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ESSAYS

GEORGE JOHN ROMANES

Works by George John Romanes

Darwin, and after Darwin i an Exposition

of the Darwinian Tht^ory, and a Discussion on

Post-Darwinian Questions.
Part I. The Darwinian Theory. With Portrait

of Darwin ami 1*5 llluxtratinns. Cr. 8vo, nvr. (\d.
I'AHT II. PoBt-Dnrwinian Questions : Heredity

and Utility. With Portrait of the Author and

5 Illustrations. Cr. 8vo, los. (td.

Bsamination of Waic

Cr. 8vo,

Mind and Motion and Moniam. Cr. 8vo,
\s. 6d.

Thonc^lita on Xoligion. Edited, with a
Preface by CHARLES GoRB, M A., D.D., Canon
of Westminster. Cr. 8vo, 4*. M.

A Solootion firom tho Vooma of Ooorir*
John Romanes, M. A.. LL.D , F.R.S. With an
Introduction hyT. Hbmbrrt Wakrbn, President
of Magdalen Collejje, Oxford Cr. Kvo, 4*. (h/.

Tha Uf)i and Lattara of Oaonra John
Romanes, M.A., LL.D., F R.S. Written and
Edited by his WiPB. With Portrait and 2 Illus*
trations. Cr. 8vo, 6s.

LONGMANS, GREEN AND CO.

LONDON, Ni:W YORK AND IIOMIIAY

ESSAYS

GEORGE JOHN ROMANES

M.A., LL.D., F.R.S.

IIONORAKV nCLLOW OK GONVILLE AND CAIUS COLLEGE

CAMUKIUGE

KDITED BY

C. LLOYD MORGAN

rKINCIPAL OF UNIVKKsnV COLLEGE, IIKISIOL

LONGMANS, GREEN AND CO.

LONDON, NEW YORK, AND BOM HAY
1897

PREFACE

-»♦-

It was Mr. Romanes' wish that some of his
essays should be collected and republished.
The following selection has been made, I
trust, with due care, and serves to show the
range of his thought and the versatility of
his mind. Those who knew him well will
doubtless still feel that the man was even
greater than his works. His conversation
was so suggestive, his personality so genial
and loveable, that one cannot but feel how
inadequate is the printed page.

Except for the correction of a few obvious
misprints the Essays are reprinted as they
stand in the pages of the magazines and
reviews from which they are by courteous
permission extracted.

C. LLOYD MORGAN.

Dristul, October i8y6.

CONTENTS

- >»

1. Primitive Natural History .... i

{Nineteenth Century. August, 1890.)

2. The Darwinian Theory of Instinct . . 25

{Nineteenth Century. September, 1884.)

3. Man and Brute

{North American Review. August, 1884.)

4. Mind in Men and Animals .... 75

(North American Review. March, 1885.)

5. Origin of Human Faculty .... 86

{Brain. October, 1889.)

6. Mental Differences between Men and

Women

{Nineteenth Century. May, 1887.)*

7. What is the Object of Life? . . .152

{Forum. June, 1887.)

8. Recreation .... . . ,5.

{Nineteenth Century. September, 1879.)"

9. Hypnotism

{Nineteenth Century. September, 1880.)'

10. Hydrophobia and the Muzzling Order . 226
{Contemporary Review. March, 1891.)

ESSAYS

PRIMITIVE NATURAL HISTORY.

The rolions of plants and animals which were
entertained in the most primitive stages of human
culture may be gathered from two sources — the
one indirect, general, and inferential, the other
direct, special, and historical. The general cha-
racter of primitive ideas of natural histo.y before
the dawn of the historical period may be inferred
with tolerable certaiiity from the notions which are
entertained by savages at the present time. In the
most ancient books of the Bible — possibly the oldest,
certainly the most interesting, records of early
thought — these primitive ideas are exhibited in
a literary and historical form. The two sources
taken together present the primitive philosophy of
natural history, and it is from this standpoint that
I propose to examine the notions of plants and
animals now held by savages, as well as those
which are exhibited in the most ancient books of
the Bible.

The notions entertained of plants and animals

2 Primitive Natural History.

by existing savages are pretty uniform in different
parts of the world. Whether it be owing to a
speculative interpretation of their dreams, to an
observation of their shadows, or to the worship
of their deceased ancestors — who are felt to be
in some sense alive because their names are still in
use, — it is certain that savages, as a general rule,
entertain a belief in the continued existence of
their dead. Such existence is supposed to be thus
continued in a world of shadows, ghosts, or spirits
— a world, however, which is not far removed from
that in which the dead had previously lived. Indeed,
so far as we are able to interpret the not very clear
notions which savages entertain upon the locality
and conditions of spirit-life, the locality seems still
to be mundane, and the conditions continue to
resemble those of corporeal existence as closely as
is compatible with the absence of a human body ;
for the soul or spirit of the deceased man is still
supposed to hover around the scenes of his earthly
life, and it is usually supposed to be even so far
material in its nature as to leave footprints upon
sand, to require food and drink, and so forth.

From the idea that human beings are animated
by spirits, which during the life of the body fill
every part of the body, and therefore in their
subsequent or incorporeal existence continue to
present in every detail the form of the body — from
this idea there arises another, namely, that not only
all animals and plants, but likewise all inanimate
objects, present a spiritual or shadow-like sub-

Primitive Natural History. 3

stratum. The resemblance of this idea to that of
the schoolmen is obviously very striking. For the
schoolmen distinguished between * form ' and * sub-
stance.' The form was the outward physical body
of an object, which admits of being cognized by
our senses. The substance was that which stood
under the form, and, although not cognizable by
the senses, constituted the true reality of the object.
And it is from this idea that the doctrine of sacrifice
takes its origin — a doctrine which afterwards goes
to constitute the backbone of all the religions of
the world, '^he slaves who are killed after the
decease of their master are killed in order that
their spirits may continue to minister to him in the
land of spirits ; and the food and drink which are
provided for his use are supposed to be, as it were,
provided spiritually. It is seen that the food and
drink do not diminish, but what of that? The
spirit eats and drinks the substance, if he does not
touch the form ; and this is all that the spirit is
supposed to care about. Similarly, also, the weapons
which are given to him remain, to every appearance,
untouched ; but the eye of savage faith ca see how
the spirit of the dead man is able to use the sub-
stance of his weapons in conducting his spiritual
warfare or Lis spiritual hunt. And, if he happens
to have been a chief or a hero in the flesh, sacrifices
of animals, or often of human victims, follow upon
the sacrifices of food and weapons, so that his power
over men may be propitiated.
Thus we find that to savage thought the world is

B 2

Prtmttive Natural History.

more full of human souls than it is of human bodies,
and that even inanimate objects are endowed with
a kind of spiritual existence, which is an imper-
ceptible copy of their physical existence. More-
over, the fertile and unrestrained imagination of
savages peoples its ghostland with numberless
spiritual existences of yet other kinds — witches,
devils, beast-like shades, and so forth; the whole
universe thus becoming a pandemonium.

One of the results, and probably the earliest
result, of such a system of belief is fetishism.
Material objects are supposed to be the abodes of
spiritual beings, or fetishes ; all natural forces, such
as winds and currents, are supposed to be the ex-
pressions of fetish activity. According to Professor
Waitz, the following may be taken as the first
principles of this philosophy. * A spirit dwells, or
can dwell, in every sensible object, and often a very
great and mighty one in an insignificant thing.
This spirit he does not consider as bound fast and
unchangeably to the corporeal thing it dwells in,
but it has there only its usual or principal abode.'
The fetish can see and hear all that the savage
does in its presence ; it is also able to act either
for or a^jainst his interests. The savage, therefore,
does all he can to propitiate his fetish ; and, if he
thinks that the fetish of any small object is well-
disposed towards him, he will wear the object about
his person as a charm. Or he may store such
objects in a museum, which then becomes the
temple of his worship. Romer tells us of an

Primitive Natural History. 5

old negro whom he once saw performing his
devotions in his private fetish-museum, surrounded
by about twenty thousand fetishes ; and was told
by the old man 'that he did not know the hun-
dredth part of the services they had performed for
him.'

Now, seeing that even inanimate objects are thus
habitually furnished by savage imagination with
living and intelligent spirits, we cannot wonder that
the most favourite objects of fetishistic worship
among primitive men are those which are most
plainly seen to present the phenomena of life.
Hence, the philosophy of natural history in its
earliest beginning is a philosophy of what may be
termed zoolatry, or the worship of life as manifested
by plants and animals. Thus, to quote Mr. Tylor,
' first and foremost, uncultured man seems capable
of simply worshipping a beast as beast, looking on
it as possessed of power, courage, cunning beyond
his own, and animated like a man by a soul which
continues to exist after bodily death, powerful as
ever for good or harm.' In somewhat higher stages
of culture, ' this idea may blend with the thought of
the creature as being an incarnate deity, seeing,
hearing, and acting even at a distance.' On this
account all harmful animals, such as whales which
overturn canoes, sharks, serpents, wolves, &c., are
specially constituted objects of worship. And, as
showing the abject contradiction of savage thought,
it is curious to note the practice of some races, who,
when they have killed an animal for food, ask the

V-

6 Primitive Natural History.

pardon of its spirit before they proceed to eat its
body.

At a still higher level of culture, when the philo-
sophy of the subject has become somewhat more
elaborated, particular species of animals are set
apart as objects of special worship, because it is
supposed that the members of this species consti-
tute, as it were, the shrines or incarnations of
particular or tutelary deities. As a rule, these
animals are never slain ; and in some cases, as in
those of bulls and monkeys in many parts of India,
are pampered and petted in the most extravagant
fashion. Thus we may say that the earliest attempt
at zoological classification by any philosophical
theory is the attempt which is made by the grossest
superstition.

According to Mr. M'Lennan, Sir John Lubbock,
and Mr. Herbert Spencer, the practice of zoolatry
may have arisen in a different way from that which
I have just briefly sketched. It is the habit among
savage peoples very frequently to name their chiefs
after particular animals. When the chief dies, his
name survives ; and, therefore, in process of time
the personality of the man becomes confused with
that of the beast, which is thereafter worshipped as
the incarnate spirit of the man. For my own part,
I think that if this process ever does take place
(and I doubt not that it may) it is probably of
subo-dinate importance to the more direct develop-
met.w of fetishism above indicated. But I have no
space to go further into this question, which, after

Primitive Natural History.

all, is one that does not affect the fact of zoolatry,
but only the method of its development.

Pre-eminent among all the beasts of the field as
an object of worship is the one which is regarded
as the most subtle. In ancient times the serpent
was habitually worshipped in Egypt, India, Phceni-
cia, Babylonia, Greece, and Italy. It still continues
to be worshipped in Persia, Cashmere, Cambodia,
Thibet, China, India, Ceylon, Egypt, South Africa,
Coast of Guinea, Madagascar, and the Friendly
Islands. In the New World serpent worship ap-
pears among the Aztecs, Peruvians, Natchez, Caribs,
Monitarris, Mandans, Pueblo Indians, &c. In higher
stages of culture the serpent becomes an emblem of
eternity, of evil, of wisdom, and of sundry other
such abstract ideas.

No less widely distributed than the worship of
serpents is the worship of trees. Indeed if I were
to make a list of all the peoples among whom this
form of worship prevails, the mere enumeration
would be tedious. Let it, therefore, be enough to
say in general terms, with Sir John Lubbock, that
' this form of religion can be shown to be general
to most of the great races of men at a certain stage
oi mental development ' ; and Mr. Ferguson regards
tree-worship in association with serpent-worship as
the primitive faith of mankind. In its earliest or
least-developed form this faith consists in attributing
to trees the same kind of souls or spirits as are sup-
posed to animate human beings and other animals ;
at this stage, therefore, trees are supposed to feci,

8 Primitive Natural History.

to know, and to understand what is said to them.
Later on, however, the faith becomes less and less
realistic ; and as spirits gradually become converted
into deities, independent of material dwelling-places,
the trees become more and more symbolical of
divinity rather than themselves divine. Hence,
the sacred groves of classical times were sacred as
places rather than as objects of worship ; and it is
no doubt a similar survival of this feeling that led
the monotheistic writer of the Book of Genesis to
speak of the Lord God walking among the trees of
Eden in the cool of the day. Indeed, throughout
the whole description of Paradise we may see the
remnants of tree- and serpent-worship ; the know-
ledge of good and evil, and the principle of ever-
lasting life, are both associated with trees, while the
principle of evil is associated with the serpent —
which again appears as an emblem in the wander-
ings of the Israelites. And the very last remnants
of such feeling continue to linger around trees and
snakes, even after all vestiges of religious belief
have departed from them. Thus, for instance, not
to go further afield than Scotland, there is in the
Isle of Skye an oak wood at Loch Siant the trees
of which, up to quite a recent period, were regarded
with so superstitious an awe that no one would
venture to pull from them the smallest twig.

Owing, no doubt, to such survivals in feeling of
religious associations previously connected with
trees, in all stages of pre-scientific culture we meet
with innumerable superstitions relating to plants.

Primitive Natural History. 9

The plants are no longer worshipped, but they
continue to be endowed with sundry magical pro-
perties, chiefly in the way of charms. Theophrastus,
for example, who may be termed the earliest
botanist whose writings have been preserved, tells
us that in his day it was considered the proper
thing to gather certain herbs with the body turned
away from the wind and anointed with oil. The
mandragora was only to be cut with a sword,
which was to be drawn three times round the
plant, with the body facing west, and after having
danced around the plant, using obscene language.
Similarly, those who sow cummin should only do
so while uttering blasphemies. On the other
hand, while gathering the black hellebore, it was
necessary, after having drawn a line round it, to
stand towards the east and pray, being careful all
the while to avoid the sight of an eagle, for in that
case the gatherer of the plant would die within
a year.

With advancing culture superstitions conn'^cted
with plants become, of course, somewhat less
absurd than these ; but any one who reads the
literature of alchemy may find how hard such
superstitions die. And, even in our own day,
there are many country places where wise women
are believed so far to have inherited the mantle of
the old witches that their dealings with herbs for
medicinal purposes are invested with a dash of
magic ; so that their services are more sought after
than those of duly qualified practitioners.

lo Primitive Natural History.

There only remains one other feature in the pri-
mitive philosophy of natural history deserving to
be noticed on account of its generality. This is
the doctrine of transmigration of souls. All living
things having been endowed with an immortal prin-
ciple, upon the death of one temporary residence
this immortal principle is supposed to enter
another. This doctrine survives in its most realistic
form even in such comparatively high stages of
culture as those of the ancient Egyptians and
existing inhabitants of India. As a rule, the belief
embodies an ethical principle to the effect that the
subsequent life-history of any particular soul is
determined by its moral conduct while in any par-
ticular body ; so that the change of body may be
either for the better or the worse. For example,
the Buddhists believe that in the next stage of his
bodily existence a man who is unduly proud may
expect to find himself a worm ; or, if he be out
and out a bad man, may not find any bodily home
at all, but be doomed for ages to wander as a
disembodied demon. On the other hand, if a man
behaves himself well in this life, he may look for
promotion in the next. ' The theory of " karma "
or '* action," which controls the destiny of all sen-
tient beings, not by judicial reward and punish-
ment, but by the inflexible result of cause and
effect, appears entitled to be regarded as one
of the most remarkable developments of early
speculation in the field of ethical thought.' One
of the practical results of this doctrine of the

Primitive Natural History. ii

transmigration of souls is to endow the lives of
the lower animals with a value equivalent to
those of human beings ; and hence the dread of
destroying the lower animals which is entertained
by all the races of mankind who hold the doctrine.
I have now said enough to show that the philo-
sophy of natural history in its most primitive form
is universally the philosophy of animism — or the
philosophy which ascribes to all living things the
attributes of the human soul. This having been
clearly noted, the next thing we have to observe
is that with advancing culture such philosophy
departs from its primitive realism. The souls of
living things cease to be quite so manlike ; they
become more and more detached from organisms ;
they become less and less the representatives of con-
crete bodies, while more and more representative of
abstract principles. Although they still continue
to be regarded as personal, they cease to be fixed
to any definite corporeal abodes ; they are now
something nnore than spirits incarnate ; they begin
to assume the nature of gods. The influence of
this change of religious conception upon the philo-
sophy of natural history is a marked influence.
The sundry forces and processes of nature having
been severally relegated to the dominion of per-
sonal deities, plants and animals, although still
invested with innumerable superstitious ideas sur-
viving from more primitive stages of thought, now
take a place in the general system of ♦hings,
subordinate to the overruling gods. Animism thus

i!t

12 Primitive Natural History.

becomes transformed into theology ; and the
natural history of observation gives place to the
natural history of myth.

Adequately to treat of mythical natural history
would require much more space than can here
be allowed ; I will therefore merely state some
of the general principles which are connected
with it.

At first sight we may well deem it somewhat
remarkable that man should not have been satis-
fied, so to speak, with the enormous profusion of
vegetable and animal forms upon this earth ; but
should have proceeded to people the universe with
a new creation of his own fancying. And still more
remarkable may it appear that, having done this,
he should forthwith have proceeded to believe in
the actual existence of these imaginary creatures.
But here we must remember that mythology was
the product of a gradual growth, springing from
a desire to explain the causation of natural pheno-
mena. The sun was observed to move across the
sky ; something must therefore draw or push it ;
horses were presumed to be the causes of the
traction ; and, as they might reasonably be sup-
posed to differ somewhat from horses upon earth,
they were imagined to be horses of fire. It is
not indeed always, or even generally, that we can
find in myths so direct a bond of union as this
between the phenomenon to be explained and
the ideas of causality presented by the explana-
tion ; and the impossibility of finding such a bond

Primitive Natural History. 13

of union in the majority of cases has led to the
most extravagant and improbable systems of
myth-analysis at the hands of modern scholars.
To me it appears that the safest view for us to
adopt is, that the process of myth-formation,
although probably always starting from an in-
stinctive desire to explain the causal reasons of
observed phenomena, has been a multifarious
process, wherein real history of ancestors, allegory,
metaphor, and even the most gratuitous imagina-
tion, may occur in various measures of indis-
criminate quantity. Under these circumstances,
and so far as our present subject is concerned,
I think it is best to accept the facts of mythology
as we find them, without attempting to explain
the precise psychological processes which have
been concerned in their production.

If, then, we take a general survey of mytho-
logical organisms, the first thing that strikes us
with reference to them is the fact that they are all
compounds of organisms already known to exist.
Profuse as the imagination of uncultured man has
shown itself to be in the way of creating novel
forms of animal life, it never seems to have been
able to invent such a form which was in all its
parts novel. On the contrary, the animal mor-
phology of myth for the most part consists in
joining together in one organism the parts which
are distinctive of different organisms — the body of
a man to that of a horse, the body of a woman to
that of a fish, the legs of a goat to that of a boy.

t '.I

14 Primitive Natural History.

the wings of a bird to the shoulders of a bull, and
so on. Very often, indeed, the organs thus sepa-
rated from their legitimate owners underwent
sundry modifications in detail before they were
re-mounted in their new positions ; and when such
modifications were considerable, and still more
when a number of different organisms were laid
under tribute to the manufacture of a new one,
the resulting monster might well claim to exhibit
a highly creditable degree of inventive faculty on
the part of his creators. Nevertheless, as I have
said, this inventive faculty never rose above the
comparatively childish level of first pulling animals
to pieces, and then reconstructing them piecemeal,
although in some few cases the imaginative faculty
went so far as to incorporate with the parts of
living animals structures of human contrivance, as
in the wheeled creatures described by the prophet
Ezekiel.

Concurrently with, or following closely upon, the
formation of myth, we everywhere find the forma-
tion of fable ; and in the latter process, as in the
former, animals play a highly conspicuous part.
At any of the higher levels of culture fabulous
animals are well known to be but imaginary
animals ; so that even our children habitually draw
a distinction between the real animals of nature
and what they call the • pretend animals ' of fable.
Nevertheless, it is only because children are told
to draw this distinction that they ever so much as
think of drawing it. To the native or unassisted

Primitive Natural History. 15

intelligence of a child, any one kind of animal is
quite as probable as any other kind — and this not
only with reference to form and size, but also with
reference to habits and endowments. A dragon
breathing fire and smoke seems no more intrin-
sically improbable than a serpent with poison in
its mouth ; nor is it more unlikely that a mouse
should turn into a horse than that a tadpole should
turn into a frog. Now the mind of semi-cultured
man is in just the same case. Of late years a great
deal of investigation has been expended upon the
origin of our nursery stories, and the result has
been to show that these stories are spread over
all quarters of the globe — sometimes just as they
are told to our own children, but more usually with
a certain amount of variation, which is enough to
render it doubtful whether they all migrated from
a single source or were independent inventions in
different localities. But in all cases the probability
appears to be that when first promulgated they
were accepted, not as romances, but as true
histories ; and that they continued to be so accepted
until advancing civilization slowly undermined
their credibility. Gradually, therefore, they fol-
lowed the fate of myths — passing from the region
of history to that of poetry, and thus following
a general law of mental evolution, namely, that
beliefs, which are matters of serious earnest in one
stage of culture, in succeeding stages survive only
as matters of amusement, or, at most, of aesthetic
feeling. And such is now the position which is

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i6 Primitive Natural History.

occupied among ourselves by the whole elaborate
and multifarious natural history of myth and fable.
When we look at the unicorn displaying his poetic
morphology upon our royal insignia, the double-
headed eagle of Austria, or any of the other
monstrosities which now serve as national emblems,
we may see in them the last survivals of the first
attempts which were made by mankind to construct
a philosophy of natural history.

When we turn to the special exhibition in the
Bible of primitive ideas connected with plants and
animals, and look to the authors of the Pentateuch,
the Book of Job, or the supposed writings of
Solomon, our attention as naturalists investigating
their ideas upon natural history is arrested by the
accuracy of their observations. We find, indeed,
that the Mosaic writer has fallen into the error of
classifying the hare as a ruminant, a bat as a bird,
possibly a whale as a fish, and including under one
category the most diverse natural groups as
* creeping things.' But all these errors arise merely
from an absence of morphological knowledge, which
clearly could not have been attainable at that
time. Barring this necessary ignorance, however,
it appears to me that these early Biblical writers
have displayed a really wonderful degree of
accuracy in their observations of plants and ani-
mals — wonderful, I mean, if contrasted with similar
observations by men of other races at a com-
parable level of culture. If we except certain
passages in the Book of Job, which appear to

Primitive Natural History. 17

assume the real existence of fabulous animals —
although even here the charge of inaccuracy is not
admissible, from its being impossible to determine
whether the allusions are intended to be taken
literally or poetically — there is no other instance
where the animals either of fable ut of myth are
countenanced. On the other hand, remarkable
accuracy is displayed by the early Biblical writers
in their observations of external morphology, as
well as of the habits and instincts of animals. In
that curious and elaborate enumeration of animals
as clean and unclean with which we meet in the
eleventh chapter of Leviticus, it is an accurate idea
of morphological classification which leads the
writer to fix upon the parted hoof and chewing of
the cud as features of what we should now term
taxonomic importance ; and when, later on, we
find the whole animal kingdom classified with re-
ference to merely external form, number of limbs,
and modes of progression, we must not neglect to
notice the systematic obsefvation which is dis-
played, and which, so far as it goes, is wonderfully
true to nature. There is no imagery of any kind
mixed up with the facts ; the classification is
throughout dictated by the true spirit of science ;
and it cannot be said to have been subsequently
improved upon until the foundations of biology
were laid by the coanmanding genius of Aristotle.

Again, as regards the habits and instincts of
animals, we read in Proverbs vi. 6-8, 'Go to the
ant, thou sluggard ; consider her ways and be

i8 Primitive Natural History.

wise ; which having no guide, overseer, or ruler,
provideth her meat in the summer, and gathereth
her food in the harvest.' Owing to the authority
of Huber, the statement here made that ants dis-
play an instinct of harvesting was regarded by
latter-day naturalists as mythical. More recent
observations, however, have fully vindicated the
accuracy of the older naturalist, and this without
impugning that of Huber. The discrepancy be-
tween the two is owing merely to their having
observed the habits of ants in different geographical
areas. The species of ants observed by the Biblical
writer in Palestine have now been found to collect
grain in the summer-time, and to store it in
granaries for winter consumption ; while the species
observed in Europe by Huber presents no such
instinct. But ants with harvfisting instincts have
now also been found in the South of Europe, in
India, and in America. Seeing then that here, as
elsewhere, Solomon has proved himself to have
been an accurate observer, it is much to be re-
gretted that his disquisitions on natural history,
of which we read in the Book of Kings, should all
have been lost. Had these been still extant, ihey
would have presented a high degree of historical
interest as the utterances of the most ancient of
professed naturalists. For, 'he spoke of trees, from
the cedar tree that is in Lebanon even unto the
hyssop that springeth out of the wall ; he spake
also of beasts, and of fowl, and of creeping things,
and of fishes. And there came of all people to

Primitive Natural History. 19

hear the wisdom of Solomon, from all kings of the
earth which had heard of his wisdom.'

Again, whatever may be its date, how interesting
is the naturil history of Job, which, notwithstand-
ing the writer's unrestricted flights of poetry, is,
as already remarked, almost always true to fact,
save where the statements are plainly hyperbolical.
What, for instance, can be more graphic than the
description of the ostrich : * What time she lifteth
up herself on high, she scorneth the I ">rse and his
rider'? Or what can be more accurate than the
description of this bird's peculiar instincts of incu-
bation : * She leaveth her eggs in the earth, and
warmeth them in dust, and forgetteth that the foot
may crush them, or that the wild beast may break
them. She is hardened against her young ones
as though they were not hers ' ? This peculiarity
of instinct on the part of the ostrich is likewise
alluded to in the Book of Lamentations, where the
writer contrasts it with the maternal instincts of
other animals, and this in a passage which seems
to indicate that the writer was aware of the mam-
malian character, if not of Cetacea, at all events of
Seals ; for he says : * Even the sea monsters draw
out the breast : they give suck to their young
ones.'

But I must now draw to a close these few and
imperfect remarks on the natural history of the
Bible, and I will do so by briefly considering that
portion of this natural history which, during the
last fifty years, has excited more interest and more

c a

III

II r

.'i

20 Primitive Natural History.

controversy than any passage of similar length in
the whole literature of the world. I mean, of course,
the first chapter of Genesis.

The great battle between the theologians and
men of science began in the field of astronomy.
Then it passed to the field of geology, and it was
not until the antiquity of the globe, the reality of
fossils, and all the other positions had been finally
taken by the geologists that the battle was re-
sumed with renewed fury against the biologists.
Here, the points in dispute cannot yet be said to
have been finally settled, if by a settlement we
mean a general acquiescence by theologians in the
doctrine of naturalists. The principal fight has
been around the question of evolution as against
special creation. But, besides this principal fight,
there has been a kind of subordinate fight over the
order of succession of vegetable and animal life
upon the globe. Now, here the question is a simple
question of fact, and ought not to admit of any
reasonable dispute. For no one nowadays ven-
tures to impugn the rjcuracy of the geological
record. The only question, therefore, is as to
whether or not the first chapter of Genesis is in
agreement with this record. And the answer to
this question is perfectly plain. In some respects
the two records are in agreement, while in other
respects they are not. In order to show at once
the points of agreement and the points of dis-
agreement, I will place the two records side
by side.

Primitive Natural History. 21

Record of Genesis.
Grass, herbs, trees.
Aquatic animals and birds.
Cattle, creeping things.
Beasts of the earth.
Man.

Record of Geology.
Certain cryptogamous plants'.
Certain invertebrata.
Certain fish.

Certain trees'; amphibia.
Certain reptiles.
Certain birds'.
Certain mammals.
Man.

Now, it is evident that we here have a general
correspondence, but it is no less evident that the
correspondence is only general, or that it fails in
most points of detail. In the first place, while the
Biblical record appears to represent each group of
living things as having been formed in its entirety
before the appearance of the next group, the
scientific record shows that no one group was ever
thus completed before the appearance of succeeding
groups. In the case of every group, the process
of species-formation was concurrent with that of
some of the other groups. Therefore, in the record
of geology, I have prefaced each of the groups
with the word ' certain,' in order to indicate that,
at the period represented, only a very small frac-
tional number of the forms comprised within that
group had at that time made their appearance.

Thus, for example, we find that in the Biblical
record all the forms of vegetable life are repre-
sented as having been in existence before any of
the forms of animal life. At least it appears to

* Probably. ' i. e. tree-ferns.

' But no actual proof of birds before mammals.

Primitive Natural History.

me that this is the only meaning we can properly
ascribe to the expression ' grass, herbs, and trees.'
But, if so, of course this statement of Genesis is very
far wide of the truth. Simila/ly it is represented that
all aquatic animals appeared before any terrestrial
animals. Now, although it is probably true that
animal life upon this globe began in the water,
it is certainly not true that all the forms of aquatic
animals had made their appearance before any of
the terrestrial forms. On the contrary, it was only
a small proportional part of the former which
had been evolved before some of them became
adapted to live upon dry land. Moreover, the
Genesis account expressly includes under the
category of aquatic animals ' every creature that
moveth' in the waters, up even to 'great whales.'
It thus becomes impossible to limit the class
aquatic animals to aquatic invertebrata and fish.
And, even if this could be done, the difficulty would
still remain that terrestrial invertebrata are repre-
sented (under the name of 'creeping things') as
appearing long subsequently to aquatic inverte-
brata, seeing that they are said to have appeared
subsequently to birds, and even to cattle. For we
find that birds, and even cattle, are said to have
appeared before ' creeping things,' which we can
only understand to mean insects, snails, amphibia,
reptiles, &c., as these are classed together in Levi-
ticus under the same term. Lastly, it follows from
these discrepancies that matters are in no way
mended by supposing the record of Genesis to

Primitive Natural History. 23

mean what it does not say, or to indicate only
the earliest appearance of any ' representatives *
of the sundry classes named.

This, I think, is enough to show how misguided
are the attempts of so-called 'reconcilers,' who
endeavour to force upon the account given in
Genesis the results of modern investigation. These
reconcilers always proceed in the same way. They
first magnify the points of agreement, and next
endeavour by sundry artifices of rhetoric to cover
up the points of disagreement ; then they represent
that, on the whole, the agreement is so remarkable
that it can only be explained by the hypothesis of
inspiration. Now it is no business of mine either
to impugn or to vindicate the hypothesis of inspi-
ration ; but I may observe that those who have
the interests of this hypothesis at heart are only
displaying their own shortsightedness by seeking
to befriend it in any such way as this. Even if
the coincidence between Genesis and geology had
been very much more close than it is, surely it
would have been a somewhat slender thread of
argument on which to hang so important a doc-
trine. But, as the matter stands, there is nothing
in the cosmology of Genesis which we might not
have expected to meet with in the early philosophy
of natural history. The idea pervading the alleged
order of succession appears to me a sufficiently
obvious, and, when properly considered, a very
interesting idea. It is the idea of a progressive
advance from the less to the more highly organized ;

fnp

24 Primitive Natural History.

and I doubt not that, if the writer had known more
about the internal anatomy of the animal kingdom,
his record would have been in very much closer
agreement with that of modern science than we
have seen it to be.

II.

THE DARWINIAN THEORY OF
INSTINCT.

'Gavest thou the goodly wings unto the pea-
cocks ? or wings and feathers unto the ostrich ?
which leaveth her eggs in the earth, and warmeth
them in the dust, and forgetteth that the foot may
crush them, or that the wild beast may break
them. . . . Because God hath deprived her of wis-
dom, neither hath He imparted to her under-
standing.'

This is the oldest theory of instinct. The writer
of that sublime monument of literary power in
which it occurs observed a failure of instinct on
the part of the ostrich, and forthwith attributed
the fact to neglect on the part of the Deity ; the
implication plainly being that in all cases where
instinct is perfect, or completely suited to the
needs of the animal presenting it, the fact is to be
attributed to a God-given faculty of wisdom. This,
I say, is the oldest theory of instinct, and I may
add that, until within the past twenty-five years,
it has been the only theory of instinct. I think,
therefore, I ought to begin by explaining that this

n ,

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! I

26 The Darwinian Theory of Instinct.

venerable and time-honoured theory is a purely
theological explanation of the ultimate source of
instinct, and therefore cannot be affected by any
scientific theory as to the proximate causes of
instinct. It is with such a theory alone that we
shall here be concerned. ' When giants build, men
must bring the stones.' For the past eight or ten
years I have been engaged in elaborating Mr. Dar-
win's theories in the domain of psychology, and
I cannot allude to my own work in this connexion
without expressing the deep obligations under
which I lie to his ever ready and ever generous
assistance — assistance rendered not only in the
way of conversation and correspondence, but also
by his kindness in making over to me all his un-
published manuscripts, together with the notes and
clippings which he had been making for the past
forty years in psychological matters. I have now
gone carefully through all this material, and have
published most of it in my work on Mental Evolu-
tion in Animals. I allude to this work on the
present occasion in order to observe that, as it has
so recently come out, I shall feel myself entitled
to assume that few have read it ; and therefore
I shall not cramp my remarks by seeking to avoid
any of the facts or arguments therein contained.

As there are not many words within ihe compass
of our language which have their meanings less
definitely fixed than the word ' instinct,' it is neces-
sary that I should begin by clearly defining the
sense in which I shall use it.

The Darwinian Theory of Instinct. 27

In general literature and conversation we usually
find that instinct is antithetically opposed to
reason, and this in such wise that the mental opera-
tions of the lower animals are termed instinctive ;
those of man being termed rational. This rough
and ready attempt at psychological classification
has descended to us from remote antiquity, and,
like kindred attempts at zoological classification,
is not a bad one so far as it goes. To divide the
animal kingdom into beasts, fowls, fish, and creep-
ing things, is a truly scientific classification as far
as it goes, only it does not go far enough for the
requirements of more careful observation; that is
to say, it only recognizes the more obvious and
sometimes only superficial differences, while it
neglects the more hidden and usually more impor-
tant resemblances. And to classify all the mental
phenomena of animal life under the term ' instinct,'
while reserving the term ' reason ' to designate a
mental peculiarity distinctive of man, is to follow
a similarly archaic method. It is quite true that
instinct preponderates in animals, while reason
preponderates in man. This obvious fact is what
the world has always seen, just as it saw that
flying appeared to be distinctive of birds, and
creeping of reptiles. Nevertheless, a bat was all
the while a mammal, and a pterodactyl was not
a bird ; and it admits of proof as definite that
what we call instinct in animals occurs in man, and
that what we call reason in man occurs in animals.
This, I mean, is the case if we wait to attach any

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28 77f^ Danvi'man Theory of Instinct.

definition to the words which we employ. It is
quite evident that there is some difference between
the mind of a man and the mind of a brute, and
if, without waiting to ascertain what this difference
is, we say that it consists in the presence or absence
of the faculty of reason we are making the same
kind of mistake as when we say that the difference
between a bird and a mammal consists in the pre-
sence or absence of the faculty of flying. Of course,
if we choose, we may employ the word ' reason '
to signify all the differences taken together, what-
ever they may be ; and so, if we like, we may use
the word ' flying.' But in either case we shall be
talking nonsense, because we should be divesting
the words of their meaning, or proper sense. The
meaning of the word ' reason ' is the faculty of
ratiocination — the faculty of drawing inferences
from a perceived equivalency of relations, no
matter whether the relations involve the simplest
mental perceptions, or the most abstruse mathe-
matical calculations. And in this, the only real
and proper sense of the word, reason is not the
special prerogative of m?.n but occurs through
the zoological scale at least as far down as the
articulata.

What then is to be our definition of instinct ?

First of all, instinct involves mental operation,
and therefore implies consciousness. This is the
point which distinguishes instinct from reflex
action. Unless we assume that a new-born infant,
for example, is conscious of sucking, it is as great

The Dai'winian Theory of Instinct, 29

a misnomer to term its adaptive movements in the
performance of this act instinctive as it would be
similarly to term the adaptive movements of its
stomach subsequently performing the act of diges-
tion.

Next, instinct implies hereditary knowledge of
the objects and relations with respect to which
it is exercised ; it may therefore operate in full
perfection prior to any experience on the part of
the individual. When the pupa of a bee, for in-
stance, changes into an imago, it passes suddenly
from one set of experiences to another, the differ-
ence between its previous life as a larva and its
new life as an imago being as great as the
difference between the lives of two animals be-
longing to two different sub-kingdoms ; yet as
soon as its wings are dry it exhibits all the complex
instincts of the mature insect in full perfection.
And the same is true of the instincts of vertebrated
animals, as we know from the researches of the
late Mr. Douglas Spalding and others.

Again, instinct does not imply any necessary
knowledge of the relations between means em-
ployed and ends attained. Such knowledge may
be present in any degree of distinctness, or it
may not be present at all ; but in any case it is
immaterial to the exercise of the instinct. Take,
for example, the instinct of the Bembex. This
insect brings from time to time fresh food to her
young, and remembers very exactly the entrance
to her cell, although she has covered it with sand,

wmm

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30 The Darwinian Theory of Instinct,

so as not to be distinguishable from the surround-
ing surface. Yet M. Fabre found that if he
brushed away the earth and the underground
passage leading to the nursery, thus exposing the
contained larva, the parent insect * was quite at
a loss, and did not even recognize her own off-
spring. It seemed as if she knew the doors,
nursery, and the passage, but not her child.'

Lastly, instinct is always similarly manifested
under similar circumstances by all the individuals
of the same species. And, it may be added, these
circumstances are always such as have been of
frequent occurrence in the life-history of the
species.

Now in all these respects instinct differs con-
spicuously from every other faculty of mind, and
especially from reason. Therefore, to gather up
all these differentiae into one definition, we may
say that instinct is the name given to those facul-
ties of mind which are concerned in consciously
adaptive action, prior to individual experience,
without necessary knowledge of the relation be-
tween means employed and ends attained ; but
similarly performed under similar and frequently
recurring circumstances by all the individuals of
the same species.

