{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_36957/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_36957","id":"gutenberg_36957","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/36957","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Ethics, Evolutionary","Social ethics"],"text":"</pre>\n\n\n\nProduced by Thierry Alberto, Henry Craig, Martin Pettit\nand the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at\nhttp://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images\ngenerously made available by The Internet Archive)\n\n\n\n\n\n\nSOCIAL RIGHTS AND DUTIES\n\n\n\n\n_The Volumes of the Series already Published are_:--\n\n\n     +Civilisation of Christendom, and other Studies.+ By BERNARD\n     BOSANQUET, M.A. (Oxon.), Hon. LL.D. (Glasgow). 4s. 6d.\n\n     +Short Studies in Character.+ By SOPHIE BRYANT, D.Sc. (Lond.). 4s.\n     6d.\n\n     +Social Rights and Duties.+ By LESLIE STEPHEN. 2 vols., 9s.\n\n\nOther Volumes to follow by--\n\nProfessor A. SIDGWICK, Professor D. G. RITCHIE, and\nJ. H. MUIRHEAD, Esq. (the Editor).\n\n\n\n\nThe Ethical Library\n\nSOCIAL RIGHTS AND DUTIES\n\nADDRESSES TO ETHICAL SOCIETIES\n\nLESLIE STEPHEN\n\nIN TWO VOLUMES\n\nVOL. II.\n\n[Illustration: Logo]\n\nLONDON\nSWAN SONNENSCHEIN & CO., LIMITED\nNEW YORK: MACMILLAN & CO.\n1896\n\n\nABERDEEN UNIVERSITY PRESS.\n\n\n\n\nNOTE.\n\n\nThe following chapters are chiefly a republication of addresses\ndelivered to the Ethical Societies of London. Some have previously\nappeared in the _International Journal of Ethics_, the _National\nReview_, and the _Contemporary Review_. The author has to thank the\nproprietors of these periodicals for their consent to the republication.\n\nL. S.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n\n                                  PAGE\nHEREDITY,                            1\n\nPUNISHMENT,                         55\n\nLUXURY,                             95\n\nTHE DUTIES OF AUTHORS,             137\n\nTHE VANITY OF PHILOSOPHISING,      183\n\nFORGOTTEN BENEFACTORS,             225\n\n\n\n\nHEREDITY.\n\n\nI found, the other day, that an address upon Heredity had been\nannounced, of which I was to be the deliverer. I admit that I was fully\nresponsible for the statement, although, for reasons with which I need\nnot trouble you, I was not quite prepared for it in this form. I mention\nthis fact in order simply to say that the title may possibly give rise\nto false expectations. I am quite incompetent to express any opinion of\nthe slightest scientific value upon certain problems suggested by that\nrather ugly word \"heredity\". The question as to the precise relationship\nbetween any organism and its parents or remoter ancestors, is one of the\nhighest interest. The solution, for example, of the problem, whether is\nit possible for a living being to transmit to its descendants qualities\nwhich have only been acquired during its own lifetime, has an important\nbearing upon the general theory of evolution. But I have nothing\nwhatever to suggest in regard to that problem. I simply take it for\ngranted that there is some relation between parents and children: and a\nrelation, speaking in the most general way, such that the qualities\nwith which we start in life, resemble more or less closely those of our\nancestors. I may also assume that, in some form or other, the doctrine\nof evolution must be accepted: and that all living things now in the\nworld are the descendants, more or less modified, of the population\nwhich preceded them. I proceed to ask whether, as some people appear to\nbelieve, the acceptance of this doctrine in the most unqualified form,\nwould introduce any difficulty into our primary ethical conceptions. I\nwill also at once give my answer. I do not believe that it introduces\nany difficulty whatever. I do believe that the general theory of\nevolution tends in very important ways to give additional distinctness\nto certain ethical doctrines; although, to go at all fully into the how\nand the why would take me beyond my present purpose. All that I have to\nargue to-day is, that a belief in \"heredity\" need not be a\nstumbling-block to any reasonable person.\n\nI cannot doubt that the popular mind is vaguely alarmed by the doctrine.\nI read, the other day, a novel by a well-known author, of which, so far\nas I can remember, the main substance was as follows: A virtuous doctor\n(his virtue had some limitations) studied the problem of heredity, and\nhad read Darwin, and Herbert Spencer, and Weissmann, and all the proper\nauthorities. His own researches are carefully described, with the\napparent assumption that they were both profound and of tremendous\nsignificance. He had, it appears, accumulated a vast amount of material;\nand his method was to cut out slips from newspapers, whenever they\nrecorded any events in his own family history, and to preserve them in a\nmysterious cabinet. These investigations proved that there was a decided\nfamily likeness running through the descendants of a common ancestor. As\na general rule, they had all belonged to the class \"blackguard\". From\nthis result he inferred that there was no God and no soul. His relations\nwere dreadfully scandalised: one was converted to his views; but the\nothers contrived diabolical plots for setting fire to these marvellous\ncollections and so stopping the contagion of these dreadful doctrines at\ntheir source. It struck me, I confess, that instead of burning the\ncollections, they would have done better to ask him what was the\nconnection between his premisses and his conclusions. What was this\nterrible, heart-paralysing truth which the poor man had discovered? Has\nany human being ever doubted, since mothers were invented, that children\nare apt to resemble their parents? I do not personally remember the\nfact, but I should be prepared to bet, if the point could be settled,\nthat, before I was a month old,--and in those days neither Darwin nor\nWeissmann had published a line,--my nurse and my mother had affirmed\nthat the baby was like his papa. That, at any rate, is a remark, the\nomission of which would show more originality than the assertion. If I\ndesired, again, to produce classical authority for the importance of\nrace, I should not have to extend my researches beyond the Latin\nGrammar. If, once more, we look into the writings of famous theologians,\nwe meet it everywhere. I take the first that comes to hand. \"Good men,\"\nsays Calvin, \"and beyond all others, Augustine, have laboured to\ndemonstrate, that we are not corrupted by any adventitious means but\nthat we derive an innate depravity from our very birth.\" The denial of\nthis was an instance of consummate impudence--reserved, as Calvin shows,\nfor such wicked heretics as Pelagius. The doctrine of heredity, in\nshort, in a theological version, is essentially involved in the dogmatic\nfoundations of the orthodox creed. I have no doubt that an investigation\nof the reasonings of Augustine and others would exhibit much affinity to\nmodern controversy, though in a very different terminology. Whatever we\nmay think of its merits, the doctrine of original sin implies that a\ndepraved nature may have been transmitted to the whole human race; and,\nif the commonly alleged cause of the original depravity strikes us as\ninsufficient, it is, at least, a very familiar argument of divines,\nthat the doctrine corresponds to undeniable facts. Why should it startle\nus in a scientific dress? If we can transmit depravity, why not genius\nand bodily health? In one respect, modern theories tend rather to limit\nthan to extend the applicability of the principle. No one ever doubted,\nnor could doubt, that the child of a monkey is always a monkey; and that\nthe child of a negro, or even of a Mongol, has certain characteristics\nwhich distinguish it from the child of a European. But the difference is\nthat, whereas it used to be held that there was an impassable barrier\nbetween the monkey and the man, it is now widely believed that both may\nbe descendants from a common ancestor. Should this belief establish\nitself, we shall have to admit that, in spite of heredity, organic forms\nare capable of much wider variation than was believed by our fathers to\nbe even conceivable.