds of people with resentment against the occupation of Jerusalem by the Turks. This is one of the earliest indications of the development of religious toleration, which heralded the development of a feeling that people should worship whom they pleased unmolested, though it was like a voice crying in the wilderness, for many centuries passed before religious toleration could be acknowledged. There were other considerations which made occasion for the crusades. Gregory VII preached a crusade to protect Constantinople and unify the church under one head. But trouble with Henry IV of Germany caused him to abandon the enterprise. There still dwelt in the minds of the people an ideal monarchy, as represented by the Roman Empire. It was considered the type of all good government, the one expression of the unity of all people. Many dreamed of the return of this empire to its full temporal sway. It was a species of idealism which lived on through the Middle Ages long after the {321} Western Empire had passed into virtual decay. In connection with this idea of a universal empire controlling the whole world was the idea of a universal religion which should unite all religious bodies under one common organization. The centre of this organization was to be the papal authority at Rome. There dwelt then in the minds of all ecclesiastics this common desire for the unity of all religious people in one body regardless of national boundaries. And it must be said that these two ideas had much to do with giving Europe unity of thought and sentiment. Disintegrated as it was, deflected and disturbed by a hundred forces, thoughts of a common religion and of universal empire nevertheless had much to do to harmonize and unify the people of Europe. Hence, it was when Urban II, who had inherited all of the great religious improvements instituted by Gregory VII, preached a crusade to protect Constantinople, on the one hand, and to deliver Jerusalem, on the other, and made enthusiastic inflammatory speeches, that Europe awoke like an electric flash. Peter the Hermit, on the occasion of the first crusade, was employed to travel throughout Europe to arouse enthusiasm in the minds of the people. The crusades so suddenly inaugurated extended over a period of nearly two hundred years, in which all Europe was in a restless condition. The feudal life which had settled down and crystallized all forms of human society throughout Europe had failed to give that variety and excitement which it entertained in former days. Thousands of knights in every nation were longing for the battle-field. Many who thought life at home not worth living, and other thousands of people seeking opportunities for change, sought diversion abroad. All Europe was ready to exclaim "God wills it!" and "On to Jerusalem!" to defend the Holy City against the Turk. _Specific Causes of the Crusades_.--If we examine more specifically into the real causes of the crusades we shall find, as Mr. Guizot has said, that there were two causes, the one moral, the other social. The moral cause is represented in the {322} desire to relieve suffering humanity and fight against the injustice of the Turks. Both the Mohammedan and the Christian, the two most modern of all great religions, were placed upon a moral basis. Morality was one of the chief phases of both religions; yet they had different conceptions of morality, and no toleration for each other. Although prior to the Turkish invasion the Mohammedans, through policy, had tolerated the visitations of the Christians, the two classes of believers had never gained much respect for each other, and after the Turkish invasion the enmity between them became intense. It was the struggle of these two systems of moral order that was the great occasion and one of the causes of the crusades. The social cause, however, was that already referred to--the desire of individuals for a change from the monotony which had settled down over Europe under the feudal régime. It was the mind of man, the enthusiasm of the individual, over-leaping the narrow bounds of his surroundings, and looking for fields of exploitation and new opportunities for action. The social cause represents, then, the spontaneous outburst of long-pent-up desires, a return to the freedom of earlier years, when wandering and plundering were among the chief occupations of the Teutonic tribes. To state the causes more specifically, perhaps it may be said that the ambition of temporal and spiritual princes and the feudal aristocracy for power, the general poverty of the community on account of overpopulation leading the multitudes to seek relief through change, and a distinct passion for pilgrimages were influential in precipitating this movement. _Unification of Ideals and the Breaking of Feudalism_.--It is to be observed that the herald of the crusades thrilled all Europe, and that, on the basis of ideals of empire and church, there were a common sentiment or feeling and a common ground for action. All Europe soon placed itself on a common plane in the interest of a common cause. At first it would seem that this universal movement would have tended to {323} develop a unity of Western nations. To the extent of breaking down formal custom, destroying the sterner aspects of feudalism, and levelling the barriers of classes, it was a unifier of European thought and life. But a more careful consideration reveals the fact that although all groups and classes of people ranged themselves on one side of the great and common cause, the effect was not merely to break down feudalism but, in addition, to build up nationality. There was a tendency toward national unity. The crusades in the latter part of the period became national affairs, rather than universal or European affairs, even though the old spirit of feudalism, whereby each individual followed by his own group of retainers sought his own power and prestige, still remained. The expansion of this spirit to larger groups invoked the national spirit and national life. While, in the beginning, the papacy and the church were all-powerful in their controlling influence on the crusades, in the later period we find different nationalities, especially England, France, and Germany, struggling for predominance, the French nation being more strongly represented than any other. Among the important results of the crusades, then, were the breaking down of feudalism and the building up of national life. The causes of this result are evident. Many of the nobility were slain in battle or perished through famine and suffering, or else had taken up their abode under the new government that had been established at Jerusalem. This left a larger sway to those who were at home in the management of the affairs of the territory. Moreover, in the later period, the stronger national lines had been developed, which caused the subordination of the weaker feudal lords to the more powerful. Many, too, of the strong feudal lords had lost their wealth, as well as their position, in carrying on the expenses of the crusades. There was, consequently, the beginning of the remaking of all Europe upon a national basis. First, the enlarged ideas of life broke the bounds of feudalism; second, the failure to unite the nations in the common sentiment of a Western {324} Empire had left the political forces to cluster around new nationalities which sprang up in different sections of Europe. _The Development of Monarchy_.--The result of this centralization was to develop monarchy, an institution which became universal in the process of the development of government in Europe. It became the essential form of government and the type of national unity. Through no other known process of the time could the chaotic state of the feudal régime be reduced to a system. Constitutional liberty could not have survived under these conditions. The monarchy was not only a permanent form of government, but it was possessed of great flexibility, and could adapt itself to almost any conditions of the social life. While it may, primarily, have rested on force and the predominance of power of certain individuals, in a secondary sense it represented not only the unity of the race from which it had gained great strength, but also the moral power of the tribe, as the expression of their will and sentiments of justice and righteousness. It is true that it drew a sharp line between the governing and the governed; it made the one all-powerful and the other all-subordinate; yet in many instances the one man represented the collective will of the people, and through him and his administration centred the wisdom of a nation. Among the Teutonic peoples, too, there was something more than sentiment in this form of government. It was an old custom that the barbarian monarch was elected by the people and represented them; and whether he came through hereditary rank, from choice of nobles, or from the election of the people, this idea of monarchy was never lost sight of in Europe in the earliest stages of existence, and it was perverted to a great extent only by the Louis's of France and the Stuarts of England, in the modern era. Monarchy, then, as an institution, was advanced by the crusades; for a national life was developed and centralization took place, the king expressed the unity of it all, and so everywhere throughout Europe it became the universal type. {325} _The Crusades Quickened Intellectual Development_.--The intense activity of Europe in a common cause could not do otherwise than stimulate intellectual life. In a measure, it was an emancipation of mind, the establishment of large and liberal ideas. This freedom of the mind arose, not so much from any product of thought contributed by the Orientals to the Christians, although in truth the former were in many ways far more cultured than the latter, but rather from the development which comes from observation and travel. A habit of observing the manners and customs, the government, the laws, the life of different nations, and the action and reaction of the different elements of human life, tended to develop intellectual activity. Both Greek and Mohammedan had their influence on the minds of those with whom they came in contact, and Christians returned to their former homes possessed of new information and new ideas, and quickened with new impulses. The crusades also furnished material for poetic imagination and for literary products. It was the development of the old saga hero under new conditions, those of Christianity and humanity, and this led to greater and more profound sentiments concerning life. The crusades also took men out from their narrow surroundings and the belief that the Christian religion, supported by the monasteries, or cloisters, embodied all that was worth living in this life and a preparation for a passage into a newer, happier future life beyond. Humanity, according to the doctrine of the church, had not been worth the attention of the thoughtful. Life, as life, was not worth living. But the mingling of humanity on a broader basis and under new circumstances quickened the thoughts and sentiments of man in favor of his fellows. It gave an enlarged view of the life of man as a human creature. There was a thought engendered, feeble though it was at first, that the life on earth was really important and that it could be enlarged and broadened in many ways, and hence it was worth saving here for its own sake. The culmination of this idea appeared in the period of the Renaissance, a century later. {326} _The Commercial Effects of the Crusades_.--A new opportunity for trade was offered, luxuries were imported from the East in exchange for money or for minerals and fish of the West. Cotton, wine, dyestuffs, glassware, grain, spice, fruits, silk, and jewelry, as well as weapons and horses, came pouring in from the Orient to enlarge and enrich the life of the Europeans. For, with all the noble spirit manifested in government and in social life, western Europe was semibarbaric in the meagreness of the articles of material wealth there represented. The Italian cities, seizing the opportunity of the contact of the West with the East, developed a surprising trade with the Oriental cities and with the northwest of Europe, and thus enhanced their power.[1] From this impulse of trade that carried on commerce with the Orient largely through the Italian cities, there sprang up a group of Hanse towns in the north of Europe. From a financial standpoint we find that money was brought into use and became from this time on a necessity. Money-lending became a business, and those who had treasure instead of keeping it lying idle and unfruitful were now able to develop wealth, not only for the borrower but also for the lender. This tended to increase the rapid movement of wealth and to stimulate productive industry and trade in every direction. _General Influence of the Crusades on Civilization_.--We see, then, that it mattered little whether Jerusalem was taken by the Turks or the Christians, or whether thousands of Christians lost their lives in a great and holy cause, or whether the Mohammedans triumphed or were defeated at Jerusalem--the great result of the crusades was one of education of the people of Europe. The boundaries of life were enlarged, the power of thought increased, the opportunities for doing and living multiplied. It was the breaking away from the narrow shell of its own existence to the newly discovered life of the Orient that gave Europe its first impulse toward a larger life. And to this extent the crusades may be said to have been a {327} great civilizer. Many regard them as merely accidental phenomena difficult to explain, and yet, by tracing the various unobserved influences at work in their preparation, we shall see it was merely one phase of a great transitional movement in the progress of human life, just as we have seen that the feudal system was transitional between one form of government and another. The influence of the crusades on civilization was immense in giving it an impulse forward. Under the general intellectual awakening, commercial enterprise was quickened, industry developed, and new ideas of government and art obtained. The boundaries of Christian influences were extended and new nationalities were strengthened. Feudalism was undermined by means of the consolidation of fiefs, the association of lord and vassal, the introduction of a new military system, the transfer of estates, and the promotion of the study and use of Roman jurisprudence. Ecclesiasticism was greatly strengthened at Rome, through the power of the pope and the authority of his legates, the development of monastic orders, by the introduction of force and the use of the engine of excommunication. But something was gained for the common people, for serfs could be readily emancipated and there was a freer movement among all people. Ideas of equality began to be disseminated, which had their effect on the relation of affairs. Upon the whole it may be stated in conclusion that the emancipation of the mind had begun. SUBJECTS FOR FURTHER STUDY 1. Show how the crusades helped to break down feudalism and prepare for monarchy. 2. What intellectual benefit were the crusades to Europe? 3. Were there humanitarian and democratic elements of progress in the crusades? 4. What was the effect of the crusades on the power of the church? 5. What was the general influence of the crusades on civilization? 6. How did the crusades stimulate commerce? [1] See Chapter XXI. {328} CHAPTER XXI ATTEMPTS AT POPULAR GOVERNMENT _The Cost of Popular Government_.--The early forms of government were for the most part based upon hereditary authority or upon force. The theories of government first advanced seldom had reference to the rule of the popular will. The practice of civil affairs, enforcing theories of hereditary government or the rule of force, interfered with the rights of self-government of the people. Hence every attempt to assume popular government was a struggle against old systems and old ideas. Freedom has been purchased by money or blood. Men point with interest to the early assemblies of the Teutonic people to show the germs of democratic government, afterward to be overshadowed by imperialism, but a careful consideration would show that even this early stage of pure democracy was only a developed state from the earlier hereditary nobility. The Goddess of Liberty is ideally a creature of beautiful form, but really her face is scarred and worn, her figure gnarled and warped with time, and her garments besprinkled with blood. The selfishness of man, the struggle for survival, and the momentum of governmental machinery, have prevented the exercise of justice and of political equality. The liberty that has been gained is an expensive luxury. It has cost those who have tried to gain it the treasures of accumulated wealth and the flower of youth. When it has once been gained, the social forces have rendered the popular will non-expressive of the best government. Popular government, although ideally correct, is difficult to approximate, and frequently when obtained in name is far from real attainment. After long oppression and subservience to monarchy or aristocracy, when the people, suddenly gaining power through great expense of treasure and blood, assume self-government, they find to their distress that they are incapable of it when {329} struggling against unfavorable conditions. The result is a mismanaged government and an extra expense to the people. There has been through many centuries a continual struggle for popular government. The end of each conflict has seen something gained, yet the final solution of the problem has not been reached. Nevertheless, imperfect as government by the people may be, it is, in the long run, the safest and best, and it undoubtedly will triumph in the end. The democratic government of great nations is the most difficult of all forms to maintain, and it is only through the increased wisdom of the people that its final success may be achieved. The great problem now confronting it arises from purely economic considerations. _The Feudal Lord and the Towns_.--Feudalism made its stronghold in country life. The baronial castle was built away from cities and towns--in a locality favorable for defense. This increased the importance of country life to a great extent, and placed the feudal lord in command of large tracts of territory. Many of the cities and towns were for a time accorded the municipal privileges that had been granted them under Roman rule; but in time these wore away, and the towns, with a few exceptions, became included in large feudal tracts, and were held, with other territory, as feudatories. In Italy, where feudalism was less powerful, the greater barons were obliged to build their castles in the towns, or, indeed, to unite with the towns in government. But in France and Germany, and even to a certain extent in England, the feudal lord kept aloof from the town. There was, consequently, no sympathy existing between the feudal lord and the people of the cities. It was his privilege to collect feudal dues and aids from the cities, and beyond this he cared nothing for their welfare. It became his duty and privilege to hold the baronial court in the towns at intervals and to regulate their internal affairs, but he did this through a subordinate, and troubled himself little about any regulation or administration except to further his own ends. {330} _The Rise of Free Cities_.--Many of the towns were practically run by the surviving machinery of the old Roman municipal system, while many were practically without government except the overlordship of the feudal chief by his representative officer. The Romans had established a complete system of municipal government in all their provinces. Each town or city of any importance had a complete municipal machinery copied after the government of the imperial city. When the Roman system began to decay, the central government failed first, and the towns found themselves severed from any central imperial government, yet in possession of machinery for local self-government. When the barbarians invaded the Roman territory, and, avoiding the towns, settled in the country, the towns fell into the habit of managing their own affairs as far as feudal régime would permit. It appears, therefore, that the first attempts at local self-government were made in the cities and towns. In fact, liberty of government was preserved in the towns, through the old Roman municipal life, which lived on, and, being shorn of the imperial idea, took on the spirit of Roman republicanism. It was thus that the principles of Roman municipal government were kept through the Middle Ages and became useful in the modern period, not only in developing independent nationality but in perpetuating the rights of a people to govern themselves. The people of the towns organized themselves into municipal guilds to withstand the encroachments of the barons on their rights and privileges. This gave a continued coherence to the city population, which it would not otherwise have had or perpetuated. In thus perpetuating the idea of self-government, this cohesive organization, infused with a common sentiment of defense, made it possible to wrest liberty from the feudal baron. When he desired to obtain money or supplies in order to carry on a war, or to meet other expenditures, he found it convenient to levy on the cities for this purpose. His exactions, coming frequently and irregularly, aroused the {331} citizens to opposition. A bloody struggle ensued, which usually ended in compromise and the purchase of liberty by the citizens by the payment of an annual tax to the feudal lord for permission to govern themselves in regard to all internal affairs. It was thus that many of the cities gained their independence of feudal authority, and that some, in the rise of national life, gained their independence as separate states, such, for instance, as Hamburg, Venice, Lübeck, and Bremen. _The Struggle for Independence_.--In this struggle for independent life the cities first strove for just treatment. In many instances this was accorded the citizens, and their friendly relations with the feudal lord continued. When monarchy arose through the overpowering influence of some feudal lord, the city remained in subjection to the king, but in most instances the free burgesses of the towns were accorded due representation in the public assembly wherever one existed. Many cities, failing to get justice, struggled with more or less success for independence. The result of the whole contest was to develop the right of self-government and finally to preserve the principle of representation. It was under these conditions that the theory of "taxation without representation is tyranny" was developed. A practical outcome of this struggle for freedom has been the converse of this principle--namely, that representation without taxation is impossible. Taxation, therefore, is the badge of liberty--of a liberty obtained through blood and treasure. _The Affranchisement of Cities Developed Municipal Organization_.--The effect of the affranchisement of cities was to develop an internal organization, usually on the representative plan. There was not, as a rule, a pure democracy, for the influences of the Roman system and the feudal surroundings, rapidly tending toward monarchy, rendered it impossible that the citizens of the so-called free cities should have the privileges of a pure democracy, hence the representative plan prevailed. There was not sufficient unity of purpose, nor common sentiment of the ideal government, sufficient to maintain {332} permanently the principles and practice of popular government. Yet there was a popular assembly, in which the voice of the people was manifested in the election of magistrates, the voting of taxes, and the declaration of war. In the mediaeval period, however, the municipal government was, in its real character, a business corporation, and the business affairs of the town were uppermost after defense against external forces was secured, hence it occurred that the wealthy merchants and the nobles who dwelt within the town became the most influential citizens in the management of municipal affairs. There sprang up, as an essential outcome of these conditions, an aristocracy within the city. In many instances this aristocracy was reduced to an oligarchy, and the town was controlled by a few men; and in extreme cases the control fell into the hands of a tyrant, who for a time dominated the affairs of the town. Whatever the form of the municipal government, the liberties of the people were little more than a mere name, recognized as a right not to be denied. Having obtained their independence of foreign powers, the towns fell victims to internal tyranny, yet they were the means of preserving to the world the principles of local self-government, even though they were not permitted to enjoy to a great extent the privileges of exercising them. It remained for more favorable circumstances to make this possible. _The Italian Cities_.--The first cities to become prominent after the perpetuation of the Roman system by the introduction of barbarian blood were those of northern Italy. These cities were less influenced by the barbarian invasion than others, on account of, first, their substantial city organization; second, the comparatively small number of invaders that surrounded them; and, third, the opportunity for trade presented by the crusades, which they eagerly seized. Their power was increased because, as stated above, the feudal nobility, unable to maintain their position in the country, were forced to live in the cities. The Italian cities were, therefore, less interfered with by barbarian and feudal influences, and continued to {333} develop strength. The opportunity for immense trade and commerce opened up through the crusades made them wealthy. Another potent cause of the rapid advancement of the Italian cities was their early contact with the Greeks and the Saracens, for they imbibed the culture of these peoples, which stimulated their own culture and learning. Also, the invasions of the Saracens on the south and of the Hungarians on the north caused them to strengthen their fortifications. They enclosed their towns with walls, and thus made opportunity for the formation of small, independent states within the walls. Comparatively little is known of the practice of popular government, although most of these cities were in the beginning republican and had popular elections. In the twelfth century freedom was granted, in most instances, to the peasantry. There were a parliament, a republican constitution, and a secret council (_credenza_) that assisted the consuls. There was also a great council called a senate, consisting of about a hundred representatives of the people. The chief duty of the senate was to discuss important public measures and refer them to the parliament for their approval. In this respect it resembled the Greek senate (_boule_). The secret council superintended the public works and administered the public finance. These forms of government were not in universal use, but are as nearly typical as can be found, as the cities varied much in governmental practice. It is easy to see that the framework of the government is Roman, while the spirit of the institutions, especially in the earlier part of their history, is affected by Teutonic influence. There was a large number of these free towns in Italy from the close of the twelfth to the beginning of the fourteenth century. At the close of this period, the republican phase of their government declined, and each was ruled by a succession of tyrants, or despots (_podestas_). In vain did the people attempt to regain their former privileges; they succeeded only in introducing a new kind of despotism in the captains of the people. The cities had fallen {334} into the control of the wealthy families, and it mattered not what was the form of government, despotism prevailed. In many of the cities the excessive power of the despots made their reign a prolonged terror. As long as enlightened absolutism prevailed, government was administered by upright rulers and judges in the interests of the people; but when the power fell into the hands of unscrupulous men, the privileges and rights of the people were lost. It is said that absolutism, descending from father to son, never improves in the descent; in the case of some of the Italian cities it produced monsters. As the historian says: "The last Visconti, the last La Scalas, the last Sforzas, the last Farnesi, the last Medici--magnificent promoters of the humanities as their ancestors had been--were the worst specimens of the human race." The situation of government was partially relieved by the introduction at a later period of the trade guilds. All the industrial elements were organized into guilds, each one of which had its representation in the government. This was of service to the people, but nothing could erase the blot of despotism. The despots were of different classes, according to the method by which they obtained power. First, there were nobles, who were representatives of the emperor, and governed parts of Lombardy while it was under the federated government, a position which enabled them to obtain power as captains of the people. Again, there were some who held feudal rights over towns and by this means became rulers or captains. There were others who, having been raised to office by the popular vote, had in turn used the office as a means to enslave the people and defeat the popular will. The popes, also, appointed their nephews and friends to office and by this means obtained supremacy. Merchant princes, who had become wealthy, used their money to obtain and hold power. Finally, there were the famous _condottieri_, who captured towns and made them principalities. Into the hands of such classes as these the rights and privileges of the people were continually falling, and the result was disastrous to free government. {335} _Government of Venice_.--Florence and Venice represent the two typical towns of the group of Italian cities. Wealthy, populous, and aggressive, they represent the greatest power, the highest intellectual development, becoming cities of culture and learning. In 1494 the inhabitants of Florence numbered 90,000, of whom only 3,200 were burghers, or full citizens, while Venice had 100,000 inhabitants and only 5,000 burghers. This shows what a low state popular government had reached--only one inhabitant in twenty was allowed the rights of citizens. Venice was established on the islands and morasses of the Adriatic Coast by a few remnants of the Beneti, who sought refuge upon them from the ravages of the Huns. These people were early engaged in fishing, and later began a coast trade which, in time, enlarged into an extensive commerce. In early times it had a municipal constitution, and the little villages had their own assemblies, discussed their own affairs, and elected their own magistrates. Occasionally the representatives of the several tribal villages met to discuss the affairs of the whole city. This led to a central government, which, in 697 A.D., elected a doge for life. The doges possessed most of the attributes of kings, became despotic and arbitrary, and finally ruled with absolute sway, so that the destinies of the republic were subjected to the rule of one man. Aristocracy established itself, and the first families struggled for supremacy. Venice was the oldest republic of modern times, and continued the longest. "It was older by 700 years than the Lombard republics, and it survived them for three centuries. It witnessed the fall of the Roman Empire; it saw Italy occupied by Odoacer, by Charlemagne, and by Napoleon." Its material prosperity was very great, and great buildings remain to this day as monuments of an art and architecture the foundations of which were mostly laid before the despots were at the height of their power. _Government of Florence_.--There was a resemblance between Florence and Athens. Indeed, the former has been called the {336} Athens of the West, for in it the old Greek idea was first revived; in it the love for the artistic survived. Both cities were devoted to the accumulating of wealth, and both were interested in the struggles over freedom and general politics. Situated in the valley of the Arno, under the shadow of the Apennines, Florence lacked the charm of Venice, situated on the sea. It was early conquered by Sulla and made into a military city of the Romans, and by a truce the Roman government and the Roman spirit prevailed in the city. It was destroyed by the Goths and rebuilt by the Franks, but still retained the Roman spirit. It was then a city of considerable importance, surrounded by a wall six miles in circumference, having seventy towers. After it was rebuilt, the city was governed by a senate, but finally the first families predominated. Then there arose, in 1215, the great struggle between the papal and the imperial parties, the Ghibellines and the Guelphs--internal dissensions which were not quieted until these two opposing factions were driven out and a popular government established, with twelve _seignors_, or rulers, as the chief officers. Soon after this the art guilds obtained considerable power. They elected _priors_ of trades every two months. At first there were seven guilds that held control in Florence; they were the lawyers, who were excluded from all offices, the physicians, the bankers, the mercers, the woollen-drapers, the dealers in foreign cloths, and the dealers in pelts from the north. Subsequently, men following the baser arts--butchers, retailers of cloth, blacksmiths, bakers, shoemakers, builders--were admitted to the circle of arts, until there were twenty-one. After having a general representative council, it was finally (1266) determined that each of the seven greater arts should have a council of its own. The next step in government was the appointment of a _gonfalconier_ of justice by the companies of arts that had especial command of citizens. But soon a struggle began between the commons and the nobility, in which for a long time the former were successful. Under the {337} leadership of Giano della Bella they enacted ordinances of justice destroying the power of the nobles, making them ineligible to the office of _prior_, and fining each noble 13,000 pounds for any offense against the law. The testimony of two credible persons was sufficient to convict a person if their testimony agreed; hence it became easy to convict persons of noble blood. Yet the commons were in the end obliged to succumb to the power of the nobility and aristocracy, and the light of popular government went out. _The Lombard League_.--The Lombard cities of the north of Italy were established subsequent to the invasion of the Lombards, chiefly through the peculiar settlement of the Lombard dukes over different territories in a loose confederation. But the Lombards found cities already existing, and became the feudal proprietors of these and the territory. There were many attempts to unite these cities into a strong confederation, but owing to the nature of the feudal system and the general independence and selfishness of each separate city, they proved futile. We find here the same desire for local self-government that existed in the Greek cities, the indulgence of which was highly detrimental to their interests in time of invasion or pressure from external power. There were selfishness and rivalry between all these cities, not only in the attempt to outdo each other in political power, but by reason of commercial jealousy. "Venice first, Christians next, and Italy afterward" was the celebrated maxim of Venice. To the distressing causes which kept the towns apart, the strife between the Guelphs and the Ghibellines increased the trouble. Nor had the pope any desire to see a strong, unified government so near him. In those days popes were usually not honored in their own country, and, moreover, had enough to do to control their refractory subjects to the north of the Alps. Unity was impossible among cities so blindly and selfishly opposed to one another, and it was, besides, especially prevented by jealous sovereigns from without, who wished rather to see these cities acting independently and separately {338} than effectively, in a strong, united government. Under these circumstances it was impossible there should be a strong and unified government; yet, could they have been properly utilized, all the materials were at hand for developing a national life which would have withstood the shock of opposing nationalities through centuries. The attempt to make a great confederation, a representative republic, failed, however, and with it failed the real hopes of republicanism in Italy. _The Rise of Popular Assemblies in France_.--In the early history of France, while feudalism yet prevailed, it became customary for the provinces to have their popular assemblies. These assemblies usually were composed of all classes of the people, and probably had their origin in the calls made by feudal lords to unite all those persons within their feudatories who might have something to say respecting the administration of the government and the law. In them the three estates were assembled--the clergy, the nobility, and the commons. Many of these old provincial assemblies continued for a long time, for instance, in Brittany and Languedoc, where they remained until the period of the revolution. It appears that every one of these provinces had its own provincial assembly, and a few of these assemblies survived until modern times, so that we know somewhat of their nature. Although their powers were very much curtailed on the rise of monarchy, especially in the time of the Louis's, yet the provinces in which they continued had advantages over those provinces which had lost the provincial assemblies. They had purchased of the crown the privilege of collecting all taxes demanded by the central government, and they retained the right to tax themselves for the expenses of their local administration and to carry on improvements, such as roads and water-courses, without any administration of the central government. Notwithstanding much restriction upon their power within their own domain, they moved with a certain freedom which other provinces did not possess. _Rural Communes Arose in France_.--Although feudalism had prevailed over the entire country, there was a continual growth {339} of local self-government at the time when feudalism was gradually passing into monarchial power. It was to the interest of the kings to favor somewhat the development of local self-government, especially the development of the cities while the struggle for dominion over feudalism was going on; but when the kings had once obtained power they found themselves confronted with the uprising spirit of local government. The struggle between king and people went on for some centuries, until the time when everything ran to monarchy and all the rights of the people were wrested from them; indeed, the perfection of the centralized government of the French monarch left no opportunity for the voice of the people to be heard. The rural communes existed by rights obtained from feudal lords who had granted them charters and given them self-government over a certain territory. These charters allowed the inhabitants of a commune to regulate citizenship and the administration of property, and to define feudal rights and duties. Their organ of government was a general assembly of all the inhabitants, which either regulated the affairs of a commune directly or else delegated especial functions to communal officers who had power to execute laws already passed or to convoke the general assembly of the people on new affairs. The collection of taxes for both the central and the local government, the management of the property of the commune, and the direction of the police system represented the chief powers of the commune. The exercise of these privileges led into insistence upon the right of every man, whether peasant, freeman, or noble, to be tried by his peers. _The Municipalities of France_.--As elsewhere related, the barbarians found the cities and towns of France well advanced in their own municipal system. This system they modified but little, only giving somewhat of the spirit of political freedom. In the struggle waged later against the feudal nobility these towns gradually obtained their rights, by purchase or agreement, and became self-governing. In this struggle we find the Christian church, represented by the bishop, always arraying itself on the side of the commons against the nobility, {340} and thus establishing democracy. Among the municipal privileges which were wrested from the nobility was included the right to make all laws that might concern the people; to raise their own taxes, both local and for the central government; to administer justice in their own way, and to manage their own police system. The relations of the municipality to the central government or the feudal lord forced them to pay a certain tribute, which gave them a legal right to manage themselves. Their pathway was not always smooth, however, but, on the contrary, full of contention and struggle against overbearing lords who sought to usurp authority. Their internal management generally consisted of two assemblies--one a general assembly of citizens, in which they were all well represented, the other an assembly of notables. The former elected the magistrates, and performed all legislative actions; the latter acted as a sort of advisory council to assist the magistrates. Sometimes the cities had but one assembly of citizens, which merely elected magistrates and exercised supervision over them. The magistracy generally consisted of aldermen, presided over by a mayor, and acted as a general executive council for the city. Municipal freedom gradually declined through adverse circumstances. Within the city limits tyranny, aristocracy, or oligarchy sometimes prevailed, wresting from the people the rights which they had purchased or fought for. Without was the pressure of the feudal lord, which gradually passed into the general fight of the king for royal supremacy. The king, it is true, found the towns very strong allies in his struggle against the nobility. They too had commenced a struggle against the feudal lords, and there was a common bond of sympathy between them. But when the feudal lords were once mastered, the king must turn his attention to reducing the liberties of the people, and gradually, through the influence of monarchy and centralization of government, the rights and privileges of the people of the towns of France passed away. {341} _The States-General Was the First Central Organization_.--It ought to be mentioned here that after the monarchy was moderately well established, Philip the Fair (1285-1314) called the representatives of the nation together. He called in the burghers of the towns, the nobility, and the clergy and formed a parliament for the discussion of the affairs of the realm. It appeared that the constitutional development which began so early in England was about to obtain in France. But it was not to be realized, for in the three centuries that followed--namely, the fourteenth, fifteenth, and sixteenth--the monarchs of France managed to keep this body barely in existence, without giving it any real power. When the king was secure upon his throne and imperialism had received its full power, the nobility, the clergy, and the commons were no longer needed to support the throne of France, and, consequently, the will of the people was not consulted. It is true that each estate of nobility, clergy, and commons met separately from time to time and made out its own particular grievances to the king, but the representative power of the people passed away and was not revived again until, on the eve of the revolution, Louis XVI, shaken with terror, once more called together the three estates in the last representative body held before the political deluge burst upon the French nation. _Failure of Attempts at Popular Government in Spain_.--There are signs of popular representation in Spain at a very early date, through the independent towns. This representation was never universal or regular. Many of the early towns had charter rights which they claimed as ancient privileges granted by the Roman government. These cities were represented for a time in the popular assembly, or Cortes, but under the reign of Ferdinand and Isabella the Cortes were seldom called, and when they were, it was for the advantage of the sovereign rather than of the people. Many attempts were made in Spain, from time to time, to fan into flame this enthusiasm for popular representation, but the predominance of monarchy and the dogmatic centralized power of the church tended to {342} repress all real liberty. Even in these later days sudden bursts of enthusiasm for constitutional liberty and constitutional privilege are heard from the southern peninsula; but the transition into monarchy was so sudden that the rights of the people were forever curtailed. The frequent outbursts for liberty and popular government came from the centres where persisted the ideas of freedom planted by the northern barbarians. _Democracy in the Swiss Cantons_.--It is the boast of some of the rural districts of Switzerland, that they never submitted to the feudal régime, that they have never worn the yoke of bondage, and, indeed, that they were never conquered. It is probable that several of the rural communes of Switzerland have never known anything other than a free peasantry. They have continually practised the pure democracy exemplified by the entire body of citizens meeting in the open field to make the laws and to elect their officers. Although it is true that in these rural communities of Switzerland freedom has been a continuous quantity, yet during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries Switzerland, as a whole, was dominated by feudalism. This feudalism differed somewhat from the French feudalism, for it represented a sort of overlordship of absentee feudal chiefs, which, leaving the people more to themselves, made vassalage less irksome. At the beginning of the fourteenth century, in the year 1309, the cantons, Schwyz, Uri, and Unterwalden, lying near Lake Lucerne, gained, through the emperor, Henry VII, the recognition of their independence in all things except allegiance to the empire. Each of these small states had its own government, varying somewhat from that of its neighbors. Yet the rural cantons evinced a strong spirit of pure democracy, for they had already, about half a century previous, formed themselves into a league which proved the germ of confederacy, which perpetuated republican institutions in the Middle Ages. The spirit of freedom prevailing throughout diverse communities brought the remainder of the Swiss cantons into the confederation. {343} The first liberties possessed by the various cantons were indigenous to the soil. From time immemorial they had clung to the ancient right of self-government, and had developed in their midst a local system which feudalism never succeeded in eradicating. It mattered not how diverse their systems of local government, they had a common cause against feudal domination, and this brought them into a close union in the attempt to throw off such domination. It is one of the remarkable phenomena of political history, that proud, aristocratic cities with monarchial tendencies could be united with humble and rude communes which held expressly to pure democracy. It is but another illustration of the truth that a particular form of government is not necessary to the development of liberty, but it is the spirit, bravery, independence, and unity of the people that make democracy possible. Another important truth, also, is illustrated here--that Italian, German, and French people who respect each other's liberty and have a common cause may dwell together on a basis of unity and mutual support. Switzerland stands, then, for the perpetuation of the early local liberties of the people. It has always been the synonym of freedom and the haven of refuge for the politically oppressed of all nations, and its freedom has always had a tendency to advance civilization, not only within the boundaries of the Swiss government, but throughout all Europe. Progressive ideas of religion and education have ever accompanied liberty in political affairs. The long struggle with the feudal lords and the monarchs of European governments, and with the Emperor of Germany, united the Swiss people on a basis of common interests and developed a spirit of independence. At the same time, it had a tendency to warp their judgments respecting the religious rights and liberties of a people, and more than once the Swiss have shown how narrow in conception of government a republic can be. Yet, upon the whole, it must be conceded that the watch-fires of liberty have never been extinguished in Switzerland, and that the light they {344} have shed has illumined many dark places in Europe and America. _The Ascendancy of Monarchy_.