Such being my definition of instinct, I shall now
pass on to consider Mr. Darwin's theory of the
origin and development of instincts.

Now, to begin with, Mr. Darwin's theory does
not, as many suppose that it does, ascribe the

., ( '

The Darwinian Theory of Instinct. 31

origin and development of all instincts to natural
selection. This theory does, indeed, suppose that
natural selection is an important factor in the
process ; but it neither supposes that it is the only
factor, nor even that, in the case of numberless
instincts, it has had anything at all to do with
their formation. Take, for example, the instinct
of wildness, or of hereditary fear as directed towards
any particular enemy — say man. It has been the
experience of travellers, who have first visited
oceanic island without human inhabitants and
previously unvisited by man, that the animals are
destitute of any fear of man. Under such circum-
stances the birds have been known to alight on
the heads and shoulders of the new-comers, and
wolves to come and eat meat held in one hand
while a knife was held ready to slay them with
the other. But this primitive fearlessness of man
gradually passes into an hereditary instinct of
wildness, as the special experiences of man's pro-
clivities accumulate ; and as this instinct is of too
rapid a growth to admit of our attributing it to
natural selection (not one per cent, of the animals
having been destroyed before the instinct is de-
veloped) we can only attribute its growth to the
efiects of inherited observation. In other words,
just as, in the lifetime of the individual, adjustive
actions which were originally intelligent may by
frequent repetition become automatic, so, in the
lifetime of the species, actions originally intelligent
may, by frequent repetition and heredity, so unite

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32 The Darwinian Theory of Instinct.

their efforts on the nervous system that the latter
is prepared, even before individual experience, to
perform adjustive actions mechanically which, in
previous generations, were performed intelligently.
This mode of origin of instincts has been appro-
priately called the ' lapsing of intelligence,' and it
was fully recognized by Mr. Darwin as a factor in
the formation of instinct.

The Darwinian theory of instinct, then, attributes
the evolution of instincts to these two causes acting
either singly or in combination — natural selection
and lapsing intelligence. I shall now proceed to
adduce some of the more important facts and
considerations which, to the best of my judgement,
support this theory, and show it to be by far the
most comprehensive and satisfactory explanation
of the phenomena which has hitherto been pro-
pounded.

That many instincts must have owed their origin
and development to natural selection exclusively
is, I think, rendered evident by the following general
considerations : —

(i) Considering the great importance of instincts
to species, we are prepared to expect that thc^
must be in large part subject to the influence of
natural selection. (2) Many instinctive actions
are performed by animals too low in the scale to
admit of our supposing that the adjustments which
are now instinctive can ever have been intelligent.
(3) Among the higher animals instinctive actions
are performed at an age before intelligence, or the

The Darwinian Theory of Instinct. 33

power of learning by individual experience, has
begun to assert itself. (4) Many instincts, as we
now find them, are of a kind which, although per-
formed by intelligent animals at a matured age,
yet can obviously never have been originated by
intelligent observation. Take, for instance, the
instinct of incubation. It is quite impossible that
any animal can ever have kept its eggs warm with
the intelligent purpose of developing their contents ;
so we can only suppose that the incubating instinct
began in some such form as we now sec it in the
spider, where the object of the process is protection,
as distinguished from the imparting of heat. But
incidental to such protection is the imparting of
heat, and, as animals gradually became warm-
blooded, no doubt this latter function became of
more and more importance to incubation. Con-
sequently, those individuals which most constantly
cuddled their eggs would develop most progeny,
and so the incubating instinct would be developed
1 ' DuiMral selection without there ever having been
r/ y \";itelligence in the matter.

Jr' ivp. these four general considerations, there-
fore, xvc may conclude (without waiting to give
special illustrations of each) that one mode of
origin of in lincts consists in natural selection, or
survival of the fittest, continuously preserving
actions which, although never intelligent, yet
happen to have been of benefit to the animals
" hich first chanced to perform them. Among
iuimais, both in a state of nature and domestica-

iMMk

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34 The Darwinian Theory of Instinct.

tion, we constantly meet with individual peculiari-
ties of disposition and of habit, which in themselves
are utterly meaningless, and therefore quite useless.
But it is easy to see that, if among a number of
such meaningless or fortuitous psychological varia-
tions any one arises which happens to be of use,
this variation would be seized upon, intensified,
and fostered !>'7 ia*^ural selection, just as in the
analogous case >. ructures. Moreover there is
evidence that sucn fortuitous variations in the
psychology of animals (whether useless or accident-
ally useful) are frequently inherited, so as to
become distinctive not merely of individuals, but
of races or strains. Thus, among Mr. Darwin's
manuscripts I find a letter from Mr. Thwaits under
the date i860, saying that all his domestic ducks
in Ceylon had quite lost their natural instincts
with regard to water, which they would never enter
unless driven, and that when the young birds were
thus compelled to enter the water they had to be
quickly taken out again to prevent them from
drowning. Mr. Thwaits adds that this peculiarity
only occurs in one particular breed. Tumbler-
pigeons instinctively tumbling, pouter-pigeons in-
stinctively pouting, &c., are further illustrations of
the same general fact.

Coming now to instincts developed by lapsing
intelligence, I have already alluded to the acquisi-
tion of an hereditary fear of man as an instance
of this class. Now not only may the hereditary
fear of man be thus acquired through the obser-

The Darwinian Theory of Instinct. 35

vation of ancestors— and this even to the extent
of knowing by instinct what constitutes safe dis-
tance from firf'-arms ; but, conversely, when fully
formed it may again be lost by disuse. Thus
there is no animal more wild, or difficult to tame,
than the young of the wild rabbit ; while there is
no animal more tame than the young of the
domestic rabbit. And the same remark applies,
though in a somewhat lesser degree, to the young
of the wild and of the domestic duck. For,
according to Dr. Rae, ' If the eggs of a wild duck
are placed with those of a tame duck under a hen
to be hatched, the ducklings from the former, on
the very day they leave the egg, will immediately
endeavour to hide themselves, or take to the
water, if there be any water, should any one
approach, whilst the young from the tame duck's
eggs will show little or no alarm.' Now, as neither
rabbits nor ducks are likely to have been selected
by man to breed from on account of tameness,
we may set down the loss of wildness in the
domestic breeds to the uncompounded effects of
hereditary memory of man as a harmless animal,
just as we attributed the original acquisition of
instinctive wildness to the hereditary memory of
man as a dangerous animal ; in neither case can
we suppose that the principle of selection has
operated in any considerable degree.

Thus far, for the sake of clearness, I have dealt
separately with these two factors in the formation
of instinct — natural selection and lapsing intelli-

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36 The Darwtman Theory of Instinct.

gence — and have sought to show that either of
them working singly is sufficient to develop some
instincts. But, no doubt, in the case of most
instincts intelligence and natural selection have
gone hand-in-hand, or co-operated, in producing
the observed results — natural selection always
securing and rendering permanent any advances
which intelligence may have made. Thus, to take
one case as an illustration. Dr. Rae tells me that
the grouse of North America have the curious
instinct of burrowing a tunnel just below the surface
of the snow. In the end of this tunnel they sleep
securely, for, when any four-footed enemy approaches
the mouth of the tunnel, the bird, in order to escape,
has only to fly up through the thin covering of
snow. Now in this case the grouse probably began
to burrow in the snow for the sake of warmth, or
concealment, or boih ; and, if so, thus far the bur-
rowing was an act of intelligence. But the longer
the tunnel the better would it serve in the above-
described means of escape ; therefore natural selec-
tion would tend to preserve the birds which made
the longest tunnels, until the utmost benefit that
length of tunnel could give had been attained.

And, similarly, I believe, all the host of animal
instincts may be fully explained by the joint
operation of these two causes — intelligent adjust-
ment and survival of the fittest. For now I may
draw attention to another fact which is of great
importance, viz., that instincts admit of being
modified as modifying circumstances may require.

The Darwinian Theory of Instinct. 37

In other words, instincts are not rigidly fixed, but
are plastic, and their plasticity renders them capable
of improvement or of alteration, according as
intelligent observation requires. The assistance
which is thus rendered by intelligence to natural
selection must obviously be very great, for, under
any change in the surrounding conditions of life
which calls for a corresponding change in the
ancestral instincts of the animal, natural selection
is not left to wait, as it were, for the required
variations to arise fortuitously ; but is from the
first furnished by the intelligence of the animal with
the particular variations which are needed.

In order to demonstrate this principle of the
variation of instinct under the guidance of intelli-
gence, I may here introduce a few examples.

Huber observes. ' How ductile is the instinct of
bees, and how readily it adapts itself to the place,
the circumstances, and the needs of the community.*
Thus, by means of contrivances, which I need not
here explain, he forced the bees either to cease
building combs or to change their instinctive mode
of building from above downwards to building in
the reverse direction, and also horizontally. The
bees in each case changed their mode of building
accordingly. Again, an irregular piece of comb,
when placed by Huber on a smooth table, tottered
so much that the humble bees could not work on
so unsteady a basis. To prevent the tottering,
two or three bees held the comb by fixing their
front feet on the table, and their hind feet on the

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38 The Darwinian Theory of Instinct.

comb. This they continued to do, relieving guard,
for three days, until they had built supporting
pillars of wax. Some other humble bees, when
shut up, and so prevented from getting moss where-
with to cover their nests, tore threads from a piece
of cloth, and 'carded them with their feet into
a fretted mass,' which they used as moss. Lastly,
Andrew Knight observed that his bees availed
themselves of a kind of cement made of iron and
turpentine, with which he had covered some
decorticated trees — using this ready-made material
instead of their own propolis, the manufacture of
which they discontinued ; and more recently it
has been observed that bees ' instead of searching
for pollen, will gladly avail themselves of a very
different substance, namely, oatmeal.' Now in all
these cases it is evident that if, from any change
of environment, such accidental conditions were to
occur in a state of nature the bees would be ready
at any time to meet them by intelligent adjust-
ment, which, if continued sufficiently long and
aided by selection, would pass into true instincts
of building combs in new directions, of supporting
combs during their construction, of carding threads
of cloth, of substituting cement for propolis, and of
oatmeal for pollen.

Turning to higher animals, Andrew Knight tells
us of a bird which, having built her nest upon
a forcing-house, ceased to visit it during the day
when the heat of the house was sufficient to
incubate the eggs ; but always returned to sit upon

The Darwinian Theory of Instinct. 39

the eggs at night when the temperature of the
house fell. Again, thread and worsted are now
habitually used by sundry species of birds in
building their nests, instead of wool and horse-
hair, which in turn were no doubt originally sub-
stitutes for vegetable fibres and grasses. This is
especially noticeable in the case of the tailor-bird,
which finds thread the best material wherewith to
sew. The common house-sparrow furnishes an-
other instance of intelligent adaptation of nest-
building to circumstances ; for in trees it builds
a domed nest (presumably, therefore, the ancestral
type), but in towns avails itself by preference of
sheltered holes in buildings, where it can afford to
save time and trouble by constructing a loosely
formed nest. Moreover, the chimney- and house-
swallows have similarly changed their instincts of
nidification, and in America this change has taken
place within the last two or three hundred years.
Indeed, according to Captain Elliott Coues, all the
species of swallow on that continent (with one
possible exception) have thus modified the sites
and structure's of their nests in accordance with
the novel facilities afforded by the settlement of
the country.

Another instructive case of an intelligent change
of instinct in connexion with nest-building is given
from a letter by Mr. Haust, dated New Zealand,
1 86a, which I find among Mr. Darwin's manu-
scripts. Mr. Haust says that the Paradise ducks,
which naturally or usually build their nests along

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40 77?^ Darwinian Theory of Instinct.

the rivers on the ground, have been observed by
him on the east of the island, when disturbed in
their nests upon the ground, to build 'new ones
on the tops of high trees, afterwards bringing their
young ones down on their backs to the water';
and exactly the same thing has been recorded by
another observer of the wild ducks of Guiana.
Now, if intelligent adjustment to peculiar circum-
stances is thus adequate, not only to make a whole
breed or species of bird transport their young upon
their backs — or, as in the case of the woodcock,
between their legs — but even to make web-footed
water-fowl build their nosts in high trees, I think
we can have no doubt that if the need of such
adjustment were of sufficiently long continuance
the intelligence which leads to it would eventually
produce a new and remarkable modification of
their ancestral instinct of nest-building.

Turning now from the instinct of nidification
to that of incubation, I may give one example to
show ^^e plasticity of the instinct in relation to
the observed requirements of progeny. Several
years ago I placed in the nest of a sitting Brahma
hen four newly-born ferrets. She took to them
almost immediately, and remained with them for
rather more than a fortnight, when I made a sepa-
ration. During the whole of the time the hen had
to sit upon the nest, for the young ferrets were not
able to follow her about, as young chickens would
have done. The hen was very much puzzled by
the lethargy of her offspring, and two or three

The Darwinian Theory of Instinct. 41

times a day she used to fly ofif the nest, calling
on her brood to follow ; but, on hearing their cries
of distress from cold, she always returned imme-
diately, and sat with patience for six or seven
hours more. I found that it only took the hen
one day to learn the meaning of their cries of
distress ; for after the first day she would always
run in an agitated manner to any place where
I concealed the ferrets, provided that this place
was not too far away from the nest to prevent her
from hearing the cries of distress. Yet I do not
think it would be possible to imagine a greater
contrast between two cries than the shrill piping
note of a young chicken and the hoarse growling
noise of a young ferret. At times the hen used
to fly off the nest with a loud scream, which was
doubtless due to the unaccustomed sensation of
being gripped by the young ferrets in their search
for the teats. It is further worthy of remark that
the hen showed so much anxiety when the ferrets
were taken from the nest to be fed that I adopted
the plan of giving them the milk in their nest, and
with this arrangement the hen seemed quite satis-
fied ; at any rate she used to chuck when she saw
the milk coming, and surveyed the feeding with
evident satisfaction.

Thus we see that even the oldest and most
important instincts in bees and birds admit of
being greatly modified, both in the individual and
in the race, by intelligent adaptation to changed
conditions of life ; and therefore we can scarcely

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42 The Darwinian Theory of Instinct.

doubt that the principle of lapsing intelligence
must be of much assistance to that of natural
selection in the origination and development of
instincts.

I shall now turn to another branch of the subject.
From the nature of the case it is not to be expected
that we should obtain a great variety of instances
among wild animals of new instincts acquired under
human observation, seeing that the conditions of
their life, as a rule, remain pretty uniform for any
periods over which human observation can extend.
But, from a time before the beginning of history,
mankind, in the practice of domesticating animals,
has been making what we may deem a gigantic
experiment upon the topic before us.

The influences of domestication upon the psy-
chology of animals may be broadly considered as
both negative and positive — negative in the obli-
teration of natural instincts ; positive in the creation
of artificial instincts. We will consider these two
branches separately. Here we may again revert
to the obliteration of natural wildness. We all
know that the horse is an easily breakable animal,
but his nearest allies in a state of nature, the zebra
and the quagga, are the most obstinately unbreak-
able of animals. Similar remarks apply to the
natural wildness of all wild species of kine, as
contrasted with the innate tameness of our do-
mesticated breeds. Consider again the case of the
cat. The domesticated animal is sufficiently tame,
even from kittenhood, whereas its nearest cousin

The Darwinian Theory of Instinct. 43

in a state of nature, the wild cat, is perhaps of all
animals the most untameable. But of course it is
in the case of the dog that we meet with the
strongest evidence on this point. The most general
and characteristic features in the psychology of
all the domesticated varieties are faithfulness, do-
cility, and sense of dependence upon a master ;
whereas the most usual and characteristic features
in the psychology of all the wild species are
fierceness, treachery, and self-reliance. But, not
further to pursue the negative side of this subject,
let us now turn to the positive, or to the power
which man has shown himself to possess of im-
planting new instincts in the mental constitution
of animals. For the sake of brevity I shall here
confine myself to the most conspicuous instance,
which is of course furnished by the dog, seeing
that the dog has always been selected and trained
with more or less express reference to his mental
qualities. And here I may observe that in the
process of modifying psychology by domestication
exactly the same principles have been brought
into operation as those to which we attribute the
modification of instincts in general ; for the pro-
cesses of artificial selection and training in successive
generations are precisely analogous to the processes
of natural selection and lapsing of intelligence in
a state of nature.

Touching what Mr. Darwin calls the artificial
instincts of the dog, I may first mention those
which he has himself dilated upon — I mean the

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44 The Darwinian Theory of Instinct,

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instincts of pointing, retrieving, and sheep-tending ;
but as Mr. Darwin has alrec.dy fully treated of
these instincts I shall net go over the ground
which he has traversed, but shall confine myself
to the consideration of another artificial instinct,
which, although not mentioned by him, seems to
me of no less significance — I mean the instinct of
guarding property. This is a purely artificial
instinct, created by man expressly for his own
purposes : and it is now so strongly ingrained in
the intelligence of the dog that it is unusual to
find any individual animal in which it is wholly
absent. Thus, we all know that without any
training a dog will allow a stranger to pass by his
master's gate without molestation, but that as soon
as the strangei passes within the gate, and so
trespasses upon what the dog knows to be his
master's territory, the animal immediately begins
to bark in order to give his master notice of the
invasion. And this leads me to observe that
barking is itself an artificial instinct, developed,
I believe, as an offshoot from the more general
instinct of guarding property. None of the wild
species of dog arc known to bark, and therefore
we must conclude that barking is an artificial
instinct, acquired for the purpose of notifying to
his master the presence of thieves or enemies. I
may further observe that this instinct of guarding
property extends to the formation of an instinctive
idea, on the part of the animal, of itself constituting
part of that property. If, for instance, a friend

The Darwinian Theory of Instinct. 45

gives you temporary charge of his dog, even al-
though the dog may iiever have seen you before,
observing that you are his master's friend and that
his master intends you to take charge of him, he
immediately transfers his alleg^iance from his master
to you, as to a deputed owner, and will then follow
you through any number of crowded streets with
the utmost confidence. Thus, whether we look to
the negative or to the positive influences of do-
mestication upon the psychology of the dog, we
must conclude that a change has been wrought, so
profound that the whole mental constitution of the
animal now presents a more express reference to
the needs of another, and his enslaving animal,
than it does to his own. Indeed, we may say that
there is no one feature in the whole psychology
of the dog which has been left unaltered by the
influence of man, excepting only those instincts
which, being neither useful nor harmful to man,
have never been subject to his operation — such, for
instance, as the instinct of burying food, turning
round to make a bed before lying down, &c.

I will now turn to another branch of the subject,
and one which, although in my opinion of the
greatest importance, has never before been alluded
to; I mean the local and specific vanations of
instinct. By a local variation of instinct, I mean
a variation presented by a species in a state of
nature over some particular area of geographical
distribution. It is easy to see the importance of
such local variations of instinct as evidence of the

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46 The Darwinian Theory of Instinct.

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transmutation of instinct, if we reflect that such
a local variation is obviously on its way to be-
coming a new instinct. For example, the Leavers
in California have ceased to make dams, the hyenas
in South Africa have ceased to make burrows, and
there is a squirrel in the neighbourhood of Mount
Airy which has developed carnivorous tastes —
running about the trees, not to search for nuts,
but to search for birds, the blood of which it sucks.
In Ohinitahi there is a mountain parrot which,
before the settlement of the place, was a honey-
eater, but when sheep were introduced the birds
found that mutton was more palatable to them
than honey, and quickly abandoned their ancestral
habits, exchanging their simple tastes of honey-
eaters for the savageness of tearers of flesh. For
the birds come in flocks, single out a sheep, tear
out the wool, and, when the sheep, exhausted by
running about, falls upon its side, they bore into
the abdominal cavity to get at the fat which sur-
rounds the kidneys.

Those, I think, are sufficient instances to show
what I can by local variations of instinct. Turn-
ing now to the specific variations, I think they
constitute even stronger evidence of the transmu-
tation of instinct ; for where we find an instinct
peculiar to a species, or not occurring in any other
species of the genus, we have the strongest possible
evidence of that particular instinct having been
specially developed in that particular species. And
this evidence is of particular cogency when, as

The Darwinian Theory of Instinct. 47

sometimes happens, the change of instinct is as-
sociated with structures pointing to the state of
the instincts before the change. Thus, for example,
the dipper belongs to a non-aquatic family of birds,
but has developed the instinct, peculiar to its
species, of diving under water and running along
the bottoms of streams. The species, however,
has not had time, since the acquisition of this
instinct, to develop any of the structures which
in all aquatic families of birds are correlated with
their aquatic instincts, such as webbed feet, &c.
That is to say, the bird retains all its structural
affinities, while departing from the family type as
regards its instincts. A pre'^isely converse case
occurs in certain species of birds belonging to
families which are aquatic in their affinities, these
species, however, having lost their aquatic instincts.
Such is the case, for example, with • upland
geese. These are true geese in all their affinities,
retaining the webbed feet, and all the structures
suited to the display of aquatic instincts ; yet they
never visit the water. Similarly, there arc species
of parrots and tree frogs, which, while still retaining
the structures adapted to climbing trees, have en-
tirely lost their arboreal habits. Now, short of
actual historical or palaeontological information —
which of course in the case of instincts is unattain-
able, seeing that instincts, unlike structures, never
occur in a fossil state — short, I say, of actual
historical or palaeontological information, we could
have no stronger testimony to the fact of trans-

48 The Darwinian Theory of Instinct.

mutation of instincts than is furnished by such
cases, wherein a particular species, while departing
from the instinctive habits of its nearest allies, still
retains the structures which arc only suited to the
instincts now obsolete.

Now this last head of evidence — that, namely,
as to local and specific variations of instincts —
dififers in one important respect from all the other
heads of evidence which I have previously adduced.
For, while these other heads of evidence had
reference to the theory concerning the causes of
transmutation, this head of evidence has reference
to the/rt-c/ of transmutation. Whatever, therefore,
we may think concerning the evidence of the
causes, this evidence is quite distinct from that on
which I now rely as conclusive proof of the fact.

I shall now, for the sake of fairness, briefly
allude to the more important cases of special
difiFiculty which lie against Mr. Darwin's theory
of the origin and development of instincts. For
the sake of brevity, however, I shall not allude to
those cases of special difficulty which he has him-
self treated in the Origin of Species but shall
confine myself to considering thi other and most
formidable cases which, after surveying all the
known instincts presented by animals, I have felt
to be such.

First, we have the alleged instinct of the scorpion
committing suicide when surrounded by fire. This
instinct, if it really exists, would no doubt >re.scnt
a difficulty, because it is clearly an instinct which,

The Darwinian Theory of Instinct. 49

being not only of no use, but actually detrimental
both to the individual and the species, could never
have been developed either by natural selection or
by lapsing intelligence. I may, however, dismiss
this case with a mere mention, because as yet the
evidence is not sufficiently precise to admit of our
definitely accepting the facts.

There can be no such doubt, however, attaching
to another instinct largely prevalent among insects,
and which is unquestionably detrimental, both to
the individual and to the species. I allude to the
instinct of flying through flame. This is unques-
tionably a true instinct, because it is manifested
by all individuals of the same species. How then
are we to explain its occurrence ? I think we may
do so by considering, in the first place, that flame
is not a sufficiently common object in nature to
lead to any express instinct fof its avoidance ; and
in the next place by considering that insects un-
questionably manifest a disposition to approach
and examine shining objects. Whether this dis-
position is due to mere curiosity, or to a desire to
ascertain if the shining objects will, like flowers,
yield them food, is a question which need not here
concern us. We have merely to deal with the fact
that such a general disposition is displayed. Taking
then this fact, in connexion with the fact that
flame is not a sufficiently common object in nature
to lead to any instinct expressly directed towards
its avoidance, it seems to me that the difficulty we
are considering is a difficulty no longer.

ri-

50 The Darwinian Theory of Instinct.

The shamming-dead of insects appears at first
sight a formidable difficulty, because it is impos-
sible to understand how any insect can have
acquired the idea either of death or of its in-
tentional simulation. This difficulty occurred to
Mr. Darwin thirty or forty years ago, and among
his manuscripts I find some very interesting notes
of experiments upon the subject. He procured
a number of insects which exhibited the instinct,
and carefully noted the attitude in which they
feigned death. Some of these insects he then
killed, and he found that in no case did the attitude
in which they feigned death resemble the attitude
in which they really died. Consequently we must
conclude that all the instinct amounts to is that of
remaining motionless, and therefore inconspicuous,
in the presence of danger ; and there is no more
difficulty in understanding how such an instinct
as this should be developed by natural selection
in an animal which has no great powers of loco-
motion than there is in understanding how the
instinct to run away from danger should be de-
veloped in another animal with powers of rapid
locomotion. The case, however, is not, I think,
quite so easy to understand in the feigning death
of higher animals. From the evidence which I
have I find it almost impossible to doubt that
certain birds, foxes, wolves, and monkeys, not to
mention some other and more doubtful cases,
exhibit the peculiarity of appearing dead when
captured by man. As all these animals are highly

The Darwinian Theory of Instinct. 51

locomotive, we cannot here attribute the fact to
protective causes. Moreover, in these animals this
behaviour is not truly instinctive, inasmuch c.s it
is not presented by all, or even most, individuals.
As yet, however, observation of the facts is in-
sufficient to furnish any data as to their explana-
tion, although I may remark that possibly they
may be due to the occurrence of the mesmeric or
hypnotic state, which we know from recent re-
searches may be induced in animals under the
influence of forcible manipulation.

The instinct of feigning injury by certain birds
presents a peculiar difficulty. As we all know,
partridges, ducks, and plovers, when they have
a brood of young ones, and are alarmed by the
approach of a carnivorous quadruped, such as
a dog, will pretend to be wounded, flapping along
the ground with an apparently broken wing in
order to induce the four-footed enemy to follow,
and thus to give time for the young brood to
disperse and hide themselves. The difficulty here,
of course, is to understand how the biros can have
acquired the idea of pretending to have a broken
wing, for the occasions must be very rare on which
any bird has seen a companion thus wounded
followed by a carnivorous quadruped ; and, even
if such observations on their part were of frequent
occurrence, it would be difficult to accredit the
animals with so high a degree of reasoning power
as would be required for them intentionally to
imitate such movements. When I consulted

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52 The Darwinian Theory of Instinct.

Mr. Darwin with reference to this difficulty, he gave
me a provisional hypothesis by which it appeared
to him that it might be met. He said that any
one might observe, when a hen has a brood of
young chickens and is threatened by a dog, that
she will alternately rush at the dog and back again
to the chickens. Now, if we could suppose that
under these circumstances the mother bird is
sufficiently intelligent to observe that when she
runs away from the dog she is followed by the
dog, it is not impossible that the maternal instinct
might induce her to run away from a brood in
order to lead the dog away from it. If this hap-
pened in any cases, natural selection would tend to
preserve those mother birds which adopted this
device. I give this explanation as the only one
which either Mr. Darwin or myself has been able
to suggest. It will be observed, however, that it is
unsatisfactory, inasmuch as it fails to account for
the most peculiar feature of the instinct — I mean
the trailing of the apparently wounded wing.

The instinct of migration furnishes another case
of special difficulty, but as I have no space to
dwell upon the sundry questions which it presents
for solution I shall now pass on to the last of the
special difficulties which most urgently call for
consideration. The case to which I refer deserves,
I think, to be regarded as the most extraordinary
instinct in the world. There is a species of wasp-
like insect, called the Sphex. This insect lays its
eggs in a hole excavated in the ground. It then

The Darwinian Theory of Instinct. 53

flies away and finds a spider, which it stings in the
main nerve-centre of the animal. This has the
effect of paralyzing the spider without killing it.
The sphex then carries the now motionless spider
to its nursery, and buries it with the eggs. When
the eggs hatch out, the grubs feed on the paralyzed
prey, which is then still alive and therefore quite
fresh, although it has never been able to move
since the time when it was buried. Of course the
difficulty here is to understand how the sphex
insect can have acquired so much anatomical and
physiological knowledge concerning its prey as the
facts imply. We might indeed suppose, as I in
the first instance was led to suppose, that, the sting
of the sphex and the nerve-centre of the spider
being both organs situated on the median line of
their respective possessors, the striking of the
nerve-centre by the sting might in the first instance
have been thus accidentally favoured, and so have
supplied a basis from which natural selection could
work to the perfecting of an instinct always to
sting in one particular spot. But more recently
the French entomologist, M. Fabre, who first
noticed these facts with reference to the stinging
of the spider, has observed another species of
sphex which preyed upon the grasshopper, and, as
the nervous system of a grasshopper is more
elongated than the nervous system of a spider,
the sphex in this case has to sting its prey in three
successive nerve-centres in order to induce paralysis.
Again, still more recently, M. Fabre has found

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54 The Darwtntan Theory of Instinct.

another species of sphex, which preys upon a cater-
pillar, and in this case the animal has to sting its
victim in nine successive nerve-centres. On my
consulting Mr. Darwin in reference to these astonish-
ing facts, he wrote me the following letter : —

I have been thinking about Pompilius and its
allies. Please take the trouble to read on perfora-
tion of the corolla, by Bees, p. 425, of my * Cross-
fertilization,' to end of chapter. Bees show so much
intelligence in their acts, that it seems not im-
probable to me that the progenitors of Pompilius
originally stung caterpillars and spiders, &c., in any
part of their bodies, and then observed by their
intelh'gence that if they stung them in one par-
ticular place, as between certain segments on the
lower side, their prey was at once paralyzed. It
does not seem to me at all incredible that this
action should then become instinctive, i. e. memory
transmitted from one generation to another. It
does not seem necessary to suppose that, when
Pompilius stung its prey in the ganglion, it in-
tended, or knew, that its prey would keep long
alive. The development of the larva may have
been subsequently modified in relation to its half
dead, instead of wholly dead prey ; supposing that
the prey was at first quite killed, which would have
required much stinging. Turn this over in your
mind, &c.

I confess that this explanation does not appear
to me altogether satisfactory, although it is no
doubt the best explanation that can be furnished
on the lines of Mr. Darwin's theory.

In the brief space at my disposal, I have en-
deavoured to give an ontline sketch of the main

!i'

The Darwinian Theory of Instinct. 55

features of the evidence which tends to show that
animal instincts have been slowly evolved under
the influence of natural causes, the discovery of
which we owe to the genius of Darwin. And,
following the example which he has set, I shall
conclude by briefly glancing at a topic of wider
interest and more general importance. The great
chapter on Instinct in the Origin of Species is
brought to a close in the following words : —

Finally it may not be a logical deduction, but
to my imagination it is far more satisfactory to
look at such instincts as the young cuckoo ejecting
its foster-brothers, ants making slaves, the larvae
of ichneumonidae feeding within the live bodies of
caterpillars, not as specially endowed or created
instincts, but as small consequences of one general
law leading to the advancement of all organic
beings, namely, multiply, vary, let the strongest
live, and the weakest die.

This law may seem to some, as it has seemed
to me, a hard one — hard, I mean, as an answer to
the question which most of us must at some time
and in some shape have had faith enough to ask,
* Shall not the Judge of all the earth do right ? '
For this is a law, rigorous and universal, that the
race shall always be to the swift, the battle without
fail to the strong ; and in announcing it the voice
of science has p oclaimed a strangely new beati-
tude — Blessed are the fit, for they shall inherit
the earth. Surely these are hard sayings, for in the
order of nature they constitute might the only right.

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56 77f^ Darwinian Theory of Instinct.

But, if we are thus led to feel a sort of moral repug-
nance to Darwinian teaching, let us conclude by-
looking at this matter a little more closely, and in
the light that Darwin himself has flashed upon it
in the short passage which I have quoted.

Eighteen centuries before the publication of this
book — the Origin of Species — St. Paul had said,
in words as strong as any that have been used
by the Schopenhauers and Hartmanns of to-day,
' the whole creation groaneth in pain and travail.'
Therefore we did not need a Darwin to show us
this terrible truth ; but we did need a Darwin to
show us that out of all the evil which we see at
least so much of good as we have known has
come ; that if this is a world of pain and sorrow,
hunger, strife and death, at least the suffering has
not been altogether profitless ; that, whatever may
be 'the far-off divine event to which the whole
creation moves,' the whole creation, in all its pain
and in all its travail, is certainly moving, and this in
a direction which makes, if not for * righteousness,'
at all events for improvement. No doubt the
origin of evil has proved a more difficult problem
to solve than the origin of species ; but, thus viewed,
I think that the Darwinian doctrine deserves to be
regarded as in some measure a mitigation of the
difficulty; certainly in no case an aggravation of
it. I do not deny that an immense residuum
of difficulty remains, seeing that, so far as we caa
judge, the means employed certainly do not appear
to be justified by the ends attained. But even here

The Darwinian Theory of Instinct. 57

we ought not to lose sight of the possibility that, if
we could see deeper into the mystery of things, we
might find some further justification of the evil, as
unsuspected is was that which, as it seems to me,
Darwin has brought to light. It is not in itself
impossible — perhaps it is not even improbable —
that the higher instincts of man may be pointing
with as true an aim as those lower instincts of the
brutes which we have been contemplating. And,
even if the theory of evolution were ever to succeed
in furnishing as satisfactory an explanation of the
natural development of the former as it has of
the natural development of the latter, I think
that the truest exponent of the meaning — as dis-
tinguished from the causation — of these higher
instincts would still be, not the man of science, but
the poet. Here, therefore, it seems to me that
men of science ought to leave the question of pain
in Nature to be answered, so far as it can be
answered, by the general voice of that humanity
which we all share, and which is able to acknow-
ledge that at least its own allotment of suffering is
not an unmitigated evil.

For clouds of sorrow deepness lend,
To change joy's early rays,

And manhood's eyes alone can send
A grief-ennobled gaze.

While to that gaze alone expand
Those skies of fullest thought,

Beneath whose star-lit vault we stand.
Lone, wondering, and untaught.

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58 The Darwinian Theory of Instinct,

Yet still—

We look before and after,
And pine for what is not,

Onr sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught.

Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.

Ml
III

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III.

MAN AND BRUTE.

I SHALL assume it as established that the
principles of evolution have been shown to apply
to the phenomena of mind as we find them
presented in the lower animals ; so that throughout
the whole range of the animal kingdom, with the
exception of man, we have satisfactory evidence
of these phenomena having all been due to pro-
cesses of a natural and continuous development,
the causation of which is now in a large measure
ascertained.

Starting, then, from this position, I desire to
render a brief epitome of the leading points with
regard, first, to the fact of ' mental evolution in
man,' and, secondly, to the principles which, in
this case, as in the c *se of the lower animals, have
probably been concerned in the process. And
here, I think, it is not too much to say that we
have a problem whirh '\i not merely the most
interesting of those that have fallen within the
scope of my own work, but perhaps the most
interesting that has ever been submitted to the

Man and Brute.

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1} Vi.

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contemplation of our race. If it is true that ' the
proper study of mankind is man/ assuredly the
study of nature has never before reached a territory
of thought so important in all its aspects as that
which, in our own generation, it is now for the first
time approaching. After centuries of intellectual
conquest in all regions of the phenomenal universe,
man has at last begun to find that he may apply
in a new and most unexpected manner the adage
of antiquity, ' Know thyself.' For he has begun
to perceive a strong probability, if not an actual
certainty, that his own living nature is identical
in kind with the nature of all other life, and that
even the most amazing side of that nature — nay,
the most amazing of all things within the reach
of his knowledge — the human mind itself — is but
the topmost inflorescence of one mighty growth,
whose roots and stem and many branches arc
sunk in the abyss of planetary time.

The problem, therefore, which in this generation
has now, for the first time, been presented to
human thought is the problem of how this thought
itself has come to be. A question of the deepest
importance to every system of philosophy has
been raised by the study of biology, and it is the
question whether the mind of man is essentially
the same as the mind of the lower animals, or,
having had, either wholly or in part, some other
mode of origin, is essentially distinct, differing not
only in degree, but in kind, from all other types
of psychical existence. Now, seeing that upon this

Man and Brute.

great and deeply interesting question opinions are
now much divided, even among those most eminent
in the walks of science who agree in accepting the
principles of evolution as applied to explain the
corporeal constitution of man and the mental
constitution of the lower animals, it is evident
that the question must be a large one. How large
it is, and into what matters of intricacy it leads,
I need not here wait to show. I merely wish to
observe that it is impossible to do it justice within
the limits of a single article, and therefore that in
this brief rcstime of my own investigations con-
cerning it I shall avoid all side issues and matters
of technical detail.

First, then, let us consider the question on
purely a priori ground. In accordance with our
original assumption, the process of organic and of
mental evolution has been continuous throughout
the whole region of life and of mind, with the one
exception of the mind of man. On grounds of
a very large analogy, therefore, we should deem
it antecedently improbable that the process of
evolution, elsewhere so uniform and ubiquitous,
should be interrupted at its terminal phase ; and
I think that, looking to the very large extent of
the analogy, this antecedent presumption is really
so considerable that it could only be fairly counter-
balanced by some very cogent and unmistakable
facts, showing a difference between animal and
human psychology so distinctive as to render it
in the nature of the case virtually impossible that

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il/aw «««? Brute.

the one could ever have graduated into the other.
This I posit as the first consideration.

Next, still restricting ourselves to the a priori
aspect of the matter, it is unquestionable that
human psychology in the case of every individual
human being presents to actual observation a
process of gradual development, or evolution,
extending from infancy to manhood ; and that
in this process, which begins at a zero level of
mental life and may culminate in genius, there is
nowhere and never observable a sudden leap of
progress, such as the passage of one order of
psychical being into another distinct in kind might
reasonably be expected to show. Therefore, it is
a matter of observable fact that, whether or not
human intelligence differs from animal in kind,
it certainly admits of gradual development from
a zero level ; and to this we must add that, so
long as it is passing through the lower phases of
that development, it assuredly ascends through
a scale of mental faculties which are pari passu
identical with those that are permanently presented
by the psychological species of the animal kingdom.
These facts, which I present as a second considera-
tion, tend still further, and I think most strongly,
to increase the force of the antecedent presumption
against the process of (Evolution having been dis-
continuous in the region of mind.