\n\nLet us try, then, to discover some more plausible explanation of the\nfear excited by the doctrine. Now, I wish to give as wide a berth as\npossible to that freewill controversy which perplexes so many minds, and\nis apt to intrude at this point. I will try to assume,--though it is not\nmy own position,--the doctrine of the freedom of the will in the widest\nsense that any reasonable person can devise. No such person will deny\nthat there is a close connection--the terms of which have not yet been\ndefined--between the physical constitution and the moral or intellectual\ncharacter. The man plainly grows out of the baby. If the baby's skull\nhas a certain conformation it can only be an idiot; with another skull\nand brain it may be developed into a Shakespeare or a Dante. The\npossibilities ranging between those limits are immovably fixed at birth.\nAnd what determines the constitution with which the child is born?\nSurely it can be nothing but the constitution and circumstances of its\nparents. Whether I can be a great man, or cannot be more than a\ncommonplace man, or a fool,--nay, whether I shall be man or monkey or an\noak,--is settled before I have had any power of volition at all. Now, it\nis curious how, even at this early period, we are led to use delusive\nlanguage. The difficulty is quaintly indicated in a remark by Jonathan\nSwift. The dean \"hath often been heard to say\" (says a fragment of\nautobiography) \"that he felt the consequences of his parents' marriage,\nnot only through the whole course of his education, but during the\ngreater part of his life\". If they had not married, he apparently\nimplies, he would have been born of other parents, and certainly would\nhave felt it for life. What the word \"he\" means in that connection, is a\npuzzle for logicians. I fell into the difficulty myself, the other day,\nwhen I had occasion to say that a man's character had been influenced,\nboth by his inheritance of certain qualities and by the later\ncircumstances of his education. Having said this, which, I think, aimed\nat a real meaning, it occurred to me that the phrase was grossly\nillogical, and I shall be still obliged if any one will put it straight\nfor me. The difficulty was, that I had used the same form of words to\nindicate the influence of a separable accident, and to describe one\naspect of the essential character. To say that a man is influenced by\nhis education is to say that he would have been different had he gone,\nfor example, to another school. That is intelligible. But to say that\n\"he\" would have been different if he had been born of other parents is\nabsurd, for \"he\" would not have been \"he\". He would not have existed at\nall. \"He\" means the man who has grown out of the baby with all its\ninnate qualities; and not some, but all those qualities, the very\nessence of the man himself, is, of course, the product of his\nprogenitors. Such phrases, in short, suggest the fancy that a man had a\npre-existence somewhere, and went about like Er the Pamphylian in\nPlato's myth, selecting the conditions of his next stay upon earth. In\nthat case, no doubt, there might be some meaning in the doctrine. The\ncharacter of the future incarnation would depend upon the soul's choice\nof position. But as we know nothing about any pre-existent soul, we must\nagree that each of us starts as the little lump of humanity, every\ncharacteristic of which is determined by the characteristics of the\nparents, however much its later career may be affected by the\nindependent powers of thought and volition which it develops. So much,\nit seems to me, must be granted on all hands, and is perhaps implicitly\ndenied by no one.\n\nBut granting this very obvious remark, what harm does \"heredity\" do us?\nIt is the most familiar of all remarks that you and I and all of us\ndepend upon our brains in some sense. If they are pierced, we die; if\nthey are inflamed, we go mad; and their constitution determines the\nwhole of our career. A grain of sand in the wrong place, as the old\nepigrams have told us,--in Caesar's eye, for example,--may change the\ncourse of history. That unlucky fly, which, as Fuller remarks, could\nfind no other place to creep into in the whole patrimony of St. Peter\nexcept the Pope's throat, choked the unlucky man, and, for the time at\nleast, altered the ecclesiastical order of Christendom. In other words,\nwe are dependent at every instant upon elements in the outside\nworld,--bacteria, for instance,--and the working of our own physical\norganism. But, that being so, what conceivable difference does it make\nwhether the brain, which we certainly did not ourselves make, has a\nfixed resemblance to that of our parents, or be, if it be possible, the\nproduct of some other series of processes? It is important, no doubt, to\nrecognise the fact; it would be of the highest importance if we could\ndefine the exact nature of the fact; but the influence upon any general\nethical doctrine of the recognition of the bare fact itself seems to be\nprecisely nothing at all. It is part of the necessary data of all\npsychological speculation, and has been recognised with more or less\nprecision from the very first attempts to speculate.\n\nTrying, once more, to discover what it is that alarms, or is said to\nalarm, some people, we are reminded of certain facts, which again are of\nprofound interest in some respects. I take a special instance,--not,\nunfortunately, a rare or at all a strange instance,--to illustrate the\npoint. Many years ago I knew a clergyman, a man of most amiable\ncharacter and refined tastes. One morning he shocked his friends by\nperforming the Church service in a state of intoxication, and within a\nfew months had drunk himself to death. The case was explained,--that is,\na proper name for it was found,--when we learnt that more than one of\nhis nearest relations had developed similar propensities, and died in\nmuch the same way. Then we called it an instance of \"hereditary\ndipsomania,\" and were more or less consoled by the classification. We\nwere not, I think, unreasonable. The discovery proved apparently that\nthe man whom we had respected and admired was not a vulgar debauchee,\nwho had been hypocritically concealing his vices; but that he had really\npossessed the excellent qualities attributed to him, only combined with\nan unfortunate constitutional tendency, which was as much a part of his\noriginal nature as a tendency to gout or consumption. Now this, as I\nthink, suggests the problem which puzzles us at times. A man develops\nsome vicious propensity, for which we were quite unprepared. In some\ncases, perhaps, he may show homicidal mania or kleptomania, or some of\nthe other manias which physicians have discovered in late years. They\nsay, though the lawyers are rather recalcitrant, that a man suffering\nfrom such a mania is not \"responsible\"; and if asked, why not? they\nreply, because he was the victim of a disease which made him unable to\nresist the morbid impulse. But then, we say, are not all our actions\ndependent upon our physical constitution? If a man develops homicidal\nmania, may not a murderer of the average type excuse himself upon the\nsame ground? You have committed an action, we say, which shows you to be\na man of abnormal wickedness. You are a bloodthirsty, ferocious,\ninhuman villain. Certainly, he may reply; but if you could examine my\nbrain you would see that I could not be anything else. There is\nsomething wrong about its molecular construction, or about the shape of\nthe skull into which it was fitted, which makes bloodthirstiness quite\nas inevitable in me as a tendency to drink is in others, or perhaps as\nthe most ardent philanthropy may be in some. In short, I am a murderer;\nbut wickedness is so natural to me that you must in all fairness excuse\nme.