--Outside of Switzerland the faint beginning of popular representation was gradually overcome by the ascendancy of monarchy. Feudalism, after its decline, was rapidly followed by the development of monarchy throughout Europe. The centralization of power became a universal principle, uniting in one individual the government of an entire nation. It was an expression of unity, and was essential to the redemption of Europe from the chaotic state in which it had been left by declining feudalism. Monarchy is not necessarily the rule of a single individual. It may be merely the proclamation of the will of the people through one man, the expression of the voice of the people from a single point. Of all forms of government a monarchy is best adapted to a nation or people needing a strong central government able to act with precision and power. As illustrative of this, it is a noteworthy fact that the old Lombard league of confederated states could get along very well until threatened with foreign invasion; then they needed a king. The Roman republic, with consuls and senate, moved on very well in times of peace, but in times of war it was necessary to have a dictator, whose voice should have the authority of law. The President of the United States is commander-in-chief of the army, which position in time of war gives him a power almost resembling imperialism. Could Greece have presented against her invaders a strong monarchy which could unite all her heroes in one common command, her enemies would not so easily have prevailed against her. Monarchy, then, in the development of European life seemed merely a stage of progress not unlike that of feudalism itself--a stage of progressive government; and it was only when it was carried to a ridiculous extreme in France and in England--in France under the Louis's and in England under the Stuarts--that it finally appeared detrimental to the highest interests of the people. On the other hand, the weak {345} republicanism of the Middle Ages had not sufficient unity or sufficient aggressiveness to maintain itself, and gave way to what was then a form of government better adapted to conditions and surroundings. But the fires of liberty, having been once lighted, were to burst forth again in a later period and burn with sufficient heat to purify the governments of the world. _Beginning of Constitutional Liberty in England_.--When the Normans entered England, feudalism was in its infancy and wanted yet the form of the Roman system. The kings of the English people soon became the kings of England, and the feudal system spread over the entire island. But this feudalism was already in the grasp of monarchy which prevailed much more easily in England than in France. There came a time in England, as elsewhere, when the people, seeking their liberties, were to be united with the king to suppress the feudal nobility, and there sprang up at this time some elements of popular representative government, most plainly visible in the parliament of Simon de Montfort (1265) and the "perfect parliament" of 1295, the first under the reign of Henry III, and the second under Edward I. In one or two instances prior to this, county representation was summoned in parliament in order to facilitate the method of assessing and collecting taxes, but these two parliaments marked the real beginnings of constitutional liberty in England, so far as local representation is concerned. Prior to this, in 1215, the nobles and the commons, working together, had wrested the concession of the great _Magna Charta_ from King John, and thus had established a precedent of the right of each class of individuals to have its share in the government of the realm; under its declaration king, nobility, and commons, each a check upon the other, each struggling for power, and all developing through the succeeding generations the liberty of the people under the constitution. This long, slow process of development, reminding one somewhat of the struggle of the plebeians of Rome against the patricians, {346} finally made the lower house of parliament, which represents the people of the realm, the most prominent factor in the government of the English people--and at last, without a cataclysm like the French Revolution, established liberty of speech, popular representation, and religious liberty. We find, then, that in England and in other parts of Europe a liberalizing tendency set in after monarchy had been established and become predominant, which limited the actions of kings and declared for the liberties of the people. Imperialism in monarchy was limited by the constitution of the people. England laid the foundations of democracy in recognizing the rights of representation of all classes. SUBJECTS FOR FURTHER STUDY 1. What phases of popular government are to be noted in the Italian cities? 2. What is the relation of "enlightened absolutism" to social progress? 3. The characteristics of mediaeval guilds. 4. Why were the guilds discontinued? 5. The rise and decline of popular assemblies and rural communes of France. 6. The nature of the government of the Swiss cantons. 7. The transition from feudalism to monarchy. 8. In what ways was the idea of popular government perpetuated in Europe? {347} CHAPTER XXII THE INTELLECTUAL AWAKENING OF EUROPE _Social Evolution Is Dependent Upon Variation_.--The process by which ideas are born and propagated in human society is strangely analogous to the methods of biological evolution. The laws of survival, of adaptation, of variation and mutation prevail, and the evidence of conspicuous waste is ever present. The grinding and shifting of human nature under social law is similar to the grinding and shifting of physical nature under organic law. When we consider the length of time it takes physical nature to accomplish the ultimate of fixed values, seventy millions of years or more to produce an oak-tree, millions of years to produce a horse or a man, we should not be impatient with the slow processes of human society nor the waste of energy in the process. For human society arises out of the confusion of ideas and progresses according to the law of survival. New ideas must be accepted, diffused, used, and adapted to new conditions. It would seem that Europe had sufficient knowledge of life contributed by the Orient, by Greek, Roman, and barbarian to go forward; but first must come a period of readjustment of old truth to new environment and the discovery of new truth. For several centuries, in the Dark Ages, the intellectual life of man lay dormant. Then must come a quickening of the spirit before the world could advance. However, in considering human progress, the day of small things must "not be despised." For in the days of confusion and low tide of regression there are being established new modes of life and thought which through right adaptation will flow on into the full tide of progress. Revivals come which gather up and utilize the scattered and confused ideas of life, adapting and utilizing them by setting new standards and imparting new impulses of progress. {348} _The Revival of Progress Throughout Europe_.--Human society, as a world of ideas, is a continuous quantity, and therefore it is difficult to mark off any definite period of time to show social causation. Roughly speaking, the period from the beginning of the eighth century to the close of the fifteenth is a period of intellectual ferment, the climax of which extended from the eleventh to the close of the fifteenth century. It was in this period that the forces were gathering in preparation for the achievements of the modern era of progress. There was one general movement, an awakening along the whole line of human endeavor in the process of transition from the old world to the new. It was a revival of art, language, literature, philosophy, theology, politics, law, trade, commerce, and the additions of invention and discovery. It was the period of establishing schools and laying the foundation of universities. In this there was a more or less continuous progress of the freedom of the mind, which permitted reflective thought, which subsequently led on to the religious reformation that permitted freedom of belief, and the French Revolution, which permitted freedom of political action. It was the rediscovery of the human mind, a quickening of intellectual liberty, a desire of alert minds for something new. It was a call for humanity to move forward. _The Revival of Learning a Central Idea of Progress_.--As previously stated, the church had taken to itself by force of circumstances the power in the Western world relinquished by the fallen Roman Empire. In fighting the battles against unbelief, ignorance, and political corruption, it had become a powerful hierarchy. As the conservator of learning, it eventually began to settle the limits of knowledge and belief on its own interpretation and to force this upon the world. It saved the elements of knowledge from the destruction of the barbarians, but in turn sought to lock up within its own precincts of belief the thoughts of the ages, presuming to do the thinking for the world. It became dogmatic, arbitrary, conservative, and conventional. Moreover, this had become the {349} attitude of all inert Europe. The several movements that sought to overcome this stifling condition of the mind are called the "revival of learning." A more specific use of the term renaissance, or revival of learning, refers especially to the restoration of the intellectual continuity of Europe, or the rebirth of the human mind. It is generally applied to what is known as humanism, or the revival of classical learning. Important as this phase of general progress is, it can be considered only as a part of the great revival of progress. Humanism, or the revival of classical learning, having its origin and first great impulse in Italy, it has become customary to use humanism and the Italian renaissance interchangeably, yet without careful consideration; for although the Italian renaissance is made up largely of humanism, it had such wide-reaching consequences on the progress of all Europe as not to be limited by the single influence of the revival of the classical learning. _Influence of Charlemagne_.--Clovis founded the Frankish kingdom, which included the territory now occupied by France and the Netherlands. Subsequently this kingdom was enlarged under the rule of Charles Martel, who turned back the Moslem invasion at Poitiers in 732, and became ruler of Europe north of the Alps. His son Pepin enlarged and strengthened the kingdom, so that when his successor Charlemagne came into power in 768 he found himself in control of a vast inland empire. He conquered Rome and all north Italy and assumed the title of Roman emperor. The movement of Charlemagne was a slight and even a doubtful beginning of the revival. Possibly his reform was a faint flickering of the watch-fires of intellectual and civil activity, but they went out and darkness obscured the horizon until the breaking of the morn of liberty. Yet in the darkness of the ages that followed new forces were forming unobserved by the contemporary historian--forces which should give a new awakening to the mind of all Europe. Charlemagne re-established the unity of government which {350} had been lost in the decline of the old Roman government; he enlarged the boundary of the empire, established an extensive system of administration, and promoted law and order. He did more than this: he promoted religion by favoring the church in the advancement of its work throughout the realm. But unfortunately, in the attempt to break down feudalism, he increased it by giving large donations to the church, and so helped to develop ecclesiastical feudalism, and laid the foundation of subsequent evils. He was a strong warrior, a great king, and a master of civil government. Charlemagne believed in education, and insisted that the clergy should be educated, and he established schools for the education of his subjects. He promoted learning among his civil officers by establishing a school all the graduates of which were to receive civil appointments. It was the beginning of the civil service method in Europe. Charlemagne was desirous, too, of promoting learning of all kinds, and gathered together the scattered fragments of the German language, and tried to advance the educational interests of his subjects in every direction. But the attempts to make learning possible, apparently, passed for naught in later days when the iron rule of Charlemagne had passed away, and the weaker monarchs who came after him were unable to sustain his system. Darkness again spread over Europe, to be dispelled finally by other agencies. _The Attitude of the Church Was Retrogressive_.--The attitude of the Christian church toward learning in the Middle Ages was entirely arbitrary. It had become thoroughly institutionalized and was not in sympathy with the changes that were taking place outside of its own policy. It assumed an attitude of hostility to everything that tended toward the development of free and independent thought outside the dictates of the authorities of the church. It found itself, therefore, in an attitude of bitter opposition to the revival of learning which had spread through Europe. It was unfortunate that the church appeared so diametrically opposed to freedom of {351} thought and independent activity of mind. Even in England, when the new learning was first introduced, although Henry VIII favored it, the church in its blind policy opposed it, and when the renaissance in Germany had passed continuously into the Reformation, Luther opposed the new learning with as much vigor as did the papalists themselves. But from the fact of the church's assuming this attitude toward the new learning, it must not be inferred that there was no learning within the church, for there were scholars in theology, logic, and law, astute and learned. Yet the church assumed that it had a sort of proprietorship or monopoly of learning, and that only what it might see fit to designate was to receive attention, and then only in the church's own way; all other knowledge was to be opposed. The ecclesiastical discussions gave evidence of intense mental activity within the church, but, having little knowledge of the outside world to invigorate it or to give it something tangible upon which to operate, the mind passed into speculative fields that were productive of little permanent culture. Dwelling only upon a few fundamental conceptions at first, it soon tired itself out with its own weary round. The church recognized in all secular advocates of literature and learning its own enemies, and consequently began to expunge from the literary world as far as possible the remains of the declining Roman and Greek culture. It became hostile to Greek and Latin literature and art and sought to repress them. In the rise of new languages and literature in new nationalities every attempt was made by the church to destroy the effects of the pagan life. The poems and sagas treating of the religion and mythologies of these young, rising nationalities were destroyed. The monuments of the first beginnings of literature, the products of a period so hard to compass by the historian, were served in the same way as were the Greek and Latin masterpieces. The church said, if men will persist in study, let them ponder the precepts of the gospels as interpreted by the church. {352} For those who inquired about the problems of life, the churchmen pointed to the creeds and the dogmas of the church, which had settled all things. If men were too persistent in inquiring about the nature of this world, they were told that it is of little importance, only a prelude to the world to come; that they should spend their time in preparation for the future. Even as great a man as Gregory of Tours said: "Let us shun the lying fables of the poets and forego the wisdom of the sages at enmity with God, lest we incur the condemnation of endless death by the sentence of our Lord." Saint Augustine deplored the waste of time spent in reading Virgil, while Alcuin regretted that in his boyhood he had preferred Virgil to the legends of the saints. With the monks such considerations gave excuse for laziness and disregard of rhetoric. But in this movement of hostility to the new learning, the church went too far, and soon found the entire ecclesiastical system face to face with a gross ignorance, which must be eradicated or the superstructure would fall. As Latin was the only vehicle of thought in those days, it became a necessity that the priests should study Virgil and the other Latin authors, consequently the churches passed from their opposition to pagan authors to a careful utilization of them, until the whole papal court fell under the influence of the revival of learning, and popes and prelates became zealous in the promotion and, indeed, in the display of learning. When the son of Lorenzo the Magnificent became Pope Leo X, the splendor of the ducal court of Florence passed to the papal throne, and no one was more zealous in the patronage of learning than he. He encouraged learning and art of every kind, and built a magnificent library. It was merely the transferrence of the pomp of the secular court to the papacy. Such was the attitude of the church toward the new learning--first, a bitter opposition; second, a forced toleration; and third, the absorption of its best products. Yet in all this the spirit of the church was not for the freedom of mind nor independence of thought. It could not recognize this freedom nor {353} the freedom of religious belief until it had been humiliated by the spirit of the Reformation. _Scholastic Philosophy Marks a Step in Progress_.--There arose in the ninth century a speculative philosophy which sought to harmonize the doctrine of the church with the philosophy of Neo-Platonism and the logic of Aristotle. The scholastic philosophy may be said to have had its origin with John Scotus Erigena, who has been called "the morning star of scholasticism." He was the first bold thinker to assert the supremacy of reason and openly to rebel against the dogma of the church. In laying the foundation of his doctrine, he starts with a philosophical explanation of the universe. His writings and translations were forerunners of mysticism and set forth a peculiar pantheistic conception. His doctrine appears to ignore the pretentious authority of the church of his time and to refer to the earlier church for authority. In so doing he incorporated the doctrine of emanation advanced by the Neo-Platonists, which held that out of God, the supreme unity, evolve the particular forms of goodness, and that eventually all things will return to God. In like manner, in the creation of the universe the species comes from the genera by a process of unfolding. The complete development and extension of scholastic philosophy did not come until the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. The term "scholastics" was first applied to those who taught in the cloister schools founded by Charlemagne. It was at a later period applied to the teachers of the seven liberal arts--grammar, rhetoric, and dialectic, in the _Trivium,_ and arithmetic, geometry, music, and astronomy, in the _Quadrivium_. Finally it was applied to all persons who occupied themselves with science or philosophy. Scholastic philosophy in its completed state represents an attempt to harmonize the doctrines of the church with Aristotelian philosophy. There were three especial doctrines developed in the scholastic philosophy, called respectively nominalism, realism, and conceptualism. The first asserted that there are no generic {354} types, and consequently no abstract concepts. The formula used to express the vital point in nominalism is "_Universalia post rem_." Its advocates asserted that universals are but names. Roscellinus was the most important advocate of this doctrine. In the fourteenth century William of Occam revived the subject of nominalism, and this had much to do with the downfall of scholasticism, for its inductive method suggested the acquiring of knowledge through observation. Realism was a revival of the Platonic doctrine that ideas are the only real things. The formula for it was "_Universalia ante rem_." By it the general name preceded that of the species. Universal concepts represent the real; all else is merely illustrative of the real. The only real sphere is the one held in the mind, mathematically correct in every way. Balls and globes and other actual things are but the illustrations of the genus. Perhaps Anselm was the strongest advocate of this method of reasoning. It remained for Abelard to unite these two theories of philosophical reasoning into one, called conceptualism. He held that universals are not ideals, but that they exist in the things themselves. The formula given was "_Universalia in re_." This was a step in advance, and laid something of a foundation for the philosophy of classification in modern science. The scholastic philosophers did much to sharpen reason and to develop the mind, but they failed for want of data. Indeed, this has been the common failure of man, for in the height of civilization men speculate without sufficient knowledge. Even in the beginning of scientific thought, for lack of facts, men spent much of their time in speculation. The scholastic philosophers were led to consider many unimportant questions which could not be well settled. They asked the church authorities why the sacramental wine and bread turned into blood and flesh, and what was the necessity of the atonement? And in considering the nature of pure being they asked: "How many angels can dance at once on the point of a needle?" and "In moving from point to point, do angels pass through {355} intervening space?" They asked seriously whether "angels had stomachs," and "if a starving ass were placed exactly midway between two stacks of hay would he ever move?" But it must not be inferred that these people were as ridiculous as they appear, for each question had its serious side. Having no assistance from science, they fell single-handed upon dogmatism; yet many times they busied themselves with unprofitable discussions, and some of them became the advocates of numerous doctrines and dogmas which had a tendency to confuse knowledge, although in defense of which wits were sharpened. Lord Bacon, in a remarkable passage, has characterized the scholastic philosophers as follows: "This kind of degenerate learning did chiefly reign among the schoolmen, who--having sharp and strong wits and abundance of leisure and small variety of reading, but their wits being shut up in the cells of a few authors (chiefly Aristotle, their dictator) as their persons were shut up in the cells of monasteries and colleges, and having little history, either of nature or of time--did, out of no great quantity of matter and infinite agitation of wit, spin out unto us those laborious webs of learning which are extant in their books. For the wit and mind of man, if it work upon matter which is the contemplation of the creatures of God, worketh according to the stuff and is limited thereby; but if it work upon itself, as the spider worketh its web, then it is endless, and brings forth indeed cobwebs of learning, admirable for the fineness of thread and work, but of no substance or profit."[1] Scholasticism, as the first phase of the revival of learning, though overshadowed by tradition and mediaeval dogmatism, showed great earnestness of purpose in ascertaining the truth by working "the wit and mind of man"; but it worked not "according to the stuff," and, having little to feed upon, it produced only speculations of truth and indications of future possibilities. There were many bright men among the scholastic {356} philosophers, especially in the thirteenth century, who left their impress upon the age; yet scholasticism itself was affected by dogmatism and short-sightedness, and failed to utilize the means at its hand for the improvement of learning. It exercised a tyranny over all mental endeavor, for the reason that it was obliged in all of its efforts to carry through all of its reasoning the heavy weight of dogmatic theology. Whatever else it attempted, it could not shake itself free from this incubus of learning, through a great system of organized knowledge, which hung upon the thoughts and lives of men and attempted to explain all things in every conceivable way. But to show that independent thinking was a crime one has only to refer to the results of the knowledge of Roger Bacon, who advanced his own methods of observation and criticism. Had the scholastics been able to accept what he clearly pointed out to them, namely, that reason can advance only by finding, through observation, new material upon which to work, science might have been active a full century in advance of what it was. He laid the foundation of experimental science, and pointed out the only way in which the revival of learning could be made permanent, but his voice was unheeded by those around him, and it remained for the philosophers of succeeding generations to estimate his real worth. _Cathedral and Monastic Schools_.--There were two groups of schools under the management of the church, known as the cathedral and monastic schools. The first represented the schools that had developed in the cathedrals for the sons of lay members of the church; the second, those in the monasteries that were devoted largely to the education of the ministry. To understand fully the position of these schools it is necessary to go back a little and refer to the educational forces of Europe. For a long period after Alexandria had become established as a great centre of learning, Athens was really the centre of education in the East, and this city held her sway in educational affairs down to the second century. The influence of the traditions of great teachers and the encouragement and {357} endowments given by emperors kept up a school at Athens, to which flocked the youth of the land who desired a superior education. Finally, when the great Roman Empire joined to itself the Greek culture, there sprang up what was known as the Greek and Roman schools, or Graeco-Roman schools, although Rome was not without its centre of education at the famous Athenaeum. In these Graeco-Roman schools were taught grammar, rhetoric, and dialectic, music, arithmetic, geometry, and astronomy. The grammar of that day frequently included language, criticism, history, literature, metre; the dialectic considered logic, metaphysics, and ethics; while rhetoric contemplated the fitting of the youth for public life and for the law. But these schools, though dealing in real knowledge for a time, gradually declined, chiefly on account of the declining moral powers of the empire and the relaxation of intellectual activity, people thinking more of ease and luxury and the power of wealth than of actual accomplishment. The internal disorganization, unjust taxation, and unjust rule of the empire had also a tendency to undermine education. The coming of the barbarians, with their honest, illiterate natures, had its influence, likewise, in overthrowing the few schools that remained. The rise of Christianity, which supposed that all pagan literature and pagan knowledge were of the devil, and hence to be suppressed, opposed secular teaching, and tended to dethrone these schools. Constantine's effort to unite the church and state tended for a while to perpetuate secular institutions. But the pagan schools passed away; the philosophy of the age had run its course until it had become a hollow assumption, a desert of words, a weary round of speculation without vitality of expression; and the activity of the sophists in these later times narrowed all literary courses until they dwindled into mere matters of form. Perhaps, owing to its force, power, and dignity, the Roman law retained a vital {358} position in the educational curriculum. The school at Athens was suppressed in 529 by Justinian, because, as it had been claimed, it was tainted with Oriental philosophy and allied with Egyptian magic, and hence could not develop ethical standards. It is easy to observe how the ideas of Christian learning came into direct competition with the arrogant self-assumption and the hollowness of the selfish teachings of the old Graeco-Roman schools. The Christian doctrine, advocating the development of the individual life, intimate relations with God, the widening of social functions, with its teachings of humility, and humanity, could not tolerate the instruction given in these schools. Moreover, the Christian doctrine of education consisted, on the one hand, in preparing for the future life, and on the other, in the preparation of Christian ministers to teach this future life. As might be expected, when narrowed to this limit, Christian education had its dwarfing influence. If salvation were an important thing and salvation were to be obtained only by the denial of the life of this world, then there would be no object in perpetuating learning, no attempt to cultivate the mind, no tendency to develop the whole man on account of his moral and intellectual worth. The use of secular books was everywhere discouraged. As a result the instruction of the religious schools was of a very meagre nature. Within the monasteries devotional exercises and the study of the Scriptures represented the chief intellectual development of the monks. The Western monks required a daily service and a systematic training, but the practice of the Eastern monks was not educational in its nature at all. After a while persons who were not studying for religious vows were admitted to the schools that they might understand the Bible and the services of the church. They were taught to write, that they might copy the manuscripts of the church fathers, the sacred books, and the psalter; they were taught arithmetic, that they might be able to calculate the return of Easter and the other festivals; they were taught music, that they might {359} be able to chant well. But the education in any line was in itself superficial and narrow. The Benedictine order was exceptional in the establishment of better schools and in promoting better educational influences. Their curriculum consisted of the Old and New Testaments, the exposition of the Scriptures by learned theologians, and the discourses, or conversations, of Cassianus; yet, as a rule, the monks cared little for knowledge as such, not even for theological knowledge. The monasteries, however, constituted the great clerical societies, where many prepared for secular pursuits. The monasteries of Ireland furnished many learned scholars to England, Scotland, and Germany, as well as to Ireland; yet it was only a monastic education which they exported. Finally it became customary to found schools within the monasteries, and this was the beginning of the church schools of the Middle Ages. Formal and meagre as the instruction of these schools was, it represents a beginning in church education. But in the seventh and eighth centuries they again declined, and learning retrograded very much; literature was forgotten; the monks and friars boasted of their ignorance. The reforms of Charlemagne restored somewhat the educational status of the new empire, and not only developed the church schools and cathedral schools but also founded some secular schools. The cathedral schools became in many instances centres of learning apart from monasticism. The textbooks, however, of the Middle Ages were chiefly those of Boethius, Isidor, and Capella, and were of the most meagre content and character. That of Capella, as an illustration, was merely an allegory, which showed the seven liberal arts in a peculiar representation. The logic taught in the schools was that given by Alcuin; the arithmetic was limited to the reckoning of holidays and festivals; astronomy was limited to a knowledge of the names and courses of the stars; geometry was composed of the first four books of Euclid, and supplemented with a large amount of geography. {360} But all this learning was valued merely as a support to the church and the church authorities, and for little else. Yet there had been schools of importance founded at Paris, Bologna, and Padua, and at other places which, although they were not the historical foundations of the universities, no doubt became the means, the traditional means, of the establishment of universities at these places. Also, many of the scholars, such as Theodore of Tarsus, Adalbert, Bede, and Alcuin, who studied Latin and Greek and also became learned in other subjects, were not without their influence. _The Rise of Universities_.[2]--An important phase of this period of mediaeval development was the rise of universities. Many causes led to their establishment. In the eleventh century the development of independent municipal power brought the noble and the burgher upon the same level, and developed a common sentiment for education. The activity of the crusades, already referred to, developed a thirst for knowledge. There was also a gradual growth of traditional learning, an accumulation of knowledge of a certain kind, which needed classification, arrangement, and development. By degrees the schools of Arabia, which had been prominent in their development, not only of Oriental learning but of original investigation, had given a quickening impulse to learning throughout southern Europe. The great division of the church between the governed and governing had led to the development of a strong lay feeling as opposed to monasticism or ecclesiasticism. Perhaps the growth of local representative government had something to do with this. But the time came when great institutions were chartered at these centres of learning. Students flocked to Bologna, where law was taught; to Salerno, where medicine was the chief subject; and to Paris, where philosophy and theology predominated. At first these schools were open to all, without special rules. Subsequently they were organized, and finally were chartered. In those days students elected their own {361} instructors and built up their own organization. The schools were usually called _universitas magistrorum et scholarium_. They were merely assemblages of students and instructors, a sort of scholastic guild or combination of teachers and scholars, formed first for the protection of their members, and later allowed by pope and emperor the privilege of teaching, and finally given the power by these same authorities to grant degrees. The result of these schools was the widening of the influence of education. The universities proposed to teach what was found in a new and revived literature and to adopt a new method of presenting truth. Yet, with all these widening foundations, there was a tendency to be bound by traditional learning. The scholastic philosophy itself invaded the universities and had its influence in breaking down the scientific spirit. Not only was this true of the universities of the continent, but of those of England as well. The German universities, however, were less affected by this tendency of scholasticism. Founded at a later period, when the Renaissance was about to be merged into the Reformation, there was a wider foundation of knowledge, a more earnest zeal in its pursuit, and also a tendency for the freedom and activity of the mind which was not observed elsewhere. The universities may be said to mark an era in the development of intellectual life. They became centres where scholars congregated, centres for the collection of knowledge; and when the humanistic idea fully prevailed, in many instances they encouraged the revival of classical literature and the study of those things pertaining to human life. The universities entertained and practised free discussion of all subjects, which made an important landmark of progress. They encouraged people to give a reason for philosophy and faith, and prepared the way for scientific investigation and experiment. _Failure to Grasp Scientific Methods_.--Perhaps the greatest wonder in all this accumulation of knowledge, quickening of the mind, philosophy, and speculation, is that men of so much {362} learning failed to grasp scientific methods. Could they but have turned their attention to systematic methods of investigation based upon facts logically stated, the vast intellectual energy of the Middle Ages might have been turned to more permanent account. It is idle, however, to deplore their ignorance of these conditions or to ridicule their want of learning. When we consider the ignorance that overshadowed the land, the breaking down of the old established systems of Greece and Rome, the struggle of the church, which grew naturally into its power and made conservatism an essential part of its life; indeed, when we consider that the whole medieval system was so impregnated with dogmatism and guided by tradition, it is a marvel that so many men of intellect and power raised their voices in the defense of truth, and that so much advancement was made in the earnest desire for truth. _Inventions and Discoveries_.--The quickening influence of discovery was of great moment in giving enlarged views of life. The widening of the geographical horizon tended to take men out of their narrow boundaries and their limited conceptions of the world, into a larger sphere of mental activity, and to teach them that there was much beyond their narrow conceptions to be learned. The use of gunpowder changed the method of warfare and revolutionized the financial system of nations. The perfection of the mariner's compass reformed navigation and made great sea voyages possible; the introduction of printing increased the dissemination of knowledge; the building of great cathedrals had a tendency to develop architecture, and the contact with Oriental learning developed art. These phases tended to assist the mind in the attempt to free itself from bondage. _The Extension of Commerce Hastened Progress_.--But more especially were men's ideas enlarged and their needs supplied by the widening reach of commerce. Through its exchanges it distributed the food-supply, and thus not only preserved thousands from want but furnished leisure for others to study. It had a tendency to distribute the luxuries of manufactured {363} articles, and to quicken the activity of the mind by giving exchange of ideas. Little by little the mariners, plying their trade, pushed farther and farther into unknown seas, and at last brought the products of every clime in exchange for those of Europe. The manner in which commerce developed the cities of Italy and of the north has already been referred to. Through this development the foundations of local government were laid. The manner in which it broke down the feudal system after receiving the quickening impulse of the crusades has also been dealt with. In addition to its influence in these changes, it brought about an increased circulation of money--which also struck at the root of feudalism, in destroying the mediaeval manor and serfdom, for men could buy their freedom from serfdom with money--which also made taxation possible; and the possibility of taxation had a vast deal to do with the building up of new nations and stimulating national life. Moreover, as a distributer of habits and customs, commerce developed uniformity of political and social life and made for national solidarity. SUBJECTS FOR FURTHER STUDY 1. What is meant by Renaissance, Revival of Learning, Revival of Progress and Humanism, as applied to the mediaeval period? 2. The causes of the Revival of Progress. 3. The direct influence of humanism. 4. The attitude of the church toward freedom of thought. 5. The scholastic philosophy, its merits and its defects. 6. What did the following persons stand for in human progress: Dante, Savonarola, Charlemagne, John Scotus Erigena, Thomas Aquinas, Abelard, William of Occam, Roger Bacon? 7. Rise of universities. How did they differ from modern universities? [1] _Advancement of Learning_, iv, 5. [2] See Chapter XXIX. {364} CHAPTER XXIII HUMANISM AND THE REVIVAL OF LEARNING Perhaps the most important branch of the revival of learning is that which is called humanism, or the revival of the study of the masterpieces of Greek and Latin literature. The promoters of this movement are called humanists, because they held that the study of the classics, or _litterae humaniores_, is the best humanizing agent. It has already been shown how scholasticism developed as one of the important phases of the renaissance, and how, close upon its track, the universities rose as powerful aids to the revival of learning, and that the cathedral and monastic schools were the traditional forerunners of the great universities. Primarily, then, were taught in the universities scholastic philosophy, theology, the Roman and the canon law, with slight attention to Greek and Hebrew, the real value of the treasures of antiquity being unknown to the Western world. The Arabic or Saracen schools of Spain had taken high rank in learning, and through their efforts the scientific works of Aristotle were presented to the mediaeval world. There were many men of importance, such as Roger Bacon, Albertus Magnus, who were leaders in universities and who lent their influence to the development of learning in Europe. The translation of the scientific works of Aristotle into Latin at the beginning of the thirteenth century by Thomas Aquinas had its influence. But, after all, scholasticism had settled down to speculative ideas within the universities and without, and little attention was paid to the old classical authors. _The Discovery of Manuscripts_.--The real return to the study of Greek literature and art finally came through the fortunate discoveries of ancient sculpture and ancient manuscripts on the occasion of the turning of the mind of Europe {365} toward the Eastern learning. The fall of the Eastern Empire accelerated the transfer of learning and culture to the West. The discovery and use of old manuscripts brought a survival of classical literature and of the learning of antiquity. The bringing of this literature to light gave food for thought and means of study, and turned the mind from its weary round of speculative philosophy to a large body of literature containing the views of the ancients respecting the progress and development of man. As has been heretofore shown, the Greeks, seeking to explain things by the human reason, although not advanced far in experimental science, had accomplished much by way of logical thought based upon actual facts. They had turned from credulity to inquiry. _Who Were the Humanists?_--Dante was not a humanist, but he may be said to have been the forerunner of the Italian humanists, for he furnished inspiration to Petrarch, the so-called founder of humanism. His magnificent creation of _The Divine Comedy_, his service in the foundation of the Italian language, and his presentation of the religious influence of the church in a liberal manner made him a great factor in the humanizing of Europe. Dante was neither modern nor ancient. He stood at the parting of the ways controlling the learning of the past and looking toward the open door of the future, and directed thought everywhere to the Latin. His masterpiece was well received through all Italy, and gave an impulse to learning in many ways. Petrarch was the natural successor of Dante. The latter immortalized the past; the former invoked the spirit of the future. He showed great enthusiasm in the discovery of old manuscripts, and brought into power more fully the Latin language. He also attempted to introduce Greek into the Western world, but in this he was only partially successful. But in his wide search for manuscripts, monasteries and cathedrals were ransacked and the literary treasures which the monks had copied and preserved through centuries, the products of the classical writers of the early times, were brought to {366} light. Petrarch was an enthusiast, even a sentimentalist. But he was bold in his expression of the full and free play of the intellect, in his denunciation of formalism and slavery to tradition. The whole outcome of his life, too, was a tendency toward moral and aesthetic aggrandizement. Inconsistent in many things, his life may be summed up as a bold remonstrance against the binding influences of tradition and an enthusiasm for something new. "We are, therefore," says Symonds,[1] "justified in hailing Petrarch as the Columbus of a new spiritual hemisphere, the discoverer of modern culture. That he knew no Greek, that his Latin verse was lifeless and his prose style far from pure, that his contributions to history and ethics have been superseded, and that his epistles are now read only by antiquaries, cannot impair his claim to this title. From him the inspiration needed to quicken curiosity and stimulate zeal for knowledge proceeded. But for his intervention in the fourteenth century it is possible that the revival of learning, and all that it implies, might have been delayed until too late." His influence was especially felt by those who followed him, and his enthusiasm made him a successful promoter of the new learning. But it remained for Boccaccio, who was of a more practical turn of mind than Petrarch, to systematize the classical knowledge of antiquity. If Petrarch was an enthusiastic collector, Boccaccio was a practical worker. With the aid of Petrarch, he was the first to introduce a professor of Greek language and literature into Italy, and through this influence he secured a partial translation of Homer. Boccaccio began at an early age to read the classical authors and to repent the years he had spent in the study of law and in commercial pursuits. It was Petrarch's example, more than anything else, which caused Boccaccio to turn his attention to literature. By persistence and vigor in study, he was enabled to accomplish much by his own hand in the translation of the authors, and in middle life {367} he began a persistent and successful study of Greek. His contributions to learning were great, and his turn toward naturalism was of immense value in the foundation of modern literature. He infused a new spirit in the common literature of the times. He turned away from asceticism, and frankly and openly sought to justify the pleasures of life. Although his teaching may not be of the most wholesome kind, it was far-reaching in its influence in turning the mind toward the importance and desirability of the things of this life. Stories of "beautiful gardens and sunny skies, fair women and luxurious lovers" may not have been the most healthful diet for universal consumption; they introduced a new element into the literature of the period and turned the thoughts of men from the speculative to the natural. A long line of Italian writers followed these three great master spirits and continued to develop the desire for classical literature. For such power and force did these men have that they turned the whole tide of thought toward the masterpieces of the Greeks and Romans. _Relation of Humanism to Language and Literature_.