Again, it is likewise a matter of actual observa-
tion that in the history of our race, as recorded
in documents, traditions, antiquarian remains, and

Man and Brute.

flint implements, the intelligence of the race has
been subject to a steady process of gradual de-
velopment — a general fact which admits of any
amount of special corroboration by comparing
the psychology of existing savages, where the
process of evolution in the past has not been so
rapid or has in part been arrested, with that of
civilized man. This is the last consideration that
I shall adduce of the a priori kind, and its force
consists in the fact of its proving that if the process
of mental evolution was interrupted between the
anthropoid apes and primitive man it must again
have recommenced with primitive man, and since
then have continued as uninterruptedly in the
human species as it previously did in the animal
species. This, to say the least, upon the face of
the indisputable facts, or from a merely antecedent
point of view, appears to me a highly improbable
supposition. At all events, it certainly is not the
kind of supposition which men of science are
disposed to regard with favour elsewhere ; for a
long and arduous experience has taught men of
science that the most helpful kind of supposition
which they can bring with them into their inves-
tigations of nature is that kind of supposition which
recognizes in nature the principle of continuity.

Taking, then, all these a priori considerations
together, they must, in my opinion, be fairly held
to make out a very strong prima facie case in
favour of the view that there has been no inter-
ruption of the developmental process in the course

Man and Brute.

•f

of psychological history, but that the mind of
man, like the mind of animals, and, indeed, like
everything else in organic nature, has been evolved.
For these considerations show, not only tha ; on
analogical grounds any such interruption must be
held as in itself improbable ; but, also, that the
human mind unquestionably admits of having been
slowly evolved from the zero level, seeing that
in every individual case, and during many past
millenniums in the history of our species, the
human mind actually does and has undergone the
process in question.

In order to overthrow so immense a presump-
tion as is thus erected on a priori grounds, the
psychologist must fairly be called upon to supply
some very powerful considerations of an a posteriori
kind, tending to show that there is something in
the constitution of the human mind which renders
it impossible, or, at all events, exceedingly difficult,
to imagine that it can have a genetic relation to
mind of lower orders. I shall, therefore, now
proceed to consider, as impartially as I can, the
arguments which have been adduced on this side
of the question.

The theory that animals are unconsciou*; machines
need not detain us, for no one at the present day
is likely to defend it. Again, the distinction
between human and brute psychology, which has
always been taken, more or less, for granted, viz.,
that the one is rational and the other not, may
similarly be set aside, if we understand by 'rational'

' ■ 1

Man and Brute.

merely the power of drawing inferences from
observations. That there is no distinction of this
kind to be made between men and animals I hold
to be abundantly proved by the numberless in-
stances of the display of rationality by brutes —
rationality, I mean, in the only strict and accurate
sense of the term just explained. Of course the
faculty of drawing inferences from observations is
immensely more developed in man than it is in
any brute, but with this point we are not now
concerned.

Again, the theological distinction between the
man and the brute may be passed over, seeing
that it rests upon a dogma with reference to which
scientific inquiry has no point of legitimate contact.
Whether or not the conscious part of man differs
from the conscious part of brutes in being immortal,
and whether or not the ' spirit ' of the one differs
from the * soul ' of the other in any particulars of
kind, dogma itself must hold that science has no
voice in determining. For, from the nature of the
case, any information of a positive kind relating
to these matters can only be expected to come by
way of a revelation ; and, therefore, however widely
science and dogma may differ on other points,
they are at least agreed upon this one : if man has
a ' spirit ' which differs thus from the * animal soul,'
Christianity and Philosophy alike proclaim that
only by a Gospel could the fact of this ' life and
immortality be brought to light ^*

^ I neglect to consider the view of liisliop Llut'cr, and of oll.eis

f
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Man and Brute.

m f

Aristotle and Buffan held that brutes differ from
man in having no power of mental apprehension.
This dictum appears to me unquestionably op-
posed to all the facts of observation, and may be
sufficiently met by the remark of Jureau de la
Malle : ' Si les animaux n'^taient pas susceptibles
d'apprendre des moyens de se conserver, les
esp^ces se seraient an^anties.'

Locke maintained, and he has been followed by
many writers both in psychology and general
literature, that the mind of the brute differs
essentially from that of the man in not being able
to form abstract ideas. Now, it must be observed
that Locke here restricts the term abstraction to
that higher manifestation of the faculty which
consists in thinking about an abstraction as an
abstraction. I cannot find that he denies to
animals the power which they unquestionably
possess of forming general ideas of qualities as
apart from any particular objects in which the
qualities may inhere. A dog, for instance, like
a young child, has a general idea of hot and cold,
good-for-eating and bad-for-eating, &c., although
we have no evidence to show that he ever thinks
about this idea as an idea, or sets the idea itself
before his mind as an object of contemplation.
To me, therefore, it appears that Locke, when
properly understood, has here hit the nail upon

who have followed him, that animals may have an immortal principle
as well as men, for this view serves to identify, and not to separate,
the two orders of mind.

Man and Brute.

the head. The one great distinction, and indeed
the only one which can be shown to obtain between
the two orders of mind in question, consists in the
power which the human mind displays, not merely
of forming abstract ideas of qualities as apart from
particular objects, but of thinking about these
abstractions afterwards as abstractions. This is the
initial or basal distinction. But, narrow at first as
the space included between two lines of rail
at their point of divergence, we have here the
beginning of a difference which is destined to end
at the opposite poles of mind. For, by a continuous
advance along the same line of development, the
human mind (we may see the process exemplified
in the psychogenesis of every child) is enabled to
think about abstractions of its own making, which
are more and more remote from the sensuous
perceptions of concrete objects ; it can unite these
abstractions into an endless variety of ideal com-
binations ; these, in turn, may become elaborated
into ideal constructions of a more and more
complex character ; and so on, till we arrive at
the full powers of introspective thought, of which
we are each one of us directly cognizant.

This, then, I take to be the only distinction that
can be shown to obtain between the two orders of
mind. How is it to be accounted for? How are
we evolutionists to explain the fact that man
alone of animals appears to present the power of
representative thought, and thus to surpass the
brute creation in the mental part of his being, as

F 2

Man and Brute.

far as the mind of a Newton surpasses that of an
infant about two years old ?

I may take it for granted that all the emotional
and intellectual ingredients of animal psychology
are identical with those of human, so far as they
go. In other words, it is only an additional or
superadded growth, prodigious though it be, with
which we are at present concerned. Now, the
late George Henry Lewes has shown with much
lucidity that in animals, as in ourselves, there is
what he happily terms a ' logic of feelings.' That
is to say, by constant converse with the circum-
stances of our life, we acquire a logic, i r grouping
according to laws, of the presentative processes of
the mind, no less than of the representative ; the
former processes being those which are concerned
in perception, and the latter those which are
concerned in reflection or thought. Thus, for
instance, to feel cold, and to think of feeling cold,
are two very different acts of mind ; yet the
categories of mental life to which they severally
belong are alike under the sway of a ' logic' And
similarly with animals. Whether or not they are
able in any measure to reflect, or think about their
own thoughts, there is no question that they are
able to adapt their actions to circumstances, or
that, like ourselves, they have a logic of feelings.

The logic of signs, at any rate in its higher
development, has exclusive reference to the repre-
sentative faculties, and is first evoked by those
exigencies of life which render necessary or desirable

^>?

Man and Brute.

the communication of ideas. The more numerous,
abstract, and compound the ideas become, the more
necessity there is for a corresponding development
of the sign-system, whereby alone they admit of
being expressed. But this is not all. For, on the
other hand, each advance in the development of
a sign-system, although primarily evoked for the
purpose of communicating ideas already present,
afterwards reacts upon the structure of ideation in
which it arose, in such wise as to advance this
structure one further stage in its development. And
so, by continuous action and reaction, the logic of
thought and the logic of signs mutually assist each
other's development.

Take, for instance, the case of spoken language,
which is the system of signs most generally in use
among all the races of mankind. A very little re-
flection is enough to show of how immense a service
are verbal signs as instruments of thought. By
giving to an abstract idea a name, we are able, as it
were, mentally to handle it, to compound it with
other symbolical abstractions of the same kind, and
so on till we arrive at verbal symbols of more and
more complex qualities, as well as of conception
further and further removed from immediate percep-
tion. Words are thus like the steps of a ladder, by
the help of which we climb into higher and higher
regions of abstraction ; they are also like coins or
bank-notes, into which we manage to condense
a large amount of that value which we term mean-
ing ; or, to use a still closer analogy, they are like

(

Man and Brute.

) !

;ii

the symbols employed by the mathematician, which
may contain in an easily manipulated form the
results of a long calculation, no part of which could
have been conducted but for the use of other symbols
of the same kind. So that, to put the matter briefly,
we may say, with Max Miiller, that the growth of
thought and language is coral-like ; each generation
of living thoughts secretes around itself the staple
forms of words, which in turn serve as the basis
for a further generation of thoughts.

Thus it seems to me — and I am not aware that
any writer of note has ever ventured to question the
view — that, given the faculty of speech, in however
rudimentary a degree, and we have given the germ
of that difference between the mind of man and the
mind of brutes which may proceed, under suitable
conditions as to social requirements, &c., to develop
into any conceivable degree of divergent excellence.
The only question, therefore, with which as evolu-
tionists we are here confronted is, Why has man
alone of animals been gifted with the Logos ?

To answer this question we must first consider in
what the essence of the Logos consists. Analysis
shows that it consists in the power of predication,
or of making a proposition, which is the expression
of the power of forming a judgement. Thus far, men
of all schools of thought are in agreement, even
Mr. Mivart conceding that ' if the brute could think
" is " man and brute would be brothers.' I conceive,
then, that the only question before us is to explain
the possible evolution of the power of predication.

Man and Brute.

Let it first be remembered that speech in, all its
forms is nothing more than a highly elaborated
system of signs, and that, where adequate intelligence
is already present, propositions admit of being made
with quite as much distinctness and quite as much
rationality by any other comparably elaborated
system of signs as is the case, for instance, with the
gesture-language of deaf-mutes or of the American
Indians. Next let it be remembered that the germ
of the sign-making faculty occurs among animals at
least as far do\/n in the scale as the ants, and that in
all the higher vertebrata it is capable of development
up to a very considerable level. Pointer dogs make
gesture signs, the meaning of which they well under-
stand ; terriers will ' beg ' for food ; cats will pull
at one's dress to lead one to their kittens in trouble;
and a hundred other instances might be given. It is
true that in none of these instances have we any
evidence of predication, properly so called. But
we have the germ of it. And when we have
an animal sufficiently intelligent intentionally to
translate its logic of feelings into a logic of signs
for the purpose of communication we have an
animal which, in effect, is making a proposition,
although it may not know or think about the pro-
position as a proposition. When a cat or a dog pulls
one's dress to lead one to the kittens or puppies in
need of assistance, the animal is behaving in the
same manner as a deaf-mute might behave when
invoking assistance for a friend. That is to say,
the animal is translating the logic of feelings into the

'■'Wi* **>!»'« a, _ ^ ..L^ .^^mw*^'

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Man and Brute.

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logic of signs, and, so far as this particular action is
concerned, it is psychologically indistinguishable
from that which is performed by the deaf-mute ;
for, under the circumstances supposed, the deaf-
mute does not wait to formulate any definite pro-
position even in his own mind ; his only feeling is,
' Come, come,' and this is directly translated into a
gesture sign.

Now, if among animals we thus have, as it were,
the protoplasm of the sign-making faculty, it does
not seem to me so very hard to understand how it
might, under suitable conditions, become organized
into the faculty of predication. The quadrumana
habitually employ vocal signs as well as gestures
whereJDy to express their emotions and the com-
paratively simple logic of their feelings. Let us, then,
try to imagine an anthropoid ape somewhat more
intelligent than the remarkable chimpanzee which
has recently been brought to the Zoological Gardens
of London, and which in respect of intelligence, as
well as hairlessness and carnivorous habits, is per-
haps the most human-like of these animals hitherto
observed ^ It does not seem to me very difficult
to imagine that such an animal should extend the

¥ .1

' The cnnnvorous habits of this animal, which is a new variety,
art' most interesting. It is surmised that in its wild state it must
live upon binls, but in the Zoolo{,'ical CJardens it is found to show
n marked jireference for cooked meat over raw. It dines off broiled
mutton chops, the hones of which it picks with its fingerti and teeth,
being afterwards careful to clean its hands. It mixes a little straw
witii the mutton as we mix vegetables, and after dinner takes a
dessert of fruits.

Man and Brute.

vocal signs which it habitually employed in the ex-
pression of its emotions to the conventional naming
of a few familiar objects, such as food, child, &c.
This, indeed, is no more than we find to be the case
with a much less intelligent animal, viz. the parrot,
which in many cases certainly uses vocal signs
as names, whether these vocal ; i;. ns are words
the meaning of which it has been taught, sounds
imitative of those made by the objects named,
or, as is sometimes the case, wholly arbitrary, such
as a peculiar squeak to signify a nut. Whether this
nominative stage of language in the ape was first
reached by articulation, or, as is more probable, by
vocal sounds of other kinds, and gestures, is im-
material. In either case the advance of intelligence
which would thus have been secured would in time
have reacted upon the sign-making faculty, and so
have led to an extension of the vocabulary, both
as to sounds and gestures. Sooner or later the
vocal signs, assisted by gestures, and even leading
to a gradual advance of intelligence, would have
become conventional, and so, in the presence of
suitable anatomical conditions, articulate. The next
step would have been the conventional naming of
familiar qualities, such as sweet, bitter, and so on.
This, be it observed, does not imply any very great
advance upon the naming of objects by vocal or
gesture signs ; but yet it brings us to the very
borders of predication. For, if once the name of an
object and the name of a quality belonging to that
object are used in apposition, the copula is latent in

V I

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Man and Brute.

thought, and only requires a further advance of
intelligence itself to become an object of thought.

Such, I believe, were the steps by which the
faculty of predication was reached, and the bridge
between the brute and the man constructed. Once
this bridge was formed, all subsequent generations
of intellect were free to roam over the hitherto
unoccupied regions of possibility thus opened up ;
conscience, religion, sense of beauty, and all other
products of the higher intelligence of man being
but the natural result of the conditions which, in
converse with its environment, that intelligence has
itself created.

51 ^

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IV.

MIND IN MEN AND ANIMALS.

I HAVE in the foregoing essay endeavoured to
sketch the lines through which the human mind
has probably been evolved from minds of lower
types. My argument was that up to a certain
point the psychology of man runs parallel with
that of animals ; emotions, instincts, and reason all
corresponding each to each in the two orders of
mind so far as they are common to both ; it being,
therefore, only an unparalleled growth in certain
lines in the psychology of man that the evolutionist
has to explain. This unparalleled growth, I further
argued, might be shown to arise from a gradual
development of the sign-making faculty, as this
undoubtedly occurs in animals. That is to say, in
animals as in ourselves, there is obviously a ' logic
of feelings,' and in them also to a certain extent
there is obviously the power of translating this
logic of feelings into the ' logic of signs.* Usually
the signs employed arc those of tone and gesture ;
but in the only animals that happen to j)Ossess the
power of articulation, the talking birds, I have
e ^idencc to show that the signs employed for the
purpose of communicating desires and ideas of

I !

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76 i^/w«f zVi Men and Animals.

objects, qualities, and actions, may be articulate.
In what respect, then, it will be asked, does the
mind of a parrot differ from the mind of a man ?
The bird has instincts, emotions, and a faculty of
ratiocination, all the same in kind as those that
obtain in ourselves ; while in its power of trans-
lating the logic of its feelings into a logic of
articulate signs the bird further presents (in a
rudimentary stage of development, indeed, but
none the less of like kind) the faculty of the Logos.
Given these things, and all psychologists would be
agreed that the high powers of abstraction that are
the only distinctive features of the human mind
might very probably have been developed by the
mutual influence of language and thought.

In what respect, then, does the mind of a parrot
differ from the mind of a man? The difference
consists in the power of predication. An intelligent
parrot is able to denominate an object or a quality;
it is not able to predicate the quality as belonging
to the object. In other words, the nominative
stage of even spoken language does not extend to
the power of making a proposition. At this stage
of spoken language, words are nothing more than
vocal gestures. A particular word, or a particular
phrase, is learned by association, as the appropriate
designation of a particular object, quality, action,
or desire ; but there is no power of spontaneously
forming new sentences. At this stage in the evolu-
tion of language, whether in the parrot or in the
child, words stand as signs that are stereotyped

\^'

Mind in Men and Animals. 77

into special phrases, wherewith to signify particular
things or states that the talker has previously-
associated with them ; there is as yet no power
of handling words as movable types wherewith to
construct a proposition dc novo. In order to pass
from the nominative to the predicative stage of
language or sign-making, two things are requisite.
In the first place, the talker must have a general
idea of beings in the abstract, else he could not
supply the essential part of a proposition, the
copula. In the next place, the talker must have
a general idea of his own personality as distinct
from that of all other beings, else he could not
supply the essential meaning of a proposition,
a judgement. When wc make a proposition, we not
only affirm a truth, but we affirin a truth perceived
as true. We not only know that the grass is green
(an animal knows this), but in predicating the
greenness of the grass we prove that our know-
ledge is itself a matter of knowledge. We know
that we know that the grass is green. This power
of knowledge to know itself arises from the power
that the human mind displays of introspection, or
of turning inward upon itself, so as to make some
of its states objective to others. And this power
pre.': ;)poses the faculty of self-consciousness, or
the faculty of separating in thought the ej^o from the
, - n~r . Thus, in order to understand fully the pro-
oablt genesis of predication, it is needful to consider
the probable genesis of self-consciousness.

? > proposilion in this paper will be that, given

li!

4fi

78 Mind in Men and Animals.

the protoplasm of the sign-making faculty so far
organized as to have reached the nominative stage
of language, and given also the protoplasm of
judgement so far organized as to have reached the
stage of stating a truth (the mind not yet being
sufficiently developed to be conscious of itself, and
therefore not able to state to itself a truth as true),
by the confluence of these two protoplasmic
elements an act of fertilization is performed, such
that the subsequent processes of mental organiza-
tion proceed apace, and soon reach the stage of
differentiation between subject and object. In all.
that is to follow I am in no way concerned with
the philosophy of this change, but only with its
history. On the side of its philosophy I am in
complete agreement with the most advanced
idealist, and hold that in the datum of self-con-
sciousness we each of us possess, not alone our
only ultimate knowledge, or that which alone is
* real in its own right,' but likewise the only mode
of existence that the human mind is capable of
conceiving as existence, and therefore the conditio
sine qua non to the possibility of an external
world. With this aspect of the matter, however,
I am not here concerned. Just as the functions
of an embryologist are confined to tracing the
mere history of developmental changes, and just
as he is thus as far as ever from throwing any
light upon the deeper questions of the how and the
why of life, so in seeking to indicate the steps
whereby self-consciousneaa has arisen from the

Mind in Men and Animals. 79

lower stage of physical development I am as far
as any one can be from throwing any light upon
the intrinsic nature of that the probable genesis
of which I am endeavouring to trace. It is as true
to-day as it was in the days of Solomon, that ' as
thou knowest not how the bones do grow in the
womb of her that is with child, thou knowest not
what is the way of the spirit.'

If it is only in man that self-consciousness is to
be found, clearly it is only to man that we can
look for any facts bearing upon the question of its
evolution. And, inasmuch as it is only during the
first years of infancy that a human being is destitute
of self-consciousness, the statement just made
implies that only in infant psychology need we
seek for the facts of which we are in search.

It will, I suppose, be admitted that self-con-
sciousness consists in pa) 'ng the same kind of
attention to inward psychical processes that is
habitually paid to outward physical processes. It
will be further admitted that in the mind of
animals and in the mind of infants there is a world
of images standing as signs of outward objects ^ ;
and that the only reason why these images are not
attended to unless called up by the sensuous
association of corresponding objects is because the
mind is not yet able to leave the ground of such
association, so as to move through the higher and
more tenuous medium of introspective thought.

' Sec tlic chapter uii ' Iinatjination ' in Alental Evolution in
Animals.

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80 Mind in Men and Animals.

Nevertheless, the images, in the case of the higher
animals, are not restricted to the mere reproduction
in memory of particular objects of sensuous per-
ception ; they admit of undergoing that amount
of mental elaboration which entitles them to be
termed simple concepts. Further, it is of still more
importance to observe that of these ideal con-
structions a large constituent number have reference,
not to objects of sense or to general qualities of
such objects, but to the mental states of other
animals. That is to say, the log'c of feeling, even
in animals, is enough to enable the mind to establish
true analogies between its own states (although
these are not yet the objects of separate attention,
or of clear as distinguished from implied know-
ledge) and the corresponding states of other minds.
I need not dwell upon this point, because I take
it to be a matter of simple observation that animals
habitually and accurately interpret the mental
states of other animals, while they also well know
that other animals are able similarly to interpret
their mental states, as is best proved by their
practising the arts of cunning, concealment, hypo-
crisy, &c. From these considerations we reach the
general conclusion that intelligent animals recognize
a world of ejects as well as a world of objects.
Mental existence is already known to them eject-
ively, although, as may be conceded, never thought
upon subjectively ^.

' The ment.nl states of one individiml cannot be known to another
iadividual. tilhcr ul)jcctively or subjcclivtly ; they are known by

Mtnd in Men and Animals. 8i

It is important further to observe that at this
stage of mental evolution the individual, whether
an animal or an infant, so far realizes its own
personality as to be informed by the logic of
feelings that it is one of a kind. I do not mean
that at this stage the individual realizes its own
or any other personality as a personality, but
merely that it recognizes the fact of its being one
among a number of similar though distinct forms
of life. Alike in conflict, rivalry, sense of liability
to punishment or vengeance, &c., the outward
truth is continually being borne in upon the mind
of an animal that it is a separate personality, and
this though the animal may never be able, even in
the most shadowy manner, to think about itself as
a personality. In this way arises what Chauncey
Wright has termed an ' outward self-consciousness,'
which differs from true self-consciousness only in
the absence of any attention being directed upon
the inward mental states. This outward self-
consciousness is known to us all, even in adult life,
it being but comparatively seldom that we pause
in our daily activities to contemplate the mental
processes of which these activities are the expres-
sion.

We have seen, then, that self-consciousness
consists in paying the same kind of attention to
inward psychical processes that is habitually paid

a process of inferring their resemblance to one's own mental states.
We eject our own mental states upon what is otherwise to us the
blank screen of another mind.

J i

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82 ^m^ m Men and Animals.

to outward physical processes ; that in the mind
of animals and infants there is a world of images
standing as signs of outward objects ; that at this
stage of mental evolution we have not merely
simple concepts, but also the recognition of an
ejective no less than of an objective world ; and
that here also we have the recognition of person-
ality, as far as this is dependent upon 'outward
self-consciousness/ or the consciousness of self as
a feeling and active agent, apart from self as an
object of thought.

Such being the conditions precedent to the rise
of self-consciousness, we may next turn to the
growing child for evidence of all subsequent stages
in the gradual evolution of this faculty. All
observers are agreed that, for a considerable time
after a child is able to use words as expressive of
ideas, there is no vestige of true self-consciousness.
Even its own organism at a year old is not known
to the child as a part of the self, or, more correctly,
as anything related to feelings. Professor Preyer
observed that his boy, when more than a year old,
bit his own arm just as though it had been
a foreign object. Later, when the * outward self-
consciousness,' already explained, has begun to be
developed, we find that the child, like the animal,
has now learned to associate its own organism with
its own mental states, in such wise that it recog-
nizes its own body as belonging in a peculiar
manner to the self, so far as this is recognized by
the logic of feelings. Next, the child begins to

•\\

Mind in Men and Animals. 83

talk, and, as we might expect, the first translation
of the logic of feelings into the logic of signs
having reference to self reveals the fact that as
yet there is no true or inward self-consciousness,
but only the outward. As yet, the child has paid
no attention to his own mental states, further than
to feel that he feels them ; and, in the result, we
find that the child speaks of himself as an object,
i.e., in the third person, or by his proper name.
The change in the child's phraseology, from
speaking of self as an object to speaking of self
as a subject, does not usually take place till the
third year. When it has taken place, we have
definite evidence of true self-consciousness, though
it is still in a rudimentary stage.

Let it now be observed that, long before any
words are used indicative of even a dawning
consciousness of self as self, the child has already
advanced so far in its use of language as to frame
implicit propositions. On this point I may adduce
the impartial and highly competent testimony of
Mr. Sully, who writes : —

When a child of eighteen months, on seeing a
dog, exclaims ' Bow wow,' or, on tasting his food,
exclaims ' Ot ' (hot), or, on letting fall his toy,
says ' Dow ' (down), he may be said to be im-
plicitly framing a judgement : ' That is a dog,'
' This milk is hot,' ' My plaything is down.' ....
The boy was f'rst observed to frame a distinct
judgement when nineteen months old, by saying
' Dit ki ' (sister 's crying).

Hence we see that a child expresses implicit

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judgement before there is any evidence of his
presenting the faintest rudiment of true self-
consciousness. ' Dit dow yu ' is a proposition in
every respect, save in the significant absence of
the copula, which means that at this stage the
mind is not able to state to itself as true a truth
which it states to other minds. The child here
perceives a certain fact, and expresses the percep-
tion in words in order to communicate information
of the fact to other minds, just as an animal under
similar circumstances will use a gesture or a vocal
sign ; but the child is no more able than the
animal to think ' is,' or consciously to make to its
own mind a statement that it makes to others.

Given this stage of mental evolution, and what
follows? The child, like the animal, is supplied
by its logic of feelings with a world of images
standing as signs of outward objects, with an
ejective knowledge of other minds, and with that
kind of recognition of self as an active, suffering,
and accountable agent which we have spoken of as
outward .self-consciousness. But, over and above
the animal, the child has at its command the more
improved machinery of sign-making, which enables
it to signify to other minds the fuller contents
of its knowledge. Among these contents is the
child's perception of the mental states of others
as expressed by their gestures, tones, and words.
These severally receive their distinguishing names,
and so gain clearness and precision as ejective
images of the corresponding states experienced by

Mind in Men and Animals. 85

the child itself. 'Mamma pleased to me' would
have no meaning as spoken by a child, unless he
knew from his own feelings what is the state of
mind that he thus ejectively attributes to another
individual. Therefore we cannot be surprised to
find that at the same age a child will also say

* Dodo pleased to mamma.' Yet it is evident that
we are here approaching the borders of true self-
consciousness. * Dodo ' is no doubt still speaking
of himself in objective phraseology ; but he has
advanced so far in the interpretation of his own
states of mind as clearly to name them, and so to
fix these states before his mental vision as things
that admit of being denoted by verbal signs.

Obviously the step from this to recognizing

* Dodo ' as not only the object but also the subject
of mental changes is not long. The mere fact of
attaching verbal signs to inward mental states has
the effect of focus^jing the attention upon those
states ; and when attention is thus habitually
focussed we have supplied the only further con-
dition required to enable the mind, through its
memory of previous states, to compare its past
with its present, and so to reach that idea of
continuity among its own states in which the
consciousness of self essentially consists.

I {

If'

ORIGIN OF HUMAN FACULTY.*

Having been requested by the Council of the
Neurological Society to read a paper on a recently
published book of my own, for the purpose of
raising a discussion on the psychological doctrines
which are therein presented, I will begin by briefly
stating the aim and scope of the book in question.

The title of the book is Mental Evolution in
Man ; but, as the work constitutes only the first
member of a series which I intend to devote to
this topic, its second or subsidiary title more
accurately defines the limits of its subject-matter
— namely, * The Origin of Human Faculty.' The
aim of this treatise is twofold. First, to meet upon
their own ground those various writers — psycho-
logical and theological — who maintain that a great
exception must be made in the case of the human
mind to the otherwise uniform law of continuous
evolution ; and, secondly, to indicate the probable
causes, and thus to trace the probable history, of
the transition between the intelligence of the lower
animals and the intelligence of man.

' A paper read before the Neurological Society on Thursday,
Feb. a 8, 1889.

Origin of Human Faculty, 87

It appears to me that before the Neurological
Society I may be allowed to adopt the first of
these positions without argument ; and will, there-
fore, assume that in some way or another the
transition in question has taken place. On the
basis of this assumption I shall be free to devote
all the time at my disposal to a consideration of
the probable causes, or method, of the transition.
For this purpose it is needful to set out with
a brief analysis of ideation.

If I look at any particular face now before me,
I receive what is called a perception, or a percept,
of that face. If I then close my eyes, or turn them
away from that face, but still retain the memory of
it before what Hamlet calls ' the mind's eye,' I have
what is designated an image or an idea of the face
which I had previously perceived. The idea which
I should have in this case would be what Locke
calls a Simple Idea — that is to say, the idea of
a particular object, or the mere memory of a par-
ticular percept. But now suppose that before
.shutting my eyes I had taken a general survey of
all the faces at present before me, I should then
have what Locke calls a Compound Idea, or the
idea of a face in general, as distinguished from my
previous simple idea, or the idea of a single face in
particular. It is of great importance to note that
these cumpovmd ideas are created by a fusion of
a number of indivic'.ual percepts, and thus differ
from simple ideas in t'lat ihey are something more
than the mere memories of particular percepts. It

I.'

Ill

111

88 Origin of Human Faculty.

is needless to say that animals possess compound
ideas as well as simple ideas. For instance, a dog
has a compound idea of Man, as distinguished from
his particular idea of Master. But, lastly, when
we come to what Locke calls General or Abstract
Ideas, we find, as he says, ' that which puts a perfect
distinction betwixt man and brutes.' Wherein,
then, consists the difference between a compound
idea and a general idea ? It consists, according to
the unanimous agreement of nearly all writers, in
the idea having been named by a word, or other
sigrn, which is designedly used as the mark or
symbol of that idea. For instance, like my dog,
I have a compound idea of Man, and a simple idea
of some particular man ; but, unlike my dog, I can
name the one by the general word Man, and the
other by the particular word John. A compound
idea, when thus named, becomes what is called
a conception, or a concept. Now, it will be observed
that this conceptual order of ideation differs en-
tirely from the other two orders which we have
just been considering, in that a symbol is sub-
stituted for the mental image, so that the symbol
may be used instead of the image, whether or not
the image is present to the mind — or, indeed,
whether or not any equivalent image admits of
being formed at all. Consequently, the mind is
now enabled to deal with symbols of ideas without
requiring to call up the ideas themselves as memo-
ries of perceptions. Consequently, also, the mind
is thus enabled to quit the sphere of sense and rise

Origin of Human Faculty. 89

to that of what is called abstraction; furnished with
the wings of language, human thought can soar far
beyond the possibilities of any ideas which could
be suggested by merely sensuous experience.

It will be further observed that the psychological
condition to thus naming ideas, so as intentionally
to treat the names as symbols of the ideas — the
psychological condition required for this is the
presence of what is called Self-consciousness. Un-
less an agent is conscious of itself as a mental
agent, and of its own ideas as ideas, it is clearly
not in a position to bestow upon them names as
names. The mind must be able, so to speak, to
get outside of itself, in order to contemplate its
own states as such, before it can name these states
with the conscious intention of using the names as
symbols. In other words, the mind must be capable
of introspection ; and this power of introspection
it is that goes to constitute the one and only dis-
tinction between the human mind and mind of
lower animals, whether we call this distinction the
faculty of Self-consciousness, of Abstraction, of
Reason, of Logos, or by any of the other terms
which are habitually used to signify this unique
power of a mind to turn in upon its own self and
examine its own ideas.

Thus far psychologists of every school are
agreed. But as a great deal of laxity has been
displayed by responsible writers in the use of
Locke's terms, and, moreover, as his intermediate
division of compound ideas has been largely lost

<♦

90 Origin of Human Faculty.

sight of, I have devised for this intermediate division
what I think are more appropriate terms, viz.
Generic Ideas or Reccpts. Adopting, then, these
terms, you will note that all ideas admit of being
classified under one or other of three divisions —
viz. Simple Ideas, Generic Ideas, and General
Ideas ; or, more briefly, Percepts, Recepts, and
Concepts. Percepts and recepts are common to
the lower animals and to man ; but concepts
belong to man alone. Moreover, while recepts are
formed by an automatic fusion of percepts, without
any intentional activity on the part of the mind
itself, concepts can only be formed by the inten-
tional activity of the mind in the act of naming
a percept or a recept, for the purposes of symbolic
abstraction. Thus, a recept is passively received
into the mind, while a concept is actively conceived
by it. For example, observation shows that water-
fowl have one recept (or organized body of per-
cepts) answering to water, and another recept
answering to land. So has man. But, unKke the
fowl, he is able to bestow on each of these recepts
a name, and so to raise them both to the level of
concepts. Now, in order to do this, he must be
able to set his recept before his own mind as an
object of his own thought ; before he can bestow
his conceptual names on these ideas, he must have
cognized them as ideas. In virtue of this act of
cognition, he has created for himself — and for pur-
poses other than locomotion — a priceless possession ;
he has formed a concept.

\x \

Origin of Human Faculty. 91

Nevertheless, the concept which he has thus
formed is an exceedingly simple one — amounting,
in fact, to nothing more than the naming of some
among the most habitual of his recepts, ' land ' and
' water.* But it belongs to the nature of concepts
that, when thus formed, they admit of being inten-
tionally compared and grouped together into higher
and higher concepts, which, in virtue of being suc-
cessively named, become further and further re-
moved from the sphere of sensuous perceptions.
Thus there arises a kind of algebra of recepts.
Now, it is in this algebra of the imagination that
all the higher work of ideation is accomplished ;
and throughout it depends on the power of a mind
to contemplate its own ideas as such.

The difference between a mind which is capable
only of receptual ideation, and a mind which is
capable, even in the lowest degree, of conceptual
ideation, is usually taken to depend on the absence
in the one and the presence in the other of the
faculty of Language. Therefore, it is here neces-
sary to say a few words upon this subject.

The faculty of language is, in the largest signifi-
cation of the term, the faculty of making signs.
Now, there is no doubt that the lower animals
present the germ of this faculty. A dog will bark
significantly before a closed door as a sign to
request that it shall be opened ; a wise cat will pull
one by one's clothes as a sign to come to her
kittens if they are in danger ; a parrot will depress
its head as a sign to be scratched, and so forth.

■\l

92 Origin of Human Faculty.

Nay. a parrot will even use verbal signs with a
correct appreciation of their meanings, as proper
names, substantives, adjectives, and verbs V Where,
then, is the difference between this kind of sign-
making, which we may call receptual sign-making,
and the sign-making which is peculiar to man, and
which alone is conceptual sign-making ? The diffe-
rence is broad and deep. It consists in the power
which the human mind displays, as already ex-
plained, not only of naming its ideas, but of making
one idea stand before another as itself an object of
thought. In other words, a man is able to think
about his own ideas as ideas. Not only, like a
parrot, can he name a particular man John (in con-
seanence of having heard that particular man called
J and therefore associating the name with the
man), but he is able to think about this name as
a name. And similarly, in all other cases, the
difference between naming a thing receptually by
mere association, and naming a thing conceptually
by intentional thought, is all the difference between
knowing that thing and knowing that we know it.
And the difference on the side of the talking or
sign-making agent is all the difference between an
agent that is conscious only, and an agent that is
likewise self-conscious. For it is the faculty of
self-consciousness which thus enables a mind to set
one idea before another as an object of its own
thought ; by means of this faculty the mind is able,

' AH such statements ou matters of fact, here and elsewhere, rest
upon evidence which is furnished in my book.

Origin of Human Faculty. 93

as it were, to stand outside of itself, and so to per-
ceive objectively the ideas which are passing sub-
jectively — and this just as independently as if it
were regarding an external series of dissolving
views. How it is that such a state of matters is
possible, whereby a mind can thus, as it were, get
outside of its own existence, and so regard its own
ideas as objective to itself — this is the mystery of
all mysteries, the bottomless abyss of personality.
But, accepting the fact as a fact, all that we have
at present to do is to note the enormous difference
which the presence of this fact introduces with refer-
ence to the sign-making faculty. For it means that
merely conscious or receptual sign-making is sign-
making which is not thought about as such ; while
self-conscious or conceptual sign-making is sign-
making that is thought about as such. Consequently,
while a parrot can only learn words or phrases which
are stereotyped in the frame-work of special associa-
tions, man, after having thus learnt his vocabulary,
can afterwards use his words and phrases like
movable types, whereby to convey any number
of different meanings by changes of their relative
positions. Thus there are names and names ;
names receptual and names conceptual. In short,
it is his super-added faculty of self-consciousness
that has made man par excellence the sign-making
animal ; and therefore what we have to do to-night
is to consider the genesis of this faculty.

First of all, however, I should like to say some-
thing more about the sign-making faculty, as this

.>'

94 Origin of Human Faculty.

occurs before the rise of self-consciousness — that is
to say, in the brute and in the human infant.

I distinguish four grades of the sign-making
faculty. First there is what may be called the
indicative stage. Long before it can speak, the
infant will express its simple desires by means of
intentionally significant tones and gesture-signs,
such as pointing to objects in connexion with
which it desires something to be done. Here the
infant is obviously at the same level of sign-making
as the cat which pulls one's dress to signify ' come,'
or the parrot which \, u depress its head to signify
its desire to be scratched.

Next we find what I call the denotative stage of
sign-making. Here names are bestowed recep-
tually, or by special association, upon particular
objects, qu^ilities, actions, and states of feeling. This
stage occurs in the child when it is first emerging
from infancy, and is psychologically indistinguish-
able from that which obtains in the talking birds.
Denotative names, then, are names which have
been learnt by merely receptual association ; they
do not imply any self-conscious or conceptual
thought.