\n\nThis is, of course, a kind of excuse which would not free a man from the\ngallows. It would simply suggest that punishment should not be\nconsidered from the moral, but, if I may say so, from the sanitary point\nof view. We should hang the murderer--not to satisfy our sense of\njustice, but to get rid of a nuisance. I will not now inquire what may\nbe said upon that undoubtedly difficult problem; but I must touch upon\nthe previous question which is raised by the argument. Would our\nsupposed murderer make out a good case for himself? Is there no\ndifference between him and the maniac; or, rather, what is the nature of\nthe difference which we clearly recognise in practice? In the extreme\ncase which our ancestors took as the typical case, the madman kills\nbecause he is under some complete illusion: he supposes that he is only\nbreaking a glass when he is really taking a life, and so forth. He is\ntherefore not wicked, but accidentally mischievous. We have now come to\nrecognise the existence of many states of mind intervening between this\nand complete sanity. Among them, for example, is the state of mind of\nthe homicidal monomaniac, whose propensity is considered to be the cause\nof his actions, and which may be consistent with his being in many other\nrespects capable of acting upon the ordinary motives and judging\nreasonably in most of the affairs of life. What, then, is the meaning of\nthe statement that he is a madman, and therefore excusable? The\ncontention must, of course, be, in the first place, that his character\nis in some way abnormal. He is not governable by the ordinary motives\nwhich determine human action. But, beyond this, it is evident that the\nabnormality is taken to mean something more than the mere deviation from\nthe average. A man may be abominably wicked, and yet not in the least\nabnormal in the sense here required. He may be deficient in the higher\nmotives, and the more brutal passions may be unusually developed; and\nyet we do not hold that he therefore deviates from the type. So, in a\ndifferent sphere, we may have one man possessing enormous strength and\nanother exceedingly feeble, one very active and another very clumsy;\nand yet they may all be perfectly normal, they are free from physical\ndisease, and all their physical functions may be performed according to\nthe normal system. Entire freedom from disease, in short, is perfectly\ncompatible with exceedingly wide deviations from the average, with\ncapacity for walking a thousand miles in a thousand hours, or with\ninability to walk a single mile; and yet such deviations do not imply a\ndeparture from a certain common type. To say precisely what symptoms\nindicate mere differences within the normal type, and what imply an\nactual deviation from the type, is exceedingly difficult, if not\nimpossible; and yet that such a distinction exists has to be constantly\nrecognised. \"So-and-so is delicate, but not diseased; feeble, but not\ndeformed,\" has a definite meaning, though we may be unable to define the\nprecise meaning of our words, or to decide which statement is true in\nparticular cases.\n\nThe great difficulty in the case of insanity corresponds to this. The\nphysician tells us that the madman's mind works abnormally, but not\nabnormally in the sense merely of having some faculties weaker and\nothers stronger than is common; but in such a way as to indicate\ndisease, and, moreover, a particular kind of disease, or one, perhaps,\nof several particular kinds of diseases. The vagueness of this statement\nprovokes lawyers, who have a natural love of definite external tests to\ngovern their decisions; and it has led to a number of delicate\ndiscussions, upon which I need not enter. The legal problem seems\nessentially to be, what tests should guide us in determining whether a\nman should be regarded as a normal human being, or as a being so far\ndiffering from the normal type that he should be treated exceptionally,\nand especially put under the guidance of other persons, and excused from\nlegal responsibility, that is, liability to punishment.\n\nI have to do with the moral problem alone. It is a still more difficult\nproblem; but it has this advantage, that we do not require so definite\nan answer. We have not, happily, to decide whether our fellows shall go\nto heaven or to hell, though we have to decide whether they shall be\nhanged or locked up; and we must be content as a rule with very vague\nestimates as to their moral character. What we practically have to take,\nmore or less roughly, into account is simply this: that our inference\nfrom conduct to character has often to be modified by the existence of\nthese abnormal cases. A man is drunk on an important occasion; I infer,\nas a rule, that he has all the qualities which go with low sensuality;\nbut in some cases the inference is wrong; the man may be really a person\nof most admirable feelings; but one of his instincts has suddenly taken\nan abnormal development, owing to a set of causes entirely different\nfrom the usual causes. Another man suddenly and causelessly kills a\nfriend. The natural inference that he must be a bloodthirsty brute is\nerroneous, if it turns out that he has acted from impulses not generated\nby any habitual want of benevolence, but from some special defect in the\nconstitution of his brain. In other words, our moral judgment must vary\nin the two cases, and may vary so much that the same action may rightly\nsuggest only pity in one case and abhorrence in the other; although, in\nmany cases, where it may be very difficult to say what is the precise\nimplication as to character, the judgment must, if we are properly\ndiffident, remain obscure. The moral problem always depends ultimately\nupon this: What is the character implied by this conduct? If the moral\nconduct shows malignity within the normal type, it justifies\ncondemnation; if it shows only a blind instinctive impulse, due to a\ndeflection from the type, it may justify no other feelings than those\nwhich we have for the poor maniac who fancies himself a king, and takes\nhis limbs to be made of glass.\n\nIf we hold that such responsibility implies free will we shall argue\nthat the madman is deprived of free will, or that his freedom of will is\nmore or less restricted, and that he is therefore irresponsible. In my\nown opinion, that proposition would be by no means an easy one to\nestablish. I fancy that a man may be insane and yet capable, within very\nwide limits, of being good or bad, and that therefore we must at any\nrate hold that he has still some power of free will. The bearing of this\nupon the question of moral responsibility brings us within sight of some\ndelicate problems. But, however this may be, the criterion by which we\nshall have to judge whether we are believers in free will or\ndeterminists will be the same. The problem is essentially, is this man\naccessible to the motives by which normal men regulate their conduct? or\ndoes he so far deflect from the typical constitution, however that\nconstitution may be precisely defined, that his conscience or his\naffections or his intellectual powers are unable to act according to the\ngeneral laws of human nature?\n\nHaving said so much, I think that I may proceed to this conclusion, that\nthe theory of heredity can make no real difference whatever to our\nproblem. There is a difficulty for the metaphysician--the difficulty\nwhich is involved in discussions between materialists and idealists,\ndeterminists and believers in free will. I do not deny the existence of\nthat difficulty. I only say that the question of heredity is altogether\nirrelevant to the difficulty. The desire to treat ethical problems by\nthe methods of science may predispose a thinker to materialism, and may\nat the same time lead him to attach particular importance to the\ndoctrine of heredity. But that doctrine only takes note of facts which\nevery theory has to state in its own phraseology, and do not alter the\nultimate problem.\n\nLet us, in fact, go back to our murderer. I am not responsible, he says,\nbecause I am determined by the processes in my brain. I am a mere\nmachine, grinding out one set of actions or another as external\naccidents set my wheels and pulleys in motion. If that argument be fatal\nto moral responsibility, or to the belief that any truly moral action\nexists (a point which I do not argue), it will no doubt remove the moral\nelement from the treatment both of murderers and madmen. They might\nstill require different measures, just as we treat a machine differently\nwhen we consider that it is not of the normal construction, or that its\nvarious parts have somehow got out of gear, so that we can no longer,\nfor example, expect that the mainspring will transmit its motion to the\nwheels. But, in any case, if the dependence upon the body be a fatal\nobjection to morality in the highest sense, the circumstance that the\nbody is made upon the plan of previously existing bodies makes no\nadditional difficulty. If we could suppose every brain to be started\nafresh by a fortuitous concourse of atoms, the difficulty would be\nneither increased nor diminished. The problem, are we automatic? and the\nvalidity of the inference, is morality meaningless? are questions\naltogether independent of the question, what particular kind of automata\nare we? and do we or do we not resemble a previous generation of\nautomata?