--When the zeal for the classical learning declined somewhat, there sprang up in Italy a group of Italian poets who were the founders of an Italian literature. They received their impulse from the classical learning, and, turning their attention to the affairs which surrounded them, developed a new literature. The inspiration which humanism had given to scholars of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries had a tendency to develop a literary spirit among all classes of students. The products of the Italian literature, however, brought out through the inspiration of humanistic studies, were not great masterpieces. While the number and variety were considerable, the quality was inferior when the intellectual power of the times is considered. The great force of Italian intellect had been directed toward classical manuscripts, and hence failed to develop a literature that had real originality. Perhaps among the few great Italian writers of these times {368} may be mentioned Guicciardini and Machiavelli. The former wrote a history of Italy, and the latter is rendered immortal by his _Prince_. Guicciardini was a native of Florence, who had an important position in the service of Leo X. As professor of jurisprudence, ambassador to Spain, and subsequently minister of Leo X, governor of Modena, lieutenant-general of the pope in the campaign against the French, president of the Romagna and governor of Bologna, he had abundant opportunity for the study of the political conditions of Italy. He is memorable for his admirable history of Italy, as a talented Florentine and as a member of the Medicean party. Machiavelli, in his _Prince_, desired to picture the type of rulers needed to meet the demands of Italy at the time he wrote. It is a picture of imperialism and, indeed, of despotism. The prince or ruler was in no way obliged to consider the feelings and rights of individuals. Machiavelli said it was not necessary that a prince should be moral, humane, religious, or just; indeed, that if he had these qualities and displayed them they would harm him, but if he were new to his place in the principality he might seem to have them. It would be as useful to him to keep the path of rectitude when this was not too inconvenient as to know how to deviate from it when circumstances dictate. In other words, a prudent prince cannot and ought not really to keep his word except when he can do it without injury to himself. Among other Italian writers may be mentioned Boiardo, on account of his _Orlando Innamorato_, and Ariosto, who wrote _Orlando Furioso_. Upon the whole, the writings of the period were not worthy of its intellectual development, although Torquato Tasso, in his _Jerusalem Delivered_, presents the first crusade as Homer presented the Trojan War. The small amount of really worthy literature of this age has been attributed to the lack of moral worth. _Art and Architecture_.--Perhaps the renaissance art exceeded that which it replaced in beauty, variety, and naturalness, as well as in exuberance. There was an attempt to make {369} all things beautiful, and no attempt to follow the spirit of asceticism in degrading the human body, but rather to try to delineate every feature as noble in itself. The movement, life, and grace of the human form, the beauty of landscape, all were enjoyed and presented by the artists of the renaissance. The beauty of this life is magnified, and the artists represented in joyous mood the best qualities that are important in the world. They turned the attention from asceticism to the importance of the present life. Perhaps the Italians reached the highest point of development in painting, for the Madonnas of Italy have given her celebrity in art through all succeeding generations. Cimabue was the first to paint the Madonna as a beautiful woman. Giotto followed next, and a multitude of succeeding Madonnas have given Italy renown. Raphael excelled all others in the representation of the Madonna, and was not only the greatest painter of all Italy, but a master artist of all ages. Architecture, however, appears to be the first branch of art that defied the arbitrary power of tradition. It could break away more readily than any other form of art, because of the great variety which existed in different parts of the Roman Empire--the Byzantine in the south of Italy, the Gothic in the north, and Romanesque in Rome and the provinces. There was no conventional law for architectural style, hence innovations could be made with very little opposition. In the search for classical remains, a large number of buildings had already become known, and many more were uncovered as the searching continued. These gave types of architecture which had great influence in building the renaissance art. The changes, beginning with Brunelleschi, were continued until nearly all buildings were completely Romanized. Then came Michael Angelo, who excelled in both architecture and sculpture at Rome, and Palladio, who worked at Venice and Verona. In the larger buildings the Basilica of Rome became the model, or at least the principles of its construction became the prevailing element in architectural design. {370} Florence became the centre of art and letters in the Italian renaissance.[2] Though resembling Athens in many respects, and bearing the same relations to surrounding cities that Athens did to cities in the classic times, her scholars were more modern than those of Greece or Rome, and, indeed, more modern than the scholars who followed after the Florentines, two centuries later. It was an important city, on the Arno, surrounded by hills, a city of flowers, interesting to-day to the modern scholar and student of history. Surrounded by walls, having magnificent gates, with all the modern improvements of paved streets, of sewers, gardens, and spacious parks, it represented in this early period the ideal city life. Even to-day the traveller finds the Palazzo Vecchio, or ancient official residence of the city fathers, and very near this the Loggia dei Lanzi, now filled with the works of precious art, and the Palazzo del Podesta, now used as a national museum, the great cathedral, planned in 1294 by Arnolfo, ready for consecration in 1498, and not yet completed, and many other remarkable relics of this wonderful era. The typical idea in building the cathedral was to make it so beautiful that no other in the world could ever surpass it. Opposite the main door were the gates of Ghiberti, which Michael Angelo, for their great beauty, thought worthy to be the gates of paradise. They close the entrance of the temple of Saint John the Baptist, the city's patron saint. More than a hundred other churches, among them the Santa Croce and the Santa Maria Novella, the latter the resting-place of the Medici, were built in this magnificent city. The churches were not only used for religious worship, but were important for meeting-places of the Florentines. The Arno was crossed by four bridges, of which the Ponte Vecchio, built in the middle of the fourteenth century, alone remains in its original form. Upon it rest two rows of houses, each three stories high, and over this is the passageway from the Palazzo Pitti to the Palazzo Vecchio. In addition to the public buildings of {371} Florence, there were many private residences and palaces of magnificence and splendor. _The Effect of Humanism on Social Manners_.--By the intellectual development of Italy, fresh ideas of culture were infused into common society. To be a gentleman meant to be conversant with poetry, painting, and art, intelligent in conversation and refined in manners. The gentleman must be acquainted with antiquity sufficiently to admire the great men of the past and to reverence the saints of the church. He must understand archaeology in order to speak intelligently of the ancient achievements of the classical people. But this refinement was to a large extent conventional, for there was a lack of genuine moral culture throughout the entire renaissance. These moral defects of Italy in this period have often been the occasion of dissertations by philosophers, and there is a question as to whether this moral condition was caused by the revival of classical learning or the decline of morality in the church. It ought to be considered, without doubt, as an excessive development of certain lines of intellectual supremacy without the accustomed moral guide. The church had for years assumed to be the only moral conservator, indeed the only one morally responsible for the conduct of the world. Yet its teachings at this time led to no self-developed morality; helped no one to walk alone, independent, in the dignity of manhood, for all of its instructions were superimposed and not vital. At last the church fell into flagrant discord under the rule of worldly popes, and this gave a great blow to Italy through the loss of the one great moral control. But the renaissance had in its day a wide-spread influence throughout Europe, and gave us as its result a vitalizing influence to the whole world for centuries to come, although Italy suffered a decline largely on account of its lack of the stable moral character of society. The awakening of the mind from lethargy, the turning away from dogmatism to broader views of life, enlarged duties, and new surroundings causing {372} the most Intense activity of thought, needed some moral stay to make the achievements permanent and enduring. _Relation of Humanism to Science and Philosophy_.--The revival of the freedom of thought of the Greeks brought an antagonism to the logic and the materialistic views of the times. It set itself firmly against tradition of whatsoever sort. The body of man had not been considered with care until anatomy began to be studied in the period of the Italian renaissance. The visionary notions of the world which the people had accepted for a long time began gradually to give way to careful consideration of the exact facts. Patience and loving admiration in the study of man and nature yielded immense returns to the scholars of Italy. It changed the attitude of the thoughtful mind toward life, and prepared the way for new lines of thought and new accomplishments in the world of philosophy and science. Through the scientific discoveries of Galileo and Copernicus and exploration of Columbus, brought about largely by the influence of humanistic studies, were wrought far-reaching consequences in the thought of the age. And finally the scholars of Italy not only threw off scholasticism but also disengaged themselves from the domineering influence of the classical studies and laid the foundation of modern freedom of inquiry. _The Study of the Classics Became Fundamental in Education_.--The modern classical education received its first impulse from the Italian renaissance. As before stated, it was customary for the universities to teach, with some vigor,[3] physics, medicine, law, and philosophy, largely after the manner of the medieval period, though somewhat modified and broadened in the process of thought. But in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, those who taught the ancient languages and literature were much celebrated. Under the title of rhetoric we find progress not only in the study of the Greek and Roman masterpieces, but in a large number of subjects which had a tendency to widen the views of students and to change {373} the trend of the education in universities. It became customary for the towns and cities to have each a public place, an academy, a university, or a hall, for the means of studying the humanistic branches. The professors of the classics passed from town to town, giving instruction where the highest pay was offered. The direct influence of the renaissance on the Italian education, and, indeed, on the English classical education, introduced somewhat later, has continued until this day. Closely connected with the educational influences of the renaissance was the introduction of literary criticism. There was a tendency among the early humanists to be uncritical, but as intelligence advanced and scholarship developed, we find the critical spirit introduced. Form, substance, and character of art and letters were carefully examined. This was the essential outcome of the previous sharp criticism of dogmatic theology and philosophy. _General Influence of Humanism_.--The development of new intellectual ideals was the most important result of this phase of the renaissance. Nor did this extend in any particular direction. A better thought came to be held of God and man's relation to him. Instead of being an arbitrary, domineering creature, he had become in the minds of the people rational and law-loving; instead of being vindictive and fickle, as he was wont to be pictured, he had been endowed with benevolence toward his creatures. The result of all this was that religion itself became more spiritual and the conscience more operative. There was less of formality and conventionality in religion and more of real, devout feeling and consciousness of worthy motive in life, but the church must have more strenuous lessons before spiritual freedom could be fulfilled. Life, too, came to be viewed as something more than merely a temporary expedient, a thing to be viewed as a necessary evil. It had come to be regarded as a noble expression worthy of the thought and the best attention of every individual. This world, too, was meant to be of use and to make people happy. It was to be enjoyed and used as best it might be. {374} The old guild classes finally broke down, and where formerly men thought in groups, a strong individuality developed and man became an independent, thinking being in himself, bound by neither religion nor philosophy. He was larger than either philosophy or religion made him. He was a being of capacity and strength, and enabled to take the best of this life in order to enhance the delight of living. There came, also, with this a large belief in the law and order of the universe. Old beliefs had become obsolete because the people could no longer depend on them. And when these dogmatic formulas ceased to give satisfaction to the human mind, it sought for order in the universe and the laws which controlled it, and the intellectual world then entered the field of research for truth--the field of experiment. SUBJECTS FOR FURTHER STUDY 1. How did the Revival of Learning prepare the way for modern science? 2. What contributions to progress were made by Petrarch, Boccaccio, Michael Angelo, Justinian, Galileo, Copernicus, Columbus? 3. The nature of Machiavelli's political philosophy. 4. Compare Gothic, Romanesque, and Arabian architecture. 5. The status of morals during the period of the intellectual development of Europe. 6. The great weakness of the philosophy of this period. 7. What was the state of organized society and what was the "common man" doing? [1] _Revival of Learning_. [2] See Chapter XXI. [3] See preceding chapter. {375} CHAPTER XXIV THE REFORMATION _The Character of the Reformation_.--The Reformation, or Protestant Revolution, as it is sometimes called, was a movement of such extended relations as to be difficult to define. In general, it was the liberalizing movement of the revival of learning applied to the church. As the church had attempted to be all things to all men, the movement was necessarily far-reaching in its results, affecting not only the religious but the social, educational, and political affairs of Europe. In its religious aspect it shows an attempt to reform the church. This failing, the revolution followed, resulting in the independence of certain parts of the church, which were then organized under separate constitutions and governments. Then followed a partial reform within the Catholic Church. The whole movement may be characterized as a revolt against papal authority and ecclesiastical usurpation of power. It was an assertion of independence of the mind respecting religious beliefs and a cry for a consistent life of righteousness and purity. The church had assumed an attitude which made either a speedy reformation or else a revolution necessary. The "reforming councils" of Pisa, Constance, and Basel failed to adopt adequate reform measures. The result of these councils was merely to confirm the absolutism of papal authority. At the same time there were a very large number of adherents to the church who were anxiously seeking a reform in church government, as well as a reform in the conduct of the papacy, the clergy, and the lay membership. The papal party succeeded in suppressing all attempts of this nature, the voice of the people being silenced by a denial of constitutional government; nor was assurance given that the intrigues of the papacy, and of the church in general, would be removed. {376} The people had lost faith in the assumptions of infallibility of the papacy. The great schism in the church, in which three popes, each claiming to be the rightful successor of Saint Peter, each one having the "keys," each one calling the others impostors, and seeking by all possible means to dethrone them, was a great shock to the claims of infallible authority. For many years, to maintain their position as a ruling power, the popes had engaged in political squabbles with the princes of Europe. While the popes at times were victorious, the result of their course was to cause a feeling of contempt for their conduct, as well as of fear of their power. The quarrel of Henry IV and Gregory VII, of Innocent III and John of England, of Boniface and Philip the Fair, the Babylonian captivity, and many lesser difficulties, had placed the papacy in a disreputable light. Distrust, fear, and contempt for the infallible assumptions were growing. The papacy had been turned into a political engine to maintain the temporal possessions of the church and to increase its temporal power. The selfishness of the ruling prince became uppermost in all papal affairs, which was so different from the teachings of the Christ who founded his kingdom on love that the contrast became observable, and even painful, to many devout people. Added to this, the corruption of the members of religious orders, who had departed from their vows of chastity, was so evident to the people with whom they came in daily contact as to bring shame and disgrace upon the cause of religion. Consequently, from these and other irregularities there developed a strong belief that the church needed reforming from the lowest to the highest offices. _Signs of the Rising Storm_.--For several centuries before the religious revolution broke out there were signs of its coming. In the first place, the rise of the laical spirit was to be observed, especially after the establishment of local self-government in the free cities. The desire for representative government had extended to the lay members of the church. There was a growing feeling that the clergy, headed by the papacy, had {377} no right to usurp all the governing power of the church. Many bold laymen asserted that the lay members of the church should have a voice in its government, but every such plea was silenced, every aspiration for democratic government suppressed, by a jealous papacy. There arose a number of religious sects which opposed the subordination to dogma, and returned to the teachings of the Bible for authority. Prominent among these were the Albigenses, who became the victims of the cruel crusade instigated by the pope and led by Simon de Montfort. They were a peaceable, religious people who dwelt far and wide in the south of France, who refused to obey implicitly the harsh and arbitrary mandates of the pope. The Waldenses were another society, composed of the followers of Peter Waldo, known at first as the "Poor Man of Lyons," believing in a return to the Scriptures, which they persistently read. Like the Albigenses, they were zealous for purity of life, and bitterly opposed to the usurpation and profligacy of the clergy. They, too, suffered bitter persecution, which indicated to many that a day of retribution was coming. There were also praying societies, formed in the church to read the Scriptures and to promote a holy life. All these had their influence in preparing for a general reformation. The revival of learning had specific influences in bringing about the Reformation. The two movements were blended in one in several countries, but the revival of learning in Germany was overtaken by the Reformation. The former sought freedom of the mind respecting philosophy and learning, the latter sought liberty of conscience respecting religious belief. The revival of learning broke down scholasticism, and thus freed the mind from dogmatic philosophy. Seeking for the truth, the works of the church fathers were brought forth and read, and the texts of the Old and the New Testament were also used, as a criterion of authority. They showed to what extent the papacy had gone in its assumption of power, and making more prominent the fact that the church, particularly {378} the clergy, had departed from a life of purity. The result of the quickening thought of the revival was to develop independent characteristics of mind, placing it in the attitude of revolt against ecclesiastical dogmatism. _Attempts at Reform Within the Church_.--Many attempts were made, chiefly on the part of individuals, to work a reform of abuses within the church. Many devout men, scholars engaged in theological research and living lives of purity, sought by precept and example to bring about better spiritual and moral conditions. Others sought to bring about changes in ecclesiastical government, not only in the "reforming councils" but through efforts at the papal court and in the strong bishoprics. Had the church listened to these cries of the laity and zealously availed itself of the many opportunities presented, possibly the religious revolution would not have come. Although it is difficult to say what would have been the result had the church listened to the voice of reform, yet it is certain that the revolution would at least have taken a different course, and the position of the church before the world would have been greatly changed. Powerful individual reformers exercised great influence in bringing on the religious revolution. The voices of John Wyclif, John Huss, John Tauler, and John Wessel, like the voice of John the Baptist, cried out for repentance and a return to God. These reformers desired among other things a change in the constitutional government of the church. They sought a representation of the laity and the re-establishment of the authority of the general councils. Through influence such as theirs the revolution was precipitated. Others in a different way, like Savonarola, hastened the coming of the revolution by preaching liberty of thought and attacking the abuses of the church and its methods of government. Wyclif in England advocated a simple form of church worship, rebelled against the arbitrary power of popes and priests, preached against transubstantiation, and advocated the practice of morality. He was greatly influenced by William of {379} Occam, who asserted that the pope, or even a general council, might err in declaring the truth, and that the hierarchy might be given up if the good of the church demanded it. Wyclif, in England, started a movement for freedom and purity which never died out. His translation of the Bible was the most valuable of all his work. Though he preceded the religious revolution by nearly two centuries, his influence was of such great importance that his enemies, who failed to burn him at the stake in life, ordered his grave to be desecrated. At first Wyclif had the support of the king and of the university, as well as the protection of the Prince of Wales. But when, in 1381, he lectured at Oxford against transubstantiation, he lost the royal protection, and by a senate of twelve doctors was forbidden longer to lecture at the university, although he continued preaching until his death. As his opinions agreed very nearly with those of Calvin and Luther, he has been called "the morning star of the Reformation." The Council of Constance, before burning John Huss and Jerome of Prague at the stake, condemned the doctrines of Wyclif in forty-five articles, declared him a heretic, and ordered his body to be removed from consecrated ground and thrown upon a dunghill. Thirteen years later Clement VIII, hyena-like, ordered his bones to be burned and the ashes thrown into the Swift. Thus his short-sighted enemies thought to stay the tide of a great reformation. John Huss, a Bohemian reformer, followed closely after the doctrine of Wyclif, although he disagreed with him in his opposition to transubstantiation. He preached for constitutional reform of the church, reformative administration, and morality. He urged a return to the Bible as a criterion for belief and a guide to action. Finally he was summoned to the Council of Constance to answer for his heresy, and guaranteed safe-conduct by the Emperor Sigismund, who presided; but, notwithstanding this promise, the council declared him a heretic and burned him at the stake with Jerome of Prague. This was one of the results of the so-called reforming Council of {380} Constance--its reform consisted in silencing the opponents of papal authority and corruption. John Tauler belonged to a group of people called mystic philosophers, who, though remaining within the church, opposed dogmatism and formalism and advocated spiritual religion. Their doctrine was to leave formality and return to God. Many other societies, calling themselves "Friends of God," sprang up in the Netherlands and in the south and west of Germany. John Tauler was the most prominent of all their preachers. He held that man is justified by faith alone, and Luther, who republished Tauler's book on German theology,[1] asserted that it had more influence over him than any other books, except the Bible and the works of Saint Augustine. Savonarola, a most powerful orator and great scholar of Italy, lifted his voice in favor of reform in the church administration and in favor of the correction of abuses. He transcended the teachings of the schools of philosophy, departed from the dogma of the church, and preached in the name of God and His Son. He was shocked at the signs of immorality which he saw in common society. As a preacher of righteousness, he prophesied a judgment speedily to come unless men turned from the error of their ways. But in the ways of the world he paid for his boldness and his enthusiasm, for the pope excommunicated him, and his enemies created distrust of him in the hearts of the people. He was put in prison, afterward brought to trial and condemned to death, and finally hanged and burned and his ashes thrown into the Arno--all because the pope hoped to stay the tide of religious and social reform. _Immediate Causes of the Reformation_.--Mr. Bryce, in his _Holy Roman Empire_,[2] says: "There is perhaps no event in history which has been represented in so great a variety of lights as the Reformation. {381} It has been called a revolt of the laity against the clergy, or of the Teutonic races against the Italians, or of the kingdoms of Europe against the universal monarchy of the popes. Some have seen in it only a burst of long-repressed anger at the luxury of the prelates and the manifold abuses of the ecclesiastical system; others a renewal of the youth of the church by a return to primitive forms of doctrine. All these, indeed, to some extent it was; but it was also something more profound, and fraught with mightier consequences than any of them. It was in its essence the assertion of the principle of individuality--that is to say, of true spiritual freedom." The primary nature of the Reformation was, first, a return to primitive belief and purity of worship. This was accompanied by a protest against the vices and the abuses of the church and of formalism in practice. It was also an open revolt against the authority of the church, authority not only in constitution and administration but in spiritual affairs. According to Bryce, "true spiritual freedom" was the prime motive in the religious revolution. And Guizot, in his chapter on the Reformation, clusters all statements around a single idea, the idea that it was freedom of the mind in religious belief and practice which was the chief purpose of the Reformation.[3] But the immediate causes of the precipitation of the Reformation may be stated as follows: _First_.--The great and continued attack on the unreasonableness of the Roman Catholic Church, caused by the great mental awakening which had taken place everywhere in Europe, the persistent and shameless profligacy of the clergy and the various monastic orders and sects, the dissolute and rapacious character of many of the popes, and the imperial attitude of the entire papacy. _Second_.--We may consider as another cause the influence of the art of printing, which scattered the Bible over the land, so that it could be read by a large number of people, who were thus incited to independent belief. {382} _Finally_.--It may be said that the sale of indulgences, and particularly the pretensions of many of the agents of the pope as to their power to release from the bondage of sin, created intense disgust and hatred of the church, and caused the outbreak of the Reformation.[4] _Luther Was the Hero of the Reformation in Germany_.--He was not the cause of the Reformation, only its most powerful and efficient agency, for the Reformation would have taken place in time had Luther never appeared. Somebody would have led the phalanx, and, indeed, Luther, led steadily on in his thought and researches, became a reformer and revolutionist almost before he was aware. He began (1517) by preaching against the sale of indulgences. He claimed that works had been made a substitute for faith, while man is justified by faith alone. His attack on indulgences brought him in direct conflict with one Tetzel, who stirred up the jealousy of other monks, who reported Luther to Pope Leo X.[5] Luther, in a letter to the pope, proclaimed his innocence, saying that he is misrepresented and called heretic "and a thousand ignominious names; these things shock and amaze me; one thing only sustains me--the sense of my innocence." He had pinned his ninety-five theses on the door of the church at Wittenberg. In writing to the pope he claimed that these were set forth for their own local interest at the university, and that he knows not why they "should go forth into all the earth." Then he says: "But what shall I do? Recall them I cannot, and yet I see their notoriety bringeth upon me great odium." But Luther, in spite of the censure of the pope and his friends, was still an ardent adherent to the papal power and the authority of the church. He says to the pope: "Save or slay, kill or recall, approve or disapprove, as it shall please you, I will acknowledge you even as the voice of Christ {383} presiding and speaking in you." In writing to Spalatine, he says that he may err in disputation, but that he is never to be a heretic, that he wishes to decide no doctrine, "only I am not willing to be the slave of the opinions of men." Luther persisted in his course of criticism. To Staupitz he wrote: "I see that attempts are made at Rome that the kingdom of truth, _i.e._, of Christ, be no longer the kingdom of truth." After the pope had issued his first brief condemning him, Luther exclaimed: "It is incredible that a thing so monstrous should come from the chief pontiff, especially Leo X. If in truth it be come forth from the Roman court, then I will show them their most licentious temerity and their ungodly ignorance." These were bold words from a man who did not wish to become a reformer, a revolutionist, or a heretic. Now the pope regarded this whole affair as a quarrel of monks, and allowed Luther to give his side of the story. He was induced to send a certain cardinal legate, Cajetan, to Augsburg to bring this heretic into submission, but the legate failed to bring Luther into subjection. Luther then appealed to the pope, and when the pope issued a bull approving of the sale of indulgences, Luther appealed to the council. Thus far Luther had only protested against the perversion of the rules of the church and of the papal doctrine, but there followed the public disputations with Doctor John Eck, the vice-chancellor of the University of Ingolstadt, in which the great subject under discussion was the primacy of the pope. Luther held that the pope was not infallible that he might err in matters of doctrine, and that the general council, which represented the universal church, should decide the case. Now Luther had already asserted that certain doctrines of Huss were true, but the Council of Constance had condemned these and burned Huss at the stake. Luther was compelled by his shrewd opponent to acknowledge that a council also might err, and he had then to maintain his position that the pope and the council both might err and to commit himself to the proposition that there is no absolute authority on the {384} face of the earth to interpret the will of God. But now Luther was forced to go yet a step farther. When the papal bull condemning him and excommunicating him was issued, he took the bull and burned it in the presence of a concourse of people, and then wrote his address to the German nobles. He thus set at defiance the whole church government and authority. He had become an open revolutionist. The Catholic Church, to defend itself from the position it had taken against Luther, reasoned in this way: "Where there is difference of opinion, there is doubt; where there is doubt, there is no certainty; where there is no certainty, there is no knowledge. Therefore, if Luther is right, that there is room for difference of opinion about divine revelation, then we have no knowledge of that revelation." In this way did the Roman Church attempt to suppress all freedom of religious belief. For the opposition which Luther made, he was summoned to appear before the Diet of Augsburg, which condemned him as a heretic. Had it not been that Charles V, who presided, had promised him a safe-conduct to and from the diet, Luther would have suffered the same fate as John Huss. Indeed, it is said that Charles V, when near his death, regretted that he had not burned Luther at the stake. It shows how little the emperor knew of the real spiritual scope of the Reformation, that he hoped to stay its tide by the burning of one man. The safe-conduct of Luther by Charles V was decided on account of the existing state of European politics. The policy followed by the emperor at the diet was not based upon the arguments which Luther so powerfully presented before the diet, but upon a preconceived policy. Had the Emperor of Germany been only King of Spain in seeking to keep the pretentious power of the pope within bounds he might have gained a great advantage by uniting with Luther in the Reformation. But as emperor he needed the support of the pope, on account of the danger of invasion of Italy by Francis I of France. He finally concluded it would be best to declare Luther a heretic, but he was impotent to enforce {385} punishment by death. In this way he would set himself directly in opposition to the Reformation and save his crown. Apparently Charles cared less for the Reformation than he did for his own political preservation.[6] From this time on the Reformation in Germany became wholly political. Its advantages and disadvantages hung largely upon the political intrigues and manipulations of the European powers. It furnished the means of an economic revolt, which Luther, having little sympathy with the common people in their political and social bondage, was called to suppress from the castle of Wartburg. The Reformation spread rapidly over Germany until the time of the organization of the Jesuits, in 1542, when fully two-thirds of all Germany had revolted from papal authority and had become Protestant. After the organization of the Jesuits, the Reformation declined, on account of the zeal of that organization and the dissensions which arose among the Protestants. _Zwingli Was the Hero of the Reformation in Switzerland_.--The Reformation which was begun by Zwingli at first took on a social and a political aspect and, being soon taken up by the state, resulted in a decision by the Council of Zurich that no preacher could advance any arguments not found in the Old or New Testament. This position, with some variations, was maintained through the entire Reformation. The moral and religious condition of the people of Switzerland was at a very low ebb, and the course of the Reformation was to preach against abuses. Zwingli drew his knowledge and faith from the Bible, holding that for authority one ought to return to it or to the primitive church. He advocated the abolition of image-worship, and, in addition, the abolition of enforced celibacy, nunneries, and the celebration of the mass. He held, too, that there ought to be a return to local church government, and {386} that all of the cloisters should be converted into schools. He objected to so many days being devoted to the festivals of the saints, because it lessened the productive power of the people. The whole tenor of his preaching was that the Bible should be used as the basis of doctrine, and that there is no mediation except through Jesus Christ. As to the doctrine of the sacrament, he believed that the bread and wine are merely symbols, thus approximating the belief as established by the Protestants of the present day. On the other hand, Luther persistently held to the doctrine of transubstantiation, though the organized Protestant churches held to "consubstantiation." The Reformation in Switzerland tended to develop more strongly an independent political existence, to make for freedom and righteousness, to work practical reforms in the abuses of both church and state, and to promote a deeper spiritual religion among the people. _Calvin Establishes the Genevan System_.--John Calvin was driven out of France on account of his preaching. He went to Geneva and there perfected a unique system of religious organization. Perhaps it is the most complete system of applied theology developed by any of the reformers. While it did not strongly unite the church and the state on the same foundation of government, it placed them in such a close unity that the religious power would be felt in every department of state life. The Genevan system was well received in France, became the foundation of the reform party there, and subsequently extended its influence to Scotland, and, finally, to England. It became the foundation of Presbyterianism throughout the world. While Calvinism was severe and arbitrary in its doctrine, on account of its system of administration, it greatly advanced civil liberty and gave a strong impulse toward democracy. It was the central force in the Commonwealth of England, and upheld the representative system of government, which led to the establishment of constitutional liberty. _The Reformation in England Differed from the German_.--The work of John Wyclif and his followers was so remote from {387} the period of the Reformation as to have very little immediate influence. Yet, in a general way, the influence of the teachings of Wyclif continued throughout the Reformation. The religious change came about slowly in England and was modified by political affairs. People gradually became liberal on the subject of religion, and began to exercise independent thought as to church government. Yet, outwardly, at the beginning of the sixteenth century, the followers of John Wyclif made no impression upon religious affairs. The new learning, advocated by such men as Erasmus, Colet, and More, was gaining ground rapidly in England. Its quickening influence was observed everywhere. It was confined to no particular field, but touched all departments, religious, social, political. It invaded the territory of art, of education, of literature. Henry VIII favored the new learning and gave it great impulse by his patronage. But the new learning in England was antagonistic to the Reformation of Luther. The circumstances were different, and Luther attacked the attitude of the English reformers, who desired a slow change in church administration and a gradual purification of the ecclesiastical atmosphere. The difference of opinion called out a fierce attack by Henry VIII on Luther, which gave the king the title of "Defender of the Faith." The real beginning of the Reformation in England was a revolt from the papacy by the English king for political reasons. England established a national church, with the king at its head, and made changes in the church government and reformed abuses. The national, or Anglican, Church once formed, the struggle began, on the one hand, between it and the Catholic Church, and on the other, at a later date, against Puritanism. The Anglican Church was not fully established until the reign of Elizabeth. The real spirit of the Reformation in England is best exhibited in the rise of Puritanism, which received its impulse largely from the Calvinistic branch of the Reformation. The whole course of the Reformation outside of the influence of the new learning, or humanism, was of a political nature. The {388} revolt from Rome was prompted by political motives; the Puritan movement was accompanied with political democracy. The result was to give great impetus to constitutional liberty, stimulate intellectual activity, and to declare for freedom of conscience in religious matters. Yet it was a long way from complete religious toleration and the full establishment of the rights and liberties of the people. _Many Phases of Reformation in Other Countries_.--The Reformation in Spain was crushed by the power of the church, which used the weapon of the Inquisition so effectively. In Italy the papal power prevailed almost exclusively. In the Netherlands we find almost complete conversion to Protestantism, and in the other northern countries we find Protestantism prevailing to a great extent. Indeed, we shall find between the north and the south an irregular line dividing Protestantism from Catholicism, in the north the former predominating, in the south the latter. In France a long, severe struggle between Catholicism and Protestantism took place. It was combined with the struggle of political factions, and led to bitter, hard oppression. In fact, the Reformation varied in different countries according to the political, social, and intellectual state of each. Interesting as the history of these countries is, it is not necessary to follow it to determine the spirit and results of the Reformation. _Results of the Reformation Were Far-Reaching_.--The results of the Reformation interest us in this discussion far more than its historical progress. In the first place, we shall find, as the primary result, that the northern nations were separated from the power of Rome and the great ecclesiastical power that the papacy possessed was broken. It could no longer maintain its position of supremacy throughout the world. Although it still was powerful, especially in Italy and Austria, it could no longer rest its assumption on absolute authority, but must demonstrate that power by intrigue and political prowess in order to cope with the nations of Europe. In the second place, there was a development of political liberty. The nations had freed {389} themselves from the domination and imperial power of the church, and were left alone to carry on their own affairs and develop their national freedom. But there was something more in the development of the Reformation than those things which made for religious liberty. To the desire of freedom of the mind in religious belief the desire for freedom in political life had joined itself, and we shall find that the Reformation everywhere stirred up a desire for political liberty. The fires of freedom, thus lighted, never went out, but slowly burned on until they burst out in the great conflagration of the French Revolution. Political liberty, then, was engendered and developed in the hearts of men and nations. Again, the foundation of religious toleration was laid by the Reformation, although it was not yet secured, for it must be maintained that even Luther was as persistent and dogmatic in his own position, as intolerant of the beliefs of other people, as was the papal authority itself. Convinced that he was right, he recognized no one's right to differ from his opinion, even though he himself had revolted from the authority of the church. He showed his bigotry and lack of tolerance in his treatment of Zwingli, of Calvin, and of Erasmus. Most of the early reformers, indeed, were intolerant of the opinions of others; the development of religious toleration has been a very slow process, not only in Europe but in America. The many and various phases of the Reformation nevertheless made as a whole for religious toleration. When in the Reformation in Germany it was decided at the religious peace of Augsburg that Catholics and Protestants should have the same privileges, only one division of Protestants was recognized, and that was the Lutheran division. Calvinists were entirely excluded. It was not until the peace of Westphalia in 1648, which closed the great struggle known as the Thirty Years' War, that all denominations were recognized upon the same basis. The struggle for religious toleration in England is a history in itself, and it was not until the last century that it might be said that toleration really existed {390} in the United Kingdom, for during two centuries or more there was a state religion supported by revenues raised by taxing the people, although other churches were tolerated. Another great result of the Reformation was the advancement of intellectual progress. All progress rests primarily upon freedom of the mind, and whatever enhances that freedom has a tendency to promote intellectual progress. The advancement of language and letters, of philosophy and science, and of all forms of knowledge, became rapid on account of this intense activity of the mind. The revival of learning received a new impulse in the development of man's spiritual nature--an impulse which was felt throughout the entire world. In this respect the Reformation was far-reaching in its consequences. The church no longer assumed the sole power to think for the people. Again, it may be said that the Reformation improved man's material progress. The development of the independent individual life brought about strength of character, industry, and will force, which, in turn, built up material affairs and made great improvements in the economic conditions of man. Everywhere that Protestantism prevailed there was a rapid increase of wealth and better economic conditions. Trade and commerce improved rapidly, and the industrial life went through a process of revolution. Freedom upon a rational basis always brings about this vital prosperity, while despotism suppresses the desires of man for a better economic life. So we shall find that intellectual and material progress followed everywhere in the course of the Reformation, while those states and nations over which the papal authority retained its strongest hold began to decline in intellectual power and material welfare. Such was the force of the Reformation to renovate and rejuvenate all which it touched. It made possible the slow evolution of the independence of the common man and established the dignity of labor. Finally, let it be said that the Reformation caused a counter-reformation within the Catholic Church. For many years {391} there was an earnest reform going on within the Romanist Church. Abuses were corrected, vices eradicated, the religious tone of church administration improved, and the general character of church polity changed in very many ways. But once having reformed itself, the church became more arbitrary than before. In the Council of Trent, in clearly defining its position, it declared its infallibility and absolute authority, thus relapsing into the old imperial régime. But the Reformation, after all, was the salvation of the Roman Church, for through it that church was enabled to correct a sufficient number of abuses to regain its power and re-establish confidence in itself among the people. The Reformation, like the Renaissance, has been going on ever since it started, and we may say to-day that, so far as most of the results are concerned, we are yet in the midst of both. SUBJECTS FOR FURTHER STUDY 1. Needed reforms in the church and why they failed. 