Following upon the denotative stage is what
I call the connotative. This consists in a receptual
extension of the meaning of a name, from the thing
which was at first denoted by that name, to other
things which are seen to resemble it. Thus, for
example, as M. Taine has remarked, a young child
which has learnt the name Bow-woxv for a house

Origin of Human Faculty, 95

terrier will soon extend it to all other dogs, then
to pictures of dogs, to images of dogs, to his elder
brother when walking on hands and knees, and so
on through ever-widening circles of connotative
extension. Now I have observed that a parrot
will do precisely the same. One of the birds
which I kept under observation used to bark in
imitation of a terrier in the same hou e. Soon the
barking became the parrot's denotative name for
the terrier, so that the bird would oark whenever
it saw the terrier. After a tinic it ceased to do
this, but would always bark when it saw any other
dog. Thus the parrot resembled the child of which
M. Taine speaks, in that it extended the significance
of its name for a particular dog, so as to apply it
to any other dog. Here, however, the connotative
extension of the name ceased ; the bird would not
bark at pictures of dogs, no doubt because it was
not intelligent enough to perceive the pictorial
representations.

Lastly, there is what I call the denominative
stage of sign-making, or the bestowal of a name
consciously known as such. Here we arrive at
what I mean by conceptual naming, and therefore
this stage of sign-making cannot arise until the
mind has attained to self-consciousness. There-
fore, also, it only occurs in man, and first appears
in the growing child between the second and third
years. Then, of course, the child begins to pre-
dicate, or to arrange its names in the form of
propositions.

i' '

\\\

\'-.

96 Origin of Human Faculty.

Now, in connexion with our subject, it is of the
highest importance to note, not only that the three
first stages of the sign-making faculty are thus
common to animals and human beings, but also
that these three first stages advance very much
further in the growing child than they ever do
in any animal, even before the growing child attains
to the fourth, or distinctively human, stage. In other
words, even while still moving in the purely re-
ceptual sphere, the growing child becomes much
more intelligent, and much more proficient in the
art of making signs, than any animal. Although
not yet a self-conscious agent, and therefore not
yet having attained to conceptual thought, a child
between two and three years of age has already
distanced every animal in respect of its purely
receptual intelligence. But observe, thus far no
difference of kind can be alleged by our opponents,
because to allege any difference of kind between
one order of receptual intelligence and another
would be to vacate their whole argument. This
argument depends on the distinction between
ideation as receptual and conceptual— or between
an agent that is, and an agent that is not, self-
conscious. But a child up to its third year is not
a self-conscious agent. This is proved by the fact
that it never employs words having any self-con-
scious implication, and never gives evidence of even
in the lowest degree thinking about its own ideas
as such. In short, it cannot be disputed that the
respects in which the intelligence of a child between

i^i

Origin of Human Faculty. 97

two and three years of age distances that of the
most intelligent animal have reference only to
a higher advance of receptual ideation ; the ideation
has not yet become conceptual, and therefore can-
not be alleged by our opponents to differ from
the ideation of an animal in kind. The higher
degree of intelligence which is displayed by a child
of this age must therefore be taken to consist in
a higher development of receptual intelligence, just
in the same way as a dog is more intelligent than
a bird. In order to distinguish this higher degree
of receptual intelligence, which only occurs in man,
and i.» the growing child immediately precedes the
first appearance of conceptual intelligence, I will
call it pre-conceptiial intelligence.

It is of importance to note how far this higher
receptual, or pre-conceptual, intelligence can go,
and therefore I will briefly consider the kind of
language or sign-making [a) which leads up to it,
and {h) by which it is expressed when attained.

The indicative stage of language in the infant
is at first below that of the more intelligent animals.
But very soon it becomes equal to that of the most
intelligent. The child will then point to objects
in connexion with which it desires something to
be done, in just the same way as a dog will beg
before a water-jug, &c. It will pull one's dress in
the same way as a cat does to signify 'Come';
and, lastly, it will use its voice to make significant
— though inarticulate — sounds, after the manner
of all the more intelligent of the higher animals.

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98 Origin of Human Faculty.

Thus far, then, the child is still moving in the
same levels of receptual ideation as the higher
animals. But very soon its receptual ideation
begins to distance that of even the most intelligent
animal : the ideation of the child has therefore
entered upon what I call its pre-conceptual phase.
From this point onward its gesture-signs become
correspondingly more and more significant, so that
in children who are late in beginning to talk it
may develop into regular pantomime. But now
note, it is impossible that as yet there can be any
conceptual ideation, because as yet there are no
names, and therefore an absence of so much as the
condition to the performance of any act of intro-
spective thought.

Thus much, then, for the indicative phase of
language in the receptual and pre-conceptual levels
of human ideation. Passing on now to the next,
or denotative phase (which the indicative phase
may largely overlap in children who are late in
talking), we find that when a child first begins to
use articulate signs it learns the use of them in
just the same way as a parrot does ; that is to say,
it learns the name of particular objects, qualities,
actions, and states by special association — in other
words, receptually. So far, then, as the beginning
of the denotative stage of language is concerned,
there is no difference at all between the child and
the parrot. Neither is there any difference with
regard to the beginning of the connotative stage ;
for, as I have already said, a parrot will extend

Origin of Human Faculty. 99

its denotative name for a particular dog to all
other dogs the resemblance of which one to another
it is able to perceive — ^just in the same way as
a young child will extend its name of Bozv-zvow from
a terrier to a mastiff. And, although the bird will
not follow the child where the child takes the
further step of extending the name from living
dogs to pictures of dogs, this is plainly due to the
intelligence of the bird not advancing far enough
to perceive the resemblance of pictures to the
objects which they are intended to represent.
Many dogs, however, and certain monkeys are able
to do this, and, therefore, if a dog or a monkey
were able to articulate, there can be no doubt
that the brute would follow the child through this
further step in the connotative extension of a name.
Indeed, when we remember the extraordinary de-
gree in which monkeys are able to understand the
meanings of words, as well as the extraordinary
propensity which they show in the way of imitating
the actions of mankind, there can be no question
that, if it were not for the anatomical accident of
monkeys being unable to articulate, they would
follow a child through what would probably seem
a surprising distance in the use of denotative names
and reccptually connotative words. The chim-
panzee now at the Zoological Gardens, which I
have taught to count as far as five, displays in
a perfectly marvellous degree the power of under-
standing language — so that one can explain to
her verbally what one wishes her to do, in just

H a

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loo Origin of Human Faculty.

the same way as we explain this to an infant
about eighteen months old. Therefore, if this
animal had been able to articulate, there can be
no doubt that it would answer us in the same way
that a child answers us when first emerging from
infancy.

But here we come to an important point in our
comparison between the two cases. After a child
does emerge from infancy, its receptual intelligence
continues to grow ; and it continues to grow until
it has left far behind the receptual intelligence of
any brute. That is to say, between the time that
a child first parts company with the brute in the
matter of sign-making, up to the time when it first
begins to use denominative words, or words which
are used with a true conceptual appreciation of
their significance, there is an immensely large
interval which is filled by advancing stages of
receptual development. Before it has attained to
even the earliest dawn of self-consciousness — and
therefore before it has attained to the possibility
of thinking about names as names, or of ideas as
ideas — the child has made a prodigious advance
in its receptual intelligence, and therefore in the
sign-making whereby this intelligence expresses
itself. Now, as already stated, in order to dis-
tinguish this large and important territory of
ideation, which is occupied by the mind of a child
between the time that its receptual intelligence
parts company with that of the most intelligent
animal, up to the time when it first reaches the

; ;

Origin of Human Faculty. loi

truly conceptual or self-conscious intelligence of
a human being, I call this intervening territory
of ideation by the name pre-conceptual. Pre-con-
ceptual ideation, then, is that order of higher
receptual ideation which is not presented by any
brute, but which is presented by the growing child
between the time that its developing intelligence
parts company with that of even the most intel-
ligent animal, up to the time when the dawn of
self-consciousness begins to convert this higher
receptual ideation into ideation that is truly
conceptual.

I will now briefly consider the kind of sign-
making which is distinctive of this pre-conceptual
stage of ideation. The child has now acquired
a large number of denotative words, which it has
learnt by special association to regard as significant
of certain objects, qualities, actions, ana states.
Suppose, then, that it sees its little sister crying.
Its denotative name for this sister is Dit: its
denotative name for the action of crying is Ki.
Now the object and the action which these two
names severally denotate happen to occur together
before the child's observation ; by the mere force
of special association, therefore, the child denotates
them both simultaneously — that is to say, brings
them into apposition. This apposition in conscious-
ness of two habitual recepts with their corresponding
denotations is thus effected for the child by what
may be termed ' the logic of events * : it is not
effected by the child in the way of any intentional

' «a

;<.

u
m

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I-

I02 Origin of Human Faculty.

or self-conscious grouping of its ideas, such as goes
to constitute the distinguishing feature of the logic
of concepts. Therefore, when, on seeing its sister
crying, the child says Dit Ki^ although in one
sense we may say that the child is making a pro-
position, in another and a stricter sense we must
deny that this is a true proposition. The proposi-
tion, if so it may be called, is pre-conceptual, not
conceptual : it is of the psychological kind that we
might have expected a monkey to make, if a monkey
had been able to pronounce denotative names as
well as it can understand them. For the proposi-
tion is made by an agent which is not yet a self-
conscious agent, and therefore cannot possibly have
been thought about as a proposition. That is to
say, it lacks the very element of conceptual or
introspective thought on which our opponents rely
as proving a difference of kind between the brute
and the man. Therefore, without argumentative
suicide, our opponents cannot afford to maintain
that a pre-conceptual proposition of this kind is
a genuine proposition, in the sense of being a pro-
position that implies for its construction any of the
distinctively human powers of introspective or ab-
stract thought.

Now, it is needless to say that at this age a child
is incessantly making these pre-conceptual proposi-
tions ; and, of course, the important thing to notice
about them is that as yet they are not, and cannot
possibly be, conceptual propositions. It is not until
the child has attained to self-consciousness, and

.1.

Origin of Human Faculty. 103

therefore is able, not only to denotate, but to
denominate — not only to name, but to think the
names, not only to make statements, but to con-
template its statements as such — it is not until the
child has taken this further step that it has the
peculiar quality of ideation on which our opponents
rely for their psychological distinction between the
brute and the man. No doubt these pre-conceptual
propositions are strongly suggestive of a near ap-
proach to true or conceptual propositions : but the
point is that as yet they do not present the very
feature which it is necessary that they should
present, if they are to conform to the distinction
of kind between animal and human intelligence
which our opponents have endeavoured to institute.
They are always evoked by the external logic of
events bringing into apposition objects, qualities, &c.,
the denotative names of which are called up in the
child's mind by immediate association — and, there-
fore, are necessarily called up in apposition. Thus
the apposition which here gives to the two denota-
tive names the outward form of a proposition is, as
I have before said, an apposition which is furnished
to the child by the external logic of events ; not an
apposition which is formed by the child through
any internal operations of introspective thought.
So far, therefore, as any question of kind is con-
cerned, it is manifestly impossible for our opponents
to argue that these pre-conceptual propositions
betoken anything further than the gesture-signs
which characterize the earlier stages of a child's

j^/i

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W (i

104 Origin of Human Faculty.

intelligence, and which, as we have before seen,
serve to connect its growth with the indicative
stage of sign-making as this occurs in the lower
animals.

The whole issue, then, here becomes resolved
into an inquiry touching the subsequent rise of
self-consciousness in the child, or the appearance
of the psychological condition to a child thinking
about its own ideas as ideas — the psychological
condition to its thinking about names as names,
and therefore the psychological condition to its
raising a merely pre-conceptual statement of a fact
which it perceives into a conceptual statement of
that fact with an introspective knowledge of it as
a fart.

Now, in considering this final stage, or the rise of
self-consciousness in the child, it is of importance
to note that even the lower animals present some
of the earliest psychological conditions to the sub-
sequent appearance of self-consciousness in the
more gifted intelligence of man. Thus, in the
minds of brutes, as in the minds of men, there is
a world of images or recepts ; and this image world,
even in brutes, displays a certain amount of internal
activity, which is not wholly dependent on sensuous
associations supplied from without. The phenomena
of dreaming, hallucination, home-sickness, pining for
absent friends, and so forth, amply demonstrate that
in our more intelligent domesticated animals there
may be an internal (though unintentional) play of
ideation, wherein one image suggests another, this

Origin of Human Faculty. 105

another, and so on, without the need of any im-
mediate associations supplied from present objects
of sense. Furthermore, receptual ideation of this
kind is not restricted to the images of sense-
perception, but is largely concerned with the
mental states of other animals. That is to say,
the logic of recepts, even in brutes, is sufficient to
enable the mind to establish true analogies between
its own subjective states and the corresponding
states of other intelligences. Now, at this stage of
mental evolution the individual — whether an animal
or an infant — so far realizes its own individuality as
to be informed by the logic of recepts that it is one
of a kind, although of course it does not recognize
either its own or any other individuality as such.

Nevertheless, there is thus given a rudimentary
or nascent form of self-consciousness, which up to
the stage that it reaches in a brute or an infant
may be termed receptual self-consciousness, while
in the more advanced stages, which it presents in
young children who have just emerged from infancy
and are therefore beginning to talk, it may be
termed pre- conceptual self-consciousness. Pre-
conceptual self-consciousness, then, is exhibited by
all children after they have begun to talk, but before
they begin to speak of themselves in the first person,
or otherwise to give any evidence of realizing their
own existence as such. Later on, when true self-
consciousness does arise, the child of course is able
to do this, and then only is supplied Lhe condition
sine qud non to a reflection upon its own ideas —

m
9

io6 Origin of Human Faculty.

I I

hence to a knowledge of names as names, and so to
a statement of truths as true. But long before this
stage of true or conceptual self-consciousness is
reached — whereby alone is rendered possible true
or conceptual predication — the child, in virtue of
its pre-conceptual self-consciousness, is able to
make known its wants, and otherwise to communi-
cate its ideas, by way of pre-conceptual predication,
as I have previously shown. Now, if I had time,
I could further show that the pre-conceptual self-
consciousness, of which this is the expression,
amounts to nothing more than a practical recog-
nition of self as an active and feeling agent, without
as yet any introspective recognition of that self as
an object of knowledge.

Given, then, this stage of mental evolution, and
what follows ? The child, like the animal, is sup-
plied by its logic of recepts with a world of images,
standing as signs of outward objects ; with a prac-
tical knowledge of processes going on in other
minds; and with that kind of recognition of self
as an active and suffering agent to which allusion
has just been made. But, over and above the
animal, the child has now at its command a much
more improved machinery of sign-making, which,
as we have before seen, is due to the higher evolu-
tion of its receptual ideation. Now, among the
contents of this ideation is a better apprehension
of the mental states of other human beings, together
with a greatly increased power of denotative utter-
ance, whereby the child is able to name receptually

Origin of Human Faculty. 107

such mental states on the part of others as it thus
receptually apprehends. These, therefore, severally
receive their appropriate denotations, and so gain
clearness and precision as images of the corre-
sponding states experienced by the child itself.
' Mamma pleased to Dodo ' would have no meaning
as spoken by a child, unless the child knew from
its own feelings what is the state of mind which it
thus attributes to another. Hence we find that at
the same age the child will also say, ' Dodo pleased
to mamma.' Now, it is evident that we are here
approaching the very borders of true or conceptual
self-consciousness. The child, no doubt, is still
speaking of itself in objective phraseology ; but it
has advanced so far in the interpretation of his own
states of mind as clearly to name them, in the same
way as he would name any external objects of sense-
perception. Thus, he is enabled to fix these states
before his mental vision as things which admit of
being denoted by verbal signs, although as yet he
has never thought about either the states of mind
or his names for them as such, and, therefore, has
not yet attained to the faculty of denomination.
But the interval between denotation and denomina-
tion has now become so narrow that the step from
recognizing ' Dodo ' as not only the object, but also
the subject of mental changes, is rendered at once
easy and inevitable. The mere fact of attaching
verbal signs to mental states has the effect of
focussing attention upon those states; and, when
attention is thus focussed habitually, there is sup-

*''*

To8 Origin of Human Faculty.

' I

Liil

plied the only further condition which is required
to enable a mind, through its memory of previous
states, to compare its past with its present ; and so
to reach that apprehension of continuity among its
own states wherein the full introspective conscious-
ness of self consists.

In confirmation of this my general argument,
I must now conclude by observing that, although
the advance to true self-consciousness from lower
grades of mental development is no doubt a very
great and important matter, still it is not so great
and important, in comparison with what this develop-
ment is afterwards destined to become, as to make
us feel that it constitutes any distinction sui generis
— or even, perhaps, the principal distinction —
between the man and the brute. For even when
self-consciousness does arise, and has become fairly
well developed, the powers of the human mind are
still in an almost infantile condition. In other
words, the first genesis of true self-consciousness
marks a comparatively low level in the evolution
of the human mind — as we might expect that it
should, if its genesis depends upon, and therefore
lies so near to, those precedent conditions in merely
animal psychology to which I have assigned it.
But, if so, does it not follow that, great as the
importance of self-consciousness afterwards proves
to be in the development of distinctively human
ideation, in itself, or in its first beginning, it does
not betoken any very perceptible advance upon
those powers of pre-conceptual ideation which it

Origin of Human Faculty, 109

immediately follows ? There is thus shown to be
even less reason for regarding the first advent of
conceptual self-consciousness as marking a psycho-
logical difference of kind, than there would be so
to regard the advent of those higher powers of
conceptual ideation which subsequently — though
as gradually — supervene between early childhood
and youth. Yet no one has hitherto ventured to
suggest that the intelligence of a child and the
intelligence of a youth display a difference of
kind.

I have condensed as much of my main argument
as I have found to be possible within the limits of
a paper. But, of course, it is needless to say that
I am very far from having given the whole. In
particular, I have omitted all reference to the latter
portion of my treatise, which is concerned with the
only direct evidence that we have of the earlier
stages of mental evolution in the race. Never-
theless, although isolated and imperfect, this source
of evidence is one of immense importance — standing,
in fact, to the science of comparative psychology in
very much the same relation as palaeontology stands
to the science of comparative anatomy ; since it
serves, by a kind of fossil record, to mark a pre-
historic development of ideation, which is curiously
analogous to the geological record of a prehistoric
development of organization. Moreover, the evi-
dence thus furnished is of special value on account
of its wholly independent character ; it is through-
out perfectly distinct from the psychological analysis

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no Origin of Human Faculty,

on which we have hitherto been engaged. Doubtless
you will already have perceived to what it is that
I allude : it is to the independent, and, I venture to
add, the overpowering, witness of Philology. The
gradual evolution of articulate language has pre-
served for us a kind of palaeontological record of
the gradual evolution of conceptual thought, with
the result of showing that in the life-history of the
human species, as in the life-history of the individual
child, this conceptual thought derived its origin from
these pre-corceptual levels of ideation which have
already been occupying our attention. Although
it is impossible for me now to give even an outline
sketch of this argument from philology, I may
conclude by quoting the last paragraph of my
summary, in order to give you a general idea of
the immense assistance which is thus rendered to
the theory of evolution in the domain of human
psychology.

Here, then. I bring to a close this brief and
imperfect rendering of the 'Witness of Philology.*
But, brief and imperfect as the rendering is, I am
honestly unable to see how it is conceivable that
the witness itself could have been more uniform
as to its testimony, or more multifarious as to its
facts — more consistent, more complete, or more
altogether overwhelming than we have found it
to be. In almost every single respect it has cor-
roborated the results of our psychological analysis.
It has come forward like a living thing, which, in
the very voice of Language itself, directly and
circumstantially narrates to us the actual history

Origin of Human Faculty. m

of a process the consistent steps of which we had
previously inferred. It has told us of a time when
as yet mankind were altogether speechless, and
able to communicate with one another only by
means of gesticulation and grimace. It has to us
described the first articulate sounds in the form of
sentence-words, without significance apart from the
pointings by which they were accompanied. It
has revealed the gradual differentiation of such
a protoplasmic form of language into * parts of
speech,' and declared that these grammatical
structures were originally the offspring of gesture-
signs. More particularly, it has shown that, in the
earliest phases of articulate utterance, pronominal
elements, and even predicative words, were used in
the impersonal manner which belongs to a hitherto
undeveloped form of self-consciousness— primitive
man, like a young child, having therefore spoken
of his own personality in objective terminology.
It has taught us to find in the body of every con-
ceptual term a pre-conceptual core ; so that, as the
learned and thoughtful Garnett says, ' ni/iil in
oratione quod non prius in sensu ' may now be
regarded as an incontrovertible axiom. It has
minutely described the whole of that wonderful
aftergrowth of articulate utterance, through many
lines of divergent evolution, in virtue of which ali
nations of the earth are now in possession, in one
degree or another, of the god-like attributes of
reason and of speech. Truly, as Archdeacon
Farrar sa5/s, * to the flippant and the ignorant, how
ridiculous is the apparent inadequacy of the origin
to producv* such a result.' But here, as elsewhere,
it is the method of evolution to bring to nought
the things that are mighty by the things that are
of no reputation; and, when we feel disposed to
boast ourselves in that we alone may claim the

112 Origin of Human Faculty.

Logos, should we not do well to pause and remem-
ber in what it was that this our high prerogative
arose? 'So hat auch keine Sprache ein Abstractum,
zu dem sie nicht durch Ton und Gefuhl gelangt
ware.' To my mind it is simply inconceivable
that any stronger proof of mental evolution could
be furnished than is furnished in this one great
fact, by the whole warp and woof of the thousand
dialects of every pattern which are now spread
over the surface of the globe. We cannot speak
to each other in any tongue without declaring the
pre-conceptual derivation of our speech ; we cannot
so much as discuss the * origin of human faculty '
itself without announcing, in the very medium of
our discussion, what that origin has been. It is to
Language that my opponents have appealed; by
Language they are hopelessly condemned.

\\\

VI.

MENTAL DIFFERENCES BETWEEN
MEN AND WOMEN.

In his Descent of Man Mr. Darwin has shown
at length that what Hunter termed secondary
sexual characters occur throughout the whole
animal series, at least as far down in the zoological
scale as the Articulata. The secondary sexual
characters with which he is chiefly concerned are
of a bodily kind, such as plumage of birds, horns
of mammals, &c. But I think it is evident that
secondary sexual characters of a mental kind are
of no less general occurrence. Moreover, if we
take a broad view of these psychological differences,
it becomes instructively apparent that a general
uniformity pervades them — that, while within the
limits of each species the male differs psycho-
logically from the female, in the animal kingdom
as a whole the males admit of being classified, as
it were, in one psychological species, and the
females in another. By this, of course, I do not
mean that there is usually a greater psychological
difference between the two sexes of the same
species than there is between the same sexes of

(*,

114

Mental Differences

different species: I mean only that the points
wherein the two sexes differ psychologically are
more or less similar wherever these differences
occur.

It is probably due to a recognition of this fact
that from the very earliest stages of culture
mankind has been accustomed to read into all
nature — inanimate as well as animate — differences
of the same kind. Whether it be in the person
of Maya, of the pagan goddesses, of the Virgin
Mary, or in the personifications of sundry natural
objects and processes, we uniformly encounter the
conception of a feminine principle co-existing with
a masculine in the general frame of the Cosmos.
And this fact, as I have said, is presumably due
to a recognition by mankind of the uniformity as
well as the generality of psychological distinction
as determined by sex.

I will now briefly enumerate what appear to me
the leading features of this distinction in the case
of mankind, adof-ting the ordinary classification
of mental facultiei as those of intellect, emotion,
and will.

Seeing that the average brain-weight of women
is about five ounces less than that of men, on
merely anatomical grounds we should be prepared
to expect a marked inferiority of intellectual power
in the former ^ Moreover, as the general physique

^ This is proportionally a greater difference than that between the
male and female organisms as a whole, and the amount of it is largely
affected by grade of civilization — being least in savages and most

between Men and Women. 115

of women is less robust than that of men — and
therefore less able to sustain the fatigue of serious
or prolonged brain action — we should also on
physiological grounds be prepared to entertain
a similar anticipation. In actual fact we find that
the inferiority displays itself most conspicuously
in a comparative absence of originality, and this
more especially in the higher levels of intellectual
work. In her powers of acquisition the woman
certainly stands nearer to the man than she does
in her powers of creative thought, although even
as regards the former there is a marked difference.
The difference, however, is one which does not
assert itself till the period of adolescence— young
girls being, indeed, usually more acquisitive than
boys of the same age, as is proved by recent
educational experiences both in this country and
in America. But as soon as the brain, and with
it the organism as a whole, reaches the stage of
full development, it becomes apparent that there
is a greater power of amassing knowledge on the

in ourselves. Moreover, Sir J. Crichton Browne informs me, as
a result of many observations which he is now making upon the
subject, that not only is the grey matter, or cortex, of the female
brain shallower than that of the male, but it also receives less than
a proportional supply of blood. For these reasons, and also because
the difTerences in question date from an embryonic period of life, he
concludes that they constitute ' a fundamental sexual distinction,
and not one that can be explained on the hypothesis that the
educational advantages enjoyed either by the individual man or by
the male sex generally through a long series of generations have
stimulated the growth of the brain in the one sex more than in
the other.'

I %

ii6

Mental Differences

part of the male. Whether we look to the general
average or to the intellectual giants of both sexes,
we are similarly met with the general fact that
a woman's information is less wide and deep and
thorough than that of a man. What we regard as
a highly cultured woman is usually one who has
read largely but superficially ; and even in the few
instances that can be quoted of extraordinary
female industry — which on account of their rarity
stand out as exceptions to prove the rule — we find
a long distance between them and the much more
numerous instances of profound erudition among
men. As musical executants, however, I think
that equality may be fairly asserted.

In the matter of original work, as already
observed, the disparity is most conspicuous. For
it is a matter of ordinary comment that in no one
department of creative thought can women be said
to have at all approached men, save in fiction.
Yet ill poetry, music, and painting, if not also in
history, philosophy, and science, the field has
always been open to both ^. For, as I will presently
show, the disabilities under which women have
laboured with regard to education, social opinion,

' The disparity in quesAon is especially suggestive in the case
of poetry, seeing that this is the oldest of the fine arts which have
come down to us in a high degree of development, that its exercise
requires least special education or technical knowledge, that at no
level of culture has such exercise been ostracized as unfcminine, that
nearly all languages present several monuments of poetic genius
of the first order, and yet that no one of these has been reared by a
woman.

between Men and Women. 117

and so forth, have certainly not been sufficient to
explain this general dearth among them of the
products of creative genius.

Lastly, with regard to judgement, I think ther«>
can be no real question that the female mind
stands considerably below the male. It is much
more apt to take superficial views of circumstances
calling for decision, and also to be guided by less
impartiality. Undue influence is more frequently
exercised from the side of the emotions; and, in
general, all the elements which go to constitute
what is understood by a characteristically judicial
mind are of comparatively feeble development.
Of course here, as ekewhere, I am speaking of
average standards. It would be easy to find
multitudes of instances where women display
better judgement than men, just as in the analogous
cases of learning and creative work. But that as
a general rule the judgement of women is inferior
to that of men has been a matter of universal
recognition from the earliest times. The man has
always been regarded as the rightful lord of the
woman, to whom she is by nature subject, as both
mentally and physically the weaker vessel ; and,
when in individual cases these relations happen
to be inverted, the accident becomes a favourite
theme for humorists — thus showing that in the
general estimation such a state of matters is
regarded as incongruous.

But, if woman has been a loser in the intellectual
race as regards acquisition, origination, and judge-

ii8

Mental Differences

ment, she has gained, even on the intellectual side,
certain very conspicuous advantages. First among
these we must place refinement of the senses, or
higher evolution of sense-organs. Next we must
place rapidity of perception, which no doubt in
part arises from this higher evolution of the sense-
organs — or, rather, both arise from a greater
refinement of nervous organization. Houdin, who
paid special attention to the acquirement of rapidity
in acts of complex perception, says he has known
ladies who were able, while seeing another lady
'pass at full speed in a carriage, to analyze her
toilette from her bonnet to her shoes, and be able
to describe, not only the fashion and quality of
the stuffs, but also to say if the lace were real
or only machine-made.' Again, reading implies
enormously intricate processes of perception, both
of the sensuous and intellectual order : and I have
tried a number of experiments, wherein reading
was chosen as a test of the rapidity of perception
in different persons. Having seated a number of
well-educated individuals round a table, I presented
to them successively the same paragraph of a
newspaper, which they were each to read as rapidly
as they could, ten seconds being allowed for
twenty lines. As soon as time was up I removed
the paragraph, immediately after which the reader
wrote down all that he or she could remember of
it. Now, in these experiments, where everyone
read the same paragraph as rapidly as possible,
I found that the palm was usually carried off by

between Mm and Women. 119

the ladies. Moreover, besides being able to read
quicker, they were better able to remember what
they had just read — that is, to give a better
account of the paragraph as a whole. One lady,
for example, could read exactly four times as fast
as her husband, and could then give a better
account even of that portion of the paragraph
which alone he had had time to get through. For
the consolation of such husbands, however, I may
add that rapidity of perception as thus tested is
no evidence of what may be termed the deeper
qualities of mind— some of my slowest readers
being highly distinguished men.

Lastly, rapidity of perception leads to rapidity
of thought, and this finds expression on the one
hand in what is apt to appear as almost intuitive
insight, and on the other hand in that nimbleness
of mother wit which is usually so noticeable and
often so brilliant an endowment of the feminine
intelligence, whether it displays itself in tact, in
repartee, or in the general alacrity of a vivacious
mind.

Turning now to the emotions, we find that in
woman, as contrasted with man, these are almost
always less under control of the will — more apt
to break away, as it were, from the restraint of
reason, and to overwhelm the mental chariot in
disaster. Whether this tendency displays itself in
the overmastering form of hysteria, or in the more
ordinary form of comparative childishness, ready
annoyance^ and a generally unreasonable temper —

< (,

T20

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'\ V.

Mental Differences

in whatever form this supremacy of emotion
displays itself, we recognize it as more of a
feminine than a masculine characteristic. The
crying of a woman is not held to betray the same
depth of feeling as do the sobs of a man ; and the
petty forms of resentment which belong to what
is known as a ' shrew ' or a ' scold ' are only to be
met with among those daughters of Eve who
prove themselves least agreeable to the sons of
Adam. Coyness and caprice are very general
peculiarities, and we may add, as kindred traits,
personal vanity, fondness of display, and delight
in the sunshine of admiration. There is also, as
compared with the masculine mind, a greater
desire for emotional excitement of all kinds, and
hence a greater liking for society, pageants, and
even for what are called 'scenes,' provided these
are not of a kind to alarm her no less characteristic
timidity. Again, in the opinion of Mr. Lecky,
with which I partly concur :

:., \

In the courage of endurance they are commonly
superior ; but their passive courage is not so much
fortitude which bears and defies as resignation
which bears and bends. In the ethics of intellect
they are decidedly inferior. They very rarely
love truth, though they love passionately what
they call ' the truth,' or opinions which they have
derived from others, and hate vehemently those
who differ from them. They are little capable of
impartiality or doubt; their thinking is chiefly
a mode of feeling ; though very generous in their
acts, they are rarely generous in their opinions or

■ M.^M ifi'irMlliilliilinlW

between Men and Women. 121

in their judgements. They persuade rather than
convince, and value belief as a source of consola-
tion rather than as a faithful expression of the
reality of things.

But, of course, as expressed in the well-known
lines from Marmion^ there is another side to this
picture, and, in now taking leave of all these
elements of weakness, I must state my honest con-
viction that they are in chief part due to women
as a class not having hitherto enjoyed the same
educational advantages as men. Upon this great
question of female education, however, I shall have
more to say at the close of this paper, and only
allude to the matter at the present stage in order
to temper what I feel to be the almost brutal
frankness of my remarks.

But now, the meritorious qualities wherein the
female mind stands pre-eminent are affection,
sympathy, devotion, self-denial, modesty ; long-
suffering or patience under pain, disappointment,
and adversity; reverence, veneration, religious
feeling, and general morality. In these virtues —
which agree pretty closely with those against which
the apostle says there is no law — it will be noticed
that the gentler predominate over the heroic ; and
it is observable in this connexion that when
heroism of any kind is displayed by a woman the
prompting emotions are almost certain to be of an
unselfish kind.

All the aesthetic emotions are, as a rule, more
strongly marked in women than in men — or,

;1 •'

122

Mental Differences

•I I

perhaps, I should rather say, they are much more
generally present in women. This remark applies
especially to the aesthetic emotions which depend
upon refinement of perception. Hence feminine
' taste ' is proverbially good in regard to the smaller
matters of everyday life, although it becomes, as
a rule, untrustworthy in proportion to the necessity
for intellectual judgement. In the arrangement of
flowers, the furnishing of rooms, the choice of
combinations in apparel, and so forth, we generally
find that we may be most safely guided by the
taste of women ; while in matters of artistic or
literary criticism we turn instinctively to the judge-
ment of men.

If we now look in somewhat more detail at the
habitual display of these various feelings and
virtues on the part of women, we may notice, with
regard to affection, that, in a much larger measure
than men, they derive pleasure from receiving as
well as from bestowing : in both cases affection is
felt by them to be, as it were, of more emotional
value. The same remark applies to sympathy.
It is very rare to find a woman who does not
derive consolation from a display of sympathy,
whether her sorrow be great or small ; while it is
by no means an unusual thing to find a man who
rejects all offers of the kind with a feeling of active
aversion.

Touching devotion, we may note that it is directed
by women pretty equally towards inferiors and
superiors — spending and being spent in the tending

■-i^Tsmas*-

t» i*m 'ii m v«;.

between Men and Women. 123

of children ; ministering to the poor, the afflicted,
and the weak; clinging to husbands, parents,
brothers, often without and even against reason.

Again, purity and religion are, as it were, the
natural heritage of women in all but the lowest
grades of culture. But it is within the limit of
Christendom that both these characters are most
strongly pronounced ; as, indeed, may equally well
be said of nearly all the other virtues which we
have just been considering. And the reason is that
Christianity, while crowning the virtue of chastity
with an aureole of mysticism more awful than was
ever conceived even by pagan Rome, likewise
threw the vesture of sanctity over all the other
virtues which belong by nature to the feminine
mind. Until the rise of Christianity the gentler
and domestic virtues were nowhere recognized as
at all comparable, in point of ethical merit, with
the heroic and the civic. But when the ideal was
changed by Christ — when the highest place in the
hierarchy of the virtues was assigned to faith, hope
and charity, to piety, patience and long-suffering,
to forgiveness, self-denial and even self-abasement
— we cannot wonder that, in so extraordinary a
collision between the ideals of virtue, it should have
been the women who first flocked in numbers
around the standard of the Cross.

So much, then, for the intellect and emotions.
Coming lastly to the will, I have already observed
that this exercises less control over the emotions in
women than in men. We rarely find in women that

^■^::f^\^^^^Mik*■■4)^^<^

124

Mental Differences

' f

firm tenacity of purpose and that determination to
overcome obstacles which are characteristic of what
we call a manly mind. When a woman is urged
to any prolonged or powerful exercise of volition,
the prompting cause is usually to be found in the
emotional side of her nature, whereas in man we
may generally observe that the intellectual is alone
sufficient to supply the needed motive. Moreover,
even in those lesser displays of volitional activity
which are required in close reading, or in studious
thought, we may note a similar deficiency. In
other words, women are usually less able to con-
centrate their attention ; their minds are more
prone to what is called ' wandering,' and we seldom
find that they have specialized their studies or
pursuits to the same extent as is usual among men.
This comparative weakness of will is further mani-
fested by the frequency among women of what is
popularly termed indecision of character. The
proverbial fickleness of la donna mobile is due quite
as much to vacillation of will as to other unstable
qualities of mental constitution. The ready firm-
ness of decision which belongs by nature to the
truly masculine mind is very rarely to be met with
in the feminine, while it is not an unusual thing to
find among women indecision of character so
habitual and pronounced as to become highly
painful to themselves— leading to timidity and
diffidence in adopting almost any line of conduct
where issues of importance are concerned, and
therefore leaving them in the condition, as they

between Men and Women. 125

graphically express it, of not knowing their own
minds.

If, now, we take a general survey of all these
mental differences, it becomes apparent that in
the feminine type the characteristic virtues, like the
characteristic failings, are those which are born of
weakness ; while in the masculine type the charac-
teristic failings, like the characteristic virtues, are
those which are born of strength. Which we are
to consider the higher type will therefore depend
on the value which we assign to brute force.
Under one point of view, the magnificent spider
of South America, which is large enough and
strong enough to devour a humming-bird, deserves
to be regarded as the superior creature. But, under
another point of view, there is no spectacle in
nature more shockingly repulsive than the slow
agonies of the most beautiful of created beings in
the hairy limbs of a monster as far beneath it in
the sentient as in the zoological scale. And,
although the contrast between man and woman is
happily not so pronounced in degree, it is never-
theless a contrast the same in kind. The whole
organization of woman is formed on a plan of
greater delicacy, and her mental structure is corre-
spondingly more refined : it is further removed
from the struggling instincts of the lower animals,
and thus more nearly approaches our conception
of the spiritual. For even the failings of weakness
are less obnoxious than the vices of strength, and

|i!