\n\nIf, however, we reply to the criminal that he is not a machine or an\nautomaton, but a responsible, reasoning, and thinking being, we do not\nget away from the facts. We then assert that he is responsible because\nhe possesses a certain moral constitution. But whatever words we may use\nto express the facts correctly, we must still allow that there is such a\ncorrelation between soul and body (if those old-fashioned words be\nadmissible) that the health of his moral constitution depends at every\ninstant upon the health of his nervous system and his brain. It may be\nshattered or destroyed by an injury; and, if this be so, what does it\nmatter whether the injury--say the defective shape of the skull, which\ncauses pressure on the brain--is due to some accident or to a connate\nmalformation due to his parents? The difficulty, if it be difficulty, is\nthat the want of responsibility is due to some cause, accidental\nrelatively to him; and it matters not whether that cause be in his\nparents' constitution or in some other combination of circumstances. In\nany case, we have to suppose, whatever the relation of mind and body, we\nmust at least assume that a man is born with some character. Like\neverything that exists, he has certain definite qualities which he did\nnot make for himself, and upon which his subsequent development depends.\nAnd, if that be once admitted, the whole difficulty still occurs, and\nthe question as to whether the origin of these innate qualities be\nderived from his parents or from a something else is a mere matter of\ndetail.\n\nIn fact, the confusion seems to me to arise from the vague phraseology\nwhich induces us to accept, virtually at least, the mental attitude of\nDean Swift in Er the Pamphylian. We speak as if the man were an\nindependent entity, lying somehow outside the chain of cause and effect,\nand arbitrarily plunged into it; nay, as if even his inner constitution\nwere something superinduced upon his nature. It is really an absurd\nabstraction to distinguish between the man and his character, as though\nhe meant a something existing without a character, and afterwards run\ninto a mould by fate. The character is the man in certain relations, and\nhe can never exist without it, any more than a piece of matter can be\noutside of all particular times and places. If the doctrine of free will\nand moral responsibility be so interpreted as to imply our acceptance\nof such fallacies, I can only say that it appears to me to be\nirreconcilable with the most undeniable facts. But I am very far from\nsupposing that any intelligent supporter of the doctrine would state it\nin such a form. He would admit as fully as I do the facts, and, if they\ncan be admitted and reconciled to the doctrine of moral responsibility,\ncertainly the doctrine of heredity can be so reconciled. The only\npeculiarity of the doctrine is, that it has called attention to an order\nof facts which must in any case be recognised by every philosopher; and\nthat it helps, therefore, to disperse a fallacy which only requires\narticulate statement to show its radical want of logic or even\nconceivability. We are, beyond all doubt, affected somehow, and affected\nprofoundly, by our environment; and this particular form of relation to\nother beings has no more bearing upon the problem than the other forces\nwhich have been recognised ever since speculation began.\n\nThere is, however, another side from which I must briefly consider the\nquestion of heredity; and it is a side which, I think, is really more\nimportant, because it involves issues of facts, and has suggested some\nmore reasonable prejudices. It is, undoubtedly, very common that when a\ntheory has obtained a certain currency it should be applied rashly\nbeyond its proper limits. When the speculations of Darwin encouraged us\nto believe that the natural selection might be analogous to artificial\nselection, that different species of animals have been produced as\nvarieties of dogs and pigeons have been produced by breeders, it was, at\nleast, tempting to apply the same formula directly to other cases. Some\nmen of science have endeavoured to show that genius or criminality is\nhereditary; and that, if one man writes a great poem and another picks a\npocket, it is always in virtue of their hereditary endowment. Within\ncertain limits, this statement is not surprising, and I shall be very\nglad when men of science can tell us what those limits may be. Without\nbeing a man of science, I fully believe that our congenital\ncharacteristics form, as I have said, certain impassable limits to our\ndevelopment. One baby is a potential Shakespeare, and, probably, only\none in a million. The qualities with which he starts, again, are, no\ndoubt, derived from his parents, though we do not, as yet, understand in\nwhat way; whether, for example, we should infer that Shakespeare's\nparents had more than usual capacity, or were especially healthy, or had\nsome peculiar form of one-sided development which generated the disease\ncalled poetical genius; or whether he may have inherited qualities from\na remote ancestor, which had remained latent for several generations.\nIn any case, he was at birth only a potential Shakespeare. He might have\ndied of the measles, or been made stupid by a sunstroke, or have taken\nto drink in bad company, or have run away to sea, or been sent to the\nUniversity and become a mere bishop or professor of casuistry; in short,\nthough he could not easily have done very much better work than he did,\nhe might have done inconceivably less. That is to say, his congenital\nqualities implied certain powers; but what he would do with them\nremained to be partly determined by an indefinite variety of external\ncircumstances acting upon him in various ways. Hence, we have always the\ncomplex problem, what, given certain raw material in the shape of\nnew-born babies, will be the characteristics of the finished product in\nthe shape of a grown-up population? If the social state is determined\nfrom the inherited qualities directly, we should be able, for example,\nto infer from a given proportion of criminals, that a certain number of\nchildren were born with a corresponding physical constitution, with\n\"foreheads villainous low,\" and prognathous jaws, and with the other\npeculiar signs which mark the felon from his birth. In that case, again,\nwe should infer, I suppose, that the only possible means of improving\nthe social state would be by somehow improving the breed; perhaps, by\nappointing some of the inspectors who play so great a part in modern\nsociety, to examine infants, and get rid of those who were thus\ndistinguished, by the means now adopted in the case of superfluous\npuppies. One objection to this system is, of course, that men of science\nhave not yet shown that they are qualified for exercising such a\nsupervision; and there are other difficulties upon which I need not\ndwell. This much, indeed, we may grant without any scientific\nprepossessions whatever. It is clearly very desirable that every\ngeneration should raise up for its successors as many children with\nsturdy bodies and vigorous brains as possible; and it is to be hoped\nthat the objection to transmitting disease and imbecility may be more\ngenerally recognised, and, in some shape or other, have an influence\neven upon the strongest passions. But I am only concerned with the\ngeneral theory, which, if I understand it rightly, would appear to imply\nthat the characteristics of a society are irrevocably fixed by the\ncharacteristics of the children born into it; and, whether this theory\nbe true or false, we must admit that it has a considerable bearing upon\nmorality. If, in fact, we hold it to be rigidly true, we should have to\nsuppose that no serious improvement can be produced in society at large,\nexcept by breeding a superior race of men. This, again, is a\ndiscouraging prospect. Let me quote what has been said by an authority\nwho expresses, I believe, the accepted scientific view. \"There can be no\ndoubt,\" says Professor Huxley, \"that vast changes have taken place in\nEnglish civilisation since the days of the Tudors. But I am not aware\nthat there is a single particle of evidence in favour of the conclusion\nthat this evolutionary process has been accompanied by any modification\nof the physical or the mental characters of the men who have been the\nsubjects of it. I have not met with any grounds for suspecting that the\naverage Englishmen of to-day are sensibly different from those that\nShakespeare knew and drew.