2. Enumerate the causes that led to the Reformation prior to Luther. 3. Compare the main characteristics in the Reformation in the following countries: Germany, England, Switzerland, and France. 4. What were the characteristics of the Genevan system instituted by John Calvin? 5. The results of the Reformation on intellectual development, political freedom, scientific thought, and, in general, on human progress. 6. The effect of the Reformation on the character and policy of the Romanist Church (Catholic). 7. What was the nature of the quarrels of Henry IV and Gregory VII, of Innocent III and John of England, of Boniface and Philip the Fair? [1] _Theologia Germania_, generally accredited to Tauler, but written by one of his followers. [2] _The Holy Roman Empire_, p. 327. [3] _History of Civilization_, vol. I, pp. 255-257. [4] Recent writers emphasize the economic and national causes, which should be added to this list. [5] Luther sent his ninety-five theses to Archbishop Albert of Mainz. [6] Luther had many friends In the diet. Also he was in his own country before a German national assembly. Huss was in a foreign country before a church assembly. {392} CHAPTER XXV CONSTITUTIONAL LIBERTY AND THE FRENCH REVOLUTION _Progress in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries_.--It is not easy to mark in brief space the steps of progress in the complex activities of the great movements of society of the first centuries of the period of modern history. It is not possible to relate the details of the great historical movements, with their many phases of life moving on toward great achievements. Only a few of the salient and vital features may be presented, but these will be sufficient to show the resultant general achievements coming from the interaction of a multitude of forces of an expanding civilization. The great determiners of this period are found in the national life of England, France, Germany, and America. Out of many complex movements and causes the dominant factor is the struggle of monarchy and democracy. The revival of learning, the Protestant revolution, and the attempts at popular government heralded the coming of political liberty and the recognition of the rights of man. The whole complex is a vivid example of the processes of social evolution through the interaction of groups, each moving about a central idea. Again and again when freedom of mind and liberty of action seem to be successful, they have been obscured by new social maladies or retarded by adverse environmental conditions. _The Struggle of Monarchy with Democracy_.--In a previous chapter, in which were recounted the early attempts at popular representation, it was shown that in nearly every instance the rise of popular power was suppressed by the rapid and universal growth of monarchy. Having obtained power by combining with the people in their struggle against the nobility, monarchy finally denied the people the right to {393} participate in the government. It was recognized nearly everywhere in Europe as the dominant type of government through which all nations must pass. Through it the will of the people was to find expression, or, to use a more exact statement, monarchy proposed to express the will of the people without asking their permission. The intellectual revival which spread over Europe tended to free the mind from the binding power of tradition, prestige, and dogmatism, and to give it freedom in religious belief. But while these great movements were taking place, monarchy was being established in Europe, and wherever monarchy was established without proper checks of constitutional government, it became powerful and arbitrary to such a degree as to force the people into a mighty cry for political liberty. In France royalty ran rapidly into imperialism; in Spain it became oppressive; but in England there was a decided check upon its absolute assumptions by way of slowly developing constitutional liberty. _Struggle for Constitutional Liberty in England_.--For a long period monarchy had to struggle fiercely with the feudal nobility of England, but finally came off conqueror, and then assumed such arbitrary powers as appeared necessary for the government of the realm of England. It was inevitable, however, that in a people whose minds had been emancipated from absolute spiritual power and given freedom of thought, a conflict would eventually occur with monarchy which had suppressed municipal liberty, feudal nobility, and popular representation. Pure monarchy sought at all times the suppression of political liberty. Hence, in England, there began a struggle against the assumptions of absolute monarchy and in favor of the liberty of the people. There grew up in England under the Tudors an advocacy of the inherited rights of kings. There was a systematic development of arbitrary power until monarchy in England declared itself superior to all laws and to all constitutional rights and duties. In another place it has been told how the English {394} Reformation was carried on by the kings as a political institution, how the authority of Rome was overthrown and the kings of England seized the opportunity to enhance their power and advance their own interests. When the people realized that they had exchanged an arbitrary power in Rome for an arbitrary power in England, centred in the king, they cried out again at this latter tyranny, and sought for religious reform against the authority of the church. This movement was accompanied by a desire for political reform, also. Indeed, all civil and religious authority centred in one person, the king, and a reform of religious administration could not take place without a reform of the political. The activity of English commerce and the wide-spread influence of the revival of learning, which developed a new and independent literary culture, made life intense and progress rapid. When this spirit of political liberty sought expression in England, it found it in the ancient privileges and rights of the English people, to which they sought to return. It was unfortunate that the desires for political liberty on the continent found no such means to which they could attach their ideas of a liberal government. In England we find these old rights and privileges a ready support for the principles of constitutional liberty. There were many precedents and examples of liberty which might be recalled for the purpose of quickening the zeal of the people--many, indeed, had been continued in local communities. Nor were the English government and law wanting in the principles of liberty which had been handed down from former generations. Moreover, it became necessary, as a practical measure, for the kings of England, if they desired to maintain their position, to call a parliament of the people for the sake of their co-operation and help in the support of the government. It is seen, therefore, that in England the spirit of constitutional liberty, though perhaps suppressed at times, never perished, though the assumption of royal power was very great, and when the party which was seeking to carry forward {395} religious reform joined itself to the party seeking political liberty, there was aroused a force in England which would be sure to prove a check on royalty and insure the rights and privileges of a free people. Though the sentiment for religious reform was general throughout England, this principle was viewed in many different ways by different parties. Thus the pure-monarchy party saw many evils in the laws of England and in the administration of affairs, and sought reform, but without yielding anything of the high conception of the absolute power of the king. They believed that the ancient laws and precedents of England were a check upon monarchy sufficient to reform all abuses of power that might arise. They acknowledged the divine right of kings and thought that royalty possessed a superior power, but they held that it was obliged, for its own preservation and the proper government of the realm, to confine its activity within certain limits. Two other parties, the one political and the other religious, went hand in hand, both for revolution. The former denied the absolute sovereignty of the king and sought a great change in the form, the spirit, and the structure of government. They held that the ultimate power of control should rest in the House of Commons as the representative of the people. The latter party sought the same process within the church. They held that it should be controlled by assemblages of the people, maintained that decentralization should take place and the constitution of the church be changed as well as its form of administration. It is easy to see that the leaders of either of these parties were also leaders of the other. A fourth party sought to repudiate the constitution, as radically wrong, and to build up an entirely new political system. It disregarded the past life of England and repudiated all precedents, desiring to build up a new government founded upon abstract theories of right and justice. The course of history under these four parties is plain. Each one, struggling for power, tried to manage the government {396} upon its particular theory, and signally failed. The struggle in the House of Commons, had it not finally brought about such great consequences, would be disgusting and discouraging in the extreme. The struggle in England for liberty of conscience and for government of the people through Parliament went on through turmoil and disgrace for two centuries. It was king against the people, Catholic against Protestant, and, within the latter group, Anglican, Presbyterian, and independent, each against one another. All sorts of unjust and inhuman practices were indulged in. It would seem that the spirit of Magna Charta and of the Christian religion was constantly outraged. When Henry VIII, in 1521, wrote his attack on Luther embodied in the _Assertion of the Seven Sacraments_, Pope Leo X gave him the title of "Defender of the Faith." Subsequently, when he appealed to the pope to help him settle his marital difficulties, the pope refused to support him, and finally excommunicated him for divorcing his wife Catherine. This led to a break with Rome, and the Supremacy Act, which made the king protector and only supreme head of the church and clergy of England. This inaugurated the long struggle between Catholic and Protestant, with varying fortunes to each side. The Tudor period closed with the death of Elizabeth, in 1603, with a fairly well-established conformity to the Anglican Church; but Puritanism was growing slowly but surely, which meant a final disruption. From this time on there was confusion of political and religious affairs for another century. In 1621 Parliament rebuked King James I for his high-handed proceedings with protestation: "That the liberties, franchises, privileges, and jurisdictions of Parliament are the ancient and undoubted birthright and inheritance of the subjects of England, and that the arduous and urgent affairs of the king, state, and defense of the realm ... are proper subjects and matters of council and debate in Parliament." The king tore the page containing the resolution from the journal of Parliament; but this did not retard the struggle for the {397} recognition of ancient rights. The strife went on throughout the reign of the Stuarts, until Charles I lost his head and the nation was plunged into a great civil war. There finally appeared on the scene of action a man of destiny. Cromwell, seizing the opportunity, turned everything toward democracy, and ruled republicans, Puritans, and royalists with such an iron hand that his painful democracy came to a sudden close through reaction under the rule of his successor. The Stuarts again came into power, and, believing in the divine right of kings--a principle which seems to have been imbibed from the imperialism of France--sought to bring everything into subordination to royalty. The people, weary of the irregular government caused by the attempts of the different parties to rule, and tired of the abuses and irregularities of the administration, welcomed the restoration of royalty as an advantage to the realm. But the Stuarts sought not only to rule with high hand, regardless of the wants, desires, and will of the people, but also to bring back the absolute authority of the papacy. By their arbitrary, high-handed proceedings, they brought the English government to a crisis which was ended only by the coming of William of Orange to rule upon the throne with constitutional right; for the people seized their opportunity to demand a guaranty of the rights of freemen which would thoroughly establish the principle of constitutional liberty in England. But the declaration of Parliament at the accession of William and Mary, which subsequently was enacted as a famous Bill of Rights, showed a great permanent gain in constitutional liberty. It centred the power in Parliament, whose authority was in the Commons. It was true the arbitrary power of kings came to the front during the rule of the four Georges, but it was without avail, and reform measures followed their reign. Constitutional government had won. It is true that the revolution failed to establish religious toleration, but it led the way with rapid strides. In the progress of civil liberty and freedom of conscience in {398} England, the literature of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries had a powerful influence. In the world of ideas, freedom of thought found expression through the great writers. While few attacked the evils of government, they were not wanting in setting forth high ideals of life, liberty, and justice. Such men as John Milton, John Locke, John Bunyan, and Shakespeare turned the thinking world toward better things in government and life. Thus England had a check on the growth of monarchy, while freedom of investigation led to an inquiry about the rights of the people; hence, the seeds of popular liberty were growing at the time monarchy was making its greatest assumption. The people never yielded, in theory at least, their ancient rights to the absolute control of royalty. Kingship in England was developed through service, and while the English were strong for monarchy because it expressed a unity of the nation, they expected the king to consider the rights of the people, which gave rise to a complex movement in England, making for religious and political liberty, in which all classes were engaged in some degree at different times. In France, however, it was different. At first the feudal nobility ruled with absolute sway. It continued in power long enough to direct the thoughts of the people toward it and to establish itself as a complete system. It had little opposition in the height of its power. When monarchy arose it, too, had the field all to itself. People recognized this as the only legitimate form of government. Again, when monarchy failed, people rushed enthusiastically to democracy, and in their wild enthusiasm made of it a government of terror. How different were the results. In England there was a slow evolution of constitutional government in which the rights of the people, the king, the nobility, and the clergy were respected, and each class fell into its proper place in the government. In France, each separate power made its attempt to govern, and failed. Its history points to a truth, namely, that no kind of government is safe without a system of checks. {399} _The Place of France in Modern Civilization_.--Guizot tries to show that in the seventeenth century France led the civilization of the world; that while Louis XIV was carrying absolute government to its greatest height, philosophy, art, and letters flourished; that France, by furnishing unique and completed systems, has led the European world in civilization. To a great extent this is true, for France had better opportunities to develop an advanced civilization than any other European nation. It must be remembered that France, at an early period, was completely Romanized, and never lost the force and example of the Roman civilization; and, also, that in the invasion of the Norman, the northern spirit gave France vigor, while its crude forms were overcome by the more cultured forms of French life. While other nations were still in turmoil France developed a distinct and separate nationality. At an early period she cast off the power of Rome and maintained a separate ecclesiastical system which tended to develop an independent spirit and further increase nationality. Her population was far greater than that of any other nation, and her wealth and national resources were vastly superior to those of others. These elements gave France great prestige and great power, and fitted her to lead in civil progress. They permitted her to develop a high state of civilization. If the genius of the French people gave them adaptability in communicating their culture to others, it certainly was of service to Europe. Yet the service of France must not be too highly estimated. If, working in the dark, other nations, not so far advanced as France on account of material causes, were laying a foundation of the elements of civilization, which were to be of vast importance in the development of the race, it would appear that as great credit should be given them as to the French manners, genius, and culture which gave so little permanent benefit to the world. Guizot wisely refrains from elaborating the vices of the French monarchy, and fails to point out the failure of the French system of government. {400} _The Divine Right of Kings_.--From the advent of the Capetian dynasty of French kings royalty continually increased its power until it culminated under Louis XIV. The court, the clergy, and, in fact, the greater number of the preachers of France, advocated the divine origin and right of kings. If God be above all and over all, his temporal rulers as well as his spiritual rulers receive their power from him; hence the king receives his right to rule from God. Who, then, has the right to oppose the king? Upon this theory the court preachers adored him and in some instances deified him. People sought to touch the hem of his garment, or receive from his divine majesty even a touch of the hand, that they might be healed of their infirmities. In literature Louis was praised and deified. The "Grand Monarch" was lauded and worshipped by the courtiers and nobles who circled around him. He maintained an extravagant court and an elaborate etiquette, so extravagant that it depleted the rural districts of money, and drew the most powerful families to revolve around the king. The extravagant life paralyzed the energies of kings and ministers, who built a government for the advantage of the governing and not the governed. "I am the state!" said the Grand Monarch. Although showing in many ways an enlightened absolutism, his rule plunged French royalty into despotism. Louis XV held strongly to absolutism, but lacked the power to render it attractive and magnificent. Louis XVI attempted to stem the rising tide, but it was too late. The evils were too deeply seated; they could not be changed by any temporary expedient. French royalty reached a logical outcome from all power to no power. Louis XIV had built a strong, compact administration under the direction of able men, but it was wanting in liberty, it was wanting in justice, and it is only a matter of time when these deficiencies in a nation lead to destruction. _The Power of the Nobility_.--The French nobility had been mastered by the king, but to keep them subservient, to make them circle around royalty and chant its praises, they were {401} given a large extension of rights and privileges. They were exempt from the responsibilities for crime; they occupied all of the important places in church and state; they were exempt from taxation; many who dwelt at the court with the king lived off the government; many were pensioned by the government, their chief recommendation apparently being idleness and worthlessness. There was a great gulf between the peasantry and the nobility. The latter had control of all the game of the forests and the fish in the rivers; one-sixth of all the grain grown in the realm went to the nobility, as did also one-sixth of all the land sold, and all confiscated property fell to them. The peasants had no rights which the nobility were bound to respect. The nobility, with all of the emoluments of office, owned, with the clergy, two-thirds of all the land. Yet this unproductive class numbered only about 83,000 families. _The Misery of the People_.--If the nobility despised the lower classes and ignored their rights, they in turn were hated intensely by those whom they sought to degrade. The third estate in France was divided into the bourgeoisie and the peasantry and small artisans. The former gradually deteriorated in character and tended toward the condition of the lowest classes. By the revocation of the Edict of Nantes, a large number of the bourgeoisie, or middle class, was driven from France. This deprived France of the class that would have stood by the nation when it needed support, and would have stood for moderate constitutional government against the radical democrats like Robespierre and Marat. The lowest class, composed of small peasant farmers, laborers, and artisans, were improved a little under the reign of Louis XIV, but this made them feel more keenly the degradation in succeeding years, from which there was no relief. The condition of the people indicated that a revolution was on its way. In the evolution of European society the common man was crowded down toward the condition of serfdom. The extravagances and luxuries of life, the power of kings, bishops, and nobles bore like a burden of heavy weight upon his {402} shoulders. He was the common fodder that fed civilization, and because of this more than anything else, artificial systems of society were always running for a fall, for the time must come when the burdens destroy the foundation and the superstructure comes tumbling down. _The Church_.--The church earned an important position in France soon after the conquest by the Romans; seizing opportunities, it came into power by right of service. It brought the softening influences of religion; it established government where there was no government; it furnished a home for the vanquished and the oppressed; it preserved learning from the barbarians; it conquered and controlled the warlike spirit of the Germans; it provided the hungry with food, and by teaching agriculture added to the economic wealth of the community; and finally, it became learned, and thus brought order out of chaos. Surely the church earned its great position, and reaped its reward. Taine says: "Its popes for two hundred years were the dictators of Europe. It organized crusades, dethroned monarchs, and distributed kingdoms. Its bishops and abbots became here sovereign princes and there veritable founders of dynasties. It held in its grasp a third of the territory, one-half the revenue, and two-thirds of the capital of Europe." The church was especially strong in France. It was closely allied to the state, and opposed everything that opposed the state. When the king became the state, the church upheld the king. The church of France, prior to the revolution, was rich and aristocratic. In 1789 its property was valued at 4,000,000,000 francs, and its income at 200,000,000 francs; to obtain a correct estimate according to our modern measure of value, these amounts should be doubled. In some territories the clergy owned one-half the soil, in others three-fourths, and in one, at least, fourteen-seventeenths of the land. The Abbey of St.-Germain-des-Prés possessed 900,000 acres. Yet within the church were found both the wealthy and the poverty-stricken. In one community was a bishop rolling in luxury {403} and ease, in another a wretched, half-starved country curate trying to carry the gospel to half-starved people. Such extremes were shocking commentaries upon a church founded on democracy. The church persecuted the literary men who expressed freedom of thought and opinion. It ignored facts and the people distrusted it. The religious reformation in France became identified with political factions, which brought the church into a prominent place in the government and made it take an important place in the revolution. It had succeeded in suppressing all who sought liberty, either political or religious, and because of its prominence in affairs, it was the first institution to feel the storm of the revolution. The church in France was attacked fully forty years before the king and the nobility were arraigned by the enraged populace. _Influence of the Philosophers_.--There appeared in France in the reign of Louis XV what was known as "the new literature," in contrast with the classic literature of the previous reign. The king and the church combined fought this new literature, because it had a tendency to endanger absolutism. It was made by such brilliant men as Helvetius, Montesquieu, Voltaire, Condillac, and Rousseau. Perhaps the writings of these men had more to do with the precipitation of the revolution than the arbitrary assumptions of royalty, the wretchedness of the people, the supercilious abuses of the nobility, and the corruption of the church. Without presenting the various philosophies of these writers, it may be said that they attacked the systems of government, religion, and philosophy prevailing in France, and each succeeding writer more boldly proclaimed the evils of the day. Condillac finally convinced the people that they owed their evil conditions to the institutions of church and state under which they lived, and showed that, if they desired a change, all it was necessary to do was to sweep those institutions away. Other philosophers speculated on the best means of improving the government. Presenting ideal forms of {404} government and advocating principles not altogether certain in practice, they made it seem, through these speculative theories, that a perfect government is possible. Of the great writers of France prior to the revolution who had a tremendous power in hastening the downfall of the royal régime, three stand out more prominently than others, namely, Voltaire, Montesquieu, and Rousseau. Voltaire, keen critic and satirist, attacked the evils of society, the maladministration of courts and government, the dogmatism of the church, and aided and defended the victims of the system. He was a student of Shakespeare, Locke, and Newton, and of English government. He was highly critical but not constructive. Montesquieu, more philosophical, in his _Spirit of the Laws_ pointed out the cause of evils, expounded the nature of governments, and upheld English liberty as worthy the consideration of France. Rousseau, although he attacked civilization, depicting its miseries and inconsistencies, was more constructive, for in his _Social Contract_ he advocated universal suffrage and government by the people through the principles of natural rights and mutual aid. These writers aroused a spirit of liberty among the thoughtful which could not do otherwise than prove destructive to existing institutions. _The Failure of Government_.--It soon became evident to all that a failure of the government from a practical standpoint was certain. The burdens of unequal taxation could no longer be borne; the treasury was empty; there was no means of raising revenue to support the government as it was run; there was no one who could manage the finances of the nation; the administration of justice had fallen into disrepute; even if there had been an earnest desire to help the various classes of people in distress, there were no opportunities to do so. Louis XVI, in his weakness, called the States-General for counsel and advice. It was the first time the people had been called in council for more than 200 years; monarchy had said it could run the government without the people, and now, on the verge of destruction, called upon the people to save it from the {405} wreck. The well-intended king invoked a storm; his predecessors had sown the wind, he reaped the whirlwind. _France on the Eve of the Revolution_.--The causes of the revolution were dependent, in part, upon the peculiarity of the character of the French people, for in no other way can the sudden outburst or the course of the revolution be accounted for. Yet a glimpse at the condition of France before the storm burst will cause one to wonder, not that it came, but that it was so long delayed. A careful examination of the facts removes all mystery respecting the greatest political phenomenon of all history, and makes of it an essential outcome of previous conditions. The French people were grossly ignorant of government. The long period of misrule had distorted every form of legitimate government. One school of political philosophers gave their attention to pointing out the evils of the system; another to presenting bright pictures of ideal systems of government which had never been put in practice. The people found no difficulty in realizing the abuses of government, for they were intense sufferers from them, and, having no expression in the management of affairs, they readily adopted ideal theories for the improvement of social conditions. Moreover, there was no national unity, no coherence of classes such as in former days brought strength to the government. Monarchy was divided against itself; the lay nobility had no loyalty, but were disintegrated by internal feuds; the people were divided into opposing classes; the clergy were rent asunder. Monarchy, though harsh, arbitrary, and unjust, did not have sufficient coercive force to give a strong rule. The church had lost its moral influence--indeed, morality was lacking within its organization. It could persecute heretics and burn books which it declared to be obnoxious to its doctrines, but it could not work a moral reform, much less stem the tide that was carrying away its ancient prerogatives. The nobility had no power in the government, and the dissension between the crown, the nobility, and the church was continuous and {406} destructive of all authority. Continuous and disreputable quarrels, profligacy, extravagance, and idleness characterized each group. Worst of all was the condition of the peasantry. The commons of France, numbering twenty-five millions of people, had, let it be said in their favor, no part in the iniquitous and oppressive government. They were never given a thought by the rulers except as a means of revenue. There had grown up another, a middle class, especially in towns, who had grown wealthy by honest toil, and were living in ease and luxury, possessed of some degree of culture. They disliked the nobles, on the one hand, and the peasants, on the other; hated and opposed the nobility and ignored the common people. This class did not represent the sterling middle class of England or of modern life, but were the product of feudalism. The condition of the rural peasantry is almost beyond description. Suffering from rack-rents, excessive taxation, and the abuses of the nobility, they presented a squalor and wretchedness worse than that of the lowest vassals of the feudal regime. In the large cities collected the dangerous classes who hated the rich. Ignorant, superstitious, half-starved, they were ready at a moment's notice to attack the wealthy and to destroy property. The economic and financial conditions of the nation were deplorable, for the yield of wealth decreased under the poorly organized state. The laborers received such wages as left them at the verge of starvation and prepared them for open revolution. The revenues reserved for the support of the government were insufficient for the common needs, and an empty treasury was the result. The extravagance of king, court, and nobility had led to excessive expenditures and gross waste. There were no able ministers to manage the affairs of the realm on an economic basis. Add to these evils lack of faith, raillery at decency and virtue, and the poisonous effects of a weak and irresponsible philosophy, and there are represented sufficient evils to make a revolution whenever there is sufficient vigor to start it. {407} _The Revolution_.--The revolution comes with all of its horrors. The church is humbled and crushed, the government razed to the ground, monarchy is beheaded, and the flower of nobility cut off. The wild mob at first seeks only to destroy; later it seeks to build a new structure on the ruins. The weak monarch, attempting to stem the tide, is swept away by its force. He summons the States-General, and the commons declare themselves the national assembly. Stupendous events follow in rapid succession--the revolt in Paris, the insubordination of the army, the commune of Paris, and the storming of the Bastile. The legislative assembly brings about the constitutional assembly, and laws are enacted for the relief of the people. Intoxicated with increasing liberty, the populace goes mad, and the legislators pass weak and harmful laws. The law-making and constitutional bodies cannot make laws fast enough to regulate the affairs of the state. Lawlessness and violence increase until the "reign of terror" appears with all its indescribable horrors. The rest is plain. Having levelled all government to the ground, having destroyed all authority, having shown themselves incapable of self-government, the French people are ready for Napoleon. Under his command and pretense they march forth to liberate humanity from oppression in other nations, but in reality to a world conquest. _Results of the Revolution_.--The French Revolution was by far the most stupendous event of modern history. It settled forever in the Western world the relation of man to government. It taught that absolutism of any class, if unchecked, must lead sooner or later to the destruction of all authority. It taught that men, to be capable of self-government, must be educated in its principles through a long period, yet proclaimed to the Western world the freedom of man, and asserted his right to participate in government. While France temporarily failed to bring about this participation, it awoke the cry for independence, equality, and fraternity around the world. The results of the revolution became the common property {408} of all nations, and a universal sentiment arising from it pervaded every country, shaping its destiny. The severe blow given to absolutism and exclusive privilege in church and state settled forever the theory of the divine right of kings and prelates to govern. The revolution asserted that the precedent in religious and political affairs must yield to the necessities of the people; that there is no fixed principle in government except the right of man to govern himself. The establishment of the theory of the natural right of man to participate in government had great influence on succeeding legislation and modified the policy of surrounding nations. The social-contract theory was little understood and gave an incorrect notion of the nature of government. In its historical creation, government was a growth, continually suiting itself to the changing needs of a people. Its practice rested upon convenience and precedent, but the real test for participation in government was capability. But the French Revolution startled the monarchs of Europe with the assumption of the natural right of people to self-government. Possibly it is incorrect when carried to extremes, for the doctrine of natural right must be merged into the practice of social rights, duties, and privileges. But it was a check on despotism. The revolution had an influence on economic life also. It was only a step from freedom of intellectual opinion to freedom of religious belief, and only a step from religious freedom to political liberty. Carried to its legitimate outcome, the growing sentiment of freedom asserted industrial liberty and economic equality. Its influence in the emancipation of labor was far-reaching. Many of the theories advanced in the French Revolution were impracticable; sentiments engendered were untrue, which in the long run would lead to injustice. Many of its promises remain unfulfilled, yet its lessons are still before us, its influence for good or evil continues unabated. {409} SUBJECTS FOR FURTHER STUDY 1. The progress in constitutional government was made in England during the Commonwealth. 2. Changes in the social and economic condition of England from 1603 to 1760. 3. When did the Industrial Revolution begin? What were its causes? What its results? 4. The rise of British commerce. 5. Effect of commerce on English economic and social life. 6. Of what use to England were her American colonies? 7. The effect of the American Revolution on the French Revolution. 8. The effect of the French Revolution on American liberty. {413} _PART V_ MODERN PROGRESS CHAPTER XXVI PROGRESS OF POLITICAL LIBERTY _Political Liberty in the Eighteenth Century_.--Looking backward from the standpoint of the close of the eighteenth century and following the chain of events in the previous century, the real achievement in social order is highly disappointing. The French Revolution, which had levelled the monarchy, the church, and the nobility, and brought the proletariat in power for a brief season and lifted the hopes of the people toward a government of equality, was hurrying on from the directorate to the consulate to the empire, and finally returning to the old monarchy somewhat worn and dilapidated, indeed, but sufficient in power to smother the hopes of the people for the time being. Numerous French writers, advocating anarchy, communism, and socialism, set up ideals of liberty, equality, and fraternity which were not to be realized as the immediate result of the revolution. Babeuf, Saint-Simon, Cabet, and Louis Blanc set forth new ideals of government, which were diametrically opposed to the practices of the French government in preceding centuries. Though some of their ideals were lofty, the writers were critical and destructive rather than constructive. England, after the coming of William and Mary and the passing of the Bill of Rights in 1689, witnessed very little progress in political rights and liberty until the reform measures of the nineteenth century. On the continent, Prussia had risen to a tremendous power as a military state and developed an autocratic government with some pretenses to political liberty. But the dominant force of Prussia working on the basis of the ancient feudalism was finally to crush out the liberties of the German people and establish autocratic government. {414} The Holy Roman Empire, which had continued so long under the union of Austria and Italy, backed by the papacy, had reached its height of arbitrary power, and was destroyed by the Napoleonic wars. In the whole period there were political struggles and intrigues within the various states, and political struggles and intrigues and wars between the nations. It was a period of the expression of national selfishness which sought enlarged territory and the control of commerce and trade. Taken as a whole, there is little that is inspiring in the movement of nations in this period. Indeed, it is highly disappointing when we consider the materials at their hand for political advancement. The political game at home played by cliques and factions and politicians struggling for power frequently led to disgraces abroad, such as the war against the American colonies and the extension of power and domination in India. There is scarcely a war, if any, in this whole period that should not have been settled without difficulty, provided nations were honest with each other and could exercise, if not reason, common sense. The early great movements, such as the revival of learning and progress centring in Italy and extending to other nations, the religious revolution which brought freedom of belief, the revolution of England and the Commonwealth, the French Revolution with its projections of new ideals of liberty on the horizon of political life, promised better things. Also, during this period the development of literature and the arts and sciences should have been an enlightened aid to political liberty. Nevertheless, the higher ideals of life and liberty which were set forth during these lucid intervals of the warring nations of the world were never lost. The seeds of liberty, once having been sown, were to spring up in future years and develop through a normal growth. _The Progress of Popular Government Found Outside of the Great Nations_.--The rise of democracy in Switzerland and the Netherlands and its development in America, although {415} moving indirectly and by reaction, had a lasting influence on the powerful nations like Germany, England, France, and Austria. In these smaller countries the warfare against tyranny, despotism, and ignorance was waged with success. Great gain was made in the overthrow of the accumulated power of traditional usage and the political monopoly of groups of people who had seized and held the power. Through trial and error, success and failure, these people, not noted for their brilliant warfare but for their love of peace, succeeded in establishing within their boundaries a clear definition of human rights and recognizing the right of the people to have a better government. _Reform Measures in England_.--The famous Bill of Rights of 1689 in England has always been intact in theory. It laid the foundation for popular government in which privileges and rights of the people were guaranteed. It may have been a good expedient to have declared that no papist should sit upon the throne of England, thus declaring for Protestantism, but it was far from an expression of religious toleration. The prestige of the House of Lords, an old and well-established aristocratic body, built upon ancient privilege and the power of the monarchy which too frequently acknowledged constitutional rights and then proceeded to trample upon them, made the progress in popular government very slow. One great gain had been made when the nation agreed to fight its political battles in Parliament and at elections. The freedom of the press and the freedom of speech gradually became established facts. Among the more noted acts for the benefit of popular government was the Reform Bill of 1832, which enlarged the elective franchise. This was bitterly opposed by the Lords, but the persistency of the Commons won the day and the king signed the bill. Again in 1867 the second Reform Bill enlarged the franchise, and more modern acts of Parliament have given greater liberties to the English people. England opposed independent local government of Scotland and Ireland and of her colonies. Ireland had been oppressed {416} by the malady of English landlordism, which had always been a bone of contention in the way of any amicable adjustment of the relations between England and Ireland. Throughout the whole century had waged this struggle. England at times had sought through a series of acts to relieve the country, but the conservative element in Parliament had usually thwarted any rational system like that proposed by Mr. Gladstone. On the other hand, the Irish people themselves desired absolute freedom and independence and were restive under any form of restraint. Nothing short of entire independence from the English nation or the establishment of home rule on some practical basis could insure peace and contentment in Ireland. Nor in the past could one be assured at any time that Ireland would have been contented for any length of time had she been given or acquired what she asked for. Being forced to support a large population on an infertile soil where landlordism dominated was a cause of a continual source of discontent, and the lack of practice of the Irish people in the art of local government always gave rise to doubts in the minds of her friends as to whether she could succeed as an independent nation or not. But the final triumph of Ireland in establishing a free state with the nominal control of the British Empire shows that Ireland has power to govern herself under fair treatment. What a great gain it would have been if many years ago England had yielded to the desire of Ireland for an independent constitutional government similar to that of Canada! Tremendous changes have taken place in recent years in the liberalizing movement in England. The state church still exists, but religious toleration is complete. Women have been allowed the right to vote and are taking deep interest in political affairs, three women already having seats in Parliament. The labor movement, which has always been strong and independent in England, by the exercise of its right at the polls finally gained control of the government and, for the first time {417} in the history of England, a leading labor-union man and a socialist became premier of England. _The Final Triumph of the French Republic_.