126

Mental Differences

V ■

it! I

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'1 II

I think it is unquestionable that these vices are
of quite as frequent occurrence on the part of men
as are those failings on the part of women. The
hobnailed boots may have given place to patent
pumps, and yet but small improvement may have
been made upon the overbearing temper of a navvy ;
the beer-shop may have been superseded by the
whist-club, and yet the selfishness of pleasure-
seeking may still habitually leave the solitary wife
to brood over her lot through the small hours of
the morning. Moreover, even when the mental
hobnails have been removed, we generally find
that there still remains what a member of the
fairer sex has recently and aptly designated mental
heavy-handedness. By this I understand the
clumsy inability of a coarser nature to appreciate
the feelings of a finer; and how often such is the
case we must leave the sufferers to testify. In
short, the vices of strength to which I allude are
those which have been born of rivalry : the mental
hide has been hardened, and the man carries into
his home those qualities of insensibility, self-
assertion, and self-seeking which have elsewhere
led to success in his struggle for supremacy. Or,
as Mr. Darwin says, * Man is the rival of other
men ; he delights in competition, and this leads to
ambition which passes too readily into selfishness.
These latter qualities seem to be his natural and
unfortunate birthright.'

Of course the greatest type of manhood, or the
type wherein our ideal of manliness reaches its

V'1

between Men and Women. 127

highest expression, is where the virtues of strength
are purged from its vices. To be strong and yet
tender, brave and yet kind, to combine in the same
breast the temper of a hero with the sympathy
of a maiden — this is to transform the ape and
the ttger into what we know ought to constitute the
man. And, if in actual Hfe we find that such an
ideal is but seldom realized, this should make us
more lenient in judging the frailties of the opposite
sex. These frailties are for the most part the
natural consequences of our own, and even where
such is not the case we do well to remember, as
already observed, that they are less obnoxious than
our own, and also that it is the privilege of strength
to be tolerant. Now, it *s a practical recognition
of these things that leads to chivalry ; and even
those artificial courtesies which wear the mark of
chivalry are of valus. as showing what may be
termed a conventional acquiescence in the truth
that underlies them. This truth is, that the highest
type of manhood can only then be reached when
the heart and mind have been so far purified from
the dross of a brutal ancestry as genuinely to
appreciate, to admire, and to reverence the great-
ness, the beauty, and the strength which have been
made perfect in the weakness of womanhood.

I will now pass on to consider the causes which
have probably operated in producing all these
mental differences between men and women. We
have already seen that dififerences of the same kind

ii:

m » t ' i iiww^ii

128

Mental Differences

occur throughout the whole mammalian series and
therefore we must begin by looking below the
conditions of merely human life for the original
causes of these differences in their most general
form. Nor have we far to seek. The Darwinian
principles of selection — both natural and sexual —
if ever they have operated in any department of
organic Mture, must certainly have operated here.
Thus, to V Darwin himself: —

Amongst the half-human progenitors of man,
and amongst savages, there have been struggles
between the males during many generations for the
possession of the females. But mere bodily strength
and size would do little for victory, unless associ-
ated with courage, perseverance, and determined
energy. . . . To avoid enemies or to attack them
with success, to capture wild animals, and to fashion
weapons, requires reason, invention, or imagina-
tion. . . . These latter faculties, as well as the
former, will have been developed in man partly
through sexual selection — that is, through the
contest of rival males, and partly through natural
selection — that is, from success in the general
struggle for life ; and as in both cases the struggle
will have been during maturity, the characters
gained will have been transmitted more fully to the
male than to the female offspring. . . . Thus man
has ultimately become superior to woman. It is,
indeed, fortunate that the law of the equal trans-
mission of characters to both sexes prevails with
mammals ; otherwise it is probable that man would
have become as superior in mental endowment to
woman as the peacock is in ornamental plumage
to the pea-hen.

between Men and Women. 129

Similarly, Mr. Francis Galton writes : —

The fundamental and intrinsic differences of
character that exist in individuals are well illustrated
by those that distinguish the two sexes, and which
begin to assert themselves even in the nursery,
where all children are treated alike. One notable
peculiarity in the woman is that she is capricious
and coy, and has less straightforwardness than the
man. It is the same with the female of every
species. . . . [Were it not so], the drama of court-
ship, with its prolonged strivings and doubtful
success, would be cut quite short, and the race
would degenerate through the absence of that
sexual selection for which the protracted prelimin-
aries of love-making give opportunity. The willy-
nilly disposition of the female is as apparent in the
butterfly as in the man, and must have been con-
tinually favoured from the earliest stages of animal
evolution down to the present time. Coyness and
caprice have in consequence become a heritage of
the sex, together with a cohort of allied weaknesses
and petty deceits, that men have come to think
venial, and even amiable, in women, but which they
would not tolerate among themselves.

We see, then, that the principles of selection
have thus determined greater strength, both of
body and mind, on the part of male animals
throughout the whole mammalian series ; and it
would certainly have been a most unaccountable
fact if any exception to this rule had occurred in
the case of mankind, for, as regards natural selection,
it is in the case of mankind that the highest
premium has been placed upon the mental faculties
— or, in other words, it is here that natural selection

*■■}'

I30

Mental Differences

has been most busy in the evolution of intelligence,
and therefore, as Mr. Darwin remarks, we can only-
regard it as a fortunate accident of inheritance that
there is not now a greater difference between the
intelligence of men and of women than we actually
find. Again, as regards sexual selection it is
evident that here also the psychologically segre-
gating influence must have been exceptionally
strong in the case of our own species, seeing that
in all the more advanced stages of civilization — or
in the stages where mental evolution is highest, and,
therefore, mental differences are most pronounced
— marriages are determined quite as much with
reference to psychical as to physical endowments ;
and as men always admire in women what they
regard as distinctively feminine qualities of mind,
while women admire in men the distinctively
masculine, sexual selection, by thus acting directly
as well as indirectly on the mental qualities of
both, is constantly engaged in moulding the minds
of each upon a different pattern.

Such, then, I take to be the chief, or at least the
original, causes of the mental differences in question.
But besides these there are sundry other causes all
working in the same direction. For example, as
the principles of selection have everywhere operated
in the direction of endowing the weaker partner
with that kind of physical beauty which comes
from slenderness and grace, it follows that there has
been everywhere a general tendency to impart to
her a comparative refinement of organization ; and

between Men and Women. 131

in no species has this been the case in so high
a degree as in man. Now, it is evident from what
has been said in an earlier part of this paper that
general refinement of this kind indirectly affects
the mind in many ways. Again, as regards the
analogous, though coarser, distinction of bodily
strength, it is equally evident that their comparative
inferiority in this respect, while itself one of the
results of selection, becomes in turn the cause of
their comparative timidity, sense of dependence,
and distrust of their own powers on the part of
women, considered as a class. Hence, also, their
comparative feebleness of will and vacillation of
purpose : they are always dimly conscious of lacking
the muscular strength which, in the last resort —
and especially in primitive stages of culture — is the
measure of executive capacity. Hence, also, their
resort to petty arts and pretty ways for the securing
of their aims ; and hence, in large measure, their
strongly religious bias. The masculine character,
being accustomed to rely upon its own strength, is
self-central and self-contained : to it the need of
external aid, even of a supernatural kind, is not felt
to be so urgent as it is to the feminine character,
whose only hope is in the stronger arm of another.
*The position of man is to stand, of woman to
lean ' ; and, although it may be hard for even
a manly nature to contemplate the mystery of life
and the approach of death with a really stoic calm,
at least this is not so impossible a;> it is for the
more shrinking and emotional nature of a woman.

K 2

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132

Mental Differences

Lastly, from her abiding sense of weakness and
consequent dependence, there also arises in woman
that deeply-rooted desire to please the opposite
sex which, beginning in the terror of a slave, has
ended in the devotion of a wife.

We must next obsei^ve another psychological
lever of enormous power in severing the mental
structures of men and women. Alike in expanding
all the tender emotions, in calling up from the
deepest fountains of feeling the flow of purest
affection, in imposing the duties of rigid self-denial,
in arousing under its strongest form the conscious-
ness of protecting the utterly weak and helpless
consigned by nature to her charge, the maternal
instincts are to woman perhaps the strongest of all
influences in the determination of character. And
their influence in this respect continues to operate
long after the child has ceased to be an infant.
Constant association with her growing children —
round all of whom her affections are closely twined,
and in all of whom the purest emotions of humanity
are as yet untouched by intellect — imparts to the
mother a fullness of emotional life the whole quality
of which is distinctively feminine. It has been
well remarked by Mr. Fiske that the prolonged
period of infancy and childhood in the human
species must from the first ' have gradually tended
to strengthen the relations of the children to the
mother,' and, we may add, also to strengthen the
relations of the mother to the children — which
implies an immense impetus to the growth in her

between Men and Women. 133

of all the altruistic feelings most distinctive of
woman. Thus, in accordance with the general law
of inheritance as limited by sex, we can understand
how these influences became, in successive genera-
tions, cumulative ; while in the fondness of little
girls for dolls we may note a somewhat interesting
example in psychology of the law of inheritance at
earlier periods of life, which Mr. Darwin has shown
to be so prevalent in the case of bodily structures
throughout the animal kingdom.

There remains, so far as I can see, but one
other assignable cause of the mental differences
between men and women. This cause is education.
Using the term in its largest sense, we may say
that in all stages of culture the education of
women has differed widely from that of men.
The state of abject slavery to which woman is
consigned in the lower levels of human evolution
clearly tends to dwarf her mind ab initio. And as
woman gradually emerges from this her primitive
and long-protracted condition of slavery she still
continues to be dominated by the man in number-
less ways which, although of a less brutal kind,
aie scarcely less effectual as mentally dwarfing
influences. The stunting tendency upon the female
mind of all polygamous institutions is notorious,
and even in monogamous or quasi-monogamous
communities so highly civilized as ancient Greece
and pagan Rome woman was still, as it were, an
intellectual cipher — and this at a time when
the intellect of man had attained an eminence

134

Mental Differences

which has never been equalled. Again, for a
period of about two thousand years after that
time civilized woman was the victim of what
I may term the ideal of domestic utility —
a state of matters which still continues in some
of the continental nations of Europe. Lastly,
even when woman began to escape from this
ideal of domestic utility, it was only to fall
a victim to the scarcely less deleterious ideal of
omamentalism. Thus Sydney Smith, writing in
1810, remarks: 'A century ago the prevailing
taste in female education was for housewifery ;
now it is for accomplishments. The object now
is to make women artists — to give them an
excellence in drawing, music, and dancing.' It
is almost needless to remark that this is still the
prevailing taste : the ideal of female education
still largely prevalent in the upper classes is not
that of mental furnishing, but rather of nrf^ntal
decoration. For it was not until the middle of
the present century that the first attempt was
made to provide for the higher education of
women, by the establishment of Queen's College
and Bedford College in London. Twenty years
later there followed Girton and Newnham at
Cambridge ; later still Lady Margaret's and Somer-
ville at Oxford, the foundation of the Girls'
Public Day Schools Company, the opening of
degrees to women at the University of London,
and of the honour examinations at Cambridge and
Oxford.

..li,»»\^»"***'*-*" ♦*■■►* «"*»h1^»<*''

■■^ii**'ft*t;»*»»*«i«f%:«»((W«M««!W»J»-** "v.'%*

between Men and Women. 135

We see, then, that with advancing civilization
the theoretical equality of the sexes becomes
more and more a matter of general recognition,
but that the natural inequality continues to be
forced upon the observation of the public mind;
and chiefly on this account — although doubtless
also on account of traditional usage — the education
of women continues to be, as a pfeneral rule, widely
different from that of men. And this difference
is not merely in the positive direction of laying
greater stress on psychological embellishment: it
extends also in the negative direction of sheltering
the female mind from all those influences of
a striving and struggling kind which constitute
the practical schooling of the male intellect.
Woman is still regarded by public opinion all
the world over as a psychological plant of tender
growth which needs to be protected from the
ruder blasts of social life in the conservatories
of civilization. And, from what has been said
in the earlier part of this paper, it will be apparent
that in this practical judgement I believe public
opinion to be right. I am, of course, aware that
there is a small section of the public — composed
for the most part of persons who are not acci tomed
to the philosophical analysis of facts — which argues
that the conspicuous absence of women in the
field of intellectual work is due to the artificial
restraints imposed upon them by all the traditional
forms of education ; that if we could suddenly
make a leap of progress in this respect, and allow

1'^

fh^f*- a^Hfr-ftMiUlwftMk^'o*.

':. ■ I

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i'i

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136

Mental Differences

women everywhere to compete on fair and equal
terms with men, then, under these altered cir-
cumstances of social life, women would prove
themselves the intellectual compeers of men.
But the answer to this argument is almost pain-
fully obvious. Although it is usually a matter
of much difficulty to distinguish between nature
and nurture, or between the results of inborn
faculty and those of acquired knowledge, in
the present instance no such difficulty obtains.
Without again recurring to the anatomical and
physiological considerations which bar a priori
any argument for the natural equality of the
sexes, and without remarking that the human
female would but illustrate her own deficiency
of rational development by supposing that any
exception to the general laws of evolution can
have been made in her favour — without dwelling
on any such antecedent considerations, it is
enough to repeat that in many departments of
intellectual work the field has been open, and
equally open, to both sexes. If to this it is
answered that the traditional usages of education
lead to a higher average of culture among men,
thus furnishing them with a better vantage-ground
for the origin of individual genius, we have only
to add that the strong passion of genius is not
to be restrained by any such minor accidents
of environment. Women, by tens of thousands,
have enjoyed better educational as well as better
social advantages than a Burns, a Keats, or a

' II

-?***.

'.Ak,^*-:- L'.t^l^.^KicMuf^

between Men and Women. 137

Faraday; and yet we have neither heard their
voices nor seen their work. If, again, to this
it be rejoined that the female mind has been
unjustly dealt with in the past, and cannot now
be expected all at once to throw off the accumu-
lated disabilities of ages — that the long course
of shameful neglect to which the selfishness of
man has subjected the culture of woman has
necessarily left its mark upon the hereditary
constitution of her mind — if this consideration be
adduced, it obviously does not tend to prove
the equality of the sexes : it m jrely accentuates
the fact of inequality by indicating one of its
causes. The treatment of women in the past
may have been very wrong, very sh?meful, and
very much to be regretted by the present advo-
cates of women's rights ; but proof of the ethical
quality of this fact does not get rid of the fact
itself any more than a proof of the criminal
nature of assassination can avail to restore to
life a murdered man. We must look the facts
in the face. How long it may take the woman
of the future to recover the ground which has
been lost in the ps}'chological race by the woman
of the past it is impossible to say ; but we may
predict with confidence that, even under the most
favourable conditions as to culture, and even sup-
posing the mind of man to remain stationary (and
not, as is probable, to advance with a speed
relatively accelerated by the momentum of its
already acquired velocity), it must take many

S^-

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138

Mental Differences

1 \\

I Hi'

centuries for heredity to produce the missing five
ounces of the female brain.

In conclusion, a few words may be added on
the question of female education as this actually
stands at the present time. Among all the
features of progress which will cause the present
century to be regarded by posterity as beyond
comparison the most remarkable epoch in the
history of our race, I believe that the inauguration
of the so-called woman's movement in our own
generation will be considered one of the most
important. For I am persuaded that this move-
ment is destined to grow ; that with its growth
the highest attributes of one half of the human
race are destined to be widely influenced ; that
this influence will profoundly react lipon the other
half, not alone in the nursery and the drawing-
room, but rdso in the study, the academy, the
forum, and the senate ; that this lutest yet in-
evitable wave of mental evolution cannot be stayed
until it has chr nged the whole aspect of civilization.
In an essay already alluded to, Sydney Smith has
emarked, though not quite correctly, that up to his
time there had been no woman who had produced
a single notable work, either of reason or imagina-
tion, whether in English, French, German, or
Italian literature, A few weeks ago Mrs. Fawcett
was able to show us that since then there have
been at least forty women who have left a per-
manent mark in English literature alone. Now,
this fact becomes one of great significance when

JSL

between Men and Women,

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we remember that it is the result of but the t irlu st
phase of the woman's movement. For, as already
indicated, this movement is now plainly of the
nature of a ferment. When I was at Cambridge,
the then newly- established foundations of Girton
and Newnham were to nearly all of us matters
of amusement. But we have lived to alter our
views, for we have lived to see how that was
but the beginning of a great social change, which
has since spread, and is still spreading, at so
extraordinary a rate that we are now within
measurable distance of the time when no English
lady will be found to have escaped its influence.
It is not merely that women's colleges are springing
up like mushrooms in all quarters of the kingdom,
or that the old type of young ladies' governess
is being rapidly starved out of existence. It is of
much more importance even than this that the
immense reform in girls' education which has been
so recently introduced by the Day Schools Com-
pany working in conjunction with the University
Board and local examinations has already shaken
to its base the whole system and even the whole
ideal of female education, so that there is scarcely
a private school in the country which has not been
more or less affected by the cha'igc. In a word,
whether we like it or not, the woman's move-
ment is upon us ; and what we have now to do
is to guide the flood into what seem likely to
prove the most beneficial channels. What are these
channels ?

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Mental Differences

Of all the pricks against which it is hard
to kick, the hardest are those which are presented
by Nature in the form of facts. Therefore we
may begin by wholly disregarding those short-
sighted enthusiasts who seek to overcome the
natural and fundamental distinction of sex. No
amount of female education can ever do this,
nor is it desirable that it should. On this point
I need not repeat wl^it is now so often and so
truly said, as to woman being the complement,
not the rival, of man. But I should like to make
one remark of another kind. The idea underlying
the utterances of all these enthusiasts seems to
be that the qualities wherein the male mind
excels that of the female are sui generis the
most exalted of human faculties : these good
ladies fret and fume in a kind of jealousy that the
minds, like the bodies, of men are stronger than
those of worr.cn. Now, is not this a radically
mistaken view? Mere strength, as I have already
endeavoured to insinuate, is not the highest
criterion of nobility. Human nature is a very
complex thing, and, among the many ingredients
which go to make the greatness of it, even in-
tellectual power is but one, and not by any
means the chief The truest grandeur of this
nature is revealed by that nature as a whole, and
here I think there can be no doulst that the
feminine type is fully equal to the masculine,
if indeed it be not superior. For I believe that,
if each one of us goes back in his memory to

between Men and Women. 141

seek for the highest experience he has had
in this respect, the character which will stand
out as all in all the greatest he has ever known
will be the character of a woman. Or, if any
of us have not been fortunate in this matter,
where in fiction or in real life can we find a more
glorious exhibition of all that is best — the mingled
strength and beauty, tact, gaiety, devotion, wit, and
oon^mmate ability — where but in a woman can
we find anything at once so tender, so noble,
so lovable, and so altogether splendid as in the
completely natural character of a Portia ? A mere
blue-stocking who looks with envy on the in-
tellectual gifts of a Voltaire, while shutting her
eyes to the gifts of a sister such as this, is simply
unworthy of having such a sister : she is incapable
of distinguishing the pearl of great price among ihe
sundry other jewels of our comi a humanity.

Now, the suspicion, not to .say thr active hostility,
with which the so-called woman's niuvr ;icnt has
been met in many quarters springs from i not
unhealthy ground of public opinion. For there
can be no real doubt that these things are but
an expression of the value which that feelini,,
attaches to all which is held distinctive of feminine
character as it stands. Woman, as she has been
bequeathed to us by the many and complex
influences of the past, is recognized as too precious
an inheritance lightly to be tampered with, and
the dread lest any change in the conditions which
have given us so beautiful a product should lead,

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Mental Differences

as it were, to desecration, is in itself both wise and
worthy. In this feeling we have the true safeguard
of womanhood ; and we can hope for nothing better
than that the deep, strong v'oice of social opinion will
always be raised against any innovations of culture
which may tend to spoil the sweetest efflorescence
of evolution.

But, while we may hope that social opinion
may ever continue opposed to the woman's
movement in its most extravagant forms — or
to those forms which endeavour to set up an
unnatural, and therefore an impossible, rivalry
with men in the struggles of practical life — we
may also hope that social opinion will soon
become unanimous in its encouragement of the
higher education of women. Of the distinctively
feminine qualities of mind which are admired as
such by all, ignorance is certainly not one. There-
fore learning, as learning, can never tend to
deteriorate those qualities. On the contrary, it
can only tend to refine the already refined,
to beautify the already beautiful — when our
daughters shall be as corner-stones, polished after
the similitude of a palace ; it can only tend the
better to equip a wife as the helpmeet of her
husband, and, by furthering a community of tastes,
to weave another bond in the companionship of
life ; it can only tend the better to prepare a
mother for the greatest of her duties — forming
the tastes and guiding the minds 01 her children
at a time of life when these arc most pliable,

between Men and Women. 143

and under circumstances of influence such as can
never again be reproduced.

It is nearly eighty years ago since this view
of the matter was thus presented by Sydney
Smith : —

If you educate women to attend to dignified
and important subjects, you are multiplying beyond
measure the chances of human improvement by
preparing and medicating those early impressions
which always come from the mother, and which,
in the majority of instances, are quite decisive of
genius. The instruction of women improves the
stock of national talents, and employs more minds
for the instruction and improvement of the world :
it increases the pleasures of society by multiplying
the topics upon which the two sexes take a common
interest, and makes marriage an intercourse of
understanding as well as of affection. The educa-
tion of women favours public morals ; it provides
for every season of life, and leaves a woman when
she is stricken by the hand of time, not as she now
is, destitute of everything and neglected by all, but
with the full power and the splendid attractions of
knowledge — diffusing the elegance of polite litera-
ture and receiving the homage of learned and
accomplished men.

Since the days when this was written the experi-
ment of thus educating women to attend to
dignified and important subjects has been tried
on a scale of rapidly increasing magnitude, and
the result has been to show that those appre-
hensions of public opinion were groundless which
supposed that the effect of higher education upon

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Mental Differences

women would be to deteriorate the highest qualities
of womanhood. On this point I think it is sufficient
to quote the opinion of a lady who has watched
the whole course of this experiment, and who is
so well qualified to give an opinion that it would
be foolish presumption in any one else to dispute
what she has to say. The lady to whom I refer
is Mrs. Sidgwick, and this is what she says : —

The students that I have known have shown
no inclination to adopt masculine sentiments or
habits in any unnecessary or unseemly degree ;
they are disposed to imitate the methods of life
and work of industrious undergraduates just as
far as these appear to be means approved by
experience to the end which both sets of students
have in common, and nothing that I have seen
of them, either at the University or afterwards,
has tended in the smallest degree to support the
view that the adaptation of women to domestic
life is so artificial and conventional a thing that
a few years of free unhampered study and varied
companionship at the University have a tendency to
impair it.

So far as I am aware, only one other argument
has been, or can be, adduced on the opposite side.
This argument is that the physique of young
women as a class is not sufficiently robust to
stand the strain of severe study, and therefore
that many are likely to impair their health more
or less seriously under the protracted effort and
acute excitement which are necessarily incidental
to our system of school and university examinations.

between Men and Women. 145

Now, I may begin by remarking that with this
argument I am in the fullest possible sympathy.
Indeed, so much is this the case th^w \ have
taken the trouble to collect evidence from young
girls of my own acquaintance who are now
studying at various high schools with a view to
subsequently competing for first classes in the
Cambridge triposes. What I have found is that
in some of the high schools — carefully observe,
only in some — absolutely no check is put upon
the ambition of young girls to distinguish them-
selves and to bring credit upon their establishments.
The consequence is that in these schools the
more promising pupils habitually undertake an
amount of intellectual work which it is sheer
madness to attempt. A single quotation from
one of my correspondents — whom I have known
from a child — will be enough to prove this
statement.

I never begin work later than six o'clock, and
never work less than ten or eleven hours a day.
But within a fortnight or so of my examinations
I work fifteen or sixteen hours. Most girls, how-
ever, stop at fourteen or fifteen hours, but some of
them go on to eighteen hours. Of course, according
to the school time-tables, none of us should work
more than eight hours ; but it is quite impossible
for any one to get through the work in that time.
For instance, in the time-tables ten minutes is
put down for botany, whereas it takes the quickest
girl an hour and a half to answer the questions set
by the school lecturer.

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Mental Differences

These facts speak for themselves, and therefore
I will only add that in many of those high schools
for girls which are situated in large towns no
adequate provision is made for bodily exercise, and
this, of course, greatly aggravates the danger of
over-work. In such a school there is probably
no playground ; the gymnasium, if there is one,
is not attended by any of the harder students ;
drill is never thought of, and the only walking
exercise is to and from the school. Let it not
be supposed that I am attacking the high school
system. On the contrary, I believe that this
system represents the greatest single reform that
has ever been made in the way of education.
I am only pointing out certain grave abuses of the
system which are to be met with in some of these
schools, and against which I should like to see the
full force of public opinion directed. There is
no public school in the kingdom where a boy
of sixteen would be permitted to work from eleven
to eighteen hours a day, with no other exercise
than a few minutes' walk. Is it not, then, simply
monstrous that a girl should be allowed to do
so ? I must confess that I have met with wonder-
fully few cases of serious breakdown. All my
informants tell me that, even under the operation
of so insane an abuse as I have quoted, grave
impairment of health but rarely occurs. This,
however, only goes to show of what good stuff our
English girls are made; and therefore may be
taken to furnish about the strongest answer I can

between Men and Women. 147

give to the argument which I am considering —
viz. that the strength of an average English girl
is not to be trusted for sustaining any reasonable
amount of intellectual work. Upon this point,
however, there is at the present time a conflict
of medical authority, and, as I have no space
to give a number of quotations, it must suffice
to make a few general remarks.

In the first place, the question is one of fact,
and must, therefore, be answered by the results
of the large and numerous experiments which are
now in progress, not by any a priori reasoning
of a physiological kind. In the next place, even as
thus limited, the inquiry must take account of the
wisdom or unwisdom with which female education
is pursued in the particular cases investigated. As
already remarked, I have been myself astonished
to find so great an amount of prolonged endurance
exhibited by young girls who are allowed to
work at unreasonable pressure ; but, all the same,
I should of course regard statistics drawn from such
cases as manifestly unfair. And, seeing that every
case of health impaired is another occasion given
to the enemies of female education, those who
have the interests of such education at heart should
before all things see to it that the teaching of girls
be conducted with the most scrupulous precautions
against over-pressure. Regarded merely as a
matter of policy, it is at the present moment of far
more importance that girls should not be over-
strained than that they should prove themselves

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Mental Differences

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equal to young men in the class lists. For my
own part, I believe that, with reasonable pre-
cautions against over-pressure, and with due pro-
vision for bodily exercise, the higher education
of women would ipso facto silence the voice of
medical opposition. But I am equally persuaded
that this can never be the case until it becomes
a matter of general recognition among those to
whom such education is entrusted that no girl
should ever be allowed to work more than eight
hours a day as a maximum — though even this will
in a large proportional number of cases be found to
prove excessive ; that without abundant exercise
higher education should never be attempted ;
and that, as a girl is more liable than a boy to
insidiously undermine her constitution, every girl
who aspires to any distinction in the way of
learning should be warned to be constantly on the
watch for the earliest symptoms of impairment. If
these reasonable precautions were to become as
universal in the observance as they now are in the
breach, I believe it would soon stand upon the
unquestionable evidence of experimental proof
that there is no reason in the nature of things
why women should not admit of culture as wide
and deep and solid as our schools and universities
are able to provide.

The channels, therefore, into which I should like
to see the higher education of women directed are
not those which run straight athwart the mental
differences between men and women which we

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between Men and Women. 149

have been considering. These differences are all
complementary to one another, fitly and beautifully
joined together in the social organism. If we
attempt to disregard them, or try artificially to
make of woman an unnatural copy of man, we
are certain to fail, and to turn out as our result
a sorry and disappointed creature who is neither
the one thing nor the other. But if. without
expecting women as a class to enter into any
professional or otherwise foolish rivalry with men,
for which as a class they are neither physically nor
mentally fitted, and if, as Mrs. Lynn Linton remarks,
we do not make the mistake of confusing mental
development with intellectual specialization — if,
without doing either of these things, we encourage
women in every way to obtain for themselves the
intrinsic advantages of learning, it is as certain
as anything can well be that posterity will bless us
for our pains. For then all may equally enjoy the
privilege of a real acquaintance with letters ; ladie.s
need no longer be shut out from a solid under-
standing of music or painting ; and lecturers on
science will no longer be asked at the close of
their lectures whether the cerebellum is inside
or outside of the skull, how is it that astronomers
have been able to find out the names of the stars,
or whether one does not think that his diagram
of a jelly-fish serves with admirable fidelity to
illustrate the movements of the solar system.
These, of course, I quote as extreme cases, and
even as displaying the prettiness which belongs to

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Mental Differences

a child-like simplicity. But simplicity of this kind
ought to be put away with other childish things ;
and, in whatever measure it is allowed to continue
after childhood is over, the human being has failed
to grasp the full privileges of human life. There-
fore, in my opinion the days are past when any
enlightened man ought seriously to suppose that in
now again reaching forth her hand to eat of the
tree of knowledge woman is preparing for the
human race a second fall. In the person of her
admirable representative, Mrs. Fawcett, she thus
pleads : ' No one of those who care most for the
woman's movement cares one jot to prove or to
maintain that men's brains and women's brains are
exactly alike or exactly equal. All we ask is that
the social and legal status of women should be such
as to foster, not to suppress, any gift for art, litera-
ture, learning, or goodness with which women may
be endowed.' Then, I say, give her the apple, and
see what comes of it. Unless I am greatly mis-
taken, the result will be that which is so philo-
sophically as well as so poetically portrayed by
the Laureate : —

The woman's cause is man's : they rise or sink
Together, dwarf'd or god-like, bond or free.

Then let her make herself her own
To give or keep, to live and learn to be
All that not harms distinctive womanhood,
For woman is not undevelopt man,
But diverse : could we make her as the man,
Sweet Love were slain : his dearest bond is this,
Not like to like, but like in difference.

between Men and Women. 151

Yet in the long yean liker must they grow;

The man be more of woman, she of man ;

He gain in sweetness and in moral height,

Nor lose the wrestling thews that throw the world;

Sne mental breadth, nor fail in childward care,

Nor lose the child-like in the larger mind;

Till at the last she set herself to man,

Like perfect music unto noble words.

Then comes the statelier Eden back to men :
Then reign the world's great bridals, chaste and calm :
Then springs the crowning race of human kind.
May such things be !

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VII.

WHAT IS THE OBJECT OF LIFE?

Several years ago Mr. Mallock raised the ques-
tion ' Is life worth living ? ' A warm discussion
followed ; but, so far as I am aware, none of those
who took part in the debate appeared to notice
that any answer to this question must necessarily
presuppose some agreement upon the previous-
question which forms the title of this article. No
doubt Mr. Mallock, and all who followed in the
debate which he opened, took it for granted that
the object of life is the attainment of happiness,
and, therefore, that whether or not life is worth
living must depend for each individual on the state
of the balance between his pleasures and his
pains. But this implied answer to the previous
question is open to two objections. In the first
place it is too va^jUe, and in the next place it is
of doubtful truth. It is too vague inasmuch as
it disregards the ethical question touching the
quality of pleasures and pains in respect of what
the intuitionists call ' higher ' and ' lower.' The
term 'happiness' thus becomes but a short-hand
mode of expressing a desirable state of existence ;
and, therefore, to say that life is or is not worth

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What is the Object of Life ? 153

living according as happiness preponderates or does
not preponderate over unhappiness becomes but a
barren truism ; life is worth living if it is desirable to
live ; it is worth living if it is worth living. Under
this point of view, therefore, it seems that the real
question raised by Mr. Malli>ck was whether, upon
the whole, desirable states of existence preponderate
over undesirable, so far as the individual conscious-
ness is concerned. The question thus becomes a
question of fact which each man can determine only
for himself; and, forasmuch as we find all degrees
of idiosyncrasy between the extremes of optimism
and pessimism, it is obvious that no general answer,
applicable to all mankind, can be given. Again,
in the second place, besides being too vague, the
implied answer before Ui> is of doubtful truth. For
it appears to assume that the question to which it
is an answer is not concerned with anything beyond
the limits of the individual consciousness. Yet this
is clearly not the case. For the question is not, Is
my life worth living to me ? This would be a com-
paratively simple question, being, as I have said, but
a question of fact, which each individual may be
presumed to be capable of judging by an immediate
appeal to his own feelings ; but the question is as to
whether or Uv.*- the whole sum of human life is worth
living. And, forasmuch as eaci individual life reacts
on many other individual lives in respect of causing
them happiness or the revers*^,, there arises this
further question for each individual mind: Quite
irrespectively of my own states of feeling, is my life

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154 What is the Object of Life?

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worth living for the sake of the happiness which it
may help to shed on others ? Now, these two ques-
tions are obviously quite distinct : the question, Is
life worth living? may admit of one answer in
terms of egoism, and of precisely the opposite
answer in terms of altruism. For which reason
I say that any answer to this question must be of
doubtful truth which only takes into account the
state of balance between pleasures and pains on
the part of the individual who is answering.

Clearly, then, in order to answer this question we
must have obtained some more definite answer to
the previous question (What is the object of life ?)
than is derived by saying, The attainment of happi-
ness for myself. So long as man remains human he
will have a moral sense, and, therefore, even if any
man were to endeavour on princ* le to achieve
his own happiness without regard to the happi-
ness of others, he would carry that in his own
nature which must necessarily defeat his own
object; in shutting out all consideration for the
happiness of others he would be most effectually
closing the door to happiness against himself Hence
the question, Is life worth living ? presupposes some
answer to the question, What is the object of life ?
And this answer cannot be given on a basis of
egoism alone, or by saying that the object of life is
the attainment of maximum happiness for self In
order to give a full answer to the question there must
be included the element of altruism ; one must say
that the object of life is the attainment of maximum

What is the Object of Life? 155

happiness, but whether for myself or for others I
ought not to wait to consider. Very often, indeed
usually, the attainment of another's happiness will
best ensure the attainment of my own ; but, even
where this is not the case, my aim should be the
attainment of the greatest sum of happiness, be it my
own or that of my neighbour. From which it follows
that the object of life is that of making life desir-
able, first to myself, and next to those around me.

So far it is scarcely to be expected that any differ-
ences of opinion will arise. But, when we pass from
this bare enunciation of the object of life, stated in
its most general terms, to the practical question of
how this object is to be attained, we arrive at the
branching place of many ways of thought. The
Christian who counts the loss of all earthly plea-
sures but as dung so that he may win Christ must
necessarily shape his conduct on totally different
lines from the agnostic, even though both be con-
scientiously aiming at the same object of life. The
Shorter Catechism defines the ' chief end of man '
(i. e. the object of life) as that of glorifying God and
enjoying him for ever ; in somewhat longer phraseo-
logy the English Church Catechism conveys a
similar doctrine, and both sum up the ' whole duty
of man ' as duty first to God, and next to neighbour.
And similarly with all other systems of religious
belief, however widely they may differ in their teach-
ings as to what exactly these respective duties are.
Now in all these systems of doctrine the implied
basis is the same ; and it is nothing other than that

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What is the Object of Life?

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which has been furnished by ethical thought in the
well-worn phrase 'the greatest happiness of the
greatest number.' The reason why it is the chief
end of man to glorify God is because, according to
Christian belief, this is the happiest thing for him
to do ; ' it is good for us to be here,' so that we may
' enjoy God for ever.' Hence the altruistic desire of
all Christians that others should be as they are —
partakers of the highest joy of which a creature is
capable. And, obviously, the only reason why
infidelity does not join in missionary effort is that
infidelity supposes this land of joy to be delusive.
But the object of infidelity is the same as that of
religious faith, namely, to bring the human mind
into such harmony with what is believed to be its
true environment as will in the long run prove most
conducive to its wellbeing or happiness. The differ-
ence between the Christian and the infidel is, there-
fore, not a difference of aim, but merely a difference
in what they severally believe to constitute the
truest welfare of the race. And so, of course, with
regard to other systems of religion, different systems
of philosophy, grades of civilization, and so forth.
Now, my purpose in taking part in this discussion
is that of furnishing a general answer to this ques-
tion of method, or means, of attaining the common
object of life, and one which it appears to me all
enlightened men, of whatever creed or country,
ought to agree in accepting. Any such general
agreement can only be secured on a basis of observ-
able fact. I, therefore, propose to take the human

What is the Object of Life ? 157

mind as we find it, and to ascertain by a mere
observation of its constitution how it best admits of
being brought into harmony with its environment,
or, in other words, how it best admits of being
brought to find joy in its own existence.

Taking, then, the human mind as it is, I cannot
conceive the possibility of any one disputing the
fact that the deepest and the strongest of its
feelings — those with which its capacities of happi-
ness and of misery are most intimately involved —
are the feelings ti^hich belong to the order of what
we call love. No doubt in many individual cases
other emotions, such as ambition, avarice, &c.,
are stronger and deeper still ; but as a rule of very
wide generality, alike in men, women, and chil-
dren, the ties of mutual affection are by far the most
important constituents of the psychological fabric.
Moreover, they are by far the most productive of
happiness. This must be acknowledged by every
one ; so that, even though a man should feel con-
scious of spiritual poverty in this respect, it is im-
possible for him not to know that it is a kind of
poverty which can never be recompensed by any of
the world's goods, as wealth, fame, &c. Hence, all
systems of religion and of morality that pretend to
any degree of culture are built upon this foundation-
stone of love. It makes no difference to our present
discussion whether this supreme dominion of love
in the constitution of mind has been due to the
intentional design of a God of love or to the prin-
ciples of evolution having constantly set the highest

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158 IVkat t's the Object of Life?

premium on a quality of mind so useful to a social
animal. It is enough for us that, as matters actually
stand, love is both the strongest of our emotions
and the one which is most productive of happiness.
Hence, unless it be denied that the object of life is
that of promoting happiness, it must be conceded
that the chief object of life is that of promoting
love, both in ourselves and in others ; which, of
course, is no more than a restatement of the ' golden
rule,' to love one's neighbours as oneself.