\" The statement, I imagine, might be very much\nextended. I do not suppose that the average cockney of to-day is a\nsuperior animal, physically or morally, to the average Athenian of the\ndays of Pericles, or even, it may be, to the pre-historic savages who\nmade flint implements for the amusement of our antiquaries. Briefly,\nwhatever change has taken place, within historical period, has been a\nsocial change, not a change in the structure of the individual. This is\nsurely conceivable. We need only consider, for example, how vast a\nchange has been made in all the conditions of life by the modern\napplications of practical science. Whether, in other respects, we are\nbetter or worse than our forefathers, we have an enormously greater\naggregate of wealth now than we had, say, two centuries ago; we can\nsupport four times the population, though the condition of the lowest\nstratum may not be better. And this amazing advance of wealth is not due\nto the fact that Englishmen of to-day have better brains for mathematics\nthan the Englishmen of Newton's time; but to the accumulation of\ncapital, the improvement of the natural conditions of the soil, the\nturning to account of vast masses of material, previously neglected; to\nthe invention of machinery, and so forth; all of which imply, not\nnecessarily the very slightest improvement of natural capacity, but\nsimply the growth of knowledge, and the fact that each generation has\npreserved more than it has consumed. What we call progress or\ncivilisation, which means, whatever else it may or may not mean, a\ngigantic increase in the power of man over nature, is due, therefore, to\nthe one fact that man can accumulate. He can modify the earth in such a\nway as to facilitate the labours of the coming generations; he can make\ntools which last beyond his own time, and which themselves become, as it\nwere, the ancestors of incomparably superior tools; he can, moreover,\naccumulate and transmit knowledge, not merely the knowledge of facts,\nbut the knowledge of scientific laws and of useful inventions, and of\nthe right methods of investigating facts. When Newton made a discovery,\nhe made it for all the following generations; and, though it may well be\nthat no superior or even equal intellect has since arisen to carry on\nhis work, the dwarf now stands on the shoulders of the giant. It is not\nsimply that we know more facts. The modes of mathematical inquiry differ\nas much from those which Newton could employ, as the latest steam engine\nfrom the crude fire machine before the time of Watt; and an average\nundergraduate can solve with ease problems which once puzzled the\ngreatest intellects that ever appeared among men. Man, then, can\naccumulate; and that simple fact enables every generation enormously to\nsurpass its predecessors. Accumulation, again, is, of course, a form of\ninheritance. We are born heirs to the intellectual as well as to the\nmaterial fortunes of our ancestors. But, it is obvious, this is\nsomething very different from heredity. It supposes an alteration, not\nin the man, but in his surroundings or his education in the widest\nsense; not in his intellectual capacity, but in the knowledge which it\ncan attain and the rules which it has worked out. In order that a man\nmay be capable either of bequeathing or inheriting, he must have certain\nfaculties; he must be an observing, remembering, reasoning animal; but\nhe may become indefinitely richer, not from any improvement in his\npowers of observing and remembering and using, but simply from the\nchange in his position. People's memories, it is sometimes suggested,\nhave been weakened by the invention of printing. But, weakened or not,\nwe have an incomparably greater knowledge of the past than was formerly\npossible, because we can now keep our memories upon our bookshelves, in\nthe form of histories and encyclopaedias, and know every fact that we\nwant to know when we want it, without troubling ourselves to fill our\nminds with all the knowledge that may ever be possibly useful. A library\nis an external and materialised memory. But without illustrating so\nplain a point any further, I simply take note of what it implies: that\nis, that, as Professor Huxley has pointed out, all that distinguishes\nthe present state of things from the state of things in the time of\nElizabeth, or, perhaps, at the time of remote Egyptian dynasties, may be\ndue, not to any change in the individual, but to what is called the\nsocial factor. The inference from the individual to the society, or from\nthe society to the individual, is, therefore, rigidly impossible,\nbecause, given the man, the position in which he is placed and the stage\nof development of the society to which he belongs, are relevant facts\nwhich exercise an incalculably great influence.\n\nIf this be true, what follows? We remark, in the first place, that the\nevolution of which we speak in regard to natural history, the process by\nwhich the present population of the globe has gradually grown out of the\npopulation of remote geological epochs, is slow. The changes which it\nmay produce are not sensible within a generation--for, indeed, the very\nnature of the case implies that they must take many generations--not\nperhaps even within such a period as is covered by all authentic\nhistory. It is not, of course, on that account to be overlooked for\nscientific purposes. Monkeys must have grown into men before they could\nbegin to accumulate capital, either material or spiritual. The faculty\nof accumulating must itself have been developed. Only when once it was\ndeveloped, another process would begin, the process of social evolution,\nwhich, however it may resemble the other, or possibly be in some sense\nits continuation, proceeds, at least, at a totally different rate. The\ndifference is comparable, one may say roughly, to the difference between\nthe speed of an express train and the speed of a four-wheeled waggon.\nBeneath the surface, it may be, the slower process is still continuing;\nmen, for anything I can say to the contrary, may be acquiring larger\nbrains and more sensitive bodies; and it is further possible, or rather\nobvious, that if we can do anything to facilitate this proceeding, to\nbehave so as to give nature a better chance of turning out better work,\nwe ought to do so. Only nature is pretty sure to take her time about it.\nHow far, again, one process is to be considered as a continuation of the\nother, or as a modification, or even as in opposition to it, is a point\nwhich I cannot now touch. What I have to say is simply this: that if we\ntake any two periods of society, the present, for example, and that of a\nthousand or five thousand years ago, we shall find enormous or\nincalculably great differences in the social structure, in the amount of\nknowledge, in the character of the ethical, religious, and philosophical\nbeliefs, and in the relations between the individuals of which the\nsociety is constructed; but between the individuals at the two periods\nwe may find hardly any definable difference whatever. For anything we\ncan say, we should be able, if we could move people about in time as\nwell as in space, to exchange a thousand infants of the nineteenth\ncentury A.D., for a thousand of the nineteenth century B.C., and nobody\nwould be able to detect the difference which would result.\n\nHence it follows, in my opinion, that the evolutionary process with\nwhich moralists and political philosophers have practically to deal, is\nwhat I have called the social, and not the individual process. We\ninherit thoughts as we inherit wealth; we inherit customs and laws and\nforms of worship, and indeed our whole mental furniture; we can add\nenormously to our inheritance, and can transmit the augmented fund to\nour descendants. But the other process of inheritance, to which the word\n\"heredity\" is taken to apply, is not, immediately at least, cumulative.\nWe inherit the old faculties, bodily and mental, unaltered, or with\ninfinitesimal alterations, though we live in a different environment,\nand are ourselves as much altered as our environment. The modern social\norganism is built up, if I may say so, of cells almost identical in\ntheir properties with those of the old organism, although the mode of\ncombination gives entirely new properties to the whole, and brings out\nnew actions and reactions among the constituent cells themselves.