--On account of ignorance of the true theories of government, as well as on account of lack of practical exercise in administration, for several decades the government which the French people established after the destruction of the monarchy of Louis XVI failed. The democracy of the French Revolution was iconoclastic, not creative. It could tear down, but could not rebuild. There were required an increased intelligence and the slow process of thought, a meditation upon the principles for which the people had fought and bled, and an enlarged view of the principles of government, before a republic could be established in France. Napoleon, catching the spirit of the times, gratified his ambition by obtaining the mastery of national affairs and leading the French people against foreign nations under the pretext of overthrowing despotism in Europe. In so doing he established absolutism once more in France. He became the imperial monarch of the old type, with the exceptions that intelligence took the place of bigotry and the welfare of the people took the place of the laudation of kings. But in attempting to become the dictator of all Europe, he caused other nations to combine against him, and finally he closed his great career with a Waterloo. The monarchy, on its restoration, became constitutional; the government was composed of two chambers--the peers, nominated by the king, and the lower house, elected by the people. A system of responsible ministers was established, and of judges, who were not removable. Much had been gained in religious and civil liberty and the freedom of the press. But monarchy began to grow again, urged by the middle class of France, until in July, 1830, another revolution broke out on account of election troubles. The charter was violated in the prohibition of the publication of newspapers and pamphlets, and the elective system arbitrarily changed so as to restrict the suffrage to the landowners. The reaction {418} from this was to gain something more for democratic government. In the meantime there had been a growth of socialism, the direct product of the revolution. The king finally abdicated in favor of his grandson, and then a provisional government was established, and finally a republic, the second republic of France. Louis Napoleon, who became president of the republic under the constitution, gradually absorbed all powers to himself and proclaimed himself emperor. After the close of the Franco-German War, in 1871, France became a republic for the third time. A constitution was formed, under which the legislative power was exercised by two chambers--the Chamber of Deputies, elected by direct vote and manhood suffrage for four years, and the Senate, consisting of 300 senators, 75 of whom were elected for life by the national assembly, the rest for nine years, by electoral colleges. These latter were composed of deputies, councils of the departments, and delegates of communes. The executive power was vested in a president, who was assisted by a responsible ministry. Republicanism was at last secured to France. Many changes have taken place in the application of the constitution to popular government since then, and much progress has been made in the practice of free government. The whole composition of the government reminds one of constitutional monarchy, with the exception that the monarch is chosen by the people for a short period of time. _Democracy in America_.--The progress of democracy in America has been rapid. The first colonists were oppressed by the authority of European nations and bound by unyielding precedent. While the principle of local self-government obtained to a large extent in many of them, they partook more of aristocracies, or of governments based on class legislation, than of pure democracies. When independence from foreign countries was won by the united efforts of all the colonies, the real struggle for universal liberty began. A government was founded, so far as it was possible, on the principles of the Declaration of Independence, which asserted "that all men {419} are created equal; that they are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable rights"; and that "for securing these rights, governments are instituted among men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed." The creation of a federal constitution and the formation of a perfect union guaranteed these rights to every citizen. Yet in the various states forming a part of the Union, and, indeed, in the national government itself, it took a long time to approximate, in practice, the liberty and justice which were set forth in the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution. Still, in the past century, the people have become more and more closely connected with the state, and a "government of the people, for the people, and by the people" is a certainty. The laws which have been made under the Constitution increase in specific declarations of the rights of the people. Justice is more nearly meted out to all classes at present than in any decade for a century. The political powers of citizens have constantly enlarged. The elective franchise has been extended to all citizens of both sexes. The requirements as to naturalization of foreigners are exceedingly lenient, and thus free government is offered to all people. Of necessity the central government has been strengthened on account of the enlargement of territory and the great extension of national governmental powers. It has been necessary that the central forces which bind the separate parts of the nation together in a common union should be strengthened. The result has been a decline in the importance and power of the state governments. On the other hand, the large increase of population in the great cities has tended to enhance the power and importance of local government. The government of a single large city now becomes more difficult and of greater vital importance to the people than that of a state. The enlarged territory and increased population, and the enormous amount of legislative machinery, have tended to extend to its utmost limit the principle of representative government. Congress represents the people of the whole nation, {420} but committees represent Congress and subcommittees represent committees. There is a constant tendency to delegate powers to others. Pure democracy has no place in the great American republic, except as it is seen in the local government unit. Here the people always have a part in the caucus, in the primary or the town meeting, in the election of local officers and representatives for higher offices, in the opportunity to exercise their will and raise their voice in the affairs of the nation. To some extent the supposed greater importance of the national government has led the people to underestimate the opportunities granted them for exercising their influence as citizens within the precinct in which they live. But there is to-day a tendency to estimate justly the importance of local government as the source of all reforms and the means of the preservation of civil liberty. It has been pointed out frequently by the enemies of democracy that the practice of the people in self-government has not always been of the highest type. In many instances this criticism is true, for experience is always a dear teacher. The principles of democracy have come to people through conviction and determination, but the practices of self-government come through rough experiences, sometimes marked by a long series of blunders. The cost of a republican form of government to the people has frequently been very expensive on account of their ignorance, their apathy, and their unwillingness to take upon themselves the responsibilities of government. Consider, for instance, the thousands of laws that are made and placed upon the statute-books which have been of no value, possibly of detriment, to the community--laws made through the impulse of half-informed, ill-prepared legislators. Consider also the constitutions, constitutional amendments, and other important acts upon which the people express their opinion. The smallness of the vote of a people who are jealous of their own rights and privileges is frequently surprising. Notice, too, how frequently popular power has voted against its {421} own rights and interests. See the clumsy manner by which people have voted away their birthrights or, failing to vote at all, have enslaved themselves to political or financial monopoly. Observe, too, the expenses of the management of democratic governments, the waste on account of imperfect administration, and the failure of the laws to operate. Consideration of these points brings us to the conclusion that the perfection of democracy or republican government has not been reached, and that while liberty may be an expensive affair, it is so on account of the negligence of the people in qualifying for self-government. If a democratic form of government is to prevail, if popular government is to succeed, if the freedom of the people is to be guaranteed, there must be persistent effort on the part of the people to prepare themselves for their own government; a willingness to sacrifice for liberty, for liberty will endure only so long as people are willing to pay the price it costs. They must govern themselves, or government will pass from them to others. Eternal vigilance is the price of good government. _Modern Political Reforms_.--Political reform has been proceeding recently in many particular ways. Perhaps the most noticeable in America is that of civil service reform. Strong partisanship has been a ruling factor in American politics, often to the detriment of the financial and political interests of the country. Jealous of their prerogative, the people have insisted that changes in government shall occur often, and that the ruling party shall have the privilege of appointing the officers of the government. This has made it the almost universal practice for the incoming party to remove the officers of the old administration and replace them with its own appointments. To such an extent has this prevailed that it has come to be known as the "spoils system." But there is now a general tendency for the principles of civil service to prevail in all parts of the national government, and a growing feeling that they should be instituted in the various states and municipalities of the Union. The {422} federal government has made rapid progress in this line in recent years, and it is to be hoped that before long the large proportion of appointive offices will be put upon a merit basis and the persons who are best qualified to fill these places retained from administration to administration. Attempts are being made in nearly all of our cities for business efficiency in government, though there is much room for improvement. The government of the United States is especially weak in administration, and is far behind many of the governments of the Old World in this respect. With a thoroughly established civil service system, the effectiveness of the administration would be increased fully fifty per cent. Under the present party system the waste is enormous, and as the people must ultimately pay for this waste, the burden thrown upon them is great. In the first place, the partisan system necessarily introduces large numbers of inexperienced, inefficient officers who must spend some years in actual practice before they are really fitted for the positions which they occupy. In the second place, the time spent by congressmen and other high officials in attention to applicants for office and in urging of appointments, prevents them from improving their best opportunity for real service to the people. The practice of civil service reform is being rapidly adopted in the nations of the world which have undertaken the practice of self-government, and in those nations where monarchy or imperialism still prevails, persons in high authority feel more and more impelled to appoint efficient officers to carry out the plans of administrative government. It is likely that the time will soon come when all offices requiring peculiar skill or especial training will be filled on the basis of efficiency, determined by competitive examination or other tests of ability. Another important reform, which has already been begun in the United States, and which, in its latest movement, originated in Australia, is ballot reform. There has been everywhere in democratic government a tendency for fraud to increase on election days. The manipulation of the votes of {423} individuals through improper methods has been the cause of fraud and a means of thwarting the will of the people. It is well that the various states and cities have observed this and set themselves to the task of making laws to guard properly the ballot-box and give free, untrammelled expression to the will of the people. Though nearly all the states in the Union have adopted some system of balloting (based largely upon the Australian system), many of them are far from perfection in their systems. Yet the progress in this line is encouraging when the gains in recent years are observed. Since the decline of the old feudal times, in which our modern tax system had its origin, there has been a constant improvement in the system of taxation. Yet this has been very slow and apparently has been carried on in a bungling way. The tendency has been to tax every form of property that could be observed or described. And so our own nation, like many others, has gone on, step by step, adding one tax after another, without carefully considering the fundamental principles of taxation or the burdens laid upon particular classes. To-day we have a complex system, full of irregularities and imperfections. Our taxes are poorly and unjustly assessed, and the burdens fall heavily upon some, while others have an opportunity of escaping. We have just entered an era of careful study of our tax systems, and the various reports from the different states and the writings of economists are arousing great interest on these points. When once the imperfections are clearly understood and defined, there may be some hope of a remedy of present abuses. To be more specific, it may be said that the assessments of the property in counties of the same state vary between seventeen and sixty per cent of the market valuation. Sometimes this discrepancy is between the assessments of adjacent counties, and so great is the variation that seldom two counties have the same standard for assessing valuation. The personal-property tax shows greater irregularity than this, especially in our large cities. The tax on imports, though {424} apparently meeting the approval of a majority of the American people, makes, upon the whole, a rather expensive system of taxation, and it is questionable whether sufficient revenue can be raised from this source properly to support the government without seriously interfering with our foreign commerce. The internal revenue has many unsatisfactory phases. The income tax has been added to an imperfect system of taxation, instead of being substituted for the antiquated personal-property tax. Taxes on franchises, corporations, and inheritances are among those more recently introduced in attempts to reform the tax system. The various attempts to obtain sufficient revenue to support the government or to reform an unjust and unequal tax have led to double taxation, and hence have laid the burden upon persons holding a specific class of property. There are to-day no less than five methods in which double taxation occurs in the present system of taxation of corporations. The taxation of mortgages, because it may be shifted to the borrower, is virtually a double tax. The great question of the incidence of taxation, or the determination upon whom the tax ultimately falls, has not received sufficient care in the consideration of improved systems of taxation. Until it has, and until statesmen use more care in tax legislation and the regulation of the system, and officers are more conscientious in carrying it out, we need not hope for any rapid movement in tax reform. The tendency here, as in all other reforms, especially where needed, is for some person to suggest a certain political nostrum--like the single tax--for the immediate and complete reform of the system and the entire renovation and purification of society. But scientific knowledge, clear insight, and wisdom are especially necessary for any improvement, and even then improvement will come through a long period of practice, more or less painful on account of the shifting of methods of procedure. The most appalling example of the results of modern government is to be found in the municipal management of our {425} large cities. It has become proverbial that the American cities are the worst ruled of any in the world. In European countries the evils of city government were discovered many years ago, and in most of the nations there have been begun and carried out wisely considered reforms, until many of the cities of the Old World present examples of tolerably correct municipal government. In America there is now a general awakening in every city, but to such an extent have people, by their indifference or their wickedness, sold their birthrights to politicians and demagogues and the power of wealth, that it seems almost impossible to work any speedy radical reform. Yet many changes are being instituted in our best cities, and the persistent effort to manage the city as a business corporation rather than as a political engine is producing many good results. The large and growing urban population has thrown the burden of government upon the city--a burden which it was entirely unprepared for--and there have sprung up sudden evils which are difficult to eradicate. Only persistent effort, loyalty, sacrifice, and service, all combined with wisdom, can finally accomplish the reforms needed in cities. There is a tendency everywhere for people to get closer to the government, and to become more and more a part of it.[1] Our representative system has enabled us to delegate authority to such an extent that people have felt themselves irresponsible for all government, except one day in the year, when they vote at the polls; we need, instead, a determination to govern 365 days in the year, and nothing short of this perpetual interest of the people will secure to them the rights of self-government. Even then it is necessary that every citizen shall vote at every election. _Republicanism in Other Countries_.--The remarkable spread of forms of republican government in the different nations of the world within the present century has been unprecedented. {426} Every independent nation in South America to-day has a republican form of government. The Republic of Mexico has made some progress in the government of the people, and the dependencies of Great Britain all over the world have made rapid progress in local self-government. In Australia, New Zealand, and Canada, we find many of the most advanced principles and practices of free government. It is true that many of these nations calling themselves republics have not yet guaranteed the rights and privileges of a people to any greater extent than they would have done had they been only constitutional monarchies; for it must be maintained at all times that it depends more upon the characteristics of the people--upon their intelligence, their social conditions and classes, their ideas of government, and their character--what the nature of their government shall be, than upon the mere form of government, whether that be aristocracy, monarchy, or democracy. Many of the evils which have been attributed to monarchy ought more truly to have been attributed to the vital conditions of society. Vital social and political conditions are far more important to the welfare of the people than any mere form of government. Among the remarkable expressions of liberal government in modern times has been the development of the Philippine Islands under the protecting care of the United States, the establishment of republicanism in Porto Rico and Hawaii, now parts of the territory of the United States, and the development of an independent and democratic government in Cuba through the assistance of the United States. These expressions of an extended democracy have had far-reaching consequences on the democratic idealism of the world. _Influence of Democracy on Monarchy_.--But the evidences of the progress of popular government are not all to be observed in republics. It would be difficult to estimate the influence of the rise of popular government in some countries upon the monarchial institutions of others. This can never be {427} properly determined, because we know not what would have taken place in these monarchies had republicanism never prevailed anywhere. When republicanism arose in France and America, monarchy was alarmed everywhere; and again, when the revolutionary wave swept over Europe in 1848, monarchy trembled. Wherever, indeed, the waves of democracy have swept onward they have found monarchy raising breakwaters against them. Yet with all this opposition there has been a liberalizing tendency in these same monarchial governments. Monarchy has been less absolute and less despotic; the people have had more constitutional rights granted them, greater privileges to enjoy; and monarchies have been more careful as to their acts, believing that the people hold in their hands the means of retribution. The reforming influence of democratic ideas has been universal and uninterrupted. The World War has been iconoclastic in breaking up old forms of government and has given freedom to the democratic spirit and in many cases has developed practical democracy. Along with this, forces of radicalism have come to the front as an expression of long-pent feelings of injustice, now for the first time given opportunity to assert and express themselves. The ideal of democracy historically prevalent in Europe has been the rule of the "lower classes" at the expense of the "upper classes." This theory has been enhanced by the spread of Marxian socialism, which advocates the dominance and rule of the wage-earning class. The most serious attempt to put this idea in practice occurred in Russia with disastrous results. SUBJECTS FOR FURTHER STUDY 1. Why did the French Revolution fail to establish liberty? 2. What were the lasting effects of the English Commonwealth? 3. What were the causes of liberal government in the Netherlands? 4. The reform acts in 1832 and in 1867 in England. 5. The chief causes of trouble between England and Ireland. 6. The growth of democracy in the United States. {428} 7. Enumerate the most important modern political reforms. What are some needed political reforms? 8. England's influence on American law and government. 9. Investigate the population in your community to determine the extent of human equality. 10. City government under the municipal manager plan; also commission plan. [1] Consider the commission form of city government and the municipal manager plan. {429} CHAPTER XXVII INDUSTRIAL PROGRESS _Industries Radiate from the Land as a Centre_.--In primitive civilizations industry was more or less incidental to life. The food quest, protection of the body from storm and sun by improvised habitation and the use of skins, furs, bark, and rushes for clothing, together with the idea of human association for the perpetuation of the species, are the fundamental notions regarding life. Under such conditions industry was fitful and uncertain. Hunting for vegetable products and for animals to sustain life, the protection of the life of individuals from the elements and, incidentally, from the predatory activities of human beings, were the objectives of primitive man. As the land is the primary source of all economic life, systematic industry has always begun in its control and cultivation. Not until man settled more or less permanently with the idea of getting his sustenance from the soil did industrial activities become prominent. In the development of civilization one must recognize the ever-present fact that the method of treatment of the land is a determining factor in its fundamental characteristics, for it must needs be always that the products that we utilize come from the action of man on nature and its reaction on him. While the land is the primary source of wealth, and its cultivation a primal industry, it does not include the whole category of industrial enterprises, for tools must be made, art developed, implements provided, and machinery constructed. Likewise, clothing and ornaments were manufactured, and habitations constructed, and eventually transportation begun to carry people and goods from one place to another. These all together make an enlarged group of activities, all radiating from the soil as a common centre. {430} We have already referred to the cultivation of the valleys of the Euphrates and the Nile by systems of irrigation and the tilling of the soil in the valleys of Greece in the crude and semibarbarous methods introduced by the barbarians from the north. We have referred to the fact that the Romans were the first to develop systematic agriculture, and even the Teutonic people, the invaders of Rome, were rude cultivators of the soil. Social organization is dependent to a large extent upon the method of attachment to the soil--whether people wander over a large area in the hunter-fisher and the nomadic stages, or whether they become attached to the soil permanently. Thus, the village community developed a united, neighborly community, built on the basis of mutual aid. The feudal system was built upon predatory tribal warfare, where possession was determined by might to have and to hold. In the mediaeval period the manorial system of landholding developed, whereby the lord and his retainers claimed the land by their right of occupation and the power to hold, whether this came through conquest, force of arms, or agreement. This manorial system prevailed to a large extent in England, France, and parts of Germany. These early methods of landholding were brought about by people attempting to make their social adjustments, primarily in relation to survival, and subsequently in relation to the justice among individuals within the group, or in relation to the reactions between the groups themselves. After the breaking down of the Roman Empire, the well-established systems of landholding in the empire and the older nations of the Orient in the Middle Ages developed into the feudal system, which forced all society into groups or classes, from the lord to the serf. Subsequently there sprang up the individual system of landholding, which again readjusted the relation of society to the land system and changed the social structure. _The Early Mediaeval Methods of Industry_.--Outside of the tilling of the soil, the early industries were centred in the home, which gave rise to the well-known house system of {431} culture. "Housework" has primary relation to goods which are created for the needs of the household. Much of the early manufacturing industry was carried on within the household. Gradually this has disappeared to a large extent through the multiplication of industries outside the home, power manufacture, and the organization of labor and capital. In many instances house culture preceded that of systematic agriculture. The natural order was the house culture rising out of the pursuits of fishing, hunting, and tending flocks and herds, and the incidental hoe culture which represented the first tilling of the soil about the tent or hut. The Indians of North America are good examples of the development of the house culture in the making of garments from the skins of animals or from weeds and rushes, the weaving of baskets, the making of pottery and of boats, and the tanning of hides. During all this period, agriculture was of slow growth, it being the incidental and tentative process of life, while the house culture represented the permanent industry. Industries varied in different tribes, one being skilled in basket-making, another in stone implements for warfare and domestic use, another in pottery, another in boats, and still another in certain kinds of clothing--especially the ornaments made from precious stones or bone. This made it possible to spread the culture of one group to other groups, and later there developed the wandering peddler who went from tribe to tribe trading and swapping goods. This is somewhat analogous to the first wage-work system of England, where the individual went from house to house to perform services for which he received pay in goods, or, as we say, in kind. Subsequently the wage-earner had his own shop, where raw material was sent to him for finishing. All through Europe these customs prevailed and, indeed, in some parts of America exist to the present day. We see survivals of these customs which formerly were permanent, in the people who go from house to house performing certain types of work or bringing certain kinds of goods for sale, and, {432} indeed, in the small shop of modern times where goods are repaired or manufactured. They represent customs which now are irregular, but which formerly were permanent methods. It was a simple system, requiring no capital, no undertaker or manager, no middleman. Gradually these customs were replaced by many varied methods, such as the establishment of the laborer in his individual shop, who at first only made the raw material, which people brought him, into the finished product; later he was required to provide his own raw material, taking orders for certain classes of goods. After the handcraft system was well established, there was a division between the manufacturer of goods and those who produced the raw material, a marked distinction in the division of labor. The expansion of systems of industry developed the towns and town life, and as the manor had been self-sufficient in the manufacture of goods, so now the town becomes the unit of production, and independent town economy springs up. Later we find the towns beginning to trade with each other, and with this expanded industry the division of labor came about and the separation of laborers into classes. First, the merchant and the manufacturer were united. It was common for the manufacturer of goods to have his shop in his own home and, after he had made the goods, to put them on the shelf until called for by customers. Later he had systems of distribution and trade with people in the immediate locality. Soon weavers, spinners, bricklayers, packers, tanners, and other classes became distinctive. It was some time before manufacturers and traders, however, became separate groups, and a longer time before the manufacturer was separated from the merchant, because the manufacturer must market his own goods. Industries by degrees thus became specialized, and trades became clearly defined in their scope. This led, of course, to a distinct division of occupation, and later to a division of labor within the occupation. The introduction of money after the development of town economy brought about the wage system, whereby people were paid in money rather than {433} kind. This was a great step forward in facilitating trade and industry. One of the earliest methods of developing organized industrial society was through the various guilds of the Middle Ages. They represented the organization of the industries of a given town, with the purpose of establishing a monopoly in trade of certain kinds of goods, and secondarily to develop fraternal organization, association, and co-operation among groups of people engaged in the same industry. Perhaps it should be mentioned that the first in order of development of the guilds was known as the "guild-merchant," which was an organization of all of the inhabitants of the town engaged in trading or selling. This was a town monopoly of certain forms of industry controlled by the members of that industry. It partook of the nature of monopoly of trade, and had a vast deal to do with the social organization of the town. Its power was exercised in the place of more systematic political town government. However, after the political town government became more thoroughly established, the guild-merchant declined, but following the decline of the guild-merchant, the craft guild developed, which was an organization of all of the manufacturers and traders in a given craft. This seemed to herald the coming of the trade-union after the industrial machinery of society had made a number of changes. English industrial society became finally completely dominated, as did societies in countries on the Continent, by the craft guilds. All the payments in the handcraft system were at first in kind. When the laborer had finished his piece of goods, his pay consisted in taking a certain part of what he had created in the day or the week. Also, when he worked by the day he received his pay in kind. This system prevailed until money became sufficiently plentiful to enable the payment of wages for piecework and by the day. The payment in kind, of course, was a very clumsy and wasteful method of carrying on industry. Many methods of payment in kind prevailed for centuries, even down to recent times in America. Before the great {434} flour-mills were developed, the farmer took his wheat to the mill, out of which the miller took a certain percentage for toll in payment for grinding. The farmer took the remainder home with him in the form of flour. So, too, we have in agriculture the working of land on shares, a certain percentage of the crops going to the owner and the remainder to the tiller of the soil. Fruit is frequently picked on shares, which is nothing more than payment for services in kind. _The Beginnings of Trade_.--While these simple changes were slowly taking place in the towns and villages of Europe, there were larger movements of trade being developed, not only between local towns, but between the towns of one country and those of another, which led later to international trade and commerce. Formerly trade had become of world importance in the early Byzantine trade with the Orient and Phoenicia. After the crusades, the trade of the Italian cities with the Orient and northwest Europe was of tremendous importance.[1] In connection with this, the establishment of the Hanseatic League, of which Hamburg was a centre, developed trade between the east and the west and the south. These three great mediaeval trade movements represent powerful agencies in the development of Europe. They carried with them an exchange of goods and an exchange of ideas as well. This interchange stimulated thought and industrial activity throughout Europe. _Expansion of Trade and Transportation_.--The great discoveries in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries had a vast deal to do with the expansion of trade. The discovery of America, the establishment of routes to the Philippines around South America and to India around South Africa opened up wide vistas, not only for exploration but for the exchange of goods. Also, this brought about national trade, and with it national competition. From this time on the struggle for the supremacy of the sea was as important as the struggle of the various nations for extended territory. Portugal, the {435} Netherlands, England, and Spain were competing especially for the trade routes of the world. France and England were drawn into sharp competition because of the expansion of English trade and commerce. Portugal became a great emporium for the distribution of Oriental goods after she became a maritime power, with a commercial supremacy in India and China. Subsequently she declined and was forced to unite with Spain, and even after she obtained her freedom, in the seventeenth century, her war with the Netherlands caused her to lose commercial supremacy. The rise of the Dutch put the Netherlands to the front and Antwerp and Amsterdam became the centres of trade for the Orient. Dutch trade continued to lead the world until the formation of the English East and West India companies, which, with their powerful monopoly on trade, brought England to the front. Under the monopolies of these great companies and other private monopolies, England forged ahead in trade and commerce. But the private monopolies became so powerful that Cromwell, by the celebrated Navigation Acts of 1651, made a gigantic trade monopoly of the English nation. The development of agricultural products and manufactures in England, together with her immense carrying trade, made her mistress of the seas. The results of this trade development were to bring the products of every clime in exchange for the manufactured goods of Europe, and to bring about a change of ideas which stimulated thought and life, not only in material lines but along educational and spiritual lines as well. _Invention and Discoveries_.--One of the most remarkable eras of progress in the whole range of modern civilization appeared at the close of the eighteenth century and the beginning of the nineteenth, especially in England. The expanded trade and commerce of England had made such a demand for economic goods that it stimulated invention of new processes of production. The spinning of yarn became an important industry. It was a slow process, and could not supply the {436} weavers so that they could keep their looms in operation. Moreover, Kay introduced what is known as the drop-box and flying shuttle in 1738, which favored weaving to the detriment of spinning, making the trouble worse. In the extremity of trade the Royal Society offered a prize to any person who would invent a machine to spin a number of threads at the same time. As a result of this demand, James Hargreaves in 1764 invented the spinning-jenny, which was followed by Arkwright's invention of spinning by rollers, which was patented in 1769. Combining Arkwright's and Hargreaves's inventions, Crompton in 1779 invented the spinning-"mule." This quickened the process of spinning and greatly increased the production of the weavers. But one necessity satisfied leads to another in invention, and Cartwright's powerloom, which was introduced in 1784, came into general use at the beginning of the nineteenth century. During this period America had become a producer of cotton, and Eli Whitney's cotton-gin, invented in 1792, which separated the seeds from the cotton fibre in the boll, greatly stimulated the production of cotton in the United States. In the meanwhile the steam-engine, which had been perfected in 1769, was applied to power manufacture in 1785 by James Watt. This was the final stroke that completed the power manufacture of cotton and woollen goods. Other changes were brought about by the new method of smelting ore by means of coal, charcoal having been hitherto used for the process, and the invention of the blast-furnace in 1760 by Roebuck, which brought the larger use of metals into the manufactures of the world. To aid in the carrying trade, the building of canals between the large manufacturing towns in England to the ocean, and the building of highways over England, facilitated transportation and otherwise quickened industry. Thus we have in a period of less than forty years the most remarkable and unprecedented change in industry, which has never been exceeded in importance even by the introduction of the gasoline-engine and electrical power. {437} _The Change of Handcraft to Power Manufacture_.--Prior to the development of the mechanical contrivances for spinning and weaving and the application of steam-power to manufacturing, nearly everything in Europe was made by hand. All clothing, carpets, draperies, tools, implements, furniture--everything was hand-made. In this process no large capital was needed, no great factories, no great assemblage of laborers, no great organization of industry. The work was done in homes and small shops by individual enterprise, mainly, or in combinations of laborers and masters. Power manufacture and the inventions named above changed the whole structure of industrial society. _The Industrial Revolution_.--The period from 1760 to about 1830 is generally given as that of the industrial revolution, because this period is marked by tremendous changes in the industrial order. It might be well to remark, however, that if the industrial revolution began about 1760, it has really never ended, for new inventions and new discoveries have continually come--a larger use of steam-power, the introduction of transportation by railroads and steamship-lines, the modern processes of agriculture, the large use of electricity, with many inventions, have constantly increased power manufacture and drawn the line more clearly between the laborers on one side and the capitalists or managers on the other. In the first place, because the home and the small shop could not contain the necessary machinery, large factories equipped with great power-machines became necessary, and into the factories flocked the laborers, who formerly were independent handcraft manufacturers or merchants. It was necessary to have people to organize this labor and to oversee its work--that is, "bosses" were necessary. Under these circumstances the capitalistic managers were using labor with as little consideration or, indeed, less than they used raw material in the manufacture of goods. The laborers must seek employment in the great factories. The managers forced them down to the lowest rate of wage, caused them to live in {438} ill-ventilated factories in danger of life and health from the machinery, and to work long hours. They employed women and children, who suffered untold miseries. The production of goods demanded more and more coal, and women went into the coal-mines and worked fourteen to sixteen hours a day. Society was not ready for the great and sudden change and could not easily adjust itself to new conditions. Capital was necessary, and must have its reward. Factories were necessary to give the laborers a chance to labor. Labor was necessary, but it did not seem necessary to give any consideration to the justice of the laborer nor to his suffering. The wage system and the capitalistic system developed--systems that the socialists have been fighting against for more than a century. Labor, pressed down and suffering, arose in its own defense and organized. It was successively denied the right to assemble, to organize, to strike, but in each separate case the law prevailed in its favor. All through the development of European history the ordinary laborer never received full consideration regarding his value and his rights. It is true at times that he was happy and contented without improvement, but upon the whole the history of Europe has been the history of kings, queens, princes, and nobility, and wars for national aggrandizement, increased territory, or the gratification of the whims of the dominant classes. The laborer has endured the toil, fought the battles, and paid the taxes. Here we find the introduction of machinery, which in the long run will make the world more prosperous, happier, and advance it in civilization, yet the poor laborer must be the burden-bearer. Gradually, however, partly by his own demands, partly by the growing humanity of capitalistic employers, and partly because of the interest of outside philanthropic statesmen, labor has been protected by laws. In the first place, all trades are organized, and nearly all organizations are co-operating sympathetically with one another. Labor has been able thus to demand things and to obtain them, not only by the persistency {439} of demand, but by the force of the strike which compels people to yield. To-day the laborer has eight hours a day of work in a factory well ventilated and well lighted, protected from danger and accident, insured by law, better wages than he has ever had, better opportunities for life and the pursuit of happiness, better fed, better clothed, and better housed than ever before in the history of the world. Yet the whole problem is far from being settled, because it is not easy to define the rights, privileges, and duties of organized labor. Some things we know, and one is that the right to strike does not carry with it the right to destroy, or the right to organize the right to oppress others. But let us make the lesson universal and apply the same to capitalistic organizations and the employers' associations. And while we make the latter responsible for their deeds, let us make the organization of the former also responsible, and let the larger community called the state determine justice between groups and insure freedom and protection to all. _Modern Industrial Development_.--It was stated above that the industrial revolution is still going on. One need only to glance at the transformation caused by the introduction of railway transportation and steam navigation in the nineteenth century, to the uses of the telegraph, the telephone, the gasoline-engine, and later the radio and the airplane, to see that the introduction of these great factors in civilization must continue to make changes in the social order. They have brought about quantity transportation, rapidity of manufacture, and rapidity of trade, and stimulated the activities of life everywhere. This stimulation, which has brought more things for material improvement, has caused people to want paved streets, electric lights, and modern buildings, which have added to the cost of living through increased taxation. The whole movement has been characterized by the accumulated stress of life, which demands greater activity, more goods consumed, new desires awakened, and greater efforts to satisfy them. The quickening process goes on unabated. {440} In order to carry out these great enterprises, the industrial organization is complex in the extreme and tremendous in its magnitude. Great corporations capitalized by millions, great masses of laborers assembled which are organized from the highest to the lowest in the great industrial army, represent the spectacular display. And to be mentioned above all is the great steam-press that sends the daily paper to every home and the great public-school system that puts the book in every hand. _Scientific Agriculture_.--It has often been repeated that man's wealth comes originally from the soil, and that therefore the condition of agriculture is an index of the opportunity offered for progress. What has been done in recent years, especially in England and America, in the development of a higher grade stock, so different from the old scrub stock of the Colonial period; in the introduction of new grains, new fertilizers, improved soils, and the adaptability of the crop to the soil in accordance with the nature of both; the development of new fruits and flowers by scientific culture--all have brought to the door of man an increased food-supply of great variety and of improved quality. This is conducive to the health and longevity of the race, as well as to the happiness and comfort of everybody. Moreover, the introduction of agricultural machinery has changed the slow, plodding life of the farmer to that of the master of the steam-tractor, thresher, and automobile, changed the demand from a slow, inactive mind to the keenest, most alert, best-educated man of the nation, who must study the highest arts of production, the greatest economy, and the best methods of marketing. Truly, the industrial revolution applies not to factories alone. _The Building of the City_.--The modern industrial development has forced upon the landscape the great city. No one particularly wanted it. No one called it into being--it just came at the behest of the conditions of rapid transportation, necessity of centralization of factories where cheap distribution could be had, not only for the raw material but for the {441} finished product, and where labor could be furnished with little trouble--all of these things have developed a city into which rush the great products of raw material, and out of which pour the millions of manufactured articles and machinery; into which pours the great food-supply to keep the laborers from starving. Into the city flows much of the best blood of the country, which seeks opportunity for achievement. The great city is inevitable so long as great society insists on gigantic production and as great consumption, but the city idea is overwrought beyond its natural condition. If some power could equalize the transportation question, so that a factory might be built in a smaller town, where raw material could be furnished as cheaply as in the large city, and the distribution of goods be as convenient, there is no reason why the population might not be more evenly distributed, to its own great improvement. _Industry and Civilization_.