But although we may all agree that this is the
chief object, of life, or, apart from any matters of
religious belief, ' the chief end of man,' it obviously
does not comprise the whole object of life, seeing
that the promoting of love does not by any means
exhaust the possibilities of promoting happiness,
either in ourselves or in others. What, then, are
the other principles, besides that of promoting love,
which remain to be mentioned, and which are also
of a sufficiently general nature to claim universal
assent ? So far as I can see, they are only two in
number. One of them is the duty of ministering
to the wants of the body ; the other is the duty of
ministering to the wants of the mind.

Touching the first of these two duties it is not
needful to say much. Every citizen recognizes the
obligation of seeing that his neighbour does not
want for food and clothing ; every husband and
father knows that his wife and children have a
natural right to look to him for protection from
cold and hunger. And, in the last resort, it is

What is the Object of Life? 159

a general recognition of these things which lies at
the root of all the social industry which goes by
the name of labour, trade, and commerce. For,
although a merchant-prince never requires to con-
template the possibility of starvation in his own
household, his work is primarily directed to the
attainment of benefits of the material order, and
thus he is still, though doubtless in a greatly
extended sense, the ' bread-winner ' of his family.
In other words, qua merchant-prince, he is working
for the forms of happiness which arise from luxuries
of sense ; not for those which arise from cultivation
of mind. Now, it is the common conviction of
almost every one who has had experience of both
these forms of happiness that the Hedonistic value
of the latter is greatly inferior to that of the former ;
in other words, that the pleasures which are called
intellectual are much more productive of happiness
than those which are called sensuous. But, if this
is so, it clearly follows that the attainment of
intellectual culture must be regarded as a higher
object of life than the attainment of sensuous
gratification, in however refined a form. No doubt,
in its higher levels, such gratification demands
intellectual culture as a needful condition, the fine
arts in all their branches growing from the root
of sensuous perception. But this needful over-
lapping of the pleasures of sense and the pleasures
of intellect in the higher levels of the former does
not obscure the difference between them elsewhere.
Such overlapping arises only from the fact that

i I

i6o What is the Object of Life?

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intellect is obliged to work with the tools of sense,
and the distinction consists in these tools being
here the means of working, and not themselves the
ends for which we work.

Now, if it is true that next only to what may be
termed the emotional happiness of love there
stands the intellectual happiness of thought, it
appears to me that the two great objects of life
are to love and to think. And it further appears
to me that in this verdict men of all schools ought
to agree. Whether the relations that obtain
between man and his environment be supposed
due to a mechanical process of adaptation alone,
or likewise and ultimately to a disposing mind, it
must be equally true that the object of his life is
that of living his life in accordance with its ' design,'
no matter whether this word be used in a literal or
in a metaphorical sense. For in this way, and in
this way only, can he hope to secure that fullest
harmony with his environment upon which he
knows that his happiness must depend. Or, other-
wise stated, if we turn the question. What is the
object of life ? into any of its equivalents, such as.
Why are we here ? What do we live for ? How
should we act? the answer must always be, In
order to work as we seem designed to work. And,
if the final end of our working be taken to consist
in the production of happiness, we find, as a matter
of fact, that the machinery of the Ego is so consti-
tuted that it can only work to this end when actuated
by the motive principles of love and thought.

] r

IVkat ts the Object of Life? i6i

To this it will at once be replied that much has
to be said per contra. For it is evident that in the
very measure of our love is poured out to us the
bitterness of death, while the greater our capacity
of thought the more dismal is the void of mystery.
Therefore it may be said that the more we are
victimized by the allurements of love the greater is
the misery that is in store for us ; and the more we
increase our knowledge the more do we increase
our sorrow. This, in effect, is the reasoning of
pessimism, so far as pessimism has ever appeared
to me rational. And the only answer I know to
this reasoning is that both love and thought are, so
to speak, sanctified by the very solemnity of their
limitations. Moreover, as a matter of fact, explain
it how we may, there is no one who has both loved
and thought who would willingly have forgone
the experience. Although he well knows the double
pang so necessarily attendant on these, the noblest
functions of his being, no consideration could induce
him to desire an exchange of what he feels to be
the higher life of a man for anything that he would
recognize as approximating to the lower life of
a brute. It is

' Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all ' ;

and, to take cognizance of the human complement
of thought — strangely doomed though we may fear
it to be to an infinite disappointment— must we
not still add, It is better to have lived and died
than never to have lived at all ?

III

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162 IVkat ts the Object of Life?

Following Tennyson, I have said that no one
who has lived the higher life, whether of love or of
thought, could possibly desire to exchange it for
a lower one ; and this seems the best possible
answer to the reasonings of the pessimist, seeing
that it is an answer directly yielded by subjective
consciousness to itself. But I have also said that
the practical question, What do we live for? admits
of being still further tested by observing for what
it is that we seem to be designed, whether the latter
term be used in its literal sense or as implying the
outcome of a mechanical evolution ; for, in either
case, happiness must be be attainable by our
best conforming to those conditions of existence
for agreement with which we have been brought
into life. Now, if we look upon the matter in this
its objective aspect, we obtain substantially the
same answer to our question. For, without dispute,
the faculties most distinctive of man are those of
love and thought. No doubt the lower animals
present both these faculties in germ ; but the love
and thought which they manifest give rise to only
the feeblest gleams of ?.Hruism on the one hand
and of wonder on the other. It is only man who
can be defined as either a moral animal or a
wondering animal. And in respect of both these
faculties his development is so great that, were it
not for what we now believe to have been the
history of this evolution, we should be justified in
endorsing the opinion of all previous generations,
and holding that they are the initial or most funda-

What IS the Object of Life? 163

mental faculties of his being. And even upon the
theory of evolution we are justified in assigning to
them an almost basal position in the fabric of our
mind, seeing that they both occur with such con-
spicuous prominence in early childhood. But, if it
is thus true that love and thought— conscience and
wonder — are the faculties most distinctive of man,
it appears to me that we have an objective verifi-
cation of the conclusion previously reached by
subjective analysis, viz. that the object of our
human life must be that of exercising these our
distinctively human faculties ; and that, the better
each one of us can succeed in doing this, the more
fully is he living the life which is most distinctively
the life of a man.

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VIII.

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RECREATION^.

Ladies and Gentlemen, — When your Council
honoured me with an invitation to deliver a lecture
before you, I experienced some difficulty in choosing
a subject appropriate to the circumstances under
which I was requested to address you. For I was
led to anticipate, not merely that my audience
should be a highly cultured one, but also that it
would expect from me a discourse the subject of
which should be confined within certain somewhat
narrow limits. That is to say, I was led to under-
stand that the subject of my discourse should be of
a physiological nature ; that it should have special
reference to the admirable objects which it is the
aim of your society to promote ; and that it should
be, to a large extent, of a practical as distinguished
from a theoretical character. Such being the con-
ditions by which the choice of my subject was
restricted, I felt that I could select no topic more
suitable to the occasion than the one I have selected

* Expanded from notes of a Lecture delivered before the National
Health Society, on April lo, 1879.

Hll

Recreation.

165

— namely, Recreation. In all places of the civilized
world, and in all classes of the civilized community,
the struggle for existence is now more keen than
ever it has been during the history of our race.
Everywhere men and women and children are
living at a pressure positively frightful to contem-
plate. Amid the swarming bustle of our smoke-
smothered towns surrounded by their zone of
poisoned trees, amid the whirling roar of machinery,
the scorching blast of furnaces, and in the tallow-
lighted blackness of our mines — everywhere, over
all the length and breadth of this teeming land,
men and women and children, in no metaphor,
but in cruel truth, are struggling for life. Even
our smiling landscapes support as the sons of their
soil a new generation, to whom the freedom of glad-
ness is a tradition of the past, and on whose bro.vs
is stamped, not only the print of honest work, but
a new and saddening mark — the brand of sickening
care. Or if we look to our universities and schools,
to our professional men and men of business, we
see this same fierce battle rage — ruined health and
shattered hopes, tearful lives and early deaths being
everywhere the bitter lot of millions on millions
who toil, and strive, and love, and bleed their
young hearts' blood in sorrow. In such a world
and at such a time, when more truly than ever it
may be said that the whole creation groans in pain
and travail, I do not know that for the purposes of
health and happiness there is any subject which it
is more desirable that persons of all classes should

I.:'

i66

Recreation.

understand than the philosophical theory and the
rational practice of recreation. P'or recreation is
the great relief from the pressure of life — the
breathing space in the daily struggle for existence,
without which no one of the combatants could long
survive ; and therefore it becomes of the first im-
portance that the science and the philosophy of
such relief should be generally known. No doubt
it is true that people will always be compelled to
take recreation and to profit by its use, whether or
not they are acquainted with its science and its
philosophy ; but there can be equally little doubt
that here, as elsewhere, an intelligent understanding
of abstract principles as well as of practical applica-
tions will ensure more use and less abuse of the thing
which is thus intelligently understood.

With a view, then, of obtaining some such in-
telligent understanding of recreation, let us begin
by clearly understanding what recreation means.
First of all, the mere word, like many of our other
English words that signify abstractions, condenses
much philosophy within itself. For, as 'creation'
means a forming, ' re-creation ' means a forming
anew ; and as in etymological derivation so in
actual truth re-creation is nothing other than a
re-novation of the vital energies ; leisure time and
appropriate employment serve to repair the organic
machinery which has been impaired by the excess
of work. The literal meaning of the word is there-
fore in itself instructive, as showing that what our
forefathers saw in recreation was not so much play,

Recreation.

167

pastime, or pleasantry, as that of the restoration of
enfeebled powers of work. And I do not know
that within the limits of one word they could have
left us a legacy of thought more true in itself or
mere solemn in its admonition. Recreation is, or
ought to be, not a pastime entered upon for the
sake of the pleasure which it affords, but an act of
duty undertaken for the sake of the subsequent
power which it generates, and the subsequent profit
which it ensures. Therefore, expanding the philo-
sophy which is thus condensed in our English word,
we may define recreation as that which with the
least expenditure of time renders the exhausted
energies most fitted to resume their work, Such
is my definition of recreation ; yet I know that
many things are called by this name which cannot
possibly fall within this definition, and I doubt
whether nine persons out of ten ever dreamed,
either of attaching such a meaning to the word,
or of applying such a principle to the thing.
Nevertheless I also know that, in whatever degree
so-called recreation fails to be covered by my
definition, in that degree does it fail, properly
speaking, to be recreation at all. It may be
amusement, fun, or even profitable employment ;
but it is not that particular thing which it is the
object of this lecture to consider. Therefore, the
definition which I have laid down may be taken
as a practical test of recreation as genuine or
spurious. If recreation is of a kind that renders
a man less fitted for work than would some other

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Recreation.

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kind of occupation, or if it consumes more time
than would some other kind of occupation which
would secure an equal amount of recuperation,
then, in whatever degree this is so, in that degree
must the quality of such recreation be pronounced
impure.

So much, then, for the meaning of recreation.
The next point that I shall consider is the physio-
logy of recreation. It may have struck some of
you as a somewhat curious questionj why some
actions or pursuits should present what I may call
a recreative character, and others not. For it i-;
evident that this character is by no means deter-
mined by the relief from labour which these actions
or pursuits secure. A week on the moors involves
more genuine hard work than does a week in the
mines, and a game of chess may require as nmch
effort of thought as a problem in higli mathematics.
Moreover, the same action or pursuit may vary in
its recreative quality with different individuals.
Rowing, which is the favourite recreation of the
undergraduate, is serious work to the bargeman ;
and you will never find a gardener to resemble
his master in showing a partiality to digging for
digging's sake. If you answer that it is the need
of bodily exercise which renders muscular activity
beneficial to the one class and not to the other,
I answer, no doubt it is so partly, but not wholly ;
for why is it that a man of science should find
recreation in reading history, while an historian
finds recreation in the pursuit of science? or

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Recreation.

169

why is it that a London tradesman should find
a holiday in the country beneficial, while a country
tradesman finds a holiday in London no less so ?
The truth seems to me to be that the only prin-
ciple which will serve to explain the recreative
quality in all cases is what I may call the pli}-
siological necessity for frequent change of organic
activity, and the consequent physiological value
of variety in the kinds and seasons of such
activity. In order to render this principle per-
fectly clear, it will be necessary for me verj'
briefly to explain the physiology of nutrition.

When food is taken into the body it undergoes
a variety of processes which are collectively called
digestion and assimilation. Into the details of these
processes I need not enter, it being enough for my
present purposes to say that the total result of
these processes is to strain ofl" the nutritious con-
stituents of the food, and pour them into the
current of the blood. The blood circulates through
nearly all the tissues of the body, being contained
in a closed system of tubes. This system of tubes
springs from the heart in the form of large hollow
trunks which ramify into smaller and smaller tube-
branches. These are all called arteries. The smaller
arteries again ramify into a continuous mcshwork
of so-called capillaries. Capillaries are also closed
tubes, but differ from arteries in being immensely
more numerous, more slender, and more tenuous
in their walls. These capillaries pervade the body
in such an intimate mcshwork that you cannot run

'II

170

Recreation.

'!'KI)

'V t

a needle's point into any part of the body where
they occur without destroying the integrity of some
of them, and so causing an outflow of blood.

As these capillaries ramify from the arteries, so
do they again coalesce into larger tubes, and these
into larger, and so on, until all this system of return
tubing ends again in the heart in the form of large
hollow trunks. The tubes composing this system
of return tubing are called the veins ; thus the
whole blood-vascular system may be likened to
two trees which are throughout joined together by
their leaves, and also by activity at the bottoms of
their trunks — the heart. The branches of both trees
being everywhere hollow, the contained fluid runs
up the stem and through smaller and smaller
branches of the arterial tree into the delicate
vessels of the leaves, which may be taken to
represent the capillaries. Passing through these
into the twigs of the venous tree, the blood returns
through larger and larger branches of this tree till
it arrives at the trunk, and completes its circuit by
again entering the trunk of the arterial tree through
the cavities of the heart. Now the blood, in per-
petually making this complete circuit of the body,
performs three important functions : it serves to
carry oxygen from the lungs to all the other parts
of the body ; it serves to supply all parts of the
body with the nutritive material with which it is
charged ; and it serves to drain ofi" from all the
tissues of the body the effete products which they
excrete, and to present these effete products to the

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Recreation,

171

organs whose function it is again to abstract them
from the blood and expel them from the body.
The two latter functions of the blood — those of
nourishing and draining — I must consider more in
detail. They are both performed in the capillaries,
so that the object of the arteries and veins may be
considered as merely that of conveying the blood
to and from the capillaries. Moreover, both func-
tions are performed by transfusion through the
delicate walls of the capillaries — the nutritive ma-
terial in the blood being thus transfused into the
surrounding tissues, and the waste product of these
tissues being transfused into the blood. Thus, in
the various tissues there is always a double process
going on — first, that of receiving nourishment from
the blood whereby they are being constantly built
up into an efficient state for the performance of
their various functions ; and, secondly, that of dis-
charging into the blood the effete materials which
the performance of these functions entails. Now,
when any tissue or organ is in a state of activity in
the performance of its function, the activity which
it manifests entails a process of disintegration,
which is the reverse of the process of nutrition ;
that is to say, when a tissue or organ is doing its
work it is expending energy which it has previously
derived in virtue of the process of nutrition. Work-
is therefore, so to speak, the using up of nutrition ;
so that, if the income of energy due to nutrition is
equal to the expenditure of energy due to work,
the tissue or organ will remain stationary as regards

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III

172

Recreation.

its capacity for further work, while, if the work-
done is in excess of the nutrition supplied, the
tissue or organ will soon be unable to continue its
work ; it will become, as we say, exhausted, cease
to work, and remain passive until it is again slowly
and gradually refreshed or built up by the process
of nutrition. Thus all the tissues and organs of
the body require periods of rest to alternate with
periods of activity ; and what is true of each part
of the body is likewise true of the body as a whole
— sleep being nothing other than a time of general
rest during which the process of nutrition is allowed
to gain upon that of exhaustion. Thus we may
have local exhaustion — as when the muscles of our
arm are no longer able to hold out a heavy weight
— or we may have general exhaustion, ao in sleep ;
and we may have local restorations due to nutrition
— as when our exhausted arm, after some interval
of rest, is again able to sustain the weight — or we
may have a general restoration due to nutrition, as
in the effects of sleep.

I have now said enough about the physiology of
nutrition to render quite clear what I mean by
recreation depending on the physiological necessity
for a frequent change of organic activity. For
although in the case of some organs — such as
most of the secreting organs — activity is pretty
constant, owing to the constant expenditure of
energy being just nbout balanced by the constant
income, in the case of nerves and muscles this is
not so ; but during the times at which these organs

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Recreation.

173

are in activity their expenditure of energy is so
vastly greater than their income during the same
times that they can only do their work by drawing
upon the stores of energy which have been laid up
by them during the comparatively long periods of
their previous rest. Now recreation applies only
to nerve and muscle ; and what it amounts to is
simply this — a change of organic activity, having
for its object the affording of time for the nutrition
of exhausted portions of the body. A part of the
body having become exhausted by work done, and
yet the whole of the body not being exhausted so
far as to require sleep, recreation is the affording of
local sleep to the cxhau.sted part by transferring
the scene of activity from it to some other part.
Be it observed that a certain amount of activity is
necessary for the life and health of all the organs
of the body ; : o it would not do for the community
of organs as a whole that, when any one set becomes
exhausted by activity, all the others should share
in their time of rest, as in general sleep. But,
by transferring the state of activity from organs
already exhausted by work to organs which are
ready nourished to perform work, recreation be-
comes analogous to h>cal sleep.

Thus we see that, in a physiological, no less than
in a psychological, sense, the term re-creation is
a singularly happy one : for we see that as a matter
of fact the whole physiology of recreation consists
merely of a re-building-up, re-forming, or re-creation
of tissues which have become partly broken down

174

Recreation.

I' '^

by the exhausting effects of work. So that in this
physiological sense recreation is partial sleep, while
sleep is universal recreation. And now we see why
it is that the one essential principle of all recreation
must be that of variety of organic activity ; for
variety of organic activity merely means the sub-
stitution of one set of organic activities for another,
and, consequently, the successive affording of rest
to bodily structures as they are successively ex-
hausted. The undergraduate finds recreation in
rowing because it gives his brain time to recover
its exhausted energies, while the historian and the
man of science find recreation in each other's
labours because these labours require somewhat
different faculties of mind for their pursuance.

Before concluding these general remarks on the
physiology of recreation, I must say a few words
with more special reference to the physiology of
exercise. We do not require science to teach us
that the most lucrative form of recreation for those
whose labour is not of a bodily kind is muscular
exercise. Why this should be so is sufficiently
obvious. The movement of blood in the veins is
due to two causes. The act of drawing breath into
the lungs by dilating the closed cavity of the chest
serves also to draw venous blood into the heart.
This cause of the onward movement of blood in
the veins is what is called aspiration ; and it occurs
also in some of the larger veins of the limbs, which
are so situated with reference to their supplying
branches that movement of the limbs determines

Recreation.

175

suction of the blood from the supplying branches
to the veins. The second great cause of the venous
flow is as follows : — The larger veins are nearly all
provided with valves which open to allow the blood
to pass on towards the heart, but close against
the blood if it endeavours to return towards the
capillaries. Now the larger veins are embedded in
muscles, so that the effect of muscular contractions
is to compress numberless veins now in one part
and now in another part of their length ; and, as
each vein is thus compressed, its contained fluid is,
of course, driven forwards from valve to valve.
Hence, as all the veins of the body end in the
heart, the total effect of general muscular activity
is greatly to increase the flow of venous blood into
the heart. The heart is thus stimulated to greater
activity in order to avoid being gorged with the
unusual inflow of blood. So great is the increase
of the heart's activity that is required to meet this
sudden demand on its powers of propulsion that
every one can feel in his own person how greatly
muscular exercise increases the number of the
heart's contractions. Now the result of this in-
crease of the heart's activity is, of course, to pump
a correspondingly greater amount of blood into the
arteries, and so to quicken the circulation all over
the body. This, in turn, gives rise to a greater
amount of tissue-change,— oxygenation, nutrition,
and drainage, — which, together with the increased
discharge of carbonic acid by the muscles during
their time of increased activity, has the effect of

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176

Recreation.

unduly charging the blood with carbonic acid and
other effete materials. This increased amount of
carbonic acid in the blood stimulates the respiratory-
centre in the spinal cord to increase the frequency
of the respiratory movements, so that under the
influence of violent and sustained exercise we be-
come, as it is expressively said, ' out of breath.'
The distress to which this condition may give rise
is, however, chiefly due to the heart being unable
to deliver blood into the arteries as quickly as it
receives blood from the veins ; the result being
a more or less undue pressure of venous blood
upon a heart already struggling to its utmost to
pump on all the blood it can. Training, which is
chiefly systematic exercise, by promoting a healthy
concordant action between the heart and arteries,
diminishes the resistance which the latter offer to
an unusual flow of blood from the former, and
therefore men in training, or men accustomed to
bodily exercise, do not so easily become distressed
by sustained muscular exertion.

Now it is evident, without comment, how im-
mense must be the benefit of muscular exercise.
Not only does it allow time for the brain to rest
when exhausted by mental work, but, by increasing
the circulation all over the body, it promotes the
threefold function of oxygenation, nutrition, and
drainage. It thus refreshes the whole organism in
all its parts ; it increases by use the strength and
endurance of the muscles ; it maintains the heart
and the lungs — or rather the whole of the circulatory

Recreation.

177

and respiratory mechanisms — at the highest point
of their natural efficiency ; and, in general, next
only to air, food, and muscular exercise, is of all
things most essential to the vitality of the organism.

So much, then, for the physiology of recreation ;
and, having said this much on the abstract principles
of our subject, I shall devote the rest of my lecture
to a consideration of this subject in its more prac-
tical aspects.

The fundamental principle of all recreation
consisting, as I have said, in the rest from local
exhaustion which is secured by a change of organic
activity, it is clear that practical advice with regard
to recreation must differ widely according to the
class, and even the individual, to which it is given.
Thus it would be clearly absurd to recommend
a literary man, already jaded with mental work, to
adopt as his means of recreation some sedentary
form of amusement ; while it would be no less
absurd to recommend a working man, already
fatigued with bodily toil, to regale himself with
athletics. And, in lower degrees, the kind and
amount of recreation which it would be wise to
recommend must differ with different individuals
in the same class of society according to their age,
sex, temperament, pursuits, and previous habits of
life. But, although all matters of detail thus require
to be rtviiusted to individual cases, there is one prac-
tical lonsifieratioii which applies equally to all cases,
and wnJch must never be lost sight of, if recreation
of any kind is to produce its full measure of result.

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178

Recreation.

This consideration is the all-important part which
is played in recreation by the emotions. It is,
I am sure, impossible to over-estimate the value
of the emotions in this connexion — a prolonged
flow of happy feelings doing more to brace up the
system for work than any other influence operating
for a similar length of time. The physiological
leasons why this should be so are not apparent ;
for, although we know that the emotions have
a very powerful influence in stimulating the nerves
which act on the various secreting organs of the
body, I do not think that this fact alone is sufficient
to explain the high value of pleasurable emotions
in refreshing the nervous system. There must be
sonic further reason — probably to be sought for
within the limits of the nervous system itself — why
a flow of happy feelings serves to re-create the
nervous energies. But, be the reasons what they
may, we must never neglect to remember the fact
that the influence of all others most detrimental to
recreation is the absence of agreeable emotions or
the presence of painful ones. There is, for instance,
comparatively little use in taking so-called consti-
tutional exercise at stated times, if the mind during
these times is emotionally colourless, or, still worse,
aching with sorrow and care. If recreation is to be
of good quality, it must before all things be of
a kind to stimulate pleasurable feelings, and while
it lasts it ought to engross the whole of our conscious-
ness. Half-hearted action is quite as little remunera-
tive here as elsewhere ; and, if we desire to work

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Recreation.

179

well, no less in play than in work must we fulfil
the saying, * What thy hand findeth to do, do it
with thy might.'

Having stated this practical principle as of para-
mount importance in all recreation, I shall devote
the rest of my lecture to giving a variety of sugges-
tions concerning the recreation of all classes of
society ; and, for the sake of securing method to
my discussion, I shall primarily consider the com-
munity in its most natural classes of men, women,
and children.

There is not much to be said on the recreation
of men belonging to the upper classes. That most
objectionable of creatures, the gentleman at large
without occupation, has a free choice before him of
every amusement that the world has to give ; but
one thing he is hopelessly denied — the keen enjoy-
ment of recreation. Living from year to year in
a round of varied pastimes, he becomes slowly
incapacitated from forming habits of work, while
at the same time he is slowly sapping all the
enjoyment from play. For, although variety of
amusement may please for a time, it is notorious
that it cannot do so indefinitely. The intellectual
changes which are involved in changes of amuse-
ment are not suffiricntly pronounced to re-create
even the faculties on which the sense of amusement
depends; the mind, therefore, becomes surfeited
with amusement of all kinds, just as it may become
surfeited with a tune too constantly played — even
though the tune be played iu frequently changing

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Recreation.

keys. For such men, if past middle life, I have no
advice to give. They have placed themselves
beyond the possibility of finding recreation, and
their only use in the world is to show the doom of
idleness. They, more even than paupers, are the
parasites of the social organism ; and we can
scarcely regret that their lumpish life, being one
of stagnation self-induced, should be one of miser-
able failure, to the wretchedness of which we can
extend no hope.

Turning next to gentlemen of active pursuits,
I may most fitly deal first with those who are
beginning life at the universities. At our larger
universities both the provisions for recreation and
the manner in which they are used are in a high
degree satisfactory, and ought to serve as a model
to universities all over the world. It may be
true that at the Continental universities rowing
would not inspire a tenth part of the enthusiasm
which it creates at Oxford and Cambridge ; and
I know from experience that it is hopeless to
persuade German students, as a class, to adopt
what they consider childish toys — the bats and
balls of cricket. All I can say is, so much the
worse for the Continental universities. In every-
thing that appertains to work — and more especially
to original work — I am profoundly convinced that
the sooner we copy something from the German
universities the better; but in most things that
appertain to play the English universities con-
stitute the best models. Rowing, cricket, football,

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athletics,and in a lower degree gymnastics, bicycling,
swimming, and riding, constitute, besides walking,
the favoi rite modes of exercise ; and it is impossible
to suggest beti .. I have only to object that,
regarded as recreation, there is, both at Oxford
and Cambridge, far too much tendency to a spe-
cialization of these forms of exercise. Competition
dictates practice, and practice entails too exclusive
a devotion to the one kind of exercise which is
practised ; so that, as a consequence, there is too
sharp a division between the boating men, the
cricketers, and the athletes, for securing the full
benefit of exercise which all would derive if they
were more usually to participate in one another's
pursuits. But this evil is to some extent unavoid-
able, as it arises immediately from the spirit of
emulation, without which the mere exercise would
lose its zest, and so the fullness of its recreative
value. Still, now that so many of the colleges are
provided with their own cricket-grounds, and the
boats are practically open to all, there is no reason
why even the most ambitious aspirants to the
'Varsity blue' should not enjoy more variety of
exercise than is usually the case.

In the army and navy there is abundant time
for recreation, which is too frequently wasted in
mere lounging. When once the army or navy
examinations are passed, there is comparatively
little mental work required '*'^. the performance of
duty, and therefore the co.nparatively large amount
of leisure time which officers enjoy ought to be

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much more generally devoted than it is to reading
or even to original work. Officers arc a class
which presents no small proportion of intelligent
members ; so that the comparative rareness with
which they exhibit either high culture or proved
powers of original work must, I think, be set down
to a general bad habit or fashion of substituting
idle amusement for profitable recreation.

To professional men, men of business, and indeed
all who are engaged in pursuits requiring more or
less severe mental work, coupled with more or less
confinement, exercise is, of course, the conditio sine
gud non of the recreation to be recommended. This
fact is so obvious that I need not dwell upon it
further than to make one remark. This is to warn
all such persons that their feelings are no safe
guide as to the amount of muscular exercise that
is requisite for maintaining full and sustained health.
By habitual neglect of sufficient exercise the system
may and does accommodate itself to such neglect ;
.so that not only may the desire for exercise cease
to be a fair measure of its need, but positive ex-
haustion may attend a much smaller amount of ex-
ercise than is necessary to long continuance of sound
health. However strong and well, therefore, a man
may feel notwithstanding his neglect of exercise,
he ought to remember that he is playing a most
dangerous game ; and that sooner or later his sin
will find him out, in the form either of dyspepsia,
liver, kidney, or other disea.se, which so surely creep
upon the offender against Nature's laws o* health.

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According to Dr. Parkes the amount of exercise
that a healthy man ought to take without fatigue
is at the least 150 foot-tons per diem. This, in
mere walking, would, in the case of a man of
ordinary weight, be represented by a walk of be-
tween eight and nine miles; but it is desirable
that the requisite amount of exercise should be
obtained without throwing all the work upon one
set of muscles. For this reason walking ought to
be varied with rowing, riding, active games, and,
wliore practicable, hunting or shooting ; which, to
tho.-- who are fond of sport, constitute the most
perfect form of recreative exercise.

Turning next to all the large class of working
men, their possible means of recreation are alike
in this — that they must be more or less of rv cor-
porate kind. These men depend for their recreation
on public institutions, and therefore it is of the
first importance to the national health, happiness,
morals, and intelligence that no thought, pains, or
money should be spared in providing such insti-
tutions, adequate in number and competent in
character, to meet so important and so immense
a need. Within the limits of so general a lecture
it is impossible to do anything like justice to this
subject ; but I may say a few words on the kinds
of institutions that I should most like to recom-
mend.

Every town the size of which is so considerable
that green grass and fresh air are not within easy
reach of all its inhabitants ought at any expense

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to be provided with public parks. In many of our
large towns it is now virtually impracticable to
provide such parks in central situations ; but even
suburban parks are infinitely better than no parks
at all. Public recreation grounds having been pro-
vided, every inducement ought to be added to
attract the people to use them. Gymnasia, boating,
cricket and golf implements, lawn-tennis, and
tennis-courts ought all to be supplied at the public
expense, so that working men and boys mij^ht
be able to spend their holidays and half-holidays
in healthy out- door amusement without requiring
to incur the expense of club subscriptions. Out-
door clubs, however, ought none the less to be
encouraged for the sake of the additional induce-
ment which csprii dc corps and competition give
to out-door recreation — the club subscriptions being
limited to the providing of prizes. Bands ought
also to be provided at the public expense to play
in the parks during the spring and summer months
on the afternoons of holidays and Sundays. The
importance of this latter provision cannot be too
highly rated ; for experience shows that wherever
it has been tried its success has been astonishing.
For instance, Lord Thurlow, quoting from Sir
Benjamin Hall, stated to the House of Lords on
May 5 'that the Sunday visitors to Kensington
Gardens had, by the band playing there, been
increased from 7,000 to 80,000 in one day; and in
the Regent's and Victoria Parks 190,000 had been
attracted by the bands in one afternoon/ When

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wc consider what an amount of health, happiness,
and refining influence these numbers represent as
produced by a single cause, vvc blush for the narrow
fanaticism which, in the name of religion, does all
it can to deny to the working classes the elevating
influence of music on the only day that the toil
of life admits of their obtaining it. I hold it to be
impossible too strongly to deprecate the downright
immorality of driving the working classes by thou-
sands into the pot-houses by depriving them of
the innocent and refining enjoyment of music in
the open air. Surely the common sense of the
public as a whole is not so degraded by bigotry
that, in the face of the figures I have quoted, there
can any longer be a question in the public mind
on the positive sin of allowing a puritanical spirit
in the few to domineer over the health, the happi-
ness, and the morals of the many.

Somewhat similar remarks apply to the question
of opening museums and art galleries on Sundays,
though on this question the Sabbatarians include
among their ranks a greater proportional number
of the community In the debate of May 5, to
which I have already alluded, both Church and
State, in so far as they are represented in the
persons of the Primate and the Premier, spoke
strongly against any reform in this direction ; and,
perhaps owing to this weight of united authority,
the proposed reform was negatived by a majority
of eight. Yet, when we examine the arguments
which these high authorities were able to produce.

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Recreation.

we find them to be conspicuously of the feeblest
kind. The leading argument both of the Prime
Minister and of the Archbishop was that there is
not sufficient evidence *of a very predominant
sentiment' in favour of the reform on the part of
working men themselves. Now to this it may be
answered, in the first place, that a poll on the
question has not been taken, and that, therefore,
it is a mere begging of the question to say that
working men as a class * in all probability' do not
desire the change. But, even if we grant that the
working classes as a whole are as apathetic upon
the subject as they are represented to be, I do not
see that this is any valid reason against reform.
Possibly enough the members of the House of
L . have a higher appreciation of the value of
scitiice museums and art galleries, as well as the
privileges and advantages of entering them, than
have the members of working men's clubs ; and
I doubt not that, if the upper and the lower classes
were for a few months to change places, petitions
to Parliament of the kind which Lord Thurlow
presented would be more numerous and more gene-
rally signed. But what does this argue? Surely
not that we, who best know the culturing value of
these institutions, ought to use the comparative
ignorance of those who do not, as an argument
against extending to them the opportunity of
ascertaining that value. On the contrary, in what-
ever degree indifiference of the working classes
in this matter can be proved, it would seem to

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187

me a strong argument in favour of instilling into
them a more lively perception of the educational
advantages of such institutions ; and this can only
be done by throwing open these institutions on what
is virtually the only day in the week when the classes
in question are able to visit them. Of course it
may be said that the alleged indifference arises,
not from ignorance of the value of such institutions,
but from a preponderant sense of Sabbatarianism
on the part of the working classes. But, supposing
the alleged apathy to exist, and supposing it to
arise from the latter cause alone — which I deem
highly improbable — I still think it would constitute
no valid argument against the proposed reform.
We are all, I take it, agreed upon the recreative
as well as what Lord Beaconsfield called the civi-
lizing influence of the institutions in question ; so
that, upon the suppositions which I have made,
the only issue to be considered is as to whether
these benefits would be more than counterbalanced
by the evil of offending the sense of Sabbatarianism
which is assumed so largely to predominate among
the working classes. And this introduces us to
the second and only other argument which was
adduced by Lord Beaconsfield. He said : ' In all
questions into which the religious sentiment enters,
it is highly desirable that no change should be
effected that is not called for by the expression
of a very predominant sentiment on the part of the
people.' If this means that legislation ought not
to interfere aggressively with the religious senti-

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Recreation.

mtnts of the many, it is, no doubt, a proper
utterance ; but if it mean i that the socially harmless
and even beneficial recreation of the many is to be
prohibited by the particular religious sentiments
of the few — and this is what it must mean if the
words are taken to mtan what the}- say — then I
think the utterance is most improper. The idea
which underlies this utterance seems to be that the
religious sentiment is of so much value to the State
that it ought to be tenderly fostered in all its
ramifications, even to the extent of preventing
reforms conceded to t , beneficial lest they should
prune the twigs of Lhe structure thus tenderly
fostered. Now I do not wish to enter on the
question as to how far the religious sentiment is
of value to the State ; for I think it is quite obvious
in the present case that, let us place this value
as high as we choose, the contemplated reform
cannot be other than completely beneficial. The
working men who prefer spending their Sundays
at home would not be injured by their brothers
visiting museums and art galleries; while, in so
far as the religious sentiment is concerned, it ought
to be a matter of gratification to all who entertain
it that those working men who do not prefer spend-
ing their Sundays at home would, by the opening
of such institutions, have an inducement supplied
to turn their backs upon the beer-shops, and to
bring their families to see the things of interest in
Nature or the things of beauty in Art. It is not
that the opening of the institutions in question

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would act as a counter-inducement to that which
is held out by the churches. Working men who
are in the habit of going to church will, in any
case, continue going to church, even though some
of them may also spend their Sunday afternoons
in the museums and galleries. And, so far as re-
creation is concerned, I am inclined to think it is
not desirable that there should be any '•"tagonism
oflfered to the inducement which is heici out by
the churches. For I am inclined to think that the
class of emotions which public wo* ship arouses in
a relii^ious mind are of a high recreative value ;
and so, as a mere matter of sanitary interest. I
should be sorry to see the churches interfered with
by other institutions of a less recreative kind. But
in the present instance the antagonism should not
be museums and galleries versus chapels and
churches, but museums and galleries versus public-
houses and all places of loitering idleness ; and
any 'religious sentiment' that seeks to oppose the
introduction of such an antagonism can only be
pronounced immoral.

Two other arguments against the reform were
adduced in the debate, neither of which possesses the
smallest validity. The Archbishop of Canterbury
argued : ' What were their lordships called upon to
do to-night ? It was, before the eyes of the people
of this kingdom, to pronounce a deliberate opinion
that the policy with regard to the observance of
the Sunday hitherto pursued in this country had
been a mistake. ... If any change were made.

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Recreation.

there was great danger of the day of rest being
lost, as it would be the thin edge of the wedge
to the introduction of other changes of a more
advanced kind.' Now this is an argument which
may always be adduced against any proposed
reform, however obvious the need. We must not
make the change because, by so doing, we should
condemn the policy of the past and lead the way
to further changes in the future. But, if a change
is seen in itself to be desirable, such hypcrtrophied
conservatism as this ought not to be allowed to
obstruct progress. Moreover, in the present in-
stance I am persuaded that the fears for the future
are groundless. There is no necessary or even
remote connexion between art galleries and music-
halls ; and, so long as 'the religious sentiments'
in this country remain what they are, neither
religion nor reason will be able to trace a similarity
or a precedent that does not exist.

The other argument to which I have alluded is,
that the opening of museums and galleries on
Sundays would entail a certain amount of Sunday
work on the part of porters, &c. To this argument
it is sufficient to reply, in the first place, that, if
desirable, voluntary labour of so light a kind would
be forthcoming ; and, next, in the words of the
Earl of Derby : ' He did not deny the extreme
importance of maintaining the day of national
rest ; but they must recollect that, wherever re-
creation was allowed, some labour must be thrown
on those who provided it. They permitted ex-

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191

cursion trains, . . . &c , . . . and on the whole there
was a great preponderance of advantage over
disadvantage.' As in most museums and galleries
the porters and other servants employed on Sundays
would probably not amount to one half per cent,
of the visitors who would profit by their labour,
I think that the argument may in this, more than
in any other case of Sunday work, be set aside as
absurd.