\n\nI have been touching the edge of certain problems of great interest but\nenormous complexity, and I shall venture to indicate the difference\nbetween these views and some which have recently attracted much\nattention. Mr. Kidd's work upon \"Social Evolution\" has made the phrase\npopular; but, instead of using it in my sense, he speaks as though\n\"social evolution\" involved what I have called individual evolution. In\norder to keep within limits, I will confine myself to one case upon\nwhich he lays great stress. It will show sufficiently why I hold his\nmode of reasoning to be inconclusive. Mr. Kidd has achieved success by\nvery excellent qualities, by remarkable literary ability, and by his\nuniformly high tone of moral feeling. I should, therefore, be very sorry\nto speak of him otherwise than respectfully. Mr. Kidd, however, chooses\nto maintain a thesis in which he has certainly no personal\ninterest,--the thesis, namely, that a little stupidity may be a very\ngood thing. This view is, perhaps, intelligible when we observe that he\nalso maintains that the progress of the race depends upon its holding\n\"ultra-rational,\" which I think he would find it hard to distinguish\nfrom \"irrational,\" beliefs. In support of this view he writes a chapter\nto prove that \"progress is not primarily intellectual\". The argument of\nwhich I have spoken is part of this proof. The Greeks, he tells us, were\na race intellectually superior to ourselves. They were, so Mr. Galton\ninforms him, two degrees above modern Englishmen in the scale of\nintelligence, and as superior to us as we are to the negro. And yet,\nsays Mr. Kidd, this marvellous race died out, and no trace of its blood\nis now to be found in the present population of the world. Let us look\nshortly into the logic of this argument, and consider how far it is\nentitled to be regarded as scientific reasoning.\n\nFirst of all, I should ask, what precisely is meant by \"the Greeks\"? The\nargument is founded partly on the number of great thinkers, poets, and\nartists, in proportion to the population. Now, it is obviously essential\nto a scientific statement that we should know what is the population\nindicated. If we compare the number of great men at Athens in its best\nperiod with the number of free Athenians, we shall get one ratio; if we\nadmit the Athenian slaves, or add Boeotia and other Greek States to our\npopulation, we get quite a different ratio. And the difference is of\nimmense importance. The smaller the population, the higher the\nexcellence indicated by a given number of great men; but, also, the\nsmaller the population, the less is the wonder that it should have died\nout or been swallowed up in the whirlpools of political, religious, and\nsocial convulsions. A similar remark applies in regard to the period\nduring which this race flourished. When did they begin and when did they\ncease to be superior to other people? Till the statement is more precise\nwe do not even know what are the phenomena to be explained; and the case\nis susceptible of any number of explanations. Did the superior race\ncease to be prolific; or was it prolific, but of inferior descendants;\nand, if so, was it because it was mixed with races of an inferior stamp;\nor was it because its position exposed it to the attacks of more\nnumerous enemies; or because its energy led it to attempt impossible\nfeats? Has it died out, or has it been swamped by other races? To answer\nsuch questions is absolutely necessary before we can say positively that\nthe higher organisation was the cause of the decay, or that it did not\ncause the decay by some indirect process due to the special combination\nof circumstances. But to answer such questions, if they be answerable at\nall, would require the investigations of a lifetime, and a mastery of a\nwhole series of studies, historical, statistical, ethnological, and so\nforth, in which I am an absolute ignoramus. But I cannot perceive that\nMr. Kidd claims more than second-hand information.\n\nBut, secondly, there is another obvious question to which an answer is\nnecessary. Mr. Kidd and Mr. Galton deduce their view about Greek\nintellect, first, from the proportion of great men. Does, then, the\noccurrence of a group of great men at a certain period prove a superior\norganisation in the race? That leads to a very familiar problem: What\nwere the causes of what we may call the flowering times of arts and\nsciences? We are all familiar with the phenomenon; with the sudden\ndisplay of astonishing excellence at Athens, at Florence, or in the\nEngland of Elizabeth. It seems to be the rule that processes which may\nhave been going on quietly for centuries suddenly culminate; that\nartistic, poetic, or philosophic excellence becomes unprecedentedly\ncommon for a generation or two, and that the impulse then dies away as\nrapidly. It is the kind of problem which is satisfactorily solved by the\nauthors of university prize essays, which somehow fail to convince the\nworld or to be republished by their writers. Are we, then, entitled to\nargue from the great works an organic superiority in the race? Must we\nsuppose, for example, that Englishmen at the time of Shakespeare and\nBacon and Spenser and Raleigh were an abler race than their descendants,\nbecause, when there was a very much smaller number of educated men, they\nproduced more first-rate authors than have been produced by generations\nmuch more numerous and more generally cultivated? This seems to me at\nleast to be a very rash hypothesis; and some of the obvious remarks made\nin our university essays seem to me to indicate considerations which,\nthough not conclusive, cannot be neglected. It is clear, for example,\nthat particular stages of intellectual progress are abnormally\nstimulating; that, as the last step to a pass in the mountains suddenly\nreveals vast prospects, while a hundred equally difficult steps before\nmade no appreciable change, so there are mental advances which, as at\nthe time of Bacon, seemed suddenly to disclose boundless prospects of\nknowledge. It is the Pisgah sight of the promised land which causes a\nburst of energy. Or, again, a certain social condition is obviously\nrequired; philosophers and poets may exist potentially among barbarous\ntribes, but they cannot get a chance to speak, and they have no\nopportunity of communication with other thinkers. The intellect may be\nimpelled in various directions, some of which leave no trace of a\ntangible kind. The amount of intellectual power implied in building up\nthe Roman Empire may have been as great as that implied in developing\nGreek art; and in America, as we are often told, intellect turns to\ndollar-making, instead of book-writing. So, conversely, the outburst of\npower may indicate, not greater faculties, but special opportunities, or\nspecial stimulus, applied to already existing faculties. Everybody who\nhas written an aesthetic treatise has pointed to all manner of conditions\nwhich were in this sense favourable to the Greeks. How far such\nconditions were sufficient I cannot even guess; but at least an\nallowance must be made for them before we can argue from the\nachievements to the intrinsic power of the race which achieved. I do not\nsee that it is even \"proved\" that the average Athenian was in the least\nsuperior in this sense to the average Englishman. It would require a\nlifetime of study to pronounce any opinion worth having. I fully confess\nthat, so far as a vague impression is worth anything, it is the most\nobvious impression, after looking at the Elgin marbles, that the Greeks\nwere possessed of a finer organisation than ourselves. Still, I cannot\naccept as certain the quasi-mathematical formula that the Greek is to\nthe Englishman as the Englishman to the negro.\n\nThis, however, suggests another and very difficult series of problems.