--But what does this mean so far as human progress is concerned? We have increased the material production of wealth and added to the material comfort of the inhabitants of the world. We have extended the area of wealth to the dark places of the world, giving means of improvement and enlightenment. We have quickened the intellect of man until all he needs to do is to direct the machinery of his own invention. Steam, electricity, and water-power have worked for him. It has given people leisure to study, investigate, and develop scientific discoveries for the improvement of the race, protecting them from danger and disease and adding to their comfort. It has given opportunity for the development of the higher spiritual power in art, music, architecture, religion, and science. Industrial progress is something more than the means of heaping up wealth. It has to do with the well-being of humanity. It is true we have not yet been able to carry out our ideals in this matter, but slowly and surely industrial liberty and justice are following in the wake of the freedom of the mind to think, the freedom of religious belief, and the {442} political freedom of self-government. We are to-day in the fourth great period of modern development, the development of justice in industrial relations. Moreover, all of this quickening of industry has brought people together from all over the world. London is nearer New York than was Philadelphia in revolutionary times. Not only has it brought people closer together in industry, but in thought and sympathy. There have been developed a world ethics, a world trade, and a world interchange of science and improved ideas of life. It has given an increased opportunity for material comforts and an increased opportunity for the achievement of the ordinary man who seeks to develop all the capacities and powers granted him by nature. SUBJECTS FOR FURTHER STUDY 1. Show that land is the foundation of all industry. 2. Compare condition of laborers now with conditions before the industrial revolution. 3. Are great organizations of business necessary to progress? 4. Do railroads create wealth? 5. Does the introduction of machinery benefit the wage-earner? 6. How does rapid ocean-steamship transportation help the United States? 7. If England should decline in wealth and commerce, would the United States be benefited thereby? 8. How does the use of electricity benefit industry? 9. To what extent do you think the government should control or manage industry? 10. Is Industrial Democracy possible? 11. Cutting and hammering two processes of primitive civilization. What mechanical inventions take the place of the stone hammer and the stone knife? [1] See Chapter XXI. {443} CHAPTER XXVII SOCIAL EVOLUTION _The Evolutionary Processes of Society_.--Social activity is primarily group activity. Consequently the kind and nature of the group, the methods which brought its members together, its organization and purpose, indicate the type of civilization and the possibility of achievement. As group activity means mutual aid of members, and involves processes of co-operation in achievement, the type of society is symbolic of the status of progress. The function of the group is to establish social order of its members, protect them from external foes, as well as internal maladies, and to bring into existence a new force by which greater achievement is possible than when individuals are working separately. _The Social Individual_.--While society is made of physio-psychic individuals, as a matter of fact the social individual is made by interactions and reactions arising from human association. Society on one hand and the social individual on the other are both developed at the same time through the process of living together in co-operation and mutual aid. Society once created, no matter how imperfect, begins its work for the good of all its members. It begins to provide against cold and hunger and to protect from wild animals and wild men. It becomes a feeling, thinking, willing group seeking the best for all. It is in the fully developed society that the social process appears of providing a water-supply, sanitation through sewer systems, preventative medicine and health measures, public education, means of establishing its members in rights, duties, and privileges, and protecting them in the pursuit of industry. _The Ethnic Society_.--Just at what period society became well established is not known, but there are indications that some forms of primitive family life and social activities were {444} in existence among the men of the Old Stone Age, and certainly in the Neolithic period. After races had reached a stage of permanent historical records, or had even handed down traditions from generation to generation, there are evidences of family life and tribal or national achievements. Though there are evidences of religious group activities prior to formal tribal life, it may be stated in general that the first permanent organization was on a family or ethnic basis. Blood relationship was the central idea of cohesion, which was early aided by religious superstition and belief. Following this idea, all of the ancient monarchies and empires were based on the ethnic group or race. All of this indicates that society was based on natural law, and from that were gradually evolved the general and political elements which foreshadowed the enlarged functions of the more complex society of modern times. _The Territorial Group_.--Before the early tribal groups had settled down to permanent habitations, they had developed many social activities, but when they became permanently settled they passed from the ethnic to the demographic form of social order--that is, they developed a territorial group that performed all of its functions within a given boundary which they called their own. From this time on population increased and occupied territory expanded, and the group became self-sufficient and independent in character. Then it could co-operate with other groups and differentiate functions within. Industrial, religious, and political groups, sacred orders, and voluntary associations became prominent, all under the protection of the general social order. _The National Group Founded on Race Expansion_.--Through conquest, amalgamation, and assimilation, various independent groups were united in national life. All of the interior forces united in the perpetuation of the nation, which became strong and domineering in its attitude toward others. This led to warfare, conquest, or plunder, the union of the conquered with the conquerors, and imperialism came into being. Growth of wealth and population led to the demand for more territory {445} and the continuation of strife and warfare. The rise and fall of nations, the formation and dissolving of empires under the constant shadow of war continued through the ages. While some progress was made, it was in the face of conspicuous waste of life and energy, and the process of national protection of humanity has been of doubtful utility. Yet the development of hereditary leadership, the dominance of privileged classes, and the formation of traditions, laws, and forms of government went on unabated, during which the division of industrial and social functions within, causing numerous classes to continually differentiate, took place. _The Functions of New Groups_.--In all social groupings the function always precedes the form or structure of the social order. Society follows the method of organic evolution in growing by differentiation. New organs or parts are formed, which in time become strengthened and developed. The organs or parts become more closely articulated with each other and with the whole social body, and finally over all is the great society, which defends, shields, protects, and fights for all. The individual may report for life service in many departments, through which his relation to great society must be manifested. He no longer can go alone in his relation to the whole mass. He may co-operate in a general way, it is true, with all, but must have a particularly active co-operation in the smaller groups on which his life service and life sustenance depend. The multiplication of functions leads to increased division of service and to increased co-operation. In the industrial life the division of labor and formation of special groups are more clearly manifested. _Great Society and the Social Order_.--This is manifested chiefly in the modern state and the powerful expression of public opinion. No matter how traditional, autocratic, and arbitrary the centralized government becomes, there is continually arising modifying power from local conditions. There are things that the czar or the king does not do if he wishes to continue in permanent authority. From the masses of the {446} people there arises opposition to arbitrary power, through expressed discontent, public opinion, or revolution. The whole social field of Europe has been a seething turmoil of action and reaction, of autocracy and the demand for human rights. Thirst for national aggrandizement and power and the lust of the privileged classes have been modified by the distressing cry of the suffering people. What a slow process is social evolution and what a long struggle has been waged for human rights! _Great Society Protects Voluntary Organizations_.--Freedom of assembly, debate, and organization is one of the important traits of social organization. With the ideal of democracy comes also freedom of speech and the press. Voluntary organizations for the good of the members or for a distinctive agency for general good may be made and receive protection in society at large through law, the courts, and public opinion; but the right to organize does not carry with it the right to destroy, and all such organizations must conform to the general good as expressed in the laws of the land. Sometimes organizations interested in their own institutions have been detrimental to the general good. Even though they have law and public opinion with them, in their zeal for propaganda they have overstepped the rules of progress. But such conditions cannot last; progress will cause them to change their attitude or they meet a social death. _The Widening Service of the Church_.--The importance of the religious life in the progress of humanity is acknowledged by all careful scholars. Sometimes, it is true, this religious belief has been detrimental to the highest interests of social welfare. Religion itself is necessarily conservative, and when overcome by superstition, tradition, and dogmatism, it may stifle the intellect and retard progress. The history of the world records many instances of this. The modern religious life, however, has taken upon it, as a part of its legitimate function, the ethical relations of mankind. Ethics has been prominent in the doctrine and service of the church. When the church turned its attention to the {447} future life, with undue neglect of the present, it became non-progressive and worked against the best interests of social progress. When it based its operation entirely upon faith, at the expense of reason and judgment, it tended to enslave the intellect and to rob mankind of much of its best service. But when it turned its attention to sweetening and purifying the present, holding to the future by faith, that man might have a larger and better life, it opened the way for social progress. Its motto has been, in recent years, the salvation of this life that the future may be assured. Its aim is to seize the best that this life furnishes and to utilize it for the elevation of man, individually and socially. Its endeavor is to save this life as the best and holiest reality yet offered to man. Faith properly exercised leads to invention, discovery, social activity, and general culture. It gives an impulse not only to religious life, but to all forms of social activity. But it must work with the full sanction of intelligence and allow a continual widening activity of reason and judgment. The church has shown a determination to take hold of all classes of human society and all means of reform and regeneration. It has evinced a tendency to seize all the products of culture, all the improvements of science, all the revelations of truth, and turn them to account in the upbuilding of mankind on earth, in perfecting character and relieving mankind, in developing the individual and improving social conditions. The church has thus entered the educational world, the missionary field, the substratum of society, the political life, and the field of social order, everywhere becoming a true servant of the people. _Growth of Religious Toleration_.--There is no greater evidence of the progress of human society than the growth of religious toleration. In the first hundred years of the Reformation, religious toleration was practically unknown. Indeed, the last fifty years has seen a more rapid growth in this respect than in the previous three hundred. Luther and his followers could not tolerate Calvinists any more than they could {448} Catholics, and Calvinists, on the other hand, could tolerate no other religious opinion. The slow evolution of religious toleration in England is one of the most remarkable things in history. Henry VIII, "Defender of the Faith," was opposed to religious liberty. Queen Mary persecuted all except Catholics. Elizabeth completed the establishment of the Anglican Church, though, forced by political reasons, she gave more or less toleration to all parties. But Cromwell advocated unrelenting Puritanism by legislation and by the sword. James I, though a Protestant wedded to imperialism in government, permitted oppression. The Bill of Rights, which secured to the English people the privileges of constitutional government, insisted that no person who should profess the "popish" religion or marry a "papist" should be qualified to wear the crown of England. At the close of the sixteenth century it was a common principle of belief that any person who adhered to heterodox opinions in religion should be burned alive or otherwise put to death. Each church adhered to this sentiment, though, it is true, many persons believed differently, and at the close of the seventeenth century Bossuet, the great French ecclesiastic, maintained with close argument that the right of the civil magistrate to punish religious errors was a point on which nearly all churches agreed, and asserted that only two bodies of Christians, the Socinians and the Anabaptists, denied it. In 1673 all persons holding office under the government of England were compelled to take the oath of supremacy and of allegiance, to declare against transubstantiation, and to take the sacrament according to the ritual of the established church. In 1689 the Toleration Act was passed, exempting dissenters from the Church of England from the penalties of non-attendance on the service of the established church. This was followed by a bill abolishing episcopacy in Scotland. In 1703 severe laws were passed in Ireland against those who professed the Roman Catholic religion. The Test Act was not repealed until 1828, when the oath was taken "on the true {449} faith of a Christian," which was substituted for the sacrament test. From this time on Protestant dissenters might hold office. In the year following, the Catholic Relief Act extended toleration to the Catholics, permitting them to hold any offices except those of regent, lord chancellor of England or Ireland, and of viceroy of Ireland. In 1858, by act of Parliament, Jews were for the first time admitted to that body. In 1868 the Irish church was disestablished and disendowed, and a portion of its funds devoted to education. But it was not until 1871 that persons could lecture in the universities of Oxford and Cambridge without taking the sacrament of the established church and adhering to its principles. The growth of toleration in America has been evinced in the struggle of the different denominations for power. The church and the state, though more or less closely connected in the colonies of America, have been entirely separated under the Constitution, and therefore the struggle for liberal views has been between the different denominations themselves. In Europe and in America one of the few great events of the century has been the entire separation of church and state. It has gone so far in America that most of the states have ceased to aid any private or denominational institutions. There is a tendency, also, not to support Indian schools carried on by religious denominations, or else to have them under the especial control of the United States government. There has been, too, a liberalizing tendency among the different denominations themselves. In some rural districts, and among ignorant classes, bigotry and intolerance, of course, break out occasionally, but upon the whole there is a closer union of the various denominations upon a co-operative basis of redeeming men from error, and a growing tendency to tolerate differing beliefs. _Altruism and Democracy_.--The law of evolution that involves the survival of the fittest of organic life when applied to humanity was modified by social action. But as man must {450} always figure as an individual and his development is caused by intrinsic and extrinsic stimuli, he has never been free from the exercise of the individual struggle for existence, no matter how highly society is developed nor to what extent group activity prevails. The same law continues in relation to the survival of the group along with other groups, and as individual self-interest, the normal function of the individual, may pass into selfishness, so group interest may pass into group selfishness, and the dominant idea of the group may be its own survival. This develops institutionalism, which has been evidenced in every changing phase of social organization. Along with this have grown altruistic principles based on the law of love, which in its essentials is antagonistic to the law of the survival of the fittest. It has been developed from two sources--one which originally was founded on race morality, that is, the protection of individuals for the good of the order, and the other that of sympathy with suffering of the weak and unprotected. In the progress of modern society the application of Christian principles to life has kept pace with the application of democratic principles in establishing the rights of man. Gradually the duty of society to protect and care for the weak has become generally recognized. This idea has been entirely overemphasized in many cases, on the misapplication of the theory that one individual is as good as another and entitled to equality of treatment by all. At least it is possible for the normal progress of society to be retarded if the strong become weakened by excessive care of the weak. The law of love must be so exercised that it will not increase weakness on the part of those being helped, nor lessen the opportunities of the strong to survive and manifest their strength. The history of the English Poor Law is an account of the systematic care of pauperism to the extent that paupers were multiplied so that those who were bearing the burden of taxation for their support found it easier and, indeed, sometimes necessary to join the pauper ranks in order to live at all. {451} Many are alarmed to-day at the multiplication of the number of insane, weak-minded, imbeciles, and paupers who must be supported by the taxation of the people and helped in a thousand ways by the altruism of individuals and groups. Unless along with this excessive altruistic care, scientific principles of breeding, of prevention, and of care can be introduced, the dependent, defective, and delinquent classes of the world will eventually become a burden to civilization. Society cannot shirk its duty to care for these groups, but it would be a misfortune if they reach a status where they can demand support and protection of society. It is a question whether we have not already approached in a measure this condition. Fortunately there is enough knowledge in the world of science regarding man and society to prevent any such catastrophe, if it could only be applied. Hence, since one of the great ideals of life is to develop a perfect society built upon rational principles, the study of social pathology has become important. The care of the weak and the broken-down classes of humanity has something more than altruism as a foundation. Upon it rest the preservation of the individual and the perpetuation of a healthy social organism. The care of the insane, of imbeciles, of criminals, and of paupers is exercised more nearly on a scientific basis each succeeding year. Prevention and reform are the fundamental ideas in connection with the management of these classes. Altruism may be an initial motive power, prompting people to care for the needy and the suffering, but necessity for the preservation of society is more powerful in its final influences. To care for paupers without increasing pauperism is a great question, and is rapidly putting all charity upon a scientific basis. To care for imbeciles without increasing imbecility, and to care for criminals on the basis of the prevention and decrease of crime, are among the most vital questions of modern social life. As the conditions of human misery become more clearly revealed to humanity, and their evil effects on the social system become more apparent, greater efforts will be {452} put forward--greater than ever before--in the care of dependents, defectives, and delinquents. Not only must the pathology of the individual be studied, for the preservation of his physical system, but the pathology of human society must receive scientific investigation in order to perpetuate the social organism. _Modern Society a Machine of Great Complexity_.--While the family remains as the most persistent primary unit of social organization out of which differentiated the great social functions of to-day, it now expresses but a very small part of the social complex. It is true it is still a conserving, co-operating, propagating group of individuals, in which appear many of the elemental functions of society. While it represents a group based on blood relationship, as in the old dominant family drawn together by psychical influences and preserved on account of the protection of the different members of the group and the various complex relations between them, still within its precincts are found the elementary practices of economic life, the rights of property, and the beginnings of education and religion. Outside of this family nucleus there have been influences of common nationality and common ancestry or race, which are natural foundations of an expanded society. Along with this are the secondary influences, the memories and associations of a common birthplace or a common territorial community, and by local habitation of village, town, city, or country. But the differentiation of industrial functions or activities has been most potent in developing social complexity. The multiplication of activities, the choice of occupation, and the division of labor have multiplied the economic groups by the thousand. Following this, natural voluntary social groups spring up on every hand. Again, partly by choice and partly by environment, we find society drawn together in other groups, more or less influenced by those just enumerated. From the earliest forms of social existence we find men are grouped together on the basis of wealth. The interests of the rich are common, as are also the {453} interests of the poor and those of the well-to-do. Nor is it alone a matter of interest, but in part of choice, that these groupings occur. This community of interests brings about social coherence. Again, the trades, professions, and occupations of men draw them together in associated groups. It is not infrequent that men engaged in the same profession are thrown together in daily contact, have the same interests, sentiments, and thought, and form in this way a group which stands almost aloof from other groups in social life; tradesmen dealing in a certain line of goods are thrown together in the same way. But the lines in these groupings must not be too firmly drawn, for groups formed on the basis of friendship may cover a field partaking in part of all these different groups. Again, we shall find that the school lays the foundation of early associations, and continues to have an influence in creating social aggregates. Fraternal societies and political parties in the same way form associated groups. The church at large forms a great organizing centre, the influence of which in political and social life enlarges every day. The church body arranges itself in different groups on the basis of the different sects and denominations, and within the individual church organization there are small groups or societies, which again segregate religious social life. But over and above all these various social groups and classes is the state, binding and making all cohere in a common unity. The tendency of this social life is to differentiate into more and more groups, positive in character, which renders our social existence complex and difficult to analyze. The social groups overlap one another, and are interdependent in all their relations. In one way the individual becomes more and more self-constituted and independent in his activity; in another way he is dependent on all his fellows for room or opportunity for action. This complexity of social life renders it difficult to estimate the real progress of society; yet, taking any one of these {454} individual groups, it will be found to be improving continually. School life and school associations show a marked improvement; family life, notwithstanding the various evidences of the divorce courts, shows likewise an improved state as intelligence increases; the social life of the church becomes larger and broader. The spread of literature and learning, the increase of education, renders each social group more self-sustaining and brings about a higher life, with a better code of morals. Even political groups have their reactions, in which, notwithstanding the great room for improvement, they stand for morality and justice. The relations of man to man are becoming better understood every day. His fickleness and selfishness are more readily observed in recent than in former times, and as a result the evils of the present are magnified, because they are better understood; in reality, social conditions are improving, and the fact that social conditions are understood and evils clearly observed promises a great improvement for the future. _Interrelation of Different Parts of Society_.--The various social aggregates are closely interrelated and mutually dependent upon one another. The state itself, though expressing the unity of society, is a highly complex organization, consisting of forms of local and central government. These parts, having independent functions, are co-ordinated to the general whole. Voluntary organizations have their specific relation to the state, which fosters and protects them on an independent basis. The school, likewise, has its relation to the social life, having an independent function, yet touching all parts of the social life. We find the closest interdependence of individuals in the economic life. Each man performs a certain service which he exchanges for the services of others. The wealth which he creates with his own hand, limited in kind, must be exchanged for all the other commodities which he would have. More than this, all people are ranged in economic groups, each group dependent upon all the others--the farmers dependent upon {455} the manufacturers of implements and goods, upon bankers, lawyers, ministers, and teachers; the manufacturers dependent upon the farmers and all the other classes; and so with every class. This interdependent relation renders it impossible to improve one group without improving the others, or to work a great detriment to one group without injuring the others. If civilization is to be perpetuated and improved, the banker must be interested in the welfare of the farmer, the farmer in the welfare of the banker, both in the prosperity of manufacturers, and all in the welfare of the common laborer. The tendency for this mutual interest to increase is evinced in all human social relations, and speaks well for the future of civilization. _The Progress of the Race Based on Social Opportunities_.--Anthropologists tell us that no great change in the physical capacity of man has taken place for many centuries. The maximum brain capacity has probably not exceeded that of the Crô-Magnon race in the Paleolithic period of European culture. Undoubtedly, however, there has been some change in the quality of the brain, increasing its storage batteries of power and through education the utilization of that power. We would scarcely expect, however, with all of our education and scientific development, to increase the stature of man or to enlarge his brain. Much is being done, however, in getting the effective service of the brain not only through natural selective processes, but through education. The improvement of human society has been brought about largely by training and the increased knowledge which it has brought to us through invention and discovery, and their application to the practical and theoretical arts. All these would have been buried had it not been for the protection of co-operative society and the increased power derived therefrom. Even though we exercise the selective power of humanity under the direction of our best intelligence, the individual must find his future opportunity in the better {456} conditions furnished by society. Granted that individual and racial powers are essential through hereditary development, progress can only be obtained by the expression of these powers through social activity. For it is only through social co-operation that a new power is brought into existence, namely, achievement by mutual aid. This assertion does not ignore the fact that the mutations of progress arise from the brain centres of geniuses, and that by following up these mutations by social action they may become productive and furnish opportunity for progress. _The Central Idea of Modern Civilization_.--The object of life is not to build a perfect social mechanism. It is only a means to a greater end, namely, that the individual shall have opportunity to develop and exercise the powers which nature has given him. This involves an opportunity for the expression of his whole nature, physical and mental, for the satisfaction of his normal desires for home, happiness, prosperity, and achievement. It involves, too, the question of individual rights, privileges, and duties. The history of man reveals to us somewhat of his progress. There is ever before us the journey which he has taken in reaching his present status. The road has been very long, very rough, very crooked. What he has accomplished has been at fearful expense. Thousands have perished, millions have been swept away, that a single idea for the elevation and culture of the race might remain. Deplore it as we may, the end could be reached only thus. The suffering of humanity is gradually lessening, and destruction and waste being stayed, yet we must recognize, in looking to the future, that all means of improvement will be retarded by the imperfection of human life and human conditions. The central principle, however, the great nucleus of civilization, becomes more clearly defined, in turn revealing that man's happiness on earth, based upon duty and service, is the end of progress. If the achievements of science, the vast accumulations of wealth, the perfection of social organization, {457} the increased power of individual life--if all these do not yield better social conditions, if they do not give to humanity at large greater contentment, greater happiness, a larger number of things to know and enjoy, they must fail in their service. But they will not fail. Man is now a larger creature in every way than ever before. He has better religion; a greater God in the heavens, ruling with beneficence and wisdom; a larger number of means for improvement everywhere; and the desire and determination to master these things and turn them to his own benefit. The pursuit of truth reveals man to himself and God to him. The promotion of justice and righteousness makes his social life more complete and happy. The investigations of science and the advances of invention and discovery increase his material resources, furnishing him means with which to work; and with increasing intelligence he will understand more clearly his destiny--the highest culture of mind and body and the keenest enjoyment of the soul. SUBJECTS FOR FURTHER STUDY 1. What were the chief causes of aggregation of people? 2. Are there evidences of groups without the beginning of social organization? 3. What is the relation of the individual to society? 4. The basis of national groups. 5. Factors in the progress of the human race. 6. Growth of religious toleration in the world. 7. Name ten "American institutions" that should be perpetuated. 8. Race and democracy. 9. What per cent of the voters of your town take a vital interest in government? 10. The growth of democratic ideas in Europe. In Asia. 11. Study the welfare organizations in your town, comparing objects and results. 12. The trend of population from country to city and its influence on social organization. 13. Explain why people follow the fashions. {458} CHAPTER XXIX THE EVOLUTION OF SCIENCE _Science Is an Attitude of Mind Toward Life_.--As usually defined, science represents a classified body of knowledge logically arranged with the purpose of arriving at definite principles or truths by processes of investigation and comparison. But the largest part of science is found in its method of approaching the truth as compared with religion, philosophy, or disconnected knowledge obtained by casual observation. In many ways it is in strong contrast with speculative philosophy and with dogmatic theology, both of which lack sufficient data for scientific development. The former has a tendency to interpret what is assumed to have already been established. With the latter the laboratory of investigation of truth has been closed. The laboratory of science is always open. While scientists work with hypotheses, use the imagination, and even become dogmatic in their assertions, the degree of certainty is always tested in the laboratory. If a truth is discovered to-day, it must be verified in the laboratory or shown to be incorrect or only a partial truth. Science has been built up on the basis of the inquiry into nature's processes. It is all the time inquiring: "What do we find under the microscope, through the telescope, in the chemical and physical reactions, in the examination of the earth and its products, in the observation of the functions of animals and plants, or in the structure of the brain of man and the laws of his mental functioning?" If it establishes an hypothesis as a means of procedure, it must be determined true or abandoned. If the imagination ventures to be far-seeing, observation, experimentation, and the discovery of fact must all come to its support before it can be called scientific. _Scientific Methods_.--We have already referred to the turning of the minds of the Greeks from the power of the gods to {459} a look into nature's processes. We have seen how they lacked a scientific method and also scientific data sufficient to verify their assumptions. We have observed how, while they took a great step forward, their conclusions were lost in the Dark Ages and in the early mediaeval period, and how they were brought to light in the later medieval period and helped to form the scholastic philosophy and to stimulate free inquiry, and how the weakness of all systems was manifested in all these periods of human life by failure to use the simple process of observing the facts of nature, getting them and classifying them so as to demonstrate truth. It will not be possible to recount in this chapter a full description of the development of science and scientific thought. Not more can be done than to mention the turning-points in its development and expansion. Though other influences of minor importance might be mentioned, it is well to note that Roger Bacon (1214-1294) stands out prominently as the first philosopher of the mediaeval period who turned his attitude of mind earnestly toward nature. It is true that he was not free from the taint of dogmatic theology and scholastic philosophy which were so strongly prevailing at the time, but he advocated the discovery of truth by observation and experiment, which was a bold assumption at that time. He established as one of his main principles that experimental science "investigates the secrets of nature by its own competency and out of its own qualities, irrespective of any connection with the other sciences." Thus he did not universalize his method as applicable to all sciences. Doubtless Roger Bacon received his inspiration from the Greek and Arabian scientists with whom he was familiar. It is interesting that, following the lines of observation and discovery in a very primitive way, he let his imagination run on into the future, predicting many things that have happened already. Thus he says: "Machines for navigation are possible without rowers, like great ships suited to river or ocean, going with greater velocity than if they were full of rowers; likewise {460} wagons may be moved _cum impetu inaestimabili_, as we deem the chariots of antiquity to have been. And there may be flying-machines, so made that a man may sit in the middle of the machine and direct it by some device; and again, machines for raising great weights."[1] In continuity with the ideas of Roger Bacon, Francis Bacon (1561-1626) gave a classification of human learning and laid the real foundation on which the superstructure of science has been built. Between the two lives much had been done by Copernicus, who taught that the earth was not the centre of the universe, and that it revolved on its axis from west to east. This gave the traditions of fourteen centuries a severe jolt, and laid the foundation for the development of the heliocentric system of astronomy. Bacon's classification of all knowledge showed the relationship of the branches to a comprehensive whole. His fundamental theory was that nature was controlled and modified by man. He recognized the influence of natural philosophy, but insisted that the "history mechanical" was a strong support to it. His usefulness seems to have been in the presentation of a wide range of knowledge distinctly connected, the demonstration of the utility of knowledge, and the suggestion of unsolved problems which should be investigated by observation and experiment. Without giving his complete classification of human learning, it may be well to state his most interesting classification of physical science to show the middle ground which he occupied between mediaeval thought and our modern conception of science. This classification is as follows: 1. Celestial phenomena. 2. Atmosphere. 3. Globe. 4. Substance of earth, air, fire, and water. 5. Genera, species, etc.[2] {461} Descartes, following Bacon, had much to do with the establishment of method, although he laid more stress upon deduction than upon induction. With Bacon he believed that there was need of a better method of finding out the truth than that of logic. He was strong in his refusal to recognize anything as true that he did not understand, and had no faith in the mere assumption of truth, insisting upon absolute proof derived through an intelligent order. Perhaps, too, his idea was to establish universal mathematics, for he recognized measurements and lines everywhere in the universe, and recognized the universality of all natural phenomena, laying great stress on the solution of problems by measurement. He was a fore runner of Newton and many other scientists, and as such represents an epoch-making period in scientific development. The trend of thought by a few leaders having been directed to the observation of nature and the experimentation with natural phenomena, the way was open for the shifting of the centre of thought of the entire world. It only remained now for each scientist to work out in his own way his own experiments. The differentiation of knowledge brought about many phases of thought and built up separate divisions of science. While each one has had an evolution of its own, all together they have worked out a larger progress of the whole. Thus Gilbert (1540-1603) carried on practical experiments and observations with the lodestone, or magnet, and thus made a faint beginning of the study of electrical phenomena which in recent years has played such an important part in the progress of the world. Harvey (1578-1657) by his careful study of the blood determined its circulation through the heart by means of the arterial and venous systems. This was an important step in leading to anatomical studies and set the world far ahead of the medical studies of the Arabians. Galileo (1564-1642), in his study of the heavenly bodies and the universe, carried out the suggestion of Copernicus a century before of the revolution of the earth on its axis, to {462} take the place of the old theory that the sun revolved around the earth. Indeed, this was such a disturbing factor among churchmen, theologians, and pseudo-philosophers that Galileo was forced to recant his statements. In 1632 he published at Florence his _Dialogue on the Ptolemaic and Copernican Systems of the World_. For this he was cited to Rome, his book ordered to be burned, and he was sentenced to be imprisoned, to make a recantation of his errors, and by way of penance to recite the seven penitential psalms once a week. It seems very strange that a man who could make a telescope to study the heavenly bodies and carry on experiments with such skill that he has been called the founder of experimental science could be forced to recant the things which he was convinced by experiment and observation to be true. However, it must be remembered that the mediaeval doctrine of authority had taken possession of the minds of the world of thinkers to such an extent that to oppose it openly seemed not only sacrilege but the tearing down of the walls of faith and destroying the permanent structure of society. Moreover, the minds of all thinkers were trying to hold on to the old while they developed the new, and not one could think of destroying the faith of the church. But the church did not so view this, and took every opportunity to suppress everything new as being destructive of the church. No one could contemplate the tremendous changes that might have been made in the history of the world if the church could have abandoned its theological dogmas far enough to welcome all new truth that was discovered in God's workshop. To us in the twentieth century who have such freedom of expressing both truth and untruth, it is difficult to realize to what extent the authorities of the Middle Ages tried to seal the fountains of truth. Picture a man kneeling before the authorities at Rome and stating: "With a sincere heart and unfeigned faith I abjure, curse, and detest the said errors and heresies. I swear that for the future I will never say nor assert anything verbally or in writing which may give rise to a {463} similar suspicion against me."[3] Thus he was compelled to recant and deny his theory that the earth moves around the sun. _Measurement in Scientific Research_.--All scientific research involves the recounting of recurring phenomena within a given time and within a given space. In order, therefore, to carry on systematic research, methods of measuring are necessary. We can thus see how mathematics, although developed largely through the study of astronomy, has been necessary to all investigation. Ticho Brahe and Kepler may be said to have accentuated the phase of accurate measurement in investigation. They specialized in chemistry and astronomy, all measurements being applied to the heavenly bodies. Their main service was found in accurate records of data. Kepler maintained "that every planet moved in an ellipse of which the sun occupied one focus." He also held "that the square of the periodic time of any planet is proportional to the cube of its mean distance from the sun," and "that the area swept by the radius vector from the planet to the sun is proportional to the time."[4] He was much aided in his measurements by the use of a system of logarithms invented by John Napier (1614). Many measurements were established regarding heat, pressure of air, and the relation of solids and liquids. Isaac Newton, by connecting up a single phenomenon of a body falling a distance of a few feet on the earth with all similar phenomena, through the law of gravitation discovered the unity of the universe. Though Newton carried on important investigations in astronomy, studied the refraction of light through optic glasses, was president of the Royal Society, his chief contribution to the sciences was the tying together of the sun, the planets, and the moons of the solar system by the attraction of gravitation. Newton was able to carry along with his scientific investigations a profound reverence for Christianity. That he was not attacked shows that there had {464} been considerable progress made in toleration of new ideas. With all of his greatness of vision, he had the humbleness of a true scientist. A short time before his death he said: "I know not what I may appear to the world; but to myself I seem to have been only like a boy playing on the seashore, and diverting myself in now and then finding a smoother pebble, or a prettier shell, than ordinary, whilst the great ocean of truth lay all undiscovered before me." _Science Develops from Centres_.--Bodies of truth in the world are all related one to another. Hence, when a scientist investigates and experiments along a particular line, he must come in contact more or less with other lines. And while there is a great differentiation in the discovery of knowledge by investigation, no single truth can ever be established without more or less relation to all other truths. Likewise, scientists, although working from different centres, are each contributing in his own way to the establishment of universal truth. Even in the sixteenth century scientists began to co-operate and interchange views, and as soon as their works were published, each fed upon the others as he needed in advancing his own particular branch of knowledge. It is said that Bacon in his _New Atlantis_ gave such a magnificent dream of an opportunity for the development of science and learning that it was the means of forming the Royal Society in England. That association was the means of disseminating scientific truth and encouraging investigation and publication of results. It was a tremendous advancement of the cause of science, and has been a type for the formation of hundreds of other organizations for the promotion of scientific truth. _Science and Democracy_.--While seeking to extend knowledge to all classes of people, science paves the way for recognition of equal rights and privileges. Science is working all the time to be free from the slavery of nature, and the result of its operations is to cause mankind to be free from the slavery of man. Therefore, liberty and science go hand in hand in {465} their development. It is interesting to note in this connection that so many scientists have come from groups forming the ordinary occupations of life rather than, as we might expect, from the privileged classes who have had leisure and opportunity for development. Thus, "Pasteur was the son of a tanner, Priestley of a cloth-maker, Dalton of a weaver, Lambert of a tailor, Kant of a saddler, Watt of a ship-builder, Smith of a farmer, and John Ray was, like Faraday, the son of a blacksmith. Joule was a brewer. Davy, Scheele, Dumas, Balard, Liebig, Wöhler, and a number of other distinguished chemists were apothecaries' apprentices."