I have been tempted to dwell thus at consider-
able length on the question of Sunday recreation,
because it is one that is now prominently before
the public, and therefore I hope that a few words
in season may help to hasten a reform which sooner
or later is inevitable. As regards the recreation
of working men, I have orly further to say that
institutions on the model of working men's clubs
deserve to be encouraged in every possible way.
Wealthy and benevolent persons could not do uetter
with their means than to found such clubs where
most required, and to endow them with a small
annuity which would serve as a nucleus to club
subscriptions, a greater number of subscribers being
ensured by the smaller amount of i*ie fees. The
Volunteer movement also deserves every encourage-
ment, as supi)lying exercise and recreation to all
classes at a very moderate cost.

Turning next to the recreation of women, I shall
begin, as in the case of men, with the upper classes.
And here, for the sake of emphasis, I shall confine
my remarks to the one topic of muscular exercise.

192

Recreation.

For ladies, more than any other section of the
community, have fallen into the habit of neglecting
exercise, and I am sure that I cannot draw too
dreadful a picture of the consequences which here
arise from the too general custom. These con-
sequences are all the more to be feared because
many of them are of so insidious a kind that the
root of the evil may never be suspected. It is not
my intention to frighten any of you by unfolding
a tale of horrors ; so I will only say, in general
terms, that I am quite sure that among ladies there
is no one source of disease and early death more
prevalent than is this habitual violation of the
best known among the laws of health. Consider
for a moment what the life of a lady in town
usually is. She rises probably at nine or ten
o'clrck, without much appetite for breakfast. Till
luncheon she remains indoors, reading a novel or
magazine, writing letters, or attending to her
household duties. After luncheon she takes a little
'carriage exercise' — observe the unconscious irony
of the term — pays a few afternoon calls, and returns
home to afternoon tea. Until it is time to be
dressed for dinner, there is another period of total
qu":'scence, and the tedious operations of the
dressing-room which follow are certainly the re-
verse of recreation. Dinner in pleasant company
no doubt affords recreation of a mental kind were
such recreation required, which, in this case^ it
certainly is not. After dinner, during the season,
she probably receives an evening party, goes to

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the opera, or indulges in some other kind of amuse-
ment which keeps her in hot rooms with vitiated
air till the small hours of the morning. At last
she retires to rest, complaining that her delicacy
of constitution makes her a martyr to head- aches,
languid circulation, lassitude, and feelings of sick-
ness. Now contrast such a wholly unnatural state
of things with the daily life of a country girl to
whom exercise is felt to be a sine quA non of exis-
tence, and do not wonder at the contrast between
her state of blooming health and the feeble stamina
of the lady whose position requires her to adopt
the habits of town life. You may say that these
remarks are trite, and that you all knew before the
desirability of taking exercise. I can only reply : —
If ye know these things, happy are ye if you do
them. And why not do them ? Why not make
the duty of taking daily exercise as important an
article in your social creed as the duty of returning
calls? If you say there is no time, the answer is
preposterous. Senior wranglers could never have
been senior wranglers had they not found time for
their pull upon the Cam ; and by not making time
for exercise you are merely shortening the time of
your life. Every day you can easily find time for
a ride ; or, if you are not able to ride, you may
tako every day a two hours' walk with some com-
panion or object to make it a pleasurable walk.
Such companions and objects are not difficult to
obtain in the town ; and in the country there are
several kinds of out -door amusements — such as

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rowing, riding, skating, lawn-tennis, &c. — which
are happily recognized by the stern laws of etiquette
as suitable for ladies, and which in the performance
are singularly graceful as well as highly conducive
to good spirits. Dancing is also in itself an admir-
able form of exercise, though its beneficial effects
are usually much more than counteracted by the
late hours and excessive exhaustion of the ball-
room. This excessive exhaustion of the muscular,
but more especially of the nervous, energies, may,
in this as in all other similar cases, be properly
denoted by the term which is the correlative of
recreation — viz. dissipation. For although it has
become customary to restrict the application of
this term only to extreme cases, and to apply it
to less extreme cases merely as a joke, both in
etymology and in physiology the term dissipation
is alike appropriate to all degrees of wasteful
expenditure of the vital energies.

In recommending bodily exercise thus strongly,
I speak of course to young and to middle-aged
ladies ; but I am sure that even here there are
very few who could walk their five or six miles
a day without fatigue. This merely shows to what
a state of enervation this habitual neglect of exer-
cise has reduced them. Such enfeebled persons
ought to begin at once to give their constitutions
some chance of recovery ; they ought regularly to
;ake as much exercise as they can endure without
distressing fatigue; and in a few months they
would be surpris'=;d to find how greatly the length

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of "their walks may be increased, and with what
immense benefit they are attended.

Women in the lower classes of society may to
a large extent share in the recreation of their male
relatives ; and I feel confident that the more those
kinds of recreation are encouraged which invite
participation by both sexes the better. Great
additional enjoyment is infused into a holiday if
it can be spent in company with those most near
and dear ; the heart is then most open to the best
influences of affection, and family ties are closest
drawn in hours of happiness together. Such in-
stitutions as the Crystal and Alexandra Palaces,
where a variety of amusements are provided at
a cheap cost in country air and amid aesthetic
surroundings, constitute the best type of institutions
for the healthy and improving recreation c/ both
sexes and all ages. Of parks and public pleasure-
gardens I have already spoken, and the desirability
of preserving commons and heaths in the near
neighbourhood of large towns is generally recog-
nized. I will only add that no time ought to be
lost in promoting the suggestion recently made to
the First Commissioner of Public Works by the
National Sunday League — viz. that, in all such
places of public resort, harmless refreshments ought
to be plentifully provided. As a type of more
strictly town recreation, that which is afforded
by the Zoological Gardens deserves honourable
mention, and the sustained popularity of the Moore
and Burgess Minstrels' entertainment goes far to

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indicate that a much more healthy tone might be
given to the entertainments which are generally
provided by music-halls. Now that Cremorne
Gardens, the Argyll Rooms, and similar places of
public resort are being closed, there is certain to
be a greater pressure of vice thrown upon the
music-halls, and the increased demand for low,
quasi-immoral entertainments which will thus be
set up is only too certain to be supplied. It is
greatly to be deplored that, excepting the * gods '
galleries in theatres, there are now scarcely any
places where respectable women of the lower classes
can witness a public entertainment that is not more
or less of a degrading kind. Philanthropists would
do well to start in London several People's
Theatres, where amusing dramas, part-singing, and
other forms of innocent entertainment, would be
sufficiently attractive to render the theatres self-
supporting. I have no doubt that, if this were
done, there would be a very marked distinction
between the character of the audiences attending
such theatres and that of the audiences which now
attend the music-halls.

Before quitting the class of working women,
I must put in a good word for penny readings,
mothers' meetings, window gardening ; and last,
though not least, I should like to recommend
some general and definite system for the loaning
of books at a nominal cost.

Coming now to that large and important class —
children. It seems a mere commonplace to say

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197

that children ought to be allowed to run about and
romp and play as much as ever they like or can.
Yet this commonplace is far from having a common
place in the usages of modern society. Among the
upper classes children are much too frequently
restrained from taking their full amount of natural
play, either by preposterous ideas of genteel deco-
rum, or by the respect due to expensive clothing ;
while among the lower classes the playground is
too often restricted to the limits of the gutter, and
even in the parks we too often witness the melan-
choly spectacle of children still a long way from
their teens acting the part of nurse to still younger
members of the family. To remedy these evils in
the case of the upper classes there is nothing to
suggest, except that fathers and mothers should
cease to regard their children's clothes as of more
importance than their children's health, and learn
to estimate at its due value the responsibility of
fostering the most precious of their possessions —
these living, feeling, loving little ones wh^se capaci-
ties of life-long happiness are being moulded by
their parents' wisdom or destroyed by their parents'
folly. In the case of the lower classes, the creche,
or public nursery, where abundance of romping
play is permitted, deserves the most strenuous en-
couragement. Children of all classes will play as
they ought to play if only Nature is allowed to
have her course without let or hindrance from
artificial restraints.
But, as the only object in rearing children is not

198

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that of making them healthy animals, some amount
of artificial restraint is necessary when the time for
systematic mental training arrives. Nevertheless,
as bodily health is the most essential condition,
even to mental training, the most fundamental
principle which ought to guide the latter is that
of supplying it with the minimum of cost to the
former. Yet in school life this fundamental prin-
ciple is almost universally disregarded. So long
as the general health of a school is maintained at
a level compatible with work, and not below the
level that declares itself by conspicuous 'break-
downs,' so long nobody cares to reflect whether
the system of school discipline is in all particulars
the best for maintaining the general health at the
highest possible level. I will not wait to consider
the disgraceful food which, even in many of our
better-class schools, is deemed sufficiently good for
growing children to thrive upon ; nor will I wait to
inveigh against the system of competition which,
when encouraged beyond moderate limits, acts as
a baleful stimulus to the very pupils who least
require to be stimulated. But, confining my re-
marks to the one particular of punishment, I should
like to put it to you, as a question of common
sense, whether it would be possible to devise any
mode of punishing school children at once more
fatuous, more pernicious, or more opposed to every
principle of science and morality, than are the
modes which are now most generally in vogue.
Consider for a moment the practice of giving

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199

' impositions.* It is not supposed that copying out
a stated number of lines is an economical way of
gaining information, so that even the plea of im-
parting instruction cannot be advanced as a benefit
to compensate the evil of the method. And this
evil is a very serious one. The object of all our
methods in education ought to be, as much as
possible, to economize effort ; the mental energies
ought, as it were, to be nursed, so that by their
exercise they should lay up the largest possible
store of information. But the mental energy which
is expended in writing out an imposition is wholly,
or almost wholly, profitless; and the amount of
energy so expended is considerable — especially in
the case of long impositions. For the whole punish-
ment of writing out an imposition consists in the
tediousness of the process ; and tediousness, by the
painful class of emotions which it arouses, is the
most wearisome or exhausting of the influences
that consume the nervous energies. It may there-
fore be said that, in whatever degree the writing of
an imposition is a punishment, in that degree are
the nervous energies dissipated in a wholly useless
manner. Therefore, to say nothing of the actual
time that is wasted in the writing of impositions, or
of the slovenly style of handwriting which this mode
of punishment induces, my great objection to the
mode of punishment is that, by consuming the
nervous energies in a wholly profitless manner, it
stands in direct antagonism with all the principles
that I am endeavouring to inculcate. And still

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more foolishly wrong does this method of punish-
ment become when it is united, as it generally is,
with another and still more objectionable method —
I mean the custom of imprisoning children during
playtime with the express purpose of denying them
healthful recreation. To shut up a child already
weary with work in an empty schoolroom under
a depressing sense of disgrace is something worse
than cruel ; to the child it is a wrongful injury that
does not admit of being justified by any argument ;
and, in running counter to all the principles both of
physiology and of education, it is a sin against
society. In most cases the time during which a child
is thus confined is the only time in the twenty-four
hours that there is an opportunity afforded for any
recreation at all ; so that, when the weary time of
solitude is over and school again meets, the un-
fortunate victim resumes work with energies doubly
exhausted. Even if a child had the stamina of
a man it would be impossible that mental work
resumed under such circumstances could be profit-
able, the faculty of memory being quickly affected
by mental fatigue. But, as a matter of fact, owing
to the great rapidity of physiological changes in
a growing organism, a child has much more need
of frequent exercise than has an adult ; so that,
whether we look at the matter from a sanitary or
from an educational point of view, I think it is
impossible too strongly to condemn the practice of
confining school children during playtime.

Of course I shall be asked what modes of punish-

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ment I should suggest as substitutes for the two
which I have thus so strongly condemned. This
question, however, I am not careful to answer.
Even if it be true that there is a difficulty in
providing other and efficient modes of punishment,
this does not in my opinion justify the main-
tenance of modes that are so clearly injurious.
But, merely for the sake of giving an answer,
I may say that, in the case of girls, experience
derived from many of the higher-class schools
shows that discipline may be maintained, either
without any punishment at all, or else by such
kinds as are more nominal than real. The difficulty
in the case of boys is no doubt greater, but not,
I think, insurmountable. Many kinds of punish-
ment may here be devised, which go upon the
principle, not of denying muscular exercise, but
of enforcing it. Extra drills or other compulsory
exercise during play-hours are modes of punish-
ment greatly to be preferred to those involving
sedentary confinement, although I do not pretend
to insinuate that compulsory exercise in the way
of punishment has the same recreative value as
voluntary exercise in the way of play. For my
own part, I have no hesitation in recommending
corporal punishment as on all grounds greatly pre-
ferable to the protracted, tedious, heart-sickening,
and health-breaking systems which, in the name of
Humanity, are coming more and more into general
use. But, however great the difficulty of devising
or substituting other modes of punishment may be.

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Recreation.

I feel sure there can be no reasonable doubt that
the modes which are at present so largely in fashion
ought to be universally abolished.

The above remarks of course apply almost ex-
clusively to boys' schools; and, looking to boys'
schools as a whole, nothing much more remains to
be said of them in connexion with recreation. The
John Bull spirit of this country is in favour of
allowing schoolboys to play the hardy and vigorous
games which require all the muscles to be brought
into active service. The case, however, is widely
different in girls' schools ; so, before concluding,
I should like to add a few words with special
reference to them.

School-life is the time when, most of all, healthful
recreation is needed. It is then that the organism,
being in a state of active growth, most requires the
purifying and strengthening influences of muscular
exercise to be in frequent operation; and the
development which the organism, during the years
of its growth, receives, is carried through its life as
an unalterable possession. Yet in the majority of
girls' schools how miserable is the provision that is
made for securing this developr.ient ! Even in our
higher-class schools the whole mechanism of their
discipline seems to be devised with the view of
checking the healthful flow of natural joyousness
by the barriers of tedious rronotony. On all sides
a schoolgirl is shut up in a very prison-house of
decorum ; every healthful amusement is denied
her as ' unladylike ' ; she is imperatively taught to

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curb her youthful spirits in so far as these may
sometimes be able to struggle above the weight of
a mistaken discipline ; she is nurtured during her
growth on the unhealthy soil of ennui in a depress-
ing atmosphere of dullness ; and, as too frequent
a consequence, she leaves school with a sickly and
enervated constitution, capable, perhaps, of high
vivacity for a short time, but speedily collapsing
under the strain of a few hours of bodily or mental
activity. Now all this is the precise reverse of what
school-life ought to be. The only aim of most of
the higher girls' schools seems to be that of turning
out pupils with a superficial knowledge of a variety
of subjects, with such accomplishments as they may
be able, by hard practice, to acquire, and with a well-
drilled sense of the part that a young lady is to
play in the complicated tragedy of etiquette. Now
it is no doubt sufficiently desirable that girls, and
especially young ladies, should be well educated ;
but, in my opinion, it is of far greater importance
that schoolgirls should leave school with the maxi-
mum of bodily vigour that a wise and judicious
nurture can impart than that they should do so
with minds educated to any level that you please
to name within the limits of natural possibility.
I should, therefore, like to see all girls' schools
professedly regarded as places of recreation no less
than as places of education — as places of bodily, no
less than as places of mental, culture. And, if you
consider this too strong a statement of the case,
you must at least allow that far more permanently

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Recreation.

beneficial work would be done by girls, both at
school and after they leave it, if more permanently
beneficial play were allowed. At present in most
schools all indoor romping is sternly forbidden as
unladylike, all outdoor games being regarded as im-
possible recreations for girls of their age and social
position ; the unfortunate prisoners are restricted
in their exercise to a properly prison-like routine —
a daily walk in twos and twos, all bound by the
stiff chains of conventionality, with nothing to
relieve the dull monotony of the well-known way,
and one's constant companion being determined,
not by any entertaining suitability of temperament,
but by an accidental suitability of height. Could
there be devised a more ludicrous caricature of all
that we mean by recreation ?

Do you want to know the remedy? The remedy
is as simple as the abuse is patent. Let every
school whose situation permits be provided with
a good playground, and let every form of outdoor
amusement be encouraged to the utmost. Schools
situated in towns, and, therefore, unable to pro-
vide private playgrounds, might club together and
rent a joint playground — care, of course, being
taken that the social standing of all the schools
which so club together should be about equal.
Some such arrangement would soon be arrived
at by town schools if parents generally would
bestow more thought on the importance of their
children's health, and turn a deaf ear to all the
qualifications of a school, however good, which

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Recreation.

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does not provide for the proper recreation of its
pupils.

Of course I shall be met by the objection that, by
encouraging active outdoor games among school-
girls, we should rub off the bloom, so to speak, of re-
finement, and that, as a result, we should tend to
impair the delicate growth of that which we all
recognize as of paramount value in education — good
breeding. I can only say I am fully persuaded,
by the results I have seen, that such would not be
the case. The feelings and the manners of a lady
are imparted by inheritance and by the society
in which she lives, and no amount of drilling by
schoolmistresses will produce more than an artificial
imitation of the natural reality. Therefore, once
let a girls' school be a little society of little ladies,
and you need never fear that active play, natural
to their age and essential to their health, will make
them less ladylike than does the stiff restraint of
the present system. Rather would active play,
during the years of bodily growth, by developing
the co-ordinated use of all the muscles, tend to
impart through after-life that grace of easy move-
ment which we all admire, but the secret of which
is truly revealed only to the children of nature.

So much, then, for bodily recreation in girls'
schools. As regards their mental recreation, I
should begin by recommending less mental work.
In most of the higher-class girls' schools, as in
boys' schools, a great deal more work is required
than it is either judicious or desirable to require.

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Recreation.

The root of this evil is that a girl's education is
usually made to terminate at the age of seventeen
or eighteen, and, as a consequence, she is expected
to gain during these early years of life a sufficient
amount of book-learning to serve for the rest of
her days. In many cases it is, no doubt, unavoid-
able that a girl's education should end v/hen she
leaves school ; but I think that in all cases educa-
tion ought to be less arduous than it is in many
of our girls' schools. Even if education is to end
with school- life, it is better that it should end with
a little knowledge, thoroughly acquired, than with
a confused and half-forgotten medley of many
subjects. Not that I advocate speciality and
depth of knowledge for girls. On the contrary,
I think that the aim here ought rather to be that
of generality and width — languages, elementary
mathematics, geography, history, art, science, and
English literature being all taught, but taught
superficially, or without much detail, and in as
entertaining a manner as possible. The point,
however, which I desire chiefly to insist upon is
this, that schoolgirls ought not to be made or
encouraged to work beyond their strength. In
most girls' schools competition runs very high ;
and I am quite sure that in very many cases the aim
of the schoolmistress ought to be to check its
undue severity rather than to stimulate that
severity by competitive examinations. I have
myself known many cases of girls sitting up late,
rising early, and working all day to win their

Recreation.

207

coveted prizes — a state of things which is a suffi-
ciently crying evil in boys' schools, but which is
a still worse evil in girls' — worse because the
physipie of a girl is usually less robust than that
of a boy, and because the schoolgirl is doomed to
less outdoor exercise.

Now, if less time were consumed in girls' schools
by mental work, more time would be allowed for
mental as well as for bodily recreation. And, if
the time thus gained were judiciously expended,
I believe that, even as a matter of mental culture,
more would be gained than lost. Suppose, for
instance, that some time in every day were set
apart for mental occupation of a voluntary kind —
a good library of general though selected literature
being provided for the use of the pupils, and the
cultivation of art being allowed to rank as ' mental
occupation.* In this way the more intellectual of
the pupils would be able to receive that culture
which only general reading can impart, the more
artistic would be able to improve themselves in
their art by additional practice, and even the un-
studiously disposed would find in a standard novel
a kind of reading less distasteful than Euclid.

And here, while treating of mental recreation
among girls, I may add that school-life is the time
when provision ought to be made for mental
recreation in after-life. Re it observed that mental
recreation is impossible unless there is a natural
and, more or less, cultured taste for some branch
or branches of mental work. Indeed the capacity

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Recreation.

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for such recreation is clearly proportional to the
degree of such culture, an idea-less mind being
incapacitated from obtaining any variety of ideas.
Hence the great importance of width of cultured
interest, and the consequent duty of the heads of
schools to ascertain the mental predilections of
their pupils individually, and, in each case where
such a predilection is apparent, to bestow special
attention on its culture. If this were general, I
am convinced that the gain to their pupils in
after-life would be enormous. We are living in
a world teeming with interest on every side, but
to make this interest our own possession we require
a trained intelligence. It ought, therefore, to be
one of the first aims of education to supply special
training to special aptitudes, whereby the mind
may be brought en rapport with the things in
which it is by nature fitted to take most interest,
and so in them to find a never-ending source of
mental recreation. If this method were more
universally adopted in girls' schools, ladies, as
a rule, would be supplied with more internal
resources of mental activity, and cease to be so
dependent, for the stimulation of such activity,
on the mere excitement which is supplied by the
external resources of society. But as it is, whether
in the concert room, the picture gallery, the
library, or the country walk, it is of most ladies
literally and lamentably true that having eyes
they see not, and having ears they hear not,
neither understand. Most ladies have a natural

Recreation.

209

taste for some one or other of the many lines of
intellectual activity; and if this taste were de-
veloped in early life it would grow with the
knowledge on which it feeds, till in mature life
it would become an unfailing source of pleasurable
recreation. Yet in most cases such a taste in
early life is not so much as discovered. How
seldom it is that we meet, even among musical
ladies, with any knowledge of harmony ! — and this
simply because they have never ascertained whether
the study of harmony might not be to them a study
of absorbing interest. Or, again, how very rare
a thing it is to meet a lady who has even a super-
ficial acquaintance with any one of the sciences,
and how vast is the paradise of intellectual enjoy-
ment from which multitudes of intelligent ladies
are thus excluded ! And similarly with all the
other lines of intellectual pursuit for which a cer-
tain small amount of rudimentary initiation is
required in order to ascertain whether they are
suited to individual taste. So that, as I have said,
one of the most important aims of a girl's, and also
of a boy's, education ought to be to ascertain and
specially to cultivate the branch of knowledge in
which most interest is taken. Do not suppose
that by following this advice there is any danger
of imparting to young ladies that singularly objec-
tionable and not very easily definable character
which is most tersely and intelligibly conveyed
by the word 'blue.* No one can have a more
intense dislike than I have of the cerulean tint ;

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Recreation.

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but, wherever I have seen it, I have always been
persuaded that it is the previous character which
has tinted the learning — not the learning which had
tinted the character. Only let a lady be a lady,
and nothing but envious ignorance can ever ven-
ture to breathe the objectionable word, while
cu'tured refinement in the opposite sex will always
discover in the culture of a lady that only which
adds to her refinement.

I have now said all that I feel it desirable to say
on the principles and the practice of recreation ;
and I will conclude by adding a few words on what
may be called the ethics of recreation.

Health may be taken as implying capacity for
work, as well as, to a large, though to a less
absolute, degree, the capacity for happiness ; and,
as duty means our obligation to promote the
general happiness, it follows that in no connexion
is the voice of duty more urgent than it is in the
advancement of all that is conducive to health.
By maintaining our own health at the highest
point of its natural eflficiency, we are doing all that
in us lies to secure for ourselves the prime con-
dition for work — that is, the prime condition for
benefiting the community to whatever extent our
powers may be capable. And, similarly, by pro-
moting the health of others, we are, in proportion
to our success, securing to the community a certain
amount of additional capacity for work on the
part of its constituent members, as well as increas-
ing the individual capacity for happiness on the

Recreation.

211

part of all the members whom our efforts may-
reach. Therefore I take it that, if we regard this
subject from an ethical point of view, it is clear
that we have no duty to perform of a more grave
and important kind than this — thoughtfully to
study the conditions of health, earnestly to teach
these conditions to others, and strenuously to
make their observance a law to ourselves. Now of
these conditions one of the most important is
suitable recreation. For this is the condition
which extends to all classes of the community,
and the observance of which is, as we have seen,
an imperative necessity to every individual who
desires to possess a sound working mind in a sound
working body. Hence, I do not hesitate to say
that one of our most weighty duties in life is to
ascertain the kinds and degrees of recreation which
are most suitable to ourselves or to others, and
then with all our hearts to utilize the one, while
with all our powers we encourage the other. Be
it remembered that by recreation I mean only that
which with the least expenditure of time renders
the exhausted energies most fitted to resume their
work ; and be it also remembered that recreation
is necessary not only for maintaining our powers
of work so far as these are dependent on our
vitality, but also for maintaining our happiness
so far as this is dependent on our health. Remem-
bering these things, I entertain no fear of contra-
diction when I conclude that, whether we look to
the community as a whole, or restrict our view

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Recreation.

to our own individual selves, we have no duty to
discharge of a more high and serious kind than
this — rationally to understand and properly to
apply the principles of all that in the full but
only legitimate sense of the word we call recrea-
tion. Again, therefore, I say, if we know these
things, happy are we if we do them. And if we
desire to do them — if as rational and moral crea-
tures we desire to obey the most solemn injunc-
tion that ever fell from human lips, * Work while
it is day' — we must remember that the daylight
of our life may be clouded by our folly or shortened
by our sin ; that the work which we may hope to
do we shall be enabled to do only by hearkening
to that Wisdom who holdeth in her right hand
length of days, in her left hand riches and honour ;
and that at last, when all to us is dark with the
darkness of an unknown night, such Wisdom will
not have cried to us in vain if she has taught us
how to sow most plenteously a harvest of good
things that our children's children are to reap.

IX.

HYPNOTISM

Considering the length of time that so-called
'animal magnetism,' 'mesmerism,' or 'electro-
biology' has been before the world, it is a matter
of surprise that so inviting a field of physiological
inquiry should have been so long allowed to lie
fallow. A few scientific men in France and
Germany have indeed, from time to time, made
some observations on what Preyer has called the
' kataplectic state ' as artificially induced in human
beings and sundr}'- species of animals ; but any-
thing resembling a systematic investigation of the
remarkable facts of mesmerism has not hitherto
been attempted by any physiologist in our genera-
tion. The scientific world will therefore give a
more than usually hearty welcome to a treatise
which has just been published upon the subject by
a man so eminent as Heidenhain. The research

., \

* Der sogenannte thitrische Magtittistnus. I'hysiologische Beo-

bachtungen, von Dr. Rudolf Heidenhain, ord. Professor der

Pbysiologie and Director des physiologischen Institutes zu Breslau.
(Breitkopf und Hartel, Leipzig, 1880.)

214

Hypnotism.

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11

of which this treatise is the outcome is in every
way worthy of its distinguished author ; for it
serves not only to present a considerable and
systematic body of carefully observed facts, but also
to lead the way for an indefinite amount of further
inquiry along the lines that it has opened up.

Heidenhain conducted his investigations on
medical men and students as his subjects, one of
them being his brother. He found that in the
first or least profound stage of hypnotism the
patient, on being awakened, can remember all that
happened during the state of mesmeric sleep ; on
awakening from the second or more profound
stage, the patient can only partially recollect what
has happened ; while in the third, or most profound
stage, all power of subsequent recollection is lost.
But during even the most profound stage the
power of sensory perception remains. The con-
dition of the patient is then the same, so far as
the reception of sensory impressions is concerned,
as that of a man whose attention is absorbed or
distracted ; he sees sights, hears sounds, &c.,
without knowing that he sees or hears them, and
he cannot afterwards recollect the impressions
that were made. But the less profound stages of
hypnotism are paralleled by those less profound
conditions of reverie in which a passing sight or
sound, although not noticed at the time, may be
subsequently recalled by an effort of the will.
Further on in his treatise Heidenhain tells us that,
even when all memory of what has passed during

Hypnotism.

215

the hypnotic state is absent on awakening, it may
be aroused by giving the patient a clue, just as in
the case of a forgotten dream. This clue may
consist only of a single word in a sentence. Thus,
for instance, if a line of poetry is read to a patient
during his sleep, the whole line may sometimes be
recalled to his memory, when awake, by repeat-
ing a single word of the line. Again, we know
from daily experience that the most complicated
neuro-muscular actions — such as those required
for piano-playing — become by frequent repetition
' mechanical,' or performed without consciousness of
the processes by which the result is achieved. So
it is in the case of hypnotism. Actions which
have been previously rendered mechanical by long
habit are, in the state of hypnotism, performed
automatically in response to their appropriate
stimuli. There being a strong tendency to imitate
movements, these appropriate stimuli may consist
in the operator himself performing the movements.
Thus, when Heidenhain held his fist before his
hypnotized subject's face, his subject immediately
imitated the movement ; when he opened his hand,
his subject did the same, provided that his hand
was visible to his subject at the time. Also, when
he clattered his teeth, the hypnotized patient
repeated the movement, even though the patient
could only hear, and not see, the movement ;
similarly, the patient would follow him about the
room, provided that in walking he made sufficient
noise to constitute a stimulus to automatic walking

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Hypnotism.

on the part of his patient. In order to constitute
stimuli to such automatic movements, the sounds
or gestures must stand in some such customary
relation to the movements that the occurrence of
the former naturally suggests the latter.

Aflother characteristic of the hypnotic state is
that of an extraordinary exaltation of sensibility,
so that stimuli of various kinds, though much too
feeble to evoke any response in the ordinary
condition of the nervous system, are efifective as
stimuli in the hypnotic condition. It is remarkable
that this state of exalted sensibility should be
accompanied by what appears to be a lowered, or
even a dormant, state of consciousness. It is also
remarkable that this exaltation of sensibility does
not appear to take place with what may be called
a proportional reference to all kinds of stimuli.
Indeed, far from there being any such proportional
reference, the greatly exalted state of sensibility
towards slight stimuli is accompanied by a greatly
diminished state of excitability towards strong
stimuli. Thus, deeply hypnotized persons will
allow themselves to be cut,, or burnt, or to have
pins stuck into their flesh, without showing the
smallest signs of discomfort. Heidenhain is careful
to point out the interesting similarity, if not
identity, between this condition and that which
sometimes occurs in certain pathological derange-
ments of the central nervous system, as well as in
a certain stage of anaesthesia, wherein the patient
is able to feel the contact of the surgical instru-

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Hypnotism.

217

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ments, while quite insensible to any pain produced
by the cutting of his flesh. Reflex sensibility, or
sensibility conducing to reflex movements, also
undergoes a change, and it does so in the direction
of increase, as might be expected from the con-
sideration that with the temporary abolition of
consciousness the inhibitory influence, which we
know the higher nerve-centres to be capable of
exerting upon the lower, is presumably suspended.
But quite unanticipated is the remarkable fact
that the state of exalted reflex excitability may
persist for several days — perhaps for a week — after
a man has been aroused from a state of profound
hypnotism. Thus, Dr. Krener, after having been
hypnotized by Professor Heidenhain, and while
asleep made to bend his arm twice, for several
days afterwards was unable again to straighten it,
on account of the flexor muscles continuing in
a state of tonic contraction, or cramp. In these
experiments Heidenhain found that a very gentle
stimulation of the skin caused only the muscles
lying immediately below the seat of stimulation
to contract, and that on progressively increasing
the strength of the stimulus its effect progressively
spread to muscles and to muscle-groups further
and further removed from the seat of stimulation.
It is interesting that this progressive spread of
stimulation follows almost exactly Professor
Pfliiger's Law of Irradiation. But the rate at
which a reflex excitation is propagated through
the central nerve-organs is very slow, as compared

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Hypnotism.

with the rapidity with which such propagation
takes place in ordinary circumstances. Moreover,
the muscles are prone to go into tonic contraction,
rather than to respond to a stimulus in the ordinary
way. The whole hypnotic condition thus so
strongly resembles that of catalepsy that Heiden-
hain regards the former as nothing other than the
latter artificially induced. In the case of strong
persons this tonic contraction of the muscles may
make the body as stiff as a board, so that, if
a man is supported in a horizontal position! by his
head and his feet only, one may stand upon his
stomach without causing the body to yield. The
rate of breathing has been seen by Heidenhain
to be increased fourfold, and the pulse also to be
accelerated, though not in so considerable a degree.
In a chapter on the conditions which induce
the state of hypnotism, Heidenhain begins by
dismissing all ideas of any special 'force' as
required to produce or to explain any of the
phenomena which he has witnessed. He does not
doubt that some persons are more susceptible than
others to the influences which induce the hypnotic
state, and he thinks that this susceptibility is
greatest in persons of high nervous sensibility.
These ' influences * may be of various kinds — such
as looking continuously at a small bright object,
listening continuously to a monotonous sound,
submitting to be gently and continuously stroked
upon the skin, &c. — the common peculiarity of all
the influences which may induce the hypnotic state

AM^—.. ,,. ..

Hypnotism.

219

being that they are sensory stimuli of a gentle,
continuous, and monotonous kind. Awakening
may be produced by suddenly blowing upon the
face, slapping the hand, screaming in the ear, &c.,
and even by the change of stimulus proceeding
from the retina which is caused by a person other
than the operator suddenly taking his place before
the patient. On the whole, the hypnotic condition
may be induced in susceptible persons by a feeble,
continued, and regular stimulation of the nerves of
touch, sight, or hearing; and may be terminated
by a strong or sudden change in the stimulation
of these same nerves.

The physiological explanation of the hypnotic
state which Heidenhain ventures to suggest is
that a stimulus of the kind just mentioned has
the effect of inhibiting the functions of the cerebral
hemispheres, in a manner analogous to that which
is known to occur in several other cases which he
quotes of ganglionic action being inhibited by
certain kinds of stimuli operating upon their
sensory nerves.

In a more recent paper, embodying the results
of a further investigation in which he was joined
by P. Grutzner, Heidenhain gives us the following
supplementary information.

The muscles which are earliest affected arc those
of the eyelids ; the patient is unable to open his
closed eyes by any effort of his will. Next, the
affection extends in a similar manner to the muscles
of the jaw, then to the arms, trunk, and legs. But,

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Hypnotism,

I.'

even when so many of the muscles of the body
have passea beyond the control of the will, con-
sciousness may remain intact. In other cases,
however, the hypnotic sleep comes on earlier.

Imitative movements become more and more
certain the more they are practised, so that at
last they may be invariable and wonderfully pre-
cise, extending to the least striking or conspicuous
of the changes of attitude and general move-
ments of the operator. Professor Berger observed
that when pressure is exerted with the hand at
the nape of the neck upon the spinous process of
the seventh cervical vertebra the patient will
begin to imitate spoken words. It is immaterial
whether or not the words make sense, or whether
they belong to a known or to an unknown
language. The tone in which the imitation is
made varies greatly in different individuals, but
for the same individual is always constant. In
one case it was a hollow tone, ' like a voice from
the grave ' ; in another almost a whisper, and so
on. In all cases, however, the tone is continued
in one kind, i.e. it is monotonous. Further ex-
periments showed that pressure on the nape of
the neck was not the only means whereby imitative
speaking could be induced, but that the latter
would follow with equal certainty and precision if
the experimenter spoke against the nape of the
neck — especially if he directed his words upon it
by means of a sound-funnel. A similar result
followed if the words were directed against the

H 'w riUJ- MI* ..iji^.iifc •

Hypnotism.

221

pit of the stomach. It followed with less certainty
when the words were directed against the larynx
or into the open mouth, and the patient remained
quite dumb when the words were directed into
his ear or upon any other part of his head. If
a tuning-fork were substituted for the voice the
note of the fork would be imitated by the patient
when the end of the fork was placed on any of
the situations just mentioned as sensitive. By
exploring the pit of the stomach with a tuning-
fork the sensitive area was found to begin about an
inch below the breast-bone, and from thence to
extend for about two inches downwards and about
the same distance right and 1ft from the middle
line, while the navel, breast-bone, ribs, &c., were
quite insensitive. Heidenhain seeks — though not,
we think, successfully — to explain this curious
distribution of areas sensitive to sound by considera-
tions as to the distribution of the vagus nerve.

Next we have a chapter on the subjection of
ihe intellectual faculties to the will of the operator
; hich is manifested by persons when in a state
of hypnotism. For the manifestation of these
phenomena the sleep must be less profound than
that which is required for producing imitative
movements; in this stage of hypnotism the ex-
perimenter has not only the motor mechanism
on which to operate, but likewise the imagination.
'Artificial hallucinations' may be produced to any
extent by rehearsing to the patient the scenes or
events which it may be desired to make him

^ '< )i

V 1

222

Hypnotism.

imagine. A number of interesting details of
particular cases are given, but we have only
space to repeat one of the most curious. A
medical student, when hypnotized in the morning,
had a long and consecutive dream, in which he
imagined that he had gone to the Zoological
Gardens, that a lion had broken loose, that he
was great'' terrified, &c. On the evening of the
same day y as again hypnotized, and again
had exactly tu- same dream. Lastly, at night,
while sleeping normally, the dream was a third
time repeated.

A number of experiments proved that stimula-
tion of certain parts of the skin of hypnotized
persons is followed by certain reflex movements.
For instance, when the skin of the neck between
the fourth and seventh cervical vertebrae is gently
stroked with the finger the patient emits a peculiar
sighing sound. The similarity of these reflex move-
ments to those which occur in the well-known
* croak-experiment ' of Goltz is pointed out.

A number of other experiments proved that
unilateral hypnotism might be induced by gently
and repeatedly stroking one side or other of the
head and forehead. The resulting hypnotism
manifested itself on the side opposite to that
which was stroked, and affected both the face and
limbs. When the left side of the head was stroked
there further resulted all the phenomena of aphasia,
which was not the case when the right side of
the head was stroked. When both sides of the

Hypnotism.