\nMr. Kidd is arguing against intellectual superiority. He, of course,\ndoes not argue that the general superiority of a race leads to its\ndisappearance; but that a one-sided superiority--an improvement of one\nset of faculties at the expense of others--may have that result. This at\nonce suggests a whole series of psychological problems. The intellect\nand the emotional nature are not two separate organs, each capable of\nindependent development. Every mental process involves both, and neither\nfaculty can be developed without reference to the other. Mr. Kidd\naccepts the conclusion that certain primitive races were as clever as\nourselves, because their brains were as large. If the argument be sound,\nit proves equally that their emotional nature was as well developed as\nours; for no one can doubt that the brain is the physical condition of\nfeeling as well as of thought. Even the most abstract thought, as he\nelsewhere notices, implies certain moral qualities. Newton remarked that\nhe was superior to other men, not because his intellect was clearer,\nbut because he attended more persistently to his problems. The\nstatement, I think, involves a fallacy. Newton himself, no doubt, did\nbetter the longer he kept a problem before him. He inferred,\nunjustifiably, that of two different men, the one who could keep up his\nattention longest would be the best. That does not follow. The\ndifference may indeed be moral as well as intellectual; and it is quite\ntrue that a power of sustained attention is of the highest importance in\nmathematics, and that that power supposes a moral quality; but,\nconversely, the power of attention probably implies also the power of\nclear intellectual vision. A muddle-headed man would find attention\nuseless. This is, of course, still clearer in the case where the mind is\nexercised upon questions of human interest. The statesman and the\ndramatist both depend upon their power of sympathy and the strength of\ntheir emotions, as much as upon their logical capacity. To feel for\nothers I must imagine their position: if I imagine it, I can hardly\navoid feeling for them. \"Altruism\" is the product, in other words, of a\nprocess both intellectual and moral.\n\nNow, remembering this, we see the difficulty of pronouncing upon the\nnature of the Greek organisation. Perhaps the commonest of all remarks\nupon Greek work is the symmetry and harmony, the \"all-roundness,\" if I\nmay say so, of the development implied. Poetry and philosophy, art and\nscience seem to be so blended in their work that we cannot tell which\nfaculty is predominant. What, then, is the inequality of development\nwhich is essential to Mr. Kidd's argument? They were wanting, he seems\nto answer, in \"altruism\". What does this mean? The astonishing power of\nthe Greeks was certainly as conspicuous in poetry and art as in anything\nelse; and that power surely implies development of the emotional as well\nas of the intellectual nature. By a defect of \"altruism,\" I take him to\nmean that these emotions did not flow along the channel of general\nphilanthropy. They were wanting then, as I should put it, rather in\ncosmopolitanism than in altruism. If altruism means care for something\noutside yourself, where could we find better examples of altruism than\nat Thermopylae or Marathon? Was it not due to Greek altruism in this form\n(some historians would say) that Mr. Kidd is not now living under the\nrule of a Persian Satrap? The altruism, no doubt, meant an intense and\npatriotic devotion to a small State, or an interest in Greek as against\nbarbarian, and was compatible with much brutality to individuals and\nacquiescence in slavery. But this does not indicate an absence of the\nemotions themselves, but simply their confinement within narrow limits,\nby the conditions under which they were placed. Slavery, for example, is\nabominable; but I see no reason for supposing that the slave-holders in\nAmerica were worse men by innate constitution than their opponents. They\nwere corrupted by their position.\n\nThis, in any case, leads to another problem. Were the Greeks more or\nless altruistic than other races? If you could show that altruistic\nraces had survived while the Greeks perished, there might be a\npresumption that the want of altruism was the cause of their decay. But\nthis again does not seem to be the case. Hardly one of the ancient\nraces, indeed, has survived unvaried. The Romans were at least as brutal\nas the Greeks, and, one would say, as far from \"altruistic\". Yet they\noverpowered the Greeks. How, then, can it be inferred that the Greeks\nperished because of defective altruism? The struggle for existence was\nbetween races equally defective to all appearance in that quality; and\nit must be a sophistry to signalise its absence in one as the cause of\nits disappearance. There is, indeed, one race to which every one would\nturn as the most prominent example of survival, namely, the Jews. The\nJews have enormous merits and great intellectual endowments; but can\nanybody say that they were altruistic in the sense of being\ncosmopolitan? Are they not conspicuous, beyond any race, for the\nnarrower forms of altruism, rejection of a cosmopolitan creed, even when\nit arose among them, and exclusive devotion to the welfare of their own\npeople? I think that it would be perfectly easy to argue that the Greeks\ndied out just because of their cosmopolitan and therefore dispersive\ntendencies, and that the Jews have held out from a judicious adherence\nto narrower views of self-preservation. But personally I regard all such\n\"arguments\" as really belonging to the extra-scientific regions of\nrhetorical illustration.\n\nThis suggests one other point which requires consideration. Mr. Kidd\nregards it as proved that progress has been due to the Christian\nreligion, which revealed the new moral doctrine. The Christian religion\nintroduced, it seems, that belief in the supernatural which is essential\nto altruism. It seems to me to be inconsistent with his own principles,\nthat he should attribute progress to what is essentially, on his own\nshowing, an intellectual change: that is, to a change in belief and even\nto a change which, in comparison with the old polytheism, was distinctly\nsceptical and rationalistic. But one point is clear. The introduction\nof Christianity may be interpreted more consistently in a totally\ndifferent way. The Greek who became a Christian was not provided with a\nnew set of emotions, but his emotions were directed into new channels.\nHe ceased to care for Athens, because Athens had ceased to be an\nindependent State; he began to be cosmopolitan when he was forced to be\npart of a cosmopolitan empire. The important distinction was no longer\nthe distinction between Athenian and Spartan, but between the different\nclasses in the world-wide system. That is to say, the \"altruism\" which\ncame in with Christianity was not the product of a new dogma suddenly\ndropped from heaven; but of the new social condition, which made it\ninevitable that the forces which previously stimulated a local\npatriotism should now exert themselves nearer a cosmopolitan\norganisation. This is, of course, a commonplace; but, for that reason,\nit should not be simply ignored. It suggests one other consequence of\nMr. Kidd's theory. It is proved, he says, that the progress of the\nWestern world is due to Christianity. His \"proof,\" as I suppose, is that\nthe States which have sprung out of the old Empire of the West have been\nChristian and have progressed. How, then, about the Empire of the East?\nIf the great Kingdoms of the West are the unique example of progress,\nwhat is the unique example of decay? Surely, the regions where\nChristian dogmatic theology was defended by Athanasius and Chrysostom.\nIf you wish to point out a region where the race has actually gone\nbackwards, you would refer to the Turkish Empire. Why, if Christianity\nwas the sole cause of progress in one quarter, was it comparable with\ncomplete decay in the other? Does the Eastern theory about the\n_filioque_ explain it? Or were the Mohammedans more \"altruistic\" than\nthe Christians? Or is it that it is absurd, especially upon Mr. Kidd's\nown doctrine, to assign the dogmatic creed of a race as the sole cause\nof its character and its success in the struggle for existence?\n\nI do not lay any stress upon the argument, except in a negative sense. I\ndo not see, that is, how Mr. Kidd can make his theory fit the facts. But\nI infer one other remark. It is impossible to divine the causes of the\nrise and fall of empires, the success or decay of a race, from any of\nthese sweeping generalisations about ill-defined qualities. If we ask\nwhy the Greeks died out, we should have to take into account another and\na totally different set of considerations: what I may call the accidents\nof their position. We should have to consider all the arguments by which\nhistorians have tried to explain the events; the facts of physical\ngeography, for example, which account for the division into small\nseparate States; the relations of the Greeks to the Eastern races on the\none side, and to the Romans on the other; and, briefly, to all the\nmaterial conditions, those different from the intrinsic character of the\nrace, by which the whole course of political development and of the\nconflict between different peoples, is moulded and directed into\nparticular courses. I do not say, for I cannot guess, what would be the\nresult of such an inquiry; but I think it just as possible that it would\nlead us to wonder at the persistence of the Greek States for so long a\nperiod, as that it would lead us to wonder at their disappearance. Our\nconclusion might be, that nothing but the astonishing intellectual\npowers of the Greeks enabled them to play so great a part in the world's\nhistory, not that their intellectual superiority was the cause of their\ndecay.