[5] Science also is a great leveller because all scientists are bowing down to the same truth discovered by experimentation or observation, and, moreover, scientists are at work in the laboratories and cannot be dogmatic for any length of time. But scientists arise from all classes of people, so far as religious or political belief is concerned. Many of the foremost scientists have been distributed among the Roman Catholics, Anglicans, Calvinists, Quakers, Unitarians, and Agnostics. The only test act that science knows is that of the recognition of truth. Benjamin Franklin was a printer whose scientific investigations were closely intermingled with the problems of human rights. His experiments in science were subordinate to the experiments of human society. His great contribution to science was the identification of lightning and the spark from a Leyden jar. For the identification and control of lightning he received a medal from the Royal Society. The discussion of liberty and the part he took in the independence of the colonies of America represent his greatest contribution to the world. To us he is important, for he embodied in one mind the expression of scientific and political truth, showing that science makes for democracy and democracy for science. In each case it is the choice of the liberalized mind. _The Study of the Biological and Physical Sciences_.--The last century is marked by scientific development along several {466} rather distinct lines as follows: the study of the earth, or geology; animal and vegetable life, or biology; atomic analysis, or chemistry; biochemistry; physics, especially that part relating to electricity and radioactivity; and more recently it might be stated that investigations are carried on in psychology and sociology, while mathematics and astronomy have made progress. The main generalized point of research, if it could be so stated, is the discovery of law and order. This has been demonstrated in the development of chemistry under the atomic theory; physics in the molecular theory; the law of electrons in electricity, and the evolutionary theory in the study of biology. Great advance has been made in the medical sciences, including the knowledge of the nature and prevention of disease. Though a great many new discoveries and, out of new discoveries, new inventions have appeared along specific lines and various sciences have advanced with accuracy and precision, perhaps the evolutionary theory has changed the thought of the world more than any other. It has connected man with the rest of the universe and made him a definite part of it. _The Evolutionary Theory_.--The geography of the earth as presented by Lyell, the theory of population of Malthus, and the _Origin of the Species_ and the _Descent of Man_ by Darwin changed the preconceived notions of the creation of man. Slowly and without ostentation science everywhere had been forcing all nature into unity controlled by universal laws. Traditional belief was not prepared for the bold statement of Darwin that man was part of the slow development of animal life through the ages. For 2,000 years or more the philosophic world had been wedded to the idea of a special creation of man entirely independent of the creation of the rest of the universe. All conceptions of God, man, and his destiny rested upon the recognition of a separate creation. To deny this meant a reconstruction of much of the religious philosophy of the world. Persons {467} were needlessly alarmed and began to attack the doctrine on the assumption that anything interfering with the long-recognized interpretation of the relation of man to creation was wrong and was instituted for the purpose of tearing down the ancient landmarks. Darwin accepted in general the Lamarckian doctrine that each succeeding generation would have new characters added to it by the modification of environmental factors and by the use and disuse of organs and functions. Thus gradually under such selection the species would be improved. But Darwin emphasized selection through hereditary traits. Subsequently, Weismann and others reinterpreted Darwin's theory and strengthened its main propositions, abandoning the Lamarckian theory of use and disuse. Mendel, De Vries, and other biologists have added to the Darwinian theory by careful investigations into the heredity of plants and animals, but because Darwin was the first to give clear expression to the theory of evolution, "Darwinism" is used to express the general theory. Cosmic evolution, or the development of the universe, has been generally acknowledged by the acceptance of the results of the studies of geology, astronomy, and physics. History of plant and animal life is permanently written in the rocks, and their evolutionary process so completely demonstrated in the laboratory that few dare to question it. Modern controversy hinges upon the assumption that man as an animal is not subjected to the natural laws of other animals and of plants, but that he had a special creation. The maintenance of this belief has led to many crude and unscientific notions of the origin of man and the meaning of evolution. Evolution is very simple in its general traits, but very complex in its details. It is a theory of process and not a theory of creation. It is continuous, progressive change, brought about by natural forces and in accordance with natural laws. The evolutionist studies these changes and records the results obtained thereby. The scientist thus discovers new truths, {468} establishes the relation of one truth to another, enlarges the boundary of knowledge, extends the horizon of the unknown, and leaves the mystery of the beginning of life unsolved. His laboratory is always open to retest and clarify his work and to add new knowledge as fast as it is acquired. Evolution as a working theory for science has correlated truths, unified methods, and furnished a key to modern thought. As a co-operative science it has had a stimulating influence on all lines of research, not only in scientific study of physical nature, but also in the study of man, for there are natural laws as well as man-made laws to be observed in the development of human society. Some evolutionary scientists will be dogmatic at times, but they return to their laboratories and proceed to reinterpret what they have assumed, so that their dogmatism is of short duration. Theological dogmatists are not so fortunate, because of persistence of religious tradition which has not yet been put fully to the laboratory test. Some of them are continuously and hopelessly dogmatic. They still adhere to belief founded on the emotions which they refuse to put to scientific test. Science makes no attempt to undermine religion, but is unconsciously laying a broader foundation on which religion may stand. Theologians who are beginning to realize this are forced to re-examine the Bible and reinterpret it according to the knowledge and enlightenment of the time. Thus science becomes a force to advance Christianity, not to destroy it. On the other hand, science becomes less dogmatic as it applies its own methods to religion and humanity and recognizes that there is a great world of spiritual truth which cannot be determined by experiments in the physical laboratory. It can be estimated only in the laboratory of human action. Faith, love, virtue, and spiritual vision cannot be explained by physical and chemical reactions. If in the past science has rightly pursued its course of investigation regardless of spiritual truth, the future is full of promise that religion and human reactions and science will eventually work together in the pursuit of {469} truth in God's great workshop. The unity of truth will be thus realized. The area of knowledge will be enlarged while the horizon of the unknown will be extended. The mystery of life still remains unsolved. Galton followed along in the study of the development of race and culture, and brought in a new study of human life. Pasteur and Lister worked out their great factors of preventive medicine and health. Madame Curie developed the radioactivity as a great contribution to the evolution of science. All of this represents the slow evolution of science, each new discovery quickening the thought of the age in which it occurred, changing the attitude of the mind toward nature and life, and contributing to human comfort and human welfare. But the greatest accomplishment always in the development of science is its effect on the mental processes of humanity, stimulating thought and changing the attitude of mind toward life. _Science and War_.--It is a travesty on human progress, a social paradox, that war and science go hand in hand. On one side are all of the machines of destruction, the battleships, bombing-planes, huge guns, high explosives, and poisonous gases, products of scientific experiment and inventive genius, and on the other ambulances, hospitals, medical and surgical care, with the uses of all medical discoveries. The one seeks destruction, the other seeks to allay suffering; one force destroys life, the other saves it. And yet they march forth under the same flag to conquer the enemy. It is like the conquest of the American Indians by the Spaniards, in which the warrior bore in one hand a banner of the cross of Christ and in the other the drawn sword. War has achieved much in forcing people into national unity, in giving freedom to the oppressed and protecting otherwise helpless people, but in the light of our ideals of peace it has never been more than a cruel necessity, and, more frequently, a grim, horrible monster. Chemistry and physics and their discoveries underlying the vast material prosperity of moderns have contributed much to the mechanical and {470} industrial arts and increased the welfare and happiness of mankind. But when war is let loose, these same beneficent sciences are worked day and night for the rapid destruction of man. All the wealth built up in the passing years is destroyed along with the lives of millions of people. Out of the gloom of the picture proceeds one ray of beneficent light, that of the service rendered by the discoveries of medical science and surgical art. The discoveries arising from the study of anatomy, physiology, bacteriology, and neurology, with the use of anaesthetics and antiseptics in connection with surgery, have made war less horrible and suffering more endurable. Scientists like Pasteur, Lister, Koch, Morton, and many others brought forth from their laboratories the results of their study for the alleviation of suffering. Yet it seems almost incredible that with all of the horrid experiences of war, an enterprise that no one desires, and which the great majority of the world deplore, should so long continue. Nothing but the discovery and rise of a serum that will destroy the germs of national selfishness and avarice will prevent war. Possibly it stimulates activity in invention, discovery, trade and commerce, but of what avail is it if the cycle returns again from peace to war and these products of increased activity are turned to the destruction of civilization? Does not the world need a baptism of common sense? Some gain is being made in the changing attitude of mind toward the warrior in favor of the great scientists of the world. But nothing will be assured until the hero-worship of the soldier gives way to the respect for the scholar, and ideals of truth and right become mightier than the sword. _Scientific Progress Is Cumulative_.--One discovery leads to another, one invention to others. It is a law of science. Science benefits the common man more than does politics or religion. It is through science that he has means of use and enjoyment of nature's progress. It is true this is on the side of materialistic culture, and it does not provide all that is needed for the completed life. Even though the scientific {471} experiments and discoveries are fundamentally more essential, the common man cannot get along without social order, politics, or religion. Perhaps we can get the largest expression of the value of science to man through a consideration of the inventions and discoveries which he may use in every-day life.[6] Prior to the nineteenth century we have to record the following important inventions: alphabetic writing, Arabic numbers, mariner's compass, printing, the telescope, the barometer and thermometer, and the steam-engine. In the nineteenth century we have to record: railroads, steam navigation, the telegraph, the telephone, friction matches, gas lighting, electrical lighting, photography, the phonograph, electrical transmission of power, Röntgen rays, spectrum analysis, anaesthetics, antiseptic surgery, the airplane, gasoline-engine, transmission of news by radio, and transportation by automobile. Also we shall find in the nineteenth century thirteen important theoretical discoveries as compared with seven in all previous centuries. It is interesting to note what may have taken place also in the last generation. A man who was born in the middle of the last century might reflect on a good many things that have taken place. Scientifically he has lived to see the development of electricity from a mere academic pursuit to a tremendous force of civilization. Chemistry, although supposed to have been a completed science, was scarcely begun. Herbert Spencer's _Synthetic Philosophy_ and Darwin's _Origin of the Species_ had not yet been published. Huxley and Tyndall, the great experimental scientists, had not published their great works. Transportation with a few slow steam-propelled vessels crossing the ocean preceded the era of the great floating palaces. The era of railroad-building had only just started in America. Horseless carriages propelled by gas or electricity were in a state of conjecture. Politically in America the Civil War had not been fought or the Constitution really completed. The great wealth and stupendous business organization of {472} to-day were unknown in 1850. In Europe there was no German Empire, only a German Federation. The Hapsburgs were still holding forth in Austria and the Hohenzollerns in Prussia and the Romanoffs in Russia. The monarchial power of the old régime was the rule of the day. These are institutions of the past. Civilization in America, although it had invaded the Mississippi valley, had not spread over the great Western plains nor to the Pacific coast. Tremendous changes in art and industries, in inventions and discoveries have been going on in this generation. The flying-machine, the radio, the automobile, the dirigible balloon, and, more than all, the tremendous business organization of the factories and industries of the age have given us altogether a complete revolution. _Research Foundations_.--All modern universities carry on through instructors and advanced students many departments of scientific research. The lines of research extend through a wide range of subjects--Chemistry, Biology, Physics, Anatomy, Physiology, Medicine, Geology, Agriculture, History, Sociology, and other departments of learning. These investigations have led to the discovery of new knowledge and the extension of learning to mankind. Outside of colleges and universities there have been established many foundations of research and many industrial laboratories. Prominent among those in the United States are The Carnegie Corporation and The Rockefeller Foundation, which are devoting hundreds of millions of dollars to the service of research, for the purpose of advancing science and directly benefiting humankind. The results play an important part in the protection and daily welfare of mankind. The Mellon Institute contributes much to the solution of problems of applied chemistry.[7] It is interesting to note how the investigation carried on by these and other foundations is contributing directly to human welfare by mastering disease. The elimination of the hookworm disease, the fight to control malaria, the {473} mastery of yellow fever, the promotion of public health, and the study of medicine, the courageous attack on tuberculosis, and the suppression of typhoid fever, all are for the benefit of the public. The war on disease and the promotion of public health by preventive measures have lowered the death-rate and lengthened the period of life. _The Trend of Scientific Investigations_.--While research is carried on in many lines, with many different objectives, it may be stated that intense study is devoted to the nature of matter and the direct connection of it with elemental forces. The theories of the molecule and the atom are still working hypotheses, but the investigator has gone further and disintegrated the atom, showing it to be a complex of corpuscles or particles. Scientists talk of electrons and protons as the two elemental forces and of the mechanics of the atom. In chemistry, investigation follows the problems of applied chemistry, while organic chemistry or biochemistry opens continually new fields of research. It appears that biology and chemistry are becoming more closely allied as researches continue and likewise physics and chemistry. In the field of surgery the X-ray is in daily use, and radium and radioactivity may yet be great aids to medicine. In medical investigation much is dependent upon the discoveries in neurology. This also will throw light upon the studies in psychology, for the relation of nerve functions to mind functions may be more clearly defined. Explorations of the earth and of the heavens continually add new knowledge of the extent and creation of the universe. The study of anthropology and archaeology throw new light upon the origin and early history of man. Experimental study of animals, food, soils, and crops adds increased means of sustenance for the race. Recent investigations of scientific education, along with psychology, are throwing much light on mental conditions and progress. And more recently serious inquiry into social life through the study of the social sciences is revealing the great problems of life. All of knowledge, all of science, and all of human invention which add to material {474} comforts will be of no avail unless men can learn to live together harmoniously and justly. But the truths discovered in each department of investigation are all closely related. Truly there is but one science with many divisions, one universe with many parts, and though man is a small particle of the great cosmos, it is his life and welfare that are at the centres of all achievements. SUBJECTS FOR FURTHER STUDY 1. In what ways has science contributed to the growth of democracy? 2. How has the study of science changed the attitude of the mind toward life? 3. How is every-day life of the ordinary man affected by science? 4. Is science antagonistic to true Christianity? 5. What is the good influence of science on religious belief and practice? 6. What are the great discoveries of the last twenty-five years in Astronomy? Chemistry? Physics? Biology? Medicine? Electricity? 7. What recent inventions are dependent upon science? 8. Relation between investigation in the laboratory and the modern automobile. 9. How does scientific knowledge tend to banish fear? 10. Give a brief history of the development of the automobile. The flying-machine. 11. Would a law forbidding the teaching of science in schools advance the cause of Christianity? [1] Taylor, _The Mediaeval Mind_, vol. II, p. 508. [2] Libby, _History of Science_, p. 63. [3] Copernicus's view was not published until thirty-six years after its discovery. A copy of his book was brought to him at his death-bed, but he refused to look at it. [4] Libby, p. 91. [5] Libby, _History of Science_, p. 280. [6] Libby, _Introduction to the History of Science_. [7] The newly created department at Johns Hopkins University for the study of international relations may assist in the abolition of war. {475} CHAPTER XXX UNIVERSAL EDUCATION AND DEMOCRACY _Universal Public Education Is a Modern Institution_.--The Greeks valued education and encouraged it, but only those could avail themselves of its privileges who were able to pay for it. The training by the mother in the home was followed by a private tutor. This system conformed to the idea of leadership and was valuable in the establishment of an educated class. However, at the festivals and the theatres there were opportunities for the masses to learn much of oratory, music, and civic virtues. The education of Athens conformed to the class basis of society. Sparta as an exception trained all citizens for the service of state, making them subordinate to its welfare. The state took charge of children at the age of seven, put them in barracks, and subjected them to the most severe discipline. But there was no free education, no free development of the ordinary mind. It was in the nature of civic slavery for the preservation of the state in conflict with other states. During the Middle Ages Charlemagne established the only public schools for civic training, the first being established at Paris, although he planned to extend them throughout the empire. The collapse of his great empire made the schools merely a tradition. But they were a faint sign of the needs of a strong empire and an enlightened community. The educational institutions of the Middle Ages were monasteries, and cathedral schools for the purpose of training men for the service of the church and for the propagating of religious doctrine. They were all institutional in nature and far from the idea of public instruction for the enlightenment of the people. _The Mediaeval University Permitted Some Freedom of Choice_.--There was exhibited in some of them especially a desire to discover the truth through traditional knowledge. They were {476} composed of groups of students and masters who met for free discussion, which led to the verification of established traditions. But this was a step forward, and scholars arose who departed from dogma into new fields of learning. While the universities of the Middle Ages were a step in advance, full freedom of the mind had not yet manifested itself, nor had the idea of universal education appeared. Opportunity came to a comparatively small number; moreover, nearly all scientific and educational improvement came from impulses outside of the centres of tradition. _The English and German Universities_.--The English universities, particularly Oxford and Cambridge, gave a broader culture in mathematics, philosophy, and literature, which was conducive to liberality in thought, but even they represented the education of a selected class. The German universities, especially in the nineteenth century, emphasized the practical or applied side of education. By establishing laboratories, they were prepared to apply all truths discovered, and by experimentation carry forward learning, especially in the chemical and other physical sciences. The spirit of research was strongly invoked for new scientific discoveries. While England was developing a few noted secondary schools, like Harrow and Eton, Germany was providing universal real _schule_, and _gymnasia_, as preparatory for university study and for the general education of the masses. As a final outcome the Prussian system was developed, which had great influence on education in the United States in the latter part of the nineteenth century. _Early Education in the United States_.--The first colleges and universities in the United States were patterned after the English universities and the academies and high schools of England. These schools were of a selected class to prepare for the ministry, law, statesmanship, and letters. The growth of the American university was rapid, because it continually broadened its curriculum. From the study of philosophy, classical languages, mathematics, literature, it successively {477} embraced modern languages, physical sciences, natural science, history, and economics, psychology, law, medicine, engineering, and commerce. In the present-day universities there is a wide differentiation of subjects. The subjects have been multiplied to meet the demand of scientific development and also to fit students for the ever-increasing number of occupations which the modern complex society demands. The result of all this expansion is democratic. The college class is no longer an exclusive selection. The plane of educational selection continually lowers until the college draws its students from all classes and prepares them for all occupations. In the traditional college certain classes were selected to prepare for positions of learning. There was developed a small educated class. In the modern way there is no distinctive educated class. University education has become democratic. _The Common, or Public, Schools_.--In the Colonial and early national period of the United States, education was given by a method of tutors, or by a select pay school taught by a regularly employed teacher under private contract. Finally the sympathy for those who were not able to pay caused the establishing of "common schools." This was the real beginning of universal education, for the practice expanded and the idea finally prevailed of providing schools by taxation "common" to all, and free to all who wish to attend. Later, for civic purposes, primary education has become compulsory in most states. Following the development of the primary grades, a complete system of secondary schools has been provided. Beyond these are the state schools of higher education, universities, agricultural and mechanical schools, normal schools and industrial schools, so that a highway of learning is provided for the child, leading from the kindergarten through successive stages to the university. _Knowledge, Intelligence, and Training Necessary in a Democracy_.--Washington, after experimenting with the new nation for eight years, having had opportunity to observe the defects {478} and virtues of the republic, said in his Farewell Address: "Promote, then, as an object of primary importance institutions for the general diffusion of knowledge. In proportion as the structure of a government gives force to public opinion, it is essential that public opinion should be enlightened."[1] Again and again have the leaders of the nation who have had at heart the present welfare and future destiny of their country urged public education as a necessity. And right well have the people responded to these sentiments. They have poured out their hard-earned money in taxation to provide adequate education for the youth of the land. James Bryce, after studying in detail American institutions, declared that "the chief business of America is education." This observation was made nearly forty years ago. If it was true then, how much more evident is it now with wonderful advance of higher education in colleges and universities, and in the magnificent system of secondary education that has been built up in the interval. The swarming of students in high school and college is evidence that they appreciate the opportunities furnished by the millions of wealth, largely in the form of taxes, given for the support of schools. _Education Has Been Universalized_.--Having made education universal, educators are devoting their energies to fit the education to the needs of the student and to assist the student in choosing the course of instruction which will best fit him for his chosen life-work. The victory has been won to give every boy and girl an educational chance. To give him what he actually needs and see that he uses it for a definite purpose is the present problem of the educator. This means a careful inquiry into mental capacity and mental traits, into temperament, taste, ambition, and choice of vocation. It means further provision of the special education that will best prepare him for his chosen work, and, indeed, it means sympathetic co-operation of the teacher and student in determining the course to be pursued. {479} _Research an Educational Process_.--Increased knowledge comes from observation or systematic investigation in the laboratory. Every child has by nature the primary element of research, a curiosity to know things. Too often this is suppressed by conventional education instead of continued into systematic investigation. One of the great defects of the public school is the failure to keep alive, on the part of the student, the desire to know things. Undue emphasis on instruction, a mere imparting of knowledge, causes the student to shift the responsibility of his education upon the teacher, who, after all, can do no more than help the student to select the line of study, and direct him in methods of acquiring. Together teacher and student can select the trail, and the teacher, because he has been over it, can direct the student over its rough ways, saving him time and energy. Perhaps the greatest weakness in popular government to-day is indifference of citizens to civic affairs. This leads to a shifting of responsibility of public affairs frequently to those least competent to conduct them. Perhaps a training in individual responsibility in the schools and more vital instruction in citizenship would prepare the coming generation to make democracy efficient and safe to the world. The results of research are of great practical benefit to the so-called common man in the ordinary pursuits of life. The scientist in the laboratory, spending days and nights in research, finally discovers a new process which becomes a life-saver or a time-saver to general mankind. Yet the people usually accept this as a matter of fact as something that just happened. They forget the man in the laboratory and exploit the results of his labor for their own personal gain. How often the human mind is in error, and unobserving, not to see that the discovery of truth and its adaptation to ordinary life is one of the fundamental causes of the progress of the race. Man has advanced in proportion as he has become possessed of the secrets of nature and has adapted them to his service. The number of ways he touches nature and forces {480} her to yield her treasures, adapting them to his use, determines the possibility of progress. The so-called "common man," the universal type of our democracy, is worthy of our admiration. He has his life of toil and his round of duties alternating with pleasure, bearing the burdens of life cheerfully, with human touch with his fellows; amid sorrow and joy, duty and pleasure, storm and sunshine, he lives a normal existence and passes on the torch of life to others. But the man who shuts himself in his laboratory, lives like a monk, losing for a time the human touch, spends long days of toil and "nights devoid of ease" until he discovers a truth or makes an invention that makes millions glad, is entitled to our highest reverence. The ordinary man and the investigator are complementary factors of progress and both essential to democracy. _The Diffusion of Knowledge Necessary to Democracy_.--Always in progress is a deflecting tendency, separating the educated class from the uneducated. This is not on account of the aristocracy of learning, but because of group activity, the educated man following a pursuit different from the man of practical affairs. Hence the effort to broadcast knowledge through lectures, university extension, and the radio is essential to the progress of the whole community. One phase of enlightenment is much neglected, that of making clear that the object of the scholar and the object of the man of practical affairs should be the same--that of establishing higher ideals of life and providing means for approximating these ideals. It frequently occurs that the individual who has centred his life on the accumulation of wealth ignores the educator and has a contempt for the impractical scholar, as he terms him. Not infrequently state legislatures, when considering appropriations for education, have shown more interest in hogs and cattle than in the welfare of children. It would be well if the psychology of the common mind would change so as to grasp the importance of education and scientific investigation to every-day life. Does it occur to the {481} man who seats himself in his car to whisk away across the country in the pursuit of ordinary business, to pause to inquire who discovered gasoline or who invented the gasoline-engine? Does he realize that some patient investigator in the laboratory has made it possible for even a child to thus utilize the forces of nature and thus shorten time and ignore space? Whence comes the improvement of live-stock in this country? Compare the cattle of early New England with those on modern farms. Was the little scrubby stock of our forefathers replaced by large, sleek, well-bred cattle through accident? No, it was by the discovery of investigators and its practical adaptation by breeders. Compare the vineyards and the orchards of the early history of the nation, the grains and the grasses, or the fruits and the flowers with those of present cultivation. What else but investigation, discovery, and adaptation wrought the change? My common neighbor, when your child's poor body is racked with pain and likely to die, and the skilled surgeon places the child on the operating-table, administers the anaesthetic to make him insensible to pain, and with knowledge gained by investigation operates with such skill as to save the child's life and restore him to health, are you not ready to say that scientific investigation is a blessing to all mankind? Whence comes this power to restore health? Is it a dispensation from heaven? Yes, a dispensation brought about through the patient toil and sacrifice of those zealous for the discovery of truth. What of the knowledge that leads to the mastery of the yellow-fever bacillus, of the typhoid germ, to the fight against tuberculosis and other enemies of mankind? Again, it is the man in the laboratory who is the first great cause that makes it possible for humanity to protect itself from disease. Could our methods of transportation by steamship, railroad, or air, our great manufacturing processes, our vast machinery, or our scientific agriculture exist without scientific research? Nothing touches ordinary life with such potent force as the results of the investigation in the laboratory. Clearly it is {482} understood by the thoughtful that education in all of its phases is a democratic process, and a democratic need, for its results are for everybody. Knowledge is thus humanized, and the educated and the non-educated must co-operate to keep the human touch. Educational Progress.--One of the landmarks of the present century of progress will be the perfecting of educational systems. Education is no longer for the exclusive few, developing an aristocracy of learning for the elevation of a single class; it has become universal. The large number of universities throughout the world, well endowed and well equipped, the multitudes of secondary schools, and the universality of the primary schools, now render it possible for every individual to become intelligent and enlightened. But these conditions are comparatively recent, so that millions of individuals to-day, even in the midst of great educational systems, remain entirely unlettered. Nevertheless, the persistent effort on the part of people everywhere to have good schools, with the best methods of instruction, certainly must have its effect in bringing the masses of unlearned into the realm of letters. The practical tendency of modern education, by which discipline and culture may be given while at the same time preparing the student for the active duties of life, makes education more necessary for all persons and classes. The great changes that have taken place in methods of instruction and in the materials of scientific investigation, and the tendency to develop the man as well as to furnish him with information, evince the masterly progress of educational systems, and demonstrate their great worth. _The Importance of State Education_.--So necessary has education become to the perpetuation of free government that the states of the world have deemed it advisable to provide on their own account a sufficient means of education. Perpetuation of liberty can be secured only on the basis of intellectual progress. From the time of the foundation of the universities of Europe, kings and princes and state authorities have {483} encouraged and developed education, but it remained for America to begin a complete and universal free-school system. In the United States educators persistently urge upon the people the necessity of popular education and intelligence as the only means of securing to the people the benefits of a free government, and other statesmen from time to time have insisted upon the same principle. The private institutions of America did a vast work for the education of the youth, but proved entirely inadequate to meet the immediate demands of universal education, and the public-school system sprang up as a necessary means of preparation for citizenship. It found its earliest, largest, and best scope in the North and West, and has more recently been established in the South, and now is universal. The grant by the United States government at the time of the formation of the Ohio territory of lands for the support of universities led to the provision in the act of formation of each state and territory in the Union for the establishment of a university. Each state, since the admission of Ohio, has provided for a state university, and the Act of 1862, which granted lands to each state in the Union for the establishment of agricultural and mechanical colleges, has also given a great impulse to state education. In the organizing acts of some of the newer states these two grants have been joined in one for the upbuilding of a university combining the ideas of the two kinds of schools. The support insured to these state institutions promises their perpetuity. The amount of work which they have done for the education of the masses in higher learning has been prodigious, and they stand to-day as the greatest and most perfect monument of the culture and learning of the Western states. The tremendous growth of state education has increased the burden of taxation to the extent that the question has arisen as to whether there is not a limit to the amount people are willing to pay for public education. If it can be shown that they receive a direct benefit in the education of their children there {484} will be no limit within their means to the support of both secondary schools and universities. But there must be evidence that the expenditure is economically and wisely administered. The princely endowments of magnificent universities like the Leland Stanford Junior University, the University of Chicago, Johns Hopkins University, Harvard, Yale, and others, have not interfered with the growth and development of state education, for it rests upon the permanent foundation of a popular demand for institutions supported by the contributions of the whole people for the benefit of the state at large. State institutions based upon permanent foundations have been zealous in obtaining the best quality of instruction, and the result is that a youth in the rural districts may receive as good undergraduate instruction as he can obtain in one of the older and more wealthy private institutions, and at very little expense. _The Printing-Press and Its Products_.--Perhaps of all of the inventions that occurred prior to the eighteenth century, printing has the most power in modern civilization. No other one has so continued to expand its achievements. Becoming a necessary adjunct of modern education, it continually extends its influence in the direct aid of every other art, industry, or other form of human achievement. The dissemination of knowledge through books, periodicals, and the newspaper press has made it possible to keep alive the spirit of learning among the people and to assure that degree of intelligence necessary for a self-governed people. The freedom of the press is one of the cardinal principles of progress, for it brings into fulness the fundamental fact of freedom of discussion advocated by the early Greeks, which was the line of demarcation between despotism and dogmatism and the freedom of the mind and will. In common with all human institutions, its power has sometimes been abused. But its defect cannot be remedied by repression or by force, but by the elevation of the thought, judgment, intelligence, and good-will of a people by an education which causes them to {485} demand better things. The press in recent years has been too susceptible to commercial dominance--a power, by the way, which has seriously affected all of our institutions. Here, as in all other phases of progress, wealth should be a means rather than an end of civilization. _Public Opinion_.--Universal education in school and out, freedom of discussion, freedom of thought and will to do are necessary to social progress. Public opinion is an expression of the combined judgments of many minds working in conscious or unconscious co-operation. Laws, government, standards of right action, and the type of social order are dependent upon it. The attempt to form a League of Nations or a Court of International Justice depends upon the support of an intelligent public opinion. War cannot be ended by force of arms, for that makes more war, but by the force of mutually acquired opinion of all nations based on good-will. Every year in the United States there are examples of the failure of the attempt to enforce laws which are not well supported by public opinion. Such laws are made effective by a gradual education of those for whom they are made to the standard expressed in the laws, or they become obsolete. SUBJECTS FOR FURTHER STUDY 1. Show from observations in your own neighborhood the influence of education on social progress. 2. Imperfections of public schools and the difficulties confronting educators. 3. Should all children in the United States be compelled to attend the public schools? 4. What part do newspapers and periodicals play in education? 5. Relation of education to public opinion. 6. Should people who cannot read and write be permitted to vote? 7. Study athletics in your school and town to determine their educational value. 8. Show by investigation the educational value of motion-pictures and their misuse. 9. In what ways may social inequality be diminished? 10. Would a law compelling the reading of the Bible in public schools make people more religious? [1] Richardson, _Messages and Papers of the Presidents_, I, 220. {486} CHAPTER XXXI WORLD ECONOMICS AND POLITICS _Commerce and Communication_.--The nations of the world have been drawn together in thought and involuntary co-operation by the stimulating power of trade. The exchange of goods always leads to the exchange of ideas. By commerce each nation may profit by the products of all others, and thus all may enjoy the material comforts of the world. At times some countries are deficient in the food-supply, but there has been in recent years a sufficient world supply for all, when properly distributed through commerce. Some countries produce goods that cannot be produced by others, but by exchange all may receive the benefits of everything discovered, produced, or manufactured. Rapid and complete transportation facilities are necessary to accomplish this. Both trade and transportation are dependent upon rapid communication, hence the telegraph, the cable, and the wireless have become prime necessities. The more voluminous reports of trade relations found in printed documents, papers, and books, though they represent a slower method of communication, are essential to world trade, but the results of trade are found in the unity of thought, the development of a world mind, and growing similarity of customs, habits, usages, and ideals. Slowly there is developing a world attitude toward life. _Exchange of Ideas Modifies Political Organization_.--The desire for liberty of action is universal among all people who have been assembled in mass under co-operation. The arbitrary control by the self-constituted authority of kings and governments without the consent of the governed is opposed by all human associations, whether tribal, territorial, or national. Since the world settled down to the idea of monarchy as a necessary form of government, men have been trying to {487} substitute other forms of government. The spread of democratic ideas has been slowly winning the world to new methods of government. The American Revolution was the most epoch-making event of modern times. While the French Revolution was about to burst forth, the example of the American colonies was fuel to the flames. In turn, after the United States had won their freedom and were well on their way in developing a republican government, the influence of the radical democracy was seen in the laws and constitutions of the states, particularly in the first half of the nineteenth century. The Spanish-American War led to the development of democracy, not only in Cuba and Porto Rico but in the Philippine Islands. But the planting of democracy in the Philippines had a world influence, manifested especially in southeastern Asia, China, Japan, and India. _Spread of Political Ideas_.--The socialism of Karl Marx has been one of the most universal and powerful appeals to humanity for industrial freedom. His economic system is characterized by the enormous emphasis placed upon labor as a factor in production. Starting from the hypothesis that all wealth is created by labor, and limiting all labor to the wage-earner, there is no other conclusion, if the premise be admitted, than that the product of industry belongs to labor exclusively. His theories gained more or less credence in Germany and to a less extent in other countries, but they were never fully tested until the Russian revolution in connection with the Great War. After the downfall of Czarism, leaders of the revolution attacked and overthrew capitalism, and instituted the Soviet government. The proletariat came to the top, while the capitalists, nobility, and middle classes went to the bottom. This was brought about by sudden revolution through rapid and wild propaganda. Strenuous efforts to propagate the Soviet doctrine and the war against capitalism in other countries have taken place, without working a revolution similar to that in Russia. But the International is slowly developing a world idea among {488} laborers, with the ultimate end of destroying the capitalistic system and making it possible for organized wage-earners to rule the world. It is not possible here to discuss the Marxian doctrine of socialism nor to recount what its practical application did to Russia. Suffice it to say that the doctrine has a fatal fallacy in supposing that wage-earners are the only class of laborers necessary to rational economic production. _The World War Breaks Down the Barriers of Thought_.--The Great War brought to light many things that had been at least partially hidden to ordinary thinking people. It revealed the national selfishness which was manifested in the struggle for the control of trade, the extension of territory, and the possession of the natural resources of the world. This selfishness was even more clearly revealed when, in the Treaty of Versailles and the formation of the League of Nations, each nation was unwilling to make necessary sacrifice for the purpose of establishing universal peace. They all appeared to feel the need of some international agreement which should be permanent and each favored it, could it first get what it wanted. Such was the power of tradition regarding the sanctity of national life and the sacredness of national territory and, moreover, of national prerogatives! Nevertheless, the interchange of ideas connecting with the gruelling of war caused change of ideas about government and developed, if not an international mind, new modes of national thinking. The war brought new visions of peace, and developed to a certain extent a recognition of the rights of nations and an interest in one another's welfare. There was an advance in the theory at least of international justice. Also the world was shocked with the terror of war as well as its futility and terrible waste. While national selfishness was not eradicated, it was in a measure subdued, and a feeling of co-operation started which eventually will result in unity of feeling, thought, and action. The war brought into being a sentiment among the national peoples that they will not in the future be forced into war without their consent. {489} _Attempt to Form a League for Permanent Peace_.