223

head were stroked all the limbs were rendered
cataleptic, but aphasia did not result. On placing
the arms in Mosso's apparatus for measuring the
volume of blood it was found that when one arm
was hypnotized by the unilateral method its
volume of blood was much diminished, while that
of the other arm was increased, and that the
balance was restored as soon as the cataleptic
condition passed off. In these experiments con-
sciousness remained unaffected, and there were no
disagreeable sensations experienced by the patient.
In some instances, however, the above results were
equivocal, catalepsy occurring on the same side
as the stroking, or sometimes on one side and
sometimes on the other. In all cases of unilateral
hypnotism, the side affected as to motion is
also affected as to sensation. Sense of tem-
perature under these circumstances remains intact
long after sense of touch has been abolished.
As regards special sensation, the eye on the
hypnotized side is affected both as to its mechanism
of accommodation and its sense of colour. While
colour-blind to ' objective colours,' the hypnotized
eye will see * subjective colours ' when it is gently
pressed and the pressure suddenly removed.
Moreover, if a dose of atropin be administered
to it, and if it be then from time to time hypnotized
while the drug is gradually developing its influence,
the colour-sense will be found to be undergoing
a gradual change. In the first stage yellow ap-
pears grey with a bluish tinge, in the second stage

224

Hypnotism,

pure blue, in the third blue with a yellowish
tinge, and in the fourth yellow with a light bluish
tinge. The research concludes with some experi-
ments which show that in partly hypnotized per-
sons imitative movements take place involuntarily,
and persist until interrupted by a direct effort of
the will. From this fact Heidenhain infers that
the imitative movements which occur in the more
profound stages of hypnotism are purely automatic
or involuntary.

In concluding this brief sketch of Heidenhain's
interesting results, it is desirable to add that in
most of them he has been anticipated by the
experiments of Braid. Braid's book is now out of
print, and as it is not once alluded to by Heidenhain
we must fairly suppose that he has not read it.
But we should be doing scant justice to this book
if we said merely that it anticipated nearly all the
observations above mentioned. It has done much
more than this. In the vast number of careful
experiments which it records — all undertaken and
prosecuted in a manner strictly scientific — it carried
the inquiry into various provinces which have
not been entered by Heidenhain. Many of the
facts which that inquiry yielded appear, a priori,
to be almost incredible ; but, as their painstaking
investigator has had every one of his results
confirmed by Heidenhain so far as the latter
physiologist has prosecuted his researches, it is
but t'air to conclude that the hitherto unconfirmed
observations deserve to be repeated. No one can

Hypnotism, 225

read Braid's work without being impressed by
the care and candour with which, amid violent
opposition from all quarters, his investigations
were pursued ; and now, when, after a lapse of
nearly forty years, his results are beginning to
receive the confirmation which they deserve, the
physiologists who yield it ought not to forget the
credit that is due to the earliest, the most laborious,
and the hitherto most extensive investigator of
the phenomena of what he called Hypnotism.

' i'i

HYDROPHOBIA AND THE MUZZLING

ORDER.

The Muzzling Order has been rescinded for the
metropolis, and once again we have the old round
of jubilations, protests, leading articles in the daily-
papers, and a full-page picture in Punch. The
general result is that, both as regards the formation
of public opinion and any ' prevention of hydro-
phobia,' we are all very much as we were between
four and five years ago, when the previous muzzling
order was rescinded. Yet the questions in debate,
in so far as they are real, are questions of fact ; and,
therefore, the prolonged nature of the debate can
only be due to prejudice on one side or the other.
Under these circumstances, I think it may be useful
to show on which side of this debate the prejudice
lies. Therefore, I will endeavour, as impartially as
I can, to present all the arguments which have
been brought forward on both sides.

First of all, it is desirable to distinguish between
valid arguments and merely gratuitous statements.
Thus, for example, we sometimes hear it denied
that there is such a disease as hydrophobia, from

Hydrophobia and the Muzzling Order. 227

which it easily follows that muzzling orders are
absurd. Only this morning I have found it difficult
to satisfy a highly trained classical man in Oxford
that there is a difference between hydrophobia and
tetanus, so firmly persuaded was he that deaths
which are attributed to the former (imaginary) dis-
ease are really due to the latter. This man would
take nothing upon medical authority touching the
different symptoms of these two diseases, although
he was quite prepared to accept the unsupported
statements of laymen as to their pathological iden-
tity. Nor am I sure that I quite convinced him
even by an offer to prove before his own eyes that,
while a healthy dog, when bitten by what / should
call a rabid dog, would die of what he might call
tetanus, no healthy dog, when bitten by another
v.hich I should not call rabid, would so die.

Again, we often encounter the statement that,
even if hydrophobia is a separate and distinct
disease, it is a disease wh'ch may arise spon-
taneously, or without inoculation (by dog-bite, &c.),
from an animal already afflicted with the disease ;
hence it is argued, there is no use in attempting to
' stamp out ' the disease by muzzling. Now, even
if the premiss here were granted, it would not
ground any valid conclusion against muzzling ;
for, although it might then be true that muzzling
could not extirpate hydrophobia, it would still
enormously diminish that disease. But, as a
matter of fact, the premiss cannot be granted,
because it is merely a gratuitous statement which,

228

'.,

Hydrophobia and

like the one previously mentioned, is not only
destitute of evidence, but directly opposed to all
the evidence that we possess. Of course, there are
alleged cases of the spontaneous origin of rabies,
especially in dogs ; but not one of these cases con-
stitutes what can properly be termed evidence. In
order that there should be good evidence on such
a point, there must first of all be demonstrative
proof that the animal in question cannot possibly
have been bitten by any rabid animal ; and no such
proof has hitherto been forthcoming. On the other
hand, the large and g'lneral fact, that in no country
or large district where rabies has never occurred
(or, having occr.rred, ha,? been completely extirpated)
is it known to have spontaneously appeared (or
arisen de novo ^), constitutes the best evidence that
can be logically required in proof of a negative
reply. No doubt it is necessary to suppose that
at some time, or times, and in some plac^, or
places, rabies must have had an origin, which,
therefore, must have been independent of previous

' * The disease is absolutely unknown in Australia, New Zealand,
and Tasmania, in the Azores, in Madeira, in St. Helena, and in
Sumatra. It has occurred frequently in Egypt, and along the
northern coast of Africa, but it has never crossed the deserts, and
the other regions of this vast continent have hitherto enjoyed perfect
immunity from this terrible scourge, although every village and
settlement swarms with dogs. The immunity of Cape Colony has
been so perfect as to give rise to the idea that some climatic in-
fluence operates there, and that a rabid dog has only to " sniff the
air" of the colony to be cured.' — '/Hydrophobia: its Cause, and
Prevention by Muzzling,* an excellent pamphlet recently published
by Mr. Kerslake, hon. sec. to the Society for the Preventioa of
Hydrophobia, 50 Leicester Square.)

the Muzzling Order.

229

inoculation ; but this is no more than has to be
supposed in the case of all other communicable
diseases — infectious as well as contagious. And in
all such cases the question of ultimate origin is
distinct from that of spontaneous occurrence under
existing conditions. We cannot, indeed, prove the
abstract impossibility of a spontaneous occurrence
of any communicable disease at an ' moment ; but
for all practical purposes it is enough to know that,
if such and such a communicable disease ever does
originate of itself, the fact at any rate must be one
of extraordinarily rare occurrence.

So much, then, for merely gratuitous statements,
whether without or against evidence. They must
be ignored in limine. And I think the same ought
to be said of all expressions of feeling or sentiment,
where these are recognized, by the general common
sense — or the general moral sense — of the public, to
be manifestly improper. Thus, for example, when
anybody tells us that, as a matter of feeling, it is
desirable to allow a score or two of men, women,
and children to perish annually from hydrophobia,
rather than to inflict the ' torture ' of muzzling on
some hundred thousand dogs, I hold that such an
expression of opinion is as unworthy of notice ..i it
is unworthy of the human being who propounds it
— and this whether or not that human being hap-
pens to know what death by hydrophobia means.

Passing over, then, all merely irrational state-
ments of fact and immoral expressions of opinion,
let us proceed to consider the pros and cons of the

230

Hydrophobia and

' H

muzzling question in as exhaustive and business-
like a way as the question deserves, if we attach
any importance to the formation of our own opinion
upon it.

Perhaps it is desirable to observe at the com-
mencement that, in order to leave space for a full
consideration of the prevention of hydrophobia,
I shall abstain from anywhere alluding to the
manner of its cure. We have all heard so much
about M. Pasteur's work in the latter direction
that a paper on hydrophobia may well seem incom-
plete if it does not deal with this side of the
subject. But, in the first place, were I to discuss
M. Pasteur's methods and results, I should desire
to do so thoroughly, and this would require a
separate article. In the second place, the muzzling
question is obviously quite distinct from that as to
the success which has attended the great patho-
logist's investigations. In the third place, whether
or not the measure of his success has been all that
his supporters claim for it. Englishmen have always
been accustomed to remark that 'prevention is
better than cure ' — and, by a curious irony of the
time, it is just those Englishmen who most believe
in the efficacy of the Frenchman's cure that are
now most loudly advocating the desirability of
prevention. Which things are a parable. For,
beforehand, one might have supposed it would
always be the case that the less a man believes in
the possibility of a cure the more would he be
anxious to further the methods of prevention.

IH'

the Muzzling Order.

231

And when we find such is not the case we may
generally further find the reason to h'e among those
strange contradictions of human nature which arise
where the balance between thought and feeling has
never been properly adjusted.

There are only three possible ways of preventing
hydrophobia — namely, either by exterminating, by
protectively inoculating, or by muzzling all the
dogs in districts where hydrophobia occurs. Any
of these methods, if followed with sufficient rigour,
would be equally ehcctive. For obvious reasons,
however, the latter method Is preferable to either
of the others. Moreover, it is no less obvious that
the muzzling need not be continued indefinitely.
It only requires to be continued long enough to
ensure that all dogs which have already been
bitten by rabid dogs shall have passed through the
latent stage of the disease. This period having
elapsed, the muzzling may be withdrawn ; for the
disease in that district will have been stamped out.
Again, seeing that our own country is an island, it
is abundantly practicable to extirpate the disease
altogether, by muzzling dogs for a few months
throughout the island, and then placing all imported
dogs in quarantine for a similar period.

The arguments in favour of muzzling are so
obvious that I may almost apologize for mentioning
them. Unless it is disputed that hydrophobia is
a disease which had best be got rid of, the fact that
adequate muzzling is a practicable as well as
a ceitain means of stamping out the disease is in

232

Hydrophobia and

itself a sufficient argument. Moreover, the fact
that, as I shall presently show, muzzling is the
only means to this end which is at once practicable
and certain converts the sufficient argument into a
superabundant one.

The arguments on the other side are : — (i) an
attempted disproof of the statement which I have
just made — namely, that muzzling is a certain
means of stamping out the disease ; (2) that, even
if muzzling were a sufficient means to this end in
districts where it is applied, it ought to be applied
in all parts of the kingdom simultaneously; (3)
that there is no use in muzzling dogs alone, unless
we likewise muzzle cats, foxes, and so forth, which
is impracticable ; (4) that a system of police
registrativ J. dogs is as effectual as the system of
muzzling ; and (5) that the muzzling system is
a cruel system.

Taking, then, these several arguments in the
order just set forth, the first of them admits of
being annihilated both on a priori ^inA a posteriori
grounds. On a priori grounds, because, as it has
now been proved that hydrophobia is a zymotic
disease, and therefore a disease which does not
arise spontaneously, it stands to reason that
adequate muzzling of dogs must have the effect
of preventing the spread of the disease, so far as
dogs are concerned. The only question that can
here arise is as l:o the possibility of sufficiently well
muzzling dogs to prevent them from biting. But
it has been well proved that dogs cannot bite

the Muzzling Order.

233

through a particular kind of muzzle, which, as
I shall presently explain, happens also to be the
kind of muzzle that is of least inconvenience to the
dogs themselves. Hence, the present argument
against muzzling may be regarded as sufficiently
met on a priori grounds alone. But the case
becomes simply overwhelming when we turn to
the a posteriori grounds. These are grounds of
statistics, as follows : —

Berlin. — (I here quote from the Report of the
Royal Commission on Rabies in Dogs, iiSSj): —

In the city of Berlin special regulations are in
force. In consequence of a severe outbreak in the
year 1852, during which 107 dogs were destroyed
as rabid, the Royal Police issued a decree to the
effect, on July 2, 1853. that all dogs should be
provided with a wire muzzle positively preventing
the animal from biting, and to empower special
persons appointed by the police for that purpose
to seize and destroy all dogs not so muzzled ; and,
when the owner could be found, imposing a fine of
ten thalers (;^i ics.) or a term of imprisonment.
In the year following this decree only one dog was
killed as rabid, against ninety-seven in the previous
year. The decree still remains in force, but does
not seem to have been effectual in ireventing the
recurrence of epidemics of rabies ; for the number
of dogs killed as rabid, which up to 1863 had not
exceeded in any year nine, rose progressively in
the succeeding years, till in 1868 the number had
reached sixty-six. declining again to seven in 1870,
only to increase in 1872 to sixty-nine. In 1875
a law was passed, extending to the whole of Prussia,
for the suppression and prevention of animal disease,

234

Hydrophobia and

which provides that all dogs suspected of rabies
shall be immediately killed, as also all animals
which it is evident have been bitten by rabid
animals; and that all dogs in a district which
has been infected by an outbreak of rabies shall
be confined, or. when abroad, both muzzled and
led. The technical section of the Veterinary
Board in Berlin are of opinion that the passing
of this law, and not only the existence of the
muzzling order in that city, is the cause of the
extinction of rabies in Berlin ; no case has occurred
there since 1883.

Some words of comment on this paragraph of
the report are desirable. It is quite true that in the
year following the muzzling decree in Berlin the
number of rabid dogs killed fell from ninety-seven
to one. But to this it ought to be added that, if
we look to the full statistics themselves, as supplied
to the British Government by Prince Bismarck,
we find that they began in 1846, or eight years
before the muzzling order was made. Now, by
quoting these years 'n parallel columns, we obtain
the following results : —

Rabid dogs killed during eight
years before muzzling.

Rnbid dogs killed during eight
years after muzk.ling.

1846 . .

1847 . .

1848 . .

1849 . .

1850 . .

1851 . .

1853 . .

. 107

1853 . .

. 97

Total

330

1854

1855

1856

i«67

1858

1859

i860

1861

1863

Tota

the Muzzling Order.

235

(

This great difference seems enough to prove the
high efficiency of muzzh'ng. Nevertheless, during
the next eleven years, as the report of the Royal
Commission points out, there were great fluctua-
tions in the numbers of rabid dogs— the lowest
number being seven in 1 870-1, and the highest
sixty-nine in 1873-3. These fluctuations, it seems
to me, can only be explained by supposing them to
have been determined by the number of rabid dogs
that happened in different years to invade the city
from without ; because, no sooner had the muzzling
order been extended to the surrounding country,
together with provisions which, among other things,
stringently excluded importation of rabid dogs from
other countries (such as Russia, where rabies is rife),
than the disease in Berlin was reduced to a rapidly
vanishing quantity, and has entirely disappeared
since 1883.

Vienna. — Rabies was extirpated in this cily by
eighteen months of stringent muzzling. '■ hen, in
the summer of 1886, the muzzling order was "itli
drawn, and a system of placing badges on registered
dogs was substituted. During the next half-year
only one case of rabies occurred. This, of course,
is what might have been expected, looking to the
incubation period of the disease. But in another
half-year an epidemic of rabies occurred, the
muzzling order was renewed, and the disease again
disappeared. This order is still stringently in force.

Holland. — Here rabies had become very formid-
able in the years preceding 1875. In June of that

236

Hydrophobia and

year a muzzling order was issued. In the autumn
of the same year the cases fell to forty-one, and
during the w^o/e of the following year they were
but fifty-five. In the yt ar after that they fell to
fourteen ; in the next year to four, and in the next
(1879) to three. In 1880 the numbers again rose to
thirteen ; but, as in the previous four years, the cases
occurred only on or near the frontier of Belgium,
in which country the dogs were unmuzzled.

Sweden. — The statistics furnished by Professor
Lindqvist in reply to Mr. Kerslake show that
formerly a yearly average of eight to ten deaths
from hydrophobia occurred in Sweden ; but that, in
consequence of muzzling, combined with a law
prohibiting the importation of dogs, there have
not been any deaths since 1870.

London. — In 1884 hydrophobia increased to an
alarming extent. Nothing, however, was done in
the way of prevention ; and in the following year
(1885) it increased still more, twenty-seven deaths
being recorded. A muzzling order was then issued,
and by the end of the next year (1886) no single
death was recorded. The muzzling order was then
rescinded. A few months afterwards hydrophobia
appeared in South London, and then the deaths
gradually rose from year to year, till in 1889 there
were ten deaths recorded. The muzzling order was
therefore renewed in July j 889, and since October
1889 no death has been recorded ^

' In England (including Wales) there have been <;.19 deaths from
hydrophobia recorded during the paat thirty-eight )eui8, the yearly

the Muzzling Order.

237

Now, it seems to me that these statistics, which
have been taken from all countries where muzzling
orders have hitherto been tried, constitute a conclu-
sive answer to what has been said about the useless-
ness of the method. No statistics could possibly
show a closer connexion between cause and effect ;
neither could they well show any higher degree of
efficiency on the part of the cause. Therefore we
may dismiss the argument, or, rather, the unfounded
and fully contradicted statement, that muzzling
is ineffectual.

The second argument to be dealt with is that,
even if muzzling be effectual, to be fully effectual
it ought to be applied throughout the United
Kingdom. Well, in the first place, this argument
is incompatible with the one which we have just
been considering. If muzzling be objected to on
the ground that it is ineffectual, it does not lie with
those who so object to object also on the ground
that muzzling orders are not sufficiently extensive.
In the second place, any one who does not object
to muzzling as an efficient preventive method, but
only to the muzzling orders as not sufficiently
general, is raising a distinct question, and, as this
question has reference to the desirability of ex-
average for the first sixteen yenrs being 8, for the next sixteen years
15, and for the remaining period, ending in 18H5, 45. Thus, the
mortality has steadily advanced through more than 400 per cent.
On the other hand, the Prussian preventive measures have reduced
deaths from hydrophobia to a remarkable degree ; for, while in the
decade ending in 1819 there was a yearly average of 166 deaths, in
a similar period, ending in 1886, there was a yearly average of 4|.

238

Hydrophobia and

tending instead of abolishing these orders, I shall
consider it later on.

The next argument we have to deal with is akin
to the one which we have just considered. For it
represents the uselessness of muzzling dogs, even
in affected districts, unless at the same time we
muzzle cats. The answer is twofold. In the first
place, it is better to have half a loaf than no bread ;
it is no argument against muzzling dogs that some
small percentage of rabies may be kept going by
cats. But, in the second place, the percentage of
rabies that could be kept going by cats alone would
be infinitesimal. For, unlike dogs, cats when rabid
do not run the streets. On the contrary, they hide
themselves, and die in seclusion. The case of wild
foxes is too absurd to require serious notice ; and
perhaps the whole objection which we are now
considering may best be met by pointing to the
cases of Berlin, Vienna, and London, as well as the
whole of Sweden, where, as we have just seen,
hydrophobia has been exterminated by muzzling
dogs alone, not\ withstanding the presence of
cats.

Similarly, the next argument on our list admits
of being negatived, not only on grounds of common
sense, but also by pointing to the case of Vienna.
The argument is, that a system of police registra-
tion of dogs would be as effectual as muzzling ; the
answer is, that the experiment has already been
tried in Vienna, with such bad results that muzzling
orders had to be renewed in a few months. More-

(

IU/>i*t- .—_....».»„ ,.

the Muzzling Order.

239

over, the same thing has occurred both in Belgium
and in our own town of Bradford.

Lastly, there is the argument as to the cruelty
of muzzling dogs. This argument, howevei admits
of many answers. First of all, even if it were true
that dogs must suffer from their muzzles, it is sheer
nonsense to designate as cruelty the infliction of
such an amount of inconvenience or discomfort as
they may thus be required to experience. The
muzzling need only last for a period measured by
months, and if the muzzles be wire cages (which
are in all ways better than straps) the dog can
breathe and pant and drink just as well with as
without his muzzle. Therefore it does not appear
that he is any more inconvenienced by his muzzle
than is a horse by his harness or by his bit. No
doubt, when first put on, many dogs show them-
selves intolerant of its presence ; but so at first
does a horse of the presence of his harness. In
both cases, however, the intolerance is due merely
to inexperience, and quickly gives way to habit.
So that, really, it seems to me sentimentalism in its
most extravagant form which, when so awful a
disease as hydrophobia is in question, can seriously
talk about the cruelty of exposing ' the friend of
man ' to the inconvenience of wearing a cage muzzle
for a few months. Even if we have more regard to
the friend of man than we have to man himself — as
is confessedly the case with not a few writers upon
such subjects — still, from the point of view of our
friend's interest alone, it is surely better for him

240

Hydrophobia and

that he should fret and rub his nose for a week or
two when out of doors, and before he becomes
accustomed to his muzzle, than that he should be
liable to death by rabies.

It appears, then, that there is no valid argument
against the muzzling method ; and therefore we
may well wonder why it creates so much im-
passioned opposition. Yet the reason is not far to
seek. Just because the opposition is impassioned,
it is irrational.

Does it seem that a finding conveyed in such
words as these belies the profession of impartiality
with which I started? If so, I must ask for a defi-
nition of impartiality. For by this term I do not
mean to indicate any insincere pretence of enter-
taining arguments per contra where there are no
such arguments to entertain. I should not accuse
any scientific man of not being impartial, were he
to employ similarly strong language against the
still surviving opinion a^, to the flatness of the
globe. His impartiality would be shown rather in
the patience with which he first states all the argu-
ments which have been adduced in favour of such
an opinion ; and, having proved them worthless, he
would not forgo his impartiality of mind by after-
wards characterizing that opinion as maintainable
only by ignorance or fanaticism. And so in the
present case. I have stated and considered the
arguments which have been alleged in favour of
the view that muzzling orders are useless for the

the Muzzling Order.

241

prevention of hydrophobia, or in sundry other
respects undesirable measures of administration.
If all these arguments are found to be worthless,
the fault does not lie with me. Nor can I be
accused of partiality merely because I state the
result of such an inquiry in the language of suitable
emphasis. But lest it should be thought that these
words are needlessly hard — that one ought not to
make such wholesale accusations of ignorance and
fanaticism against large and organized bodies of
one's countrymen — I will justify what I have said
by quoting from avowedly representative witnesses
before the Royal Commission on Rabies. The
material is abundant, but I will occupy space with
only two or three samples.

What, then, is the value of a man's judgement
who gave it as his opinion that hydrophobia ' is
a condition arising in the course of any disease ' ;
that, although it may follow from the bite of a dog,
it may also follow from any other injury, ' the scratch
of a nail, for instance,' or ' if you broke your leg ' ?
Take again the downright absurdity of another
witness who, while allowing that he had never
himself performed an experiment, or seen an ex-
periment performed, in answer to the question,
* I understand you to say that you have only lately
seen the evidence with regard to M. Pasteur's
system,' replied, ' I had the Daily News articles,
and other articles, sent down to me at Hastings,
and I looked through them as I was coming up in
the train.* Or see, once more, the knowledge and

' t

\'^

, t
, i

()

'!(

242

Hydrophobia and

the wisdom that are betokened in yet another
witness by the following dialogue. After having
hopelessly entangled himself on the subject of
* germs,' he was asked by the Chairman whether
they were to take this as a fair summary of his
opinion.

Q. — Your idea of the growth of the disease is
that it develops from a germ coming from nobody
knows where, but existing in somebody from some
cause of which you know nothing ?

y4.— Yes.

Q. — Is it not also communicated by inoculation
from a bite, or in any other way ?

A. — It arises in both ways ; both by inoculation
from a mad dog, and naturally.

Q. — I do not quite understand what you mean
by coming naturally ; it must come from some-
where ?

A. — Take the case of a person who goes mad;
that person need not have been bitten by a mad
person, but a mad germ is in that mad person's
brain, and it only wants to be developed. The
person might be perfectly quiet with the mad germ
in his system, and might never be anything but an
imbecile or a person of unsound mind, if he is
properly cared for. But irritate that person, or
trouble him, and at once the maniacal germ be-
comes developed, and he becomes raving mad.
So I maintain in the case of the dog, there is
a germ in the blood ; it may be hereditary, it may
be from a dog which has had rabies before, and
has transmitted it ; but 1 say that the germ would
remain dormant for a time until something sets it
in motion.

Q. — What do you understand by a ' germ ' ?

the Muzzling Order.

243

A. — An organic microbe organism, just the same
as the anemone sea fish ; it is something, and it is
nothing ; you can hardly define what it is ; the
lowest form of organic life ; it is something in
the blood which is almost indefinable, but which,
if put under the microscope, is to be seen in a very
minute form.

Is not this enough? Yet it is but a sample of
the kind of witnesses put forward by the anti-
scientific organizations of this country, for the
purpose of rebutting evidence of a demonstrative
character from the highest living authorities upon
physiology and pathology. It is well that such
witnesses have appeared. Out of their own mouths
may they now be judged ; and in that judgement
the societies which put them forward as spokesmen
are irretrievably condemned.

We may conclude, then, that there is no case
against the muzzling of dogs for the purpose of
preventing hydrophobia. But, although the main
question is no longer an open question, there re-
mains a subordinate question touching the best
method of applying orders for the muzzling of
dogs. And this subordinate question is one that
does present considerable diflficulty, as I will next
proceed to show.

The question is as to whether muzzling orders
should be made general for a period long enough
to ' stamp out hydrophobia once for all,' as far as
Great Britain is concerned ; or whether thj plan
hitherto adopted by our Government should be

R a

■«.f:

244

Hydrophobia and

M< i

continued — namely, applying orders for stated
periods to infected districts only. This question
may best be introduced by quoting the following
correspondence which has recently been pub-
lished : —

HiGHFiELD House,
Catford Bridge,
Kent, S.E.,
January 6.

Dear Mr. Chaplin, — In view of the relaxation
of the muzzling order within the metropolitan area,
I think it may be gratifying to you to know that
during the past year not a single application has
been made to the committee, which was formed
when I was at the Mansion House, for sending
poor persons bitten by mad dogs to the Pasteur
Institute for treatment.

In the previous twelve months, '>,^ patients, who
had undoubtedly been bitten by dogs suffering
from rabies, were despatched to that establishment
through and at the expense of my committee, not
one of whom, I am happy to say, died.

It would appear that the result of the muzzling
order, so far as the area over which I had a .special
purview is concerned, has been eminently efficacious ;
and it may be worth while to consider whether
a general order of the same kind should not, at
a favourable opportunity, be put in force for a
moderate period, in the hope that hydrophobia
might be stamped out once for all.

I remain, dear Mr. Chaplin,
Yours faithfully,

James Whitehead.

The Right Hon. Henry Chaplin, M.P.
President of the Board of Agriculture.

the Muzzling Order.

245

January 13.

Dear Sir James, — I have to thank you for your
courteous letter, which affords such encouraging
testimony to the effects of the muzzling order in
the metropolis ; and it may interest you to learn
from our returns what has been the effect of that
order generally throughout the country, as well as
in the metropolis.

I find that in 1889 there were reported 339 cases
of rabies as having occurred throughout England,
including the metropolis.

In 1890, under the influence of the muzzling
regulation, the number of cases had been reduced
to 139.

During the last six months of 1889, we had
reported to us 133 cases, and 80 cases for the third
and fourth quarters of that year respectively, 30 of
which occurred in the metropolis.

During the same period in 1890 we have had
46 cases for the third, and only 1 1 for the fourth
quarter, none of these cases having occurred in the
metropolis.

These results, I think, are eminently satisfactory,
and they encourage the belief that the plan adopted
by the Board of scheduling certain counties, or
groups of counties where the disease prevailed, and
applying the order within their boundaries, would
ultimately be successful in reducing the disease to
a minimum^ without making the order universal ;
and, consequently, with the smallest amount of
annoyance to that section of the community who
so warmly resent any interference with the ease
and comfort of their dogs.

Whether I am right or wrong in this opinion
remains to be proved, but I own I am not un-
sanguine as to the ultimate result, and I am averse,
at all events at present, to adopting your suggestion

.._ — ub-

- 1

1 <

1 1 ■

I •-

[

\ii ii

246

Hydrophobia and

and passing an order which should be general for
a time.

Independently of other objections to that course,
which I think will be obvious, I may be permitted
to point out that a general muzzling order would
be inefficient in itself 'to stamp out hydrophobia
once for all,' unless it were accompanied by a
measure proMbiting the importation of all dogs
whatever into Great Britain. We shall always be
liable to its return from the Continent, or from
Ireland, where, according to the returns issued by
the Irish Veterinary Department, it extensively
prevails, and where the Board of Agriculture have
no jurisdiction.

Believe me, yours very truly,
Henry Chaplin.

Sir James Whitehead, Bart.

Such being the question now before us, I will
briefly state what appear to me the valid argu-
ments on both sides of it, taking first those in
favour of Mr. Chaplin's policy.

It is an unquestionable fact that rabies has its
centres chiefly in towns ; and wherever it occurs
in a town it is sure very soon to be brought to
the notice of the oolice, when, of course, a muzzling
order will be immediately issued. Therefore, what
would be the use of harassing all th*; towns — and,
a fortiori^ all the country — with a general or in-
discriminate order? If rabies were exterminated
in all towns, or other districts at present affected
thereby, the chances against its spread would be
so enormously reduced that it would become an
easy matter to stamp it out of the country alto-

■ *■ -.►.«,-,

the Muzzling Order.

247

gether, by specially dealing with any other towns
or country areas where any case might subsequently
be observed. Our country, being an island, has
comparatively little to fear in the way of contagion
from without. So little, indeed, in the opinion of
Mr. Chaplin, that he repudiattis the suggestion of
quarantine, and even uses as an argument against
universal muzzling the fact that an unpopular
measure in the way of quarantine would be a neces-
sary part of such a policy. Furthermore, as the
Field has recently observed, ' it would be a matter
of extreme, nay, of almost insuperable, difficulty,
for the authorities to see that each and every
individual dog is properly muzzled,* while ' in the
house and in the grounds, or within the curtilage,
the dog would be without its muzzle, and here
lurks danger again.' Lastly, * hundreds of people
there would be to do their best in avoiding and
shirking the confinement of the mouths of their
dogs' ; so that, looking also to 'far remote country
districts where collies or other varieties of their
race may be at large,' probably ' it would take
many months to bring such an Act of Parliament
as would be required for the purpose of a general
muzzling into proper working order.' (Jan. 17,
1891.)

This, as far as I know, exhausts the arguments
which have been advanced against a general
muzzling order. Taking next che arguments in
favour of such an order, it may be urged that all
the class of considerations adduced by the Field

248

Hydrophobia and

are considerations which prove too much. For, if
* danger lurks' in such cases as are mentioned, there
is surely all the more need to legislate with refer-
ence to them. And, even if it should prove that
legislation cannot cope with them adequately, at
all events it would do so partially; and, as pre-
viously remarked, it is better to have half a loaf
than no bread. Besides, the 'danger' attaching
to such cases is somewhat exaggerated by the
Field. ' In the house and in the grounds ' there
would be but comparatively few other dogs to
bite ; and if a rabid dog escaped from the house
or grounds the fact of its being without a muzzle
would act both as a warning and as a reason for
its capture or destruction. Again, ' in the curtilage'
the first symptoms of rabies would be detected by
the hound-master — or, if not, wouk soon become
unmistakable in some members of the pack, when
common prudence would dictate measures of care-
ful isolation. Again, although there might be much
evasion of the law, this is more or less the case
with every law ; but surely in no case does it
constitute any valid reason for not passing a law.
Lastly, with regard to 'far remote country districts,'
these are just the districts where dogs are least
numerous, and therefore least likely to contract
hydrophobia, or to spread it widely if they do.
And to all this it should be added that the Fic^d
itself does not appear to attach much weight to
its own * difficulties ' ; for it concludes by saying
that, notwithstanding these difficulties, 'the order

the Muzzling Order.

249

will have to be general to be effective, and in these
columns we have repeatedly advocated a general
muzzling order.'

Touching the argument that rabies has its centres
in towns, that it is needless to harass large country
districts where no rabies has occurred for many
years — such, for instance, as the whole of Scot-
land — it may be answered that in these days of
rapid locomotion local muzzling can never make
secure against the inoculation of an unaffected dis-
trict, however large ; and, therefore, that it would
be better for all the country to suffer a common
inconvenience for an e4ual time, rather than that
our efforts to extirpate hydrophobia should prove
abortive.

Again, with reference to quarantine, it is of
course self-evident that this would require to be
perpetual ; but surely (our present advocate may
say) it is only the eyes of a Minister which can
perceive any argument against a general muzzling
order on this score. Howsoever unpopular a per-
petual quarantine on imported dogs might prove
to be among one section of the community, this
ought not to constitute any valid reason against
so salutary a measure. Moreover, even from the
point of view of political expediency, is it so certain
that such a standing safeguard would be, in any
large degree, unpopular? Certainly it would re-
ceive the warm support of all that portion of the
public which desires the extirpation of hydrophobia ;
and that this is the largest section appears to be

250

Hydrophobia and

indicated by the public press^ Besides, if once
a general muzzling order had been in force for
a year or so, there can be no question that hydro-
phobia would have become so greatly reduced
throughout the country (as it has just been thus
reduced, not to say abolished, in the case of London)
that public opinion would grow almost unanimous
in favour of permanent quarantine. The mere
relief of anxiety after dog-bite is — as may be seen
in Scotland — so great a gain that the public as
a whole would willingly suffer the small incon-
venience imposed by quarantine to achieve this
gain alone.

Thus, upon the whole, an advocate of general
muzzling tor a year or eighteen months may claim
to have made good the position that, if such
a measure holds out any reasonable prospect of
extirpating hydrophobia, the experiment is a better
one to try than is the experiment which Mr.
Chaplin is now engaged in trying. For, in the first
place, it is certain that Mr. Chaplin's experiment

' As far as I know, the only paper of much influence which is
opposed to the mui-zling orders is the Standard, and that its oppo-
sition is due to some individual opinion appears to be indicated by
the fact that it has systematically suppressed all communications
addressed to it by the Society for the Prevention of Hydrophobia, in
reply to what it has published on the opposite side. Hut, be this as
it may, as against the Standard there may be placed the Times, the
Telegraph, tlie Morning Post, the J)aily News, the Daily Chronicle,
Punch, the Lancet, the British Medical Journal, the Hospital, the
Field, the Saturday Review, the Globe, the World, Truth, the
Sunday Times, tlie Stock-keeper, the Fancier's Gazette, and many
others.

the Muzzling Order.

251

can only continue to be tried at the cost of not
a few human lives, as well as of much suffering
from anxiety after dog-bite, both on the part of
individuals personally concerned and on that of
their friends. In the second place, it is equally
certain that, in the case of many districts where
hydrophobia has been extirpated by local muzzling,
it will reappear, and thus necessitate, for that
district, a repetition of the muzzling nuisance.
This consideration applies with special force to
the particular case of the metropolis. Surrounded
as it is by a dense canine population, it can only
be a question of time, after every abolition of the
disease by muzzling, and consequent repeal of the
muzzling order, that the town will again be in-
vaded by hydrophobia from the country, as it was
in 1887. Thus, it is practically certain that, under
Mr. Chaplin's present policy, London will be ex-
posed to an indefinite repetition of muzzling orders,
alternating with periods of hydrophobia.

Now, if this much be allowed, our advocate may
continue, I will conclude by adducing the strongest
of all my arguments. Mr. Chaplin's experiment
is confessedly tentative. My experiment, on the
other hand, would not be tentative. It has already
been tried, and proved to be successful. For, in
reply to a letter of inquiry from Mr. Kerslake,
the B itish Consul at Stockholm has j;ivcn us the
history of the extirpation of hydrophobia in
Sweden. And this history is most instructive.
Many years ago the disease was formidable ; but

*• •

I .

') :■.

252

Hydrophobia and

' it was put an end to by muzzling all the dogs
in the kingdom*; while, 'as to foreign dogs, or
dogs imported, the Swedish law is very strict and
effectual.' This law is, that no dogs of any kind
are allowed to be imported, either by land or by
sea. The result of these enactments is, 'that
hydrophobia is now quite stamped out in Sweden,
as there has been no case for many years.'

Here, then, is definite proof that the extirpation
of hydrophobia is possible by means of a general
muzzling order, followed by a perpetual law of
quarantine. For, although the Swedish Govern-
ment has seen fit to prevent the importation of
dogs altogether, such a provision is needlessly
severe. In ail other countries where there is no
hydrophobia, and where a perpetual law of qua-
rantine has been established, the latter has been
found fully effectual — as, for instance, in Australia
and New Zealand. The example of Sweden, there-
fore, may be quoted as a complete answer to all
the alleged 'difficulties' of rendering a muzzling
order effective, and reduces the issue to a mere
question of political expediency.

Such, then, is the pleading on both sides, pre-
sented as fully and as fairly as my reading on the
subject has rendered this possible. Nor do I see
that any advantage would be gained were I now to
assume the function of a judge by summing up.
But this much I may say as an expression of my
own opinion. As long as the policy of local
muzzling orders is continued, I cannot see that

* A. ••"■-

(,?A,<'-.-^ "^Z-

the Muzzling Order.

253

there Is so much as the semblance of a reason for the
recent abolition of the order as regards the metro-
polis. Or, in other words, it appears to me, for
the reasons above stated, that a perpetual muzzling
order for the metropolis is nothing short of a logical
corollary upon local muzzling orders elsewhere.

OXFORD : HORACE HART
PRINTER TO THE UNIVERSITY

1 *

» T,

'Ml
(I"

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