--Led by the United States, a League of Nations was proposed which should settle all disputes arising between nations without going to war. The United States having suggested the plan and having helped to form the League, finally refused to become a party to it, owing in part to the tradition of exclusiveness from European politics--a tradition that has existed since the foundation of the nation. Yet the United States was suggesting a plan that it had long believed in, and a policy which it had exercised for a hundred years with most nations. It took a prominent part in the first peace conference called by the Czar of Russia in 1899. The attempt to establish a permanent International Tribunal ended in forming a permanent Court of Arbitration, which was nothing more than an intelligence office with a body of arbitrators composed of not more than four men from each nation, from whom nations that had chosen to arbitrate a dispute might choose arbitrators. The conference adjourned with the understanding that another would be called within a few years. The Boxer trouble in China and the war between Japan and Russia delayed the meeting. Through the initiation of Theodore Roosevelt, of the United States, a second Hague Conference met in 1907. Largely through the influence of Elihu Root a permanent court was established, with the exception that a plan for electing delegates could not be agreed upon. It was agreed to hold another conference in 1915 to finish the work. Thus it is seen that the League of Nations advocated by President Wilson was born of ideas already fructifying on American soil. McKinley, Roosevelt, John Hay, Elihu Root, Joseph H. Choate, James Brown Scott, and other statesmen had favored an International Tribunal. The League of Nations provided in its constitution among other things for a World Court of Nations. In the first draft of the constitution of the League no mention was made of a World Court. But through a cablegram of Elihu Root to Colonel E. M. House, the latter was able to place articles 13 {490} and 14, which provided that the League should take measures for forming a Court of International Justice. Subsequently the court was formed by the League, but national selfishness came to the front and crippled the court. Article 34 originally read: "Between states which are members of the League of Nations, the court shall have jurisdiction, and this without any convention giving it jurisdiction to hear and determine cases of legal nature." It was changed to read; "The jurisdiction of the court comprises all cases which the parties refer to it and all matters specially provided for in treaties and conventions in force." It is to be observed that in the original statement, either party to a dispute could bring a case into court without the consent of the other, thus making it a real court of justice, and in the modified law both parties must agree to bring the case in court, thus making it a mere tribunal of arbitration. The great powers--England, France, Italy, and Japan--were opposed to the original draft, evidently being unwilling to trust their disputes to a court, while the smaller nations favored the court as provided in the original resolution. However, it was provided that such nations who desired could sign an agreement to submit all cases of dispute to the court with all others who similarly signed. Nearly all of the smaller nations have so signed, and President Harding urged the United States, though not a member of the League, to sign. The judges of the court, eleven in all, are nominated by the old Arbitration Court of the Hague Tribunal, and elected by the League of Nations, the Council and Assembly voting separately. Only one judge may be chosen from a nation, and of course every nation may not have a judge. In cases where a dispute involves a nation which has no member in the court, an extra judge may be appointed. The first court was chosen from the following nations: Great Britain, France, Italy, United States, Cuba, Switzerland, Netherlands, Denmark, Japan, and Brazil. So the Court of International Justice is functioning in an incomplete way, born of the spirit of {491} America, and the United States, though not a member of the League of Nations, has a member in the court sitting in judgment on the disputes of the nations of the world. So likewise the League of Nations, which the United States would not join, is functioning in an incomplete way. _International Agreement and Progress_.--But who shall say that the spirit of international justice has not grown more rapidly than appears from the workings of the machinery that carries it out? Beneath the selfish interests of nations is the international consciousness that some way must be devised and held to for the settlement of disputes without war; that justice between nations may be established similar to that practised within the boundaries of a single nation. No progress comes out of war itself, though it may force other lines of conduct. Progress comes from other sources than war. Besides, it brings its burdens of crime, cripples, and paupers, and its discontent and distrust. It may hasten production and stimulate invention of destruction, but it is not constructive and always it develops an army of plunderers who prey upon the suffering and toil of others. These home pirates are more destructive of civilization than poison gases or high explosives. _The Mutual Aid of Nations_.--In a previous chapter it was shown that mutual aid of individuals was the beginning of society. It now is evident that the mutual aid of nations is their salvation. As the establishment of justice between individuals through their reactions does not destroy their freedom nor their personalities, so the establishment of justice among nations does not destroy their autonomy nor infringe upon their rights. It merely insists that brutal national selfishness shall give way to a friendly co-operation in the interest and welfare of all nations. "A nation, like an individual, will become greater as it cherishes a high ideal and does service and helpful acts to its neighbors, whether great or small, and as it co-operates with them in working toward a common end."[1] {492} Truly "righteousness exalteth a nation," and it will become strong and noble as it seeks to develop justice among all nations and to exercise toward them fair dealing and friendly relations that make for peace. _Reorganization of International Law_.--The public opinion of the nations of the world is the only durable support of international law. The law represents a body of principles, usages, and rules of action regarding the rights of nations in peace and in war. As a rule nations have a wholesome respect for international law, because they do not wish to incur the unfriendliness and possible hatred of their fellow nations nor the contempt and criticism of the world. This fear of open censure has in a measure led to the baneful secret treaties, such an important factor in European diplomacy, whose results have been suspicion, distrust, and war. Germany is the only modern nation that felt strong enough to defy world opinion, the laws of nations, and to assume an entirely independent attitude. But not for long. This attitude ended in a disastrous war, in which she lost the friendship and respect of the world--lost treasure and trade, lives and property. It is unfortunate that modern international law is built upon the basis of war rather than upon the basis of peace. In this respect there has not been much advance since the time of Grotius, the father of modern international law. However, there has been a remarkable advance among most nations in settling their difficulties by arbitration. This has been accompanied by a strong desire to avoid war when possible, and a longing for its entire abandonment. Slowly but surely public opinion realizes not only the desire but the necessity of abandoning great armaments and preparation for war. But the nations cannot go to a peace basis without concerted action. This will be brought about by growth in national righteousness and a modification of crude patriotism and national selfishness. It is now time to codify and revise international law on a peace basis, and new measures adopted in accordance to the progress nations have made in recent {493} years toward permanent peace. Such a move would lead to a better understanding and furnish a ready guide to the Court of International Justice and all other means whereby nations seek to establish justice among themselves. _The Outlook for a World State_.--If it be understood that a world state means the abandonment of all national governments and their absorption in a world government, then it may be asserted truly that such is an impossibility within the range of the vision of man. Nor would it be desirable. If by world state is meant a political league which unites all in a co-operative group for fair dealing in regard to trade, commerce, territory, and the command of national resources, and in addition a world court to decide disputes between nations, such a state is possible and desirable. Great society is a community of groups, each with its own life to live, its own independence to maintain, and its own service to perform. To absorb these groups would be to disorganize society and leave the individual helpless before the mass. For it is only within group activity that the individual can function. So with nations, whose life and organization must be maintained or the individual would be left helpless before the world. But nations need each other and should co-operate for mutual advantage. They are drawn closer each year in finance, in trade and commerce, in principles of government and in life. A serious injury to one is an injury to all. The future progress of the world will not be assured until they cease their squabbles over territory, trade, and the natural resources of the world--not until they abandon corroding selfishness, jealousy, and suspicion, and covenant with each other openly to keep the peace. To accomplish this, as Mr. Walter Hines Page said: "Was there ever a greater need than there is now for first-class minds unselfishly working on world problems? The ablest ruling minds are engaged on domestic tasks. There is no world-girdling intelligence at work on government. The present order must change. It holds the Old World still. It keeps all {494} parts of the world apart, in spite of the friendly cohesive forces of trade and travel. It keeps back self-government of men." These evils cannot be overcome by law, by formula, by resolution or rule of thumb, but rather by long, patient study, research, and work of many master-minds in co-operative leadership, who will create a sound international public opinion. The international mind needs entire regeneration, not dominance of the powers. The recent war was but a stupendous breaking with the past. It furnished opportunity for human society to move forward in a new adjustment on a larger and broader plan of life. Whether it will or not depends upon the use made of the opportunity. The smashing process was stupendous, horrible in its moment. Whether society will adapt itself to the new conditions remains to be seen. Peace, a highly desirable objective, is not the only consideration. There are even more important phases of human adjustment. SUBJECTS FOR FURTHER STUDY 1. What were the results of the first (1899) and the second (1907) Hague Conference? 2. What is meant by "freedom of the seas"? 3. Should a commission of nations attempt to equalize the ownership and distribution of the natural products and raw materials, such as oil, coal, copper, etc.? 4. How did the World War make opportunity for democracy? 5. Believing that war should be abolished, how may it be done? 6. What are the dangers of extreme radicalism regarding government and social order? 7. The status of the League of Nations and the Court of International Justice. 8. National selfishness and the League of Nations. 9. The consolidation or co-operation of churches in your town. 10. The union of social agencies to improve social welfare. 11. Freedom of the press; freedom of speech. 12. Public opinion. [1] Cosmos, _The Basis of Durable Peace_. {495} CHAPTER XXXII THE TREND OF CIVILIZATION IN THE UNITED STATES _The Economic Outlook_.--The natural resources of forest, mines, and agriculture are gradually being depleted. The rapidity of movement in the economic world, the creation of wealth by vast machinery, and the organization of labor and industry are drawing more and more from the wealth stored by nature in her treasure-houses. There is a strong agitation for the conservation of these resources, but little has been accomplished. The great business organizations are exploiting the resources, for the making of the finished products, not with the prime motive of adding to the material comforts and welfare of mankind, but to make colossal fortunes under private control. While the progress of man is marked by mastery of nature, it should also be marked by co-operation with nature on a continued utility basis. Exploitation of natural resources leads to conspicuous waste which may lead to want and future deterioration. The development of scientific agriculture largely through the influence of the Agricultural Department at Washington and the numerous agricultural colleges and experiment stations has done something to preserve and increase the productivity of the soil. Scientific study and practical experiment have given improved quality of seed, a better grade of stock, and better quality of fruits and vegetables. They have also given improved methods of cultivation and adaptability of crops to the land, and thus have increased the yield per acre. The increased use of selected fertilizers has worked to the same end. The use of a large variety of labor-saving machines has conduced to increase the amount of the product. But all of this improvement is small, considering the amount that needs to be done. The population is increasing rapidly from {496} the native stock and by immigration. There is need for wise conservation in the use of land to prevent economic waste and to provide for future generations. The greedy consumers, with increasing desire for more and better things, urge, indirectly to be sure, for larger production and greater variety of finished products. _The Economics of Labor_.--In complex society there are many divisions or groups of laborers--laborers of body and laborers of mind. Every one who is performing a legitimate service, which is sought for and remunerative to the laborer and serviceable to the public, is a laborer. At the base of all industry and social activity are the industrial wage-earners, who by their toil work the mines, the factories, the great steel and iron industries, the railroads, the electric-power plants and other industries. Since the beginning of the industrial revolution in the latter part of the eighteenth century, labor has been working its way out of slavery into freedom. As a result laborers have better wages, better conditions of life, more of material comforts, and a higher degree of intelligence than ever before. Yet there is much improvement needed. While the hours of labor have been reduced in general to eight per day, the irregularity of employment leads to unrest and frequently to great distress. There is a growing tendency to make laborers partners in the process of production. This does not mean that they shall take over the direction of industry, but co-operate with the managers regarding output, quality of goods, income, and wages, so as to give a solidarity to productive processes and eliminate waste of time, material, and loss by strikes. The domestic peace in industry is as important as the world peace of nations in the economy of the world's progress. A direct interest of the wage-earner in the management of production and in the general income would have a tendency to equalize incomes and prevent laborers from believing that the product of industry as well as its management should be under their direct control. Public opinion usually favors the {497} laborer and, while it advocates the freedom and dignity of labor, does not favor the right of labor to exploit industry nor concede the right to destroy. But it believes that labor organizations should be put on the same basis as productive corporations, with equal degree of rights, privileges, duties, and responsibilities. _Public and Corporate Industries_.--The independent system of organized industry so long dominant in America, known by the socialists as capitalistic production, has become so thoroughly established that there is no great tendency to communistic production and distribution. There is, however, a strong tendency to limit the power of exploitation and to control larger industries in the interest of the public. Especially is this true in regard to what are known as public utilities, such as transportation, lighting, telephone, and telegraph companies, and, in fact, all companies that provide necessaries common to the public, that must be carried on as monopolies. Public opinion demands that such corporations, conducting their operations as special privileges granted by the people, shall be amenable to the public so far as conduct and income are concerned. They must be public service companies and not public exploitation companies. The great productive industries are supposed to conduct their business on a competitive basis, which will determine price and income. As a matter of fact, this is done only in a general way, and the incomes are frequently out of proportion to the power of the consuming public to purchase. Great industries have the power to determine the income which they think they ought to have, and, not receiving it, may cease to carry on their industry and may invest their capital in non-taxable securities. While under our present system there is no way of preventing this, it would be a great boon to the public, and a new factor in progress, if they were willing to be content with a smaller margin of profit and a slower accumulation of wealth. At least some change must take place or the people of small incomes will be obliged to give up many {498} of the comforts of life of which our boasted civilization is proud, and gradually be reduced to the most sparing economy, if not to poverty. The same principle might be applied to the great institutions of trade. _The Political Outlook_.--In our earlier history the struggle for liberty of action was the vital phase of our democracy. To-day the struggle is to make our ideal democracy practical. In theory ours is a self-governed people; in practice this is not wholly true. We have the power and the opportunity for self-government, but we are not practising it as we might. There is a real danger that the people will fail to assume the responsibility of self-government, until the affairs of government are handed over to an official class of exploiters. For instance, the free ballot is the vital factor in our government, but there are many evidences that it is not fully exercised for the political welfare of the country. It frequently occurs that men are sent to Congress on a small percentage of voters. Other elective offices meet the same fate. Certainly, more interest must be taken in selecting the right kind of men to rule over them or the people will barter away their liberties by indifference. Officials should be brought to realize that they are to serve the public and it is largely a missionary job they are seeking rather than an opportunity to exploit the office for personal gain. The expansive process of political society makes a larger number of officers necessary. The people are demanding the right to do more things by themselves, which leads to increased expenses in the cost of administration, great bonded indebtedness, and higher taxation. It will be necessary to curb expansion and reduce overhead charges upon the government. This may call for the reorganization of the machinery of government on the basis of efficiency. At least it must be shown to the people that they have a full return for the money paid by taxation. It is possible only by study, care, civic responsibility, and interest in government affairs, as well as by increased intelligence, that our democratic idealism may be put {499} into practice. Laboratory methods in self-government are a prime necessity. _The Equalization of Opportunity_.--Popular education is the greatest democratic factor in existence. It is the one great institution which recognizes that equal opportunities should be granted to everybody. Yet it has its limits in establishing equal opportunities in the accepted meaning of the term. There is a false idea of equality which asserts that one man is as good as another before he has proved himself to be so. True equality means justice to all. It does not guarantee that equality of power, of intellect, of wealth, and social standing shall obtain. It seeks to harmonize individual development with social development, and to insure the individual the right to achieve according to his capacity and industry. "The right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness" is a household word, but the right to _pursue_ does not insure success. The excessive altruism of the times has led to the protecting care of all classes. In its extreme processes it has made the weak more helpless. What is needed is the cultivation of individual responsibility. Society is so great, so well organized, and does so much that there is a tendency of the individual to shift his responsibility to it. Society is composed of individuals, and its quality will be determined by the character and quality of the individual working especially for himself and generally for the good of all. A little more of the law of the survival of the fittest would temper our altruism to more effective service. The world is full of voluntary altruistic and social betterment societies, making drives for funds. They should re-examine their motives and processes and carefully estimate what they are really accomplishing. Is the institution they are supporting merely serving itself, or has it a working power and a margin of profit in actual service? _The Influence of Scientific Thought on Progress_.--The effect of scientific discovery on material welfare has been referred to elsewhere. It remains to determine how scientific thought changes the attitude of the mind toward life. The laboratory {500} method continually tests everything, and what he finds to be true the scientist believes. He gradually ignores tradition and adheres to those things that are shown to be true by experimentation or recorded observation. It is true that he uses hypotheses and works the imagination. But his whole tendency is to depart from the realm of instinct and emotions and lay a foundation for reflective thinking. The scientific attitude of mind influences all philosophy and all religion. "Let us examine the facts in the case" is the attitude of scientific thought. The study of anthropology and sociology has, on the one hand, discovered the natural history of man and, on the other, shown his normal social relations. Both of these studies have co-operated with biology to show that man has come out of the past through a process of evolution; that all that he is individually and socially has been attained through long ages of development. Even science, philosophy, and religion, as well as all forms of society, have had a slow, painful evolution. This fact causes people to re-examine their traditional belief to see how far it corresponds to new knowledge. It has helped men to realize on their philosophy of life and to test it out in the light of new truth and experience. This has led the church to a broader conception of the truth and to a more direct devotion to service. It is becoming an agency for visualizing truth rather than an institution of dogmatic belief. The religious traditionalists yield slowly to the new religious liberalism. But the influence of scientific thought has caused the church to realize on the investment which it has been preaching these many centuries. _The Relation of Material Comfort to Spiritual Progress_.--The material comforts which have been multiplying in recent centuries do not insure the highest spiritual activity. The nations that have achieved have been forced into activity by distressing conditions. In following the history of any nation along any line of achievement, it will be noticed that in its darkest, most uncomfortable days, when progress seemed least {501} in evidence, forces were in action which prepared for great advancement. It has been so in literature, in science, in liberty, in social order; it is so in the sum-total of the world's achievements. Granting that the increase of material comforts, in fact, of wealth, is a great achievement of the age, the whole story is not told until the use of the wealth is determined. If it leads to luxurious living, immorality, injustice, and loss of sense of duty, as in some of the ancient nations, it will prove the downfall of Western civilization. If the leisure and strength it offers are utilized in raising the standard of living, of establishing higher ideals, and creating a will to approximate them, then they will prove a blessing and an impulse to progress. Likewise, the freedom of the mind and freedom in governmental action furnish great opportunities for progress, but the final result will be determined by use of such opportunities in the creation of a higher type of mind characterized by a well-balanced social attitude. _The Balance of Social Forces_.--There are two sources of the origin of social life, one arising out of the attitude of the individual toward society, and the other arising out of the attitude of society toward the individual. These two attitudes seem, at first view, paradoxical in many instances, for both individual and society must survive. But in the long run they are not antagonistic, for the good of one must be the good of the other. The perfect balancing of the two forces would make a perfect society. The modern social problem is to determine how much choice shall be left to individual initiative and how much shall be undertaken by the group. In recent years the people have been doing more and more for themselves through group action. The result has been a multiplication of laws, many of them useless; the creation of a vast administrative force increasing overhead charges, community control or operation of industries, and the vast amount of public, especially municipal, improvements. All of these have been of advantage to the people in common, but have {502} greatly increased taxation until it is felt to be a burden. Were it not for the great war debts that hang heavily on the world, probably the increased taxation for legitimate expenses would not have been seriously felt. But it seems certain that a halt in excessive public expenditures will be called until a social stock-taking ensues. At any rate, people will demand that useless expenditures shall cease and that an ample return for the increased taxation shall be shown in a margin of profit for social betterment. A balance between social enterprise and individual effort must be secured. _Restlessness Versus Happiness_.--Happiness is an active principle arising from the satisfaction of individual desires. It does not consist in the possession of an abundance of material things. It may consist in the harmony of desires with the means of satisfying them. Perhaps the "right to achieve" and the successful process of achievement are the essential factors in true happiness. Realizing how wealth will furnish opportunities for achievement, and how it will furnish the luxuries of life as well as furnish an outlet for restless activity, great energy is spent in acquiring it. Indeed, the attitude of mind has been centred so strongly on the possession of the dollar that this seems to be the end of pursuit rather than a means to higher states of life. It is this wrong attitude of life that brings about so much restlessness and so little real happiness. Only the utilization of material wealth to develop a higher spiritual life of man and society will insure continuous progress. The vast accumulations of material wealth in the United States and the wonderful provisions for material comfort are apt to obscure the vision of real progress. Great as are the possible blessings of material progress, it is possible that eventually they may prove a menace. Other great civilizations have fallen because they stressed the importance of the material life and lost sight of the great adventure of the spirit. Will the spiritual wealth rise superior, strong, and dominant to overcome the downward drag of material prosperity and {503} thus be able to support the burdens of material civilization that must be borne? _Summary of Progress_.--If one were to review the previous pages from the beginnings of human society to the present time, he would observe that mind is the ruling force of all human endeavor. Its freedom of action, its inventive power, and its will to achieve underlie every material and social product of civilization. Its evolution through action and reaction, from primitive instincts and emotions to the dominance of rational planning and reflective thinking, marks the trail of man's ascendancy over nature and the establishing of ideals of social order. Has man individual traits, physical and mental, sufficiently strong to stand the strain of a highly complex social order? It will depend upon the strength of his moral character, mental traits, and physical resistance, and whether justice among men shall prevail, manifested in humane and sound social action. Future progress will depend upon a clearness of vision, a unity of thought, the standardization of the objectives of social achievement, and, moreover, an elevation of human conduct. Truly, "without vision the people perish." SUBJECTS FOR FURTHER STUDY 1. What measures are being taken to conserve the natural resources? 2. What plan would you suggest for settling the labor problem so as to avoid strikes? 3. How shall we determine what people shall do in group activity and what shall be left to private initiative? 4. How may our ideals of democracy be put to effective practice? 5. To what extent does future progress of the race depend upon science? 6. Is there any limit to the amount of money that may be wisely expended for education? 7. Public measures for the promotion of health. 8. What is meant by the statement that "Without vision the people perish"? 9. Equalization of opportunity. {504} BIBLIOGRAPHY Abbott, Frank Frost: History and Description of Roman Political Institutions. Adams, George Burton: Civilization During the Middle Ages. Amicis, Edmondo de: Spain and the Spaniards. Aristotle's Politics: Translation by Welldon. Arnold, Matthew: Civilization in the United States. Bakewell, Chas. M.: Source Book of Ancient Philosophy. Blackmar, F. W., and Gillin, J. L.: Outlines of Sociology. Blummer, Hugo: Home Life of the Ancient Greeks. Boak, A. E. R.: Roman History. Boas, Franz: The Mind of Primitive Man. Botsford, George Willis: Ancient History for Beginners. Hellenic History. The Story of Rome. Bowman, Isaiah: The New World. Breasted, J. H.: Ancient Times: A History of the Early World. Brinton, Daniel G.: The American Races. 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A.: The Story of Chaldea. Rawlinson, George: Ancient Monarchies. The Story of Egypt. {507} Robinson, James Harvey: The Mind in the Making. Sayre, Francis B.: Experiments in International Administration. Scott, J. B. (editor): President Wilson's Foreign Policy: Messages, Addresses, and Papers. Sedgwick, W. J., and Tyler, H. W.: A Short History of Science. Seebohm, Frederick: The Era of the Protestant Revolt. Semple, Ellen C.: Influences of Geographic Environment. Sloane, W. M.: The Powers and Aims of Western Democracy. Slosson, Edwin E.: Creative Chemistry. Smith, J. Russell: The World and Its Food Resources. Smith, Walter R.: Educational Sociology. Spinden, H. J.: Ancient Civilization of Mexico. Stubbs, William: The Early Plantagenets. Symonds, John Addington: The Renaissance in Italy. Taylor, Edward B.: Researches Into the Early History of Mankind. The Development of Civilization. Thwing, Charles F. and Carrie F.: The Family. Todd, Arthur James: Theories of Social Progress. Turner, F. J.: The Rise of the New West. Tyler, John M.: The New Stone Age of Northern Europe. Van Hook, La Rue: Greek Life and Thought. Walker, Francis A.: The Making of a Nation. Wallas, Graham: Great Society. Principles of Western Civilization. Weber, Alfred, and R. B. Perry: History of Philosophy. Weigall, Arthur: The Story of the Pharaohs. White, Andrew D.: The French Revolution and the First Empire. Whitney, Wm. Dwight: The Life and Growth of Language. Wilder, H. H.: Man's Prehistoric Past. Wissler, Clark: The American Indian. Man and Culture. {508} INDEX Abelard, 354. Aegean culture, 207. Ages of culture, stone, bronze, 36. Agriculture, beginning of, 93; modern, 440. Akkadians, religion of, 155, 156. Alexander, conquests of, 246. Allia, battle of the, 387. Altruism and democracy, 449-462. America, peopling of, 185. American Indians, culture of, 200; contributions to civilization, 201. Anaxagoras, 218. Anaximander, 217. Anaximenes, 217. Ancient society, Morgan, 4, 49, Animals, domestication of, 92. Anselm, 354. Antiquity of man shown by race development, 69. Arabian empire, 305; science and art, 307. Arab-Moors in Spain, 305; cultures, 308-315; science and art, 307-310; discoveries, 312; language and literature, 313; architecture, 315; achievement, 316; decline, 317. Arab-Moors, religious zeal of, 308. Aristotle, 223. Arkwright, Richard, spinning by rollers, 436. Art, development of, 37; as a language of aesthetic ideas, 130; representative, 131; and architecture, 368. Aryans, coming of the, 167. Athens, Government of, 233; character of democracy, 240; decline of, 241. Aztecs, culture of, 190. Babylon, 146. Bacon, Francis, 355, 460. Bacon, Roger, 459. Barbarians, 281. Beautiful, the love of, develops slowly, 135-136; a permanent social force, 137. Bill of Rights, 397, 413. Boccaccio, 366. Books, 128. Bow and arrow, 87. Brahe, Ticho, 463. Bryce, James, 380. Bunyan, John, 398. Burial mounds, 76. Cabrillo, 116. Calvin, John, and the Genevan system, 386. Canuleius, 255. Cassius, Spurius, agrarian laws, 254. Catholic Church, the, 384. Catlin, North American Indians, 134. Caves, 71. Chaldea, early civilization of, 153-156. Charlemagne, 349. Chemistry, 308. China, 166. Christian influence on Roman legislation, 273. Christian religion, social contacts of, 268. Christianity and the social life, 271; service of, 279; opposes pagan literature, 357; competition with Graeco-Roman schools, 357. Christians come into conflict with civil authority, 273. Church, the wealth of, 275; development of hierarchy, 270; control of temporal power, 277; service of, 278; retrogressive attitude, 350; in France, 402; widening influences of, 446; organizing centre, 453. Cities, rise of free, 330-332; modern, 440. Civilization, material evidences of, 4; fundamentals of, 10-14; possibilities of, 15; can be estimated, 16; modern, 456. Cleisthenes, reforms of, 237. Cliff Dwellers, 194. Clothing, manufacture of, 97. Cnossos, 207. Colonization, Greek, 246; Phoenician, 161. Commerce and communication, 486. Commerce, hastens progress, 362. Common schools, 477. Constitutional liberty in England, 393. Copernicus, 461. Crete, island of, 207. Crô-Magnon, earliest ancestral type, 28; cultures of, 72. Crompton, Samuel, spinning "mule," 436. Crusades, causes of, 319, 320, 321; results of, 322-323; effect on monarchy, 324; intellectual development, 325; impulse to commerce, 326; social effect, 327. Cultures, evidence of primitive, 28; mental development and, 32; early European, 32. Curie, Madame, 469. Custom, 112, 288, 295. Dance, the, as dramatic expression, 133; economic, religious, and social functions of, 134. Darius I, founded Persian Empire, 168. Darwin, Charles, 467. Democracy, 342, 392, 449. Democracy in America, 418; characteristics of, 419-421; modern political reforms of, 421-425. Descartes, René, 461. Diogenes, 218. Discovery and invention, 362. Duruy, Victor, 363. Economic life, 170-180, 290, 429. Economic outlook, 495. Education and democracy, 477-482. Education, universal, 475, 478; in the United States, 476. Educational progress, 482. Egypt, 145, 146; centre of civilization, 157-160; compared with Babylon, 162; pyramids, 160; religion, 172; economic life, 178; science, 182. England, beginnings of constitutional liberty in, 345. Environment, physical, determines the character of civilization, 141; quality of soil, 144; climate and progress, 146; social order, 149. Equalization of opportunities, 499. Euphrates valley, seat of early civilization, 152. Evidences of man's antiquity, 69; localities of, 71-78; knowledge of, develops reflective thinking, 77. Evolution, 467-469. Family, the early, 109-112; Greek and Roman, 212-213; German, 286. Feudalism, nature of, 294-299; sources of, 294, based on land tenure, 296; social classification under, 298; conditions of society under, 300; individual development under, 302; influence on world progress, 303. Fire and its economy, 88. Florence, 336. Food supply, determines progress, 83-85; increased by discovery and invention, 86. France, free cities of, 330; rise of popular assemblies, 338; rural communes, 338; place in modern civilization, 399; philosophers of, 403; return to monarchy, 417; character of constitutional monarchy, 418. France, in modern civilization, 399; philosophers of, 403. Franklin, Benjamin, 465. Freedom of the press, 484. Freeman, E. A., 233. French republic, triumph of, 417. French Revolution, 405-407; results of, 407. Galileo, 461. Gabon, Francis, 469. Geography, 312. Germans, social life of, 283; classes of society, 285; home life, 286; political organization, 287; social customs, 288; contribution to law, 291; judicial system, 292. Gilbert, William, 461. Glacial epoch, 62. Greece, 148, 205, 210. Greece and Rome compared, 250. Greek equality and liberty, 229. Greek federation, 245. Greek government, an expanded family, 229; diversity of, 231; admits free discussion, 231; local self-government, 232; independent community life, 231; group selfishness, 232; city state, 239. Greek influence on Rome, 261. Greek life, early, 205; influence of, 213. Greek philosophy, observation and inquiry, 215; Ionian philosophy, 216; weakness of, 219; Eleatic philosophy, 220; Sophists, 221; Epicureans, 224; influence of, 225. Greek social life, 241, 243. Greeks, origin of, 209; early social life of, 208; character of primitive, 209; family life of, 212; religion of, 212. Guizot, 399. Hargreaves, James, invents the spinning jenny, 436. Harvey, William, 461. Hebrew influence, 164. Henry VIII and the papacy, 387; defender of the faith, 396. Heraclitus, 218. Hierarchy, development of, 276. History, 312. Holy Roman Empire, 414. Human chronology, 59. Humanism, 349, 364, 366; relation of language and literature to, 367; effect on social manners, 371; relation to science and philosophy, 372; advances the study of the classics, 373; general influence on life, 373. Huss, John, 378, 379. Huxley, Thomas H., 471. Ice ages, the, 62, 64. Incas, culture of, 187. India, 148, 166. Individual culture and social order, 150. Industrial development, 429-433, 439; revolution, 437. Industries, radiate from land as a centre, 429; early mediaeval, 430; public, 497; corporate, 497. Industry and civilization, 441. International law, reorganization of, 492. Invention, 86, 362, 436. Iroquois, social organization of, 198. Italian art and architecture, 368. Italian cities, 332; popular government of, 333. Jesuits, the, 385. Justinian Code, 260. Kepler, 463. Knowledge, diffusion of, 480. Koch, 470. Koran, the, 304, 310. Labor, social economics of, 496. Lake dwellings, 78. Lamarck, J. P., 467. Land, use of, determines social life, 145. Language, origin of, 121; a social function, 123; development of, 126-129; an instrument of culture, 129. Latin language and literature, 261. League for permanent peace, 489-492 Licinian laws, 256. Lister, 469, 470. Locke, John, 398. Lombard League, 337. Louis XIV, the divine right of kings, 400. Luther, Martin, and the German Reformation, 382-385. Lycurgus, reforms of, 244. Lysander, 241. Magdalenian cultures, 72. Man, origin of, 57; primitive home of, 66, antiquity of, 73-70; and nature, 141; not a slave to environment, 149. Manorial system, 430. Manuscripts, discovery of, 364. Marxian socialism in Russia, 427. Maya race, 192. Medicine, 308. Medontidae, 234. Men of genius, 33. Mesopotamia, 154. Metals, discovery and use of, 100. Metaphysics, 310. Mexico, 146. Michael Angelo, 370. Milton, John, 398. Minoan civilization, 207. Monarchy, a stage of progress in Europe, 344. Monarchy versus democracy, 392. Mongolian race, 167. Montesquieu, 404. Morgan, Lewis H., beginning of civilization, 4; classification of social development, 49. Morton, William, T. G., 470. Mound builders, 197. Music, as language, 131; as a socializing factor, 133, 137. Mutual aid, 120; of nations, 491. Napier, John, 463. Napoleon Bonaparte, 417. Nationality and race, 444. Nature, aspects of, determine types of social life, 147. Neanderthal man, 29, 65. Newton, Sir Isaac, 463. Nile, valley, seat of early civilization, 152. Nobility, the French, 400. Occam, William of, 379. Oriental civilization, character of, 170; war for conquest and plunder, 171; religious belief, 171-174; social condition, 175; social organization, 176-178; economic life, 178-180; writing, 181; science, 182; contribution to world progress, 184. Parliament, rebukes King James I, 396; declaration of, 397. Pasteur, Louis, 469, 470. Peloponnesian War, 241. People, the condition of, in France, 401. Pericles, age of, 247. Petrarch, 365, 366. Philosophy, Ionian, 216; Eleatic, 220; sophist, 221; stoic, 225; sceptic, 225; influence of Greek on civilization, 226, 228. Phoenicians, the, become great navigators, 161; colonization by, 161. Physical needs, efforts to satisfy, 82-85. Picture writing, 126. Pithecanthropus erectus, 29. Plato, 222. Political ideas, spread of, 486-488. Political liberty in XVIII century. [Transcriber's note: no page number in source] Polygenesis, monogenesis, 66. Popular government, expense of, 328, 414. Power manufacture, 437. Pre-historic human types, 63, 65, 66. Pre-historic man, types of, 28, Pre-historic time, 60-61. Primitive man, social life of, 31, 32; brain capacity of, 29. Progress and individual development, 23; and race development, 22; influence of heredity on, 24; influence of environment on, 25; race interactions and, 26; early cultural evidence of, 32; mutations in, 33; data of, 34; increased by the implements used, 35; revival of, throughout Europe, 348; and revival of learning, 372-373. Progress, evidence of, 456. Public opinion, 485. Pueblo Indians, culture of, 194; social life, 195; secret societies, 196. Pythagoras, 219. Race and language, 124. Races, cause of decline, 201, 202. Racial characters, 70. Recounting human progress, methods of 37-52; economic development, 39-40. Reform measures in England, 415. Reformation, the, character of, 375; events leading to, 376-380; causes of, 380-382; far-reaching results of, 388-391. Religion and social order, 113-116. Religious toleration, growth of, 447. Renaissance, the, 349, 370. Republicanism, spread of, 425. Research, foundations of, 472; educational process of, 479. Revival of learning, 364. River and glacial drift, 74. Roebuck, John, the blast furnace, 436. Roman civil organization, 258. Roman empire, and its decline, 264. Roman government, 258; law, 259; imperialism, 267. Roman social life, 264. Rome a dominant city, 257; development of government, 258. Rome, political organization, 252; struggle for liberty, 243; social conditions, 255; invasion of the Gauls, 255; Agrarian laws, 254, 256; plebeians and patricians, 256; optimates, 256; influence on world civilization, 266. Rousseau, 404. Savonarola, 380. Scholastic philosophy, 353. Schools, cathedral and monastic, 356; Graeco-Roman, 357. Science, in Egypt, 182; in Spain, 306; nature of, 307, 458; and democracy, 464, 465. Scientific classification, 460; men, 465; progress, 470; investigation, trend of, 473. Scientific methods, 459. Scientific research, 463. Semites, 160. Shakespeare, 398. Shell mounds, 73. Shelters, primitive, 99. Social conditions at the beginning of the Christian era, 269. Social contacts of the Christian religion, 268. Social development, 13, 23, 49, 104, 114, 347, 443. Social evolution, depends on variation, 347; character of, 443. Social forces, balance of, 501. Social groups, interrelation of, 454. Social life, 31, 133, 145, 147, 171, 178-180, 208, 241, 243, 247, 255, 258, 283, 285, 289, 298, 300, 327, 371. Social life of primitive man, 31, 32; development of social order, 41-45; intellectual character of, 47; religious and moral condition of, 46, 47; character of, 108; moral status of, 117. Social opportunities, 455. Social order, 8, 41, 122, 149, 150, 176-178, 193, 196, 444, 445. Social organization, 145, 176-178, 210, 250-252, 432, 433, 444. Social unrest, 502. Society, 5, 175, 205, 255, 256, 268-273, 285, 301, 316, 443, 445, 446, 450, 451, 452. Society, complexity of modern, 452. Socrates, 221. Solon, constitution of, 235. Spain, attempts at popular government in, 341. Sparta, domination of, 241; character of Spartan state, 242. Spencer, Herbert, 471. Spiritual progress and material comfort, 500. State education, 482. States-general, 341. Struggle for existence develops the individual and the race, 106. Summary of progress, 503. Switzerland, democracy in cantons, 342. Symonds, J. A., 366. Teutonic liberty, 281; influence of, 282, 291, 292; laws, 291. Theodosian Code, 260. Toltecs, 192. Towns, in the Middle Ages, 329. Trade,434. Trade and its social Influence, 104. Transportation, 102. Tylor, E. B., Primitive Culture, 114. Tyndall, John, 471. Unity of the human race, 66. Universities, mediaeval, 475; English, 476; German, 476; American, 476; endowed, 484. Universities, rise of, 360; nature of, 361; failure in scientific methods, 361. Venice, 335. Village community, 44. Village sites, 77. Voltaire, 404. Waldenses, 378. Warfare and social progress, 119. Watt, James, power manufacture, 436. Weissman, A., 467. Western civilisation, important factors in its foundation, 268. Whitney, Ely, the cotton gin, 436. Wissler, Clark, culture areas, 26; trade, 104. World state, 493. World war, breaks the barriers of thought, 488. World War, iconoclastic effects of, 427. Writing, 181. Wyclif, John, and the English reformation, 378, 386. Zeno, 220. Zenophanes, 220. Zwingli and the reformation in Switzerland, 385. Transcriber's notes: In the Table of Contents, the "PART III" division precedes Chapter VII, but in the body of the book it precedes Chapter VIII. Page numbers in this book are enclosed in curly braces. For its Index, a page number has been placed only at the start of that section. In the HTML version of this book, page numbers are placed in the left margin. Footnote numbers are enclosed in square brackets. Each chapter's footnotes have been renumbered sequentially and moved to the end of that chapter.