\n\nI consider, therefore, that the alleged fact is stated so vaguely that\nwe have no distinct problem set before us; that we don't know what is\nthe process to be explained; that the suggested intellectual superiority\nis doubtful, at least in degree: that the excess of intellectual above\nother development, which the superiority is supposed to have created, is\nnot proved, and, still less, that such excess was more conspicuous among\nthe Greeks than among their rivals; that, even if it existed, it is not\nproved that it would have produced the effect ascribed to it; and,\nfinally, that the other causes which undoubtedly operated, are simply\noverlooked. I confess, therefore, that the whole argument seems to me to\nillustrate the danger of rashly applying certain scientific\nformulae,--themselves, perhaps, still doubtful,--to new and exceedingly\ncomplex questions. If Darwin had reasoned in this light-hearted way, no\none would have been moved by his conclusions.\n\nBut I must still add, what brings me back to my point, that even if the\nproposition were proved, it would not establish the conclusion. It may\nbe, that races of abnormal intellectual development are at a\ndisadvantage in the struggle for existence. That does not prove that\n\"progress is not primarily intellectual\". Buckle, who argued that\nprogress was due to intellectual causes exclusively, always assumed that\nhuman nature was constant, or that the faculties did not change. Though\nI do not accept his view, any more than Mr. Kidd's, I do not see that he\nwas inconsistent. I take the most obvious case to illustrate the point.\nNo one can doubt that one of the most important influences in modern\nsocial evolution was the set of mechanical contrivances devised by\nArkwright and Watt and their contemporaries. Without them, the enormous\ndevelopment of great cities, of a population of artisans, and of the\nbringing together of all quarters of the globe, would have been\nimpossible. The inventions, again, were due to no moral purpose in the\ninventors. They wanted to make money, and represented what is called (I\ndo not say justly) the most egoistic impulse of modern times. One\ncondition, then, of the great social change was essentially\nintellectual. This does not mean that Watt was a cleverer man than\nArchimedes. I don't know whether he was or not; but it does mean that\nthe mechanical sciences had improved; and, consequently, that Watt,\nthough not possessed of intrinsically greater powers, was, in this\ndirection, a more intellectual person. He had inherited the truths\ndiscovered by Archimedes and many generations of successors. That\nscience should be efficient, it is not required that men should be\ngreater geniuses than their predecessors; but simply that they should\nknow more of the facts and laws of nature, and have, so to speak, better\nintellectual tools. Mr. Kidd thinks that the inability of a savage to\ncount three does not prove him to be stupid, only to be without certain\nrules discovered by the higher races. Yet, he will not deny that by the\nhelp of arithmetic we can work out sums inconceivable to the savage; and\nthat our power affects our whole social position. Does not the existence\nof a currency affect mankind; and if we could not count, could we make\nuse of it?\n\nI therefore hold that in many cases the causes of progress are\n\"primarily intellectual\". The mechanical discoveries of which I have\nspoken have revolutionised the whole world. I agree, indeed, fully, that\nthe causes are not exclusively intellectual. A certain social\ncondition--the existence, to say nothing more, of peace and order over\nwide regions--was as necessary as the intellectual condition to the\ndevelopment of commerce and manufactures. This, of course, implies the\ngrowth of corresponding sentiments, including, no doubt, what Mr. Kidd\nmeans by altruism. But the change may, and, I fancy, generally does,\noriginate in intellectual movements. The new ideas shake the world.\nReason, says Mr. Kidd, is the great disintegrating and egoistic force. I\nshould say that reasoning is essentially altruistic: my discoveries are\nmentally discoveries for you; I cannot keep a truth for my private\nconsumption, as I can keep a material product. But it is true, to use\neulogistic instead of dyslogistic language, that reason is the great\nforce of movement, and breaks up the old social conditions, not only by\ngetting rid of the ultra-rational, but by spreading the power of the\nrational; and therefore it inevitably brings about a state of things in\nwhich the old moral impulses have to run in new channels; a narrow\npatriotism, to widen into a regard for the interests of other races; and\nthe class distinctions which repose upon no reasonable ground, to\ndisappear in favour of a wider humanity. When we are arguing about an\norganism, it is surely a mistake to fix our minds upon one aspect of the\nproblem: to deny with Buckle the moral evolution, and with Mr. Kidd to\ndisparage the intellectual evolution.\n\nMr. Kidd's doctrine appears to me, though, of course, not to him, to be\neminently discouraging. If he worked it out logically, his argument, I\nthink, would come to this: that the progress of mankind has resulted\nfrom the accidental, that is, inexplicable, appearance of a quality\ncalled altruism, which gave to those who possessed it an advantage in\nthe struggle for existence. It would be far more consistent to say that\nthe religious dogma was determined by this new element, than that it was\nthe cause. Altruism, again, was only produced in effect on this\nhypothesis by the slow results of a process necessarily lasting through\nmany generations; and our only hope must be in a slow organic change of\nthe primary characteristics of mankind. Now, it is, of course, true that\nthose characteristics, whatever they may be, impose definite limits\nupon our progress. The raw material limits the product; and the new-born\nbaby is the raw material of society, as wool is of cloth: you cannot\nconvert it into tissue of gold. So much is undeniable. We, it is said,\nhave been developed out of an arboreal animal, and I have sometimes\nregretted that we were not developed out of a flying animal. The course\nof civilisation would have been very different if we had not been forced\nto come into contact by crawling and swimming, instead of the much freer\nmethods of aerial travelling. However, as things were, the choice was\napparently between wings and hands; and if we could not have both,\nperhaps hands were preferable, and may in time lead to flying machines.\nThe speculation, it may be, borders upon the fanciful. I mention it only\nby way of illustrating the unevitable conditions imposed upon us by\n\"heredity\". We have to be content with walking instead of flying; and\nsimilarly we have to be content with having only the five senses of our\nforefathers, and the various old-fashioned apparatuses for eating,\ndrinking, digesting, and so forth, which they unconsciously elaborated.\nNo material change can possibly be made in this system within any period\nto which we can look forward. To regret these limitations is just as\nidle as to regret that we cannot fly, or that we cannot extend our\nvoyages to the moon. They are part of the primary data of the problem\nwith which we have to deal; and to regret that that problem was not\ndifferently contrived is to propose to set about reconstructing the\nuniverse. But when we go on to ask how far this limits any possibilities\nof achieving really desirable, because distinctly conceivable results, I\nsay that we have ample room for hopes large enough to animate our\nloftiest desires. We inherit, it is true, certain faculties which\nscarcely alter, or do not perceptibly alter, for the better. We do not\nsee or smell or hear better than the savage, and in some of these\nfaculties we are surpassed by the dog. We inherit also certain\nintellectual powers, and, if they improve, the improvement is so slow as\nto be perceptible only after many generations. But then this intellect\ncarries with it another power,--the power of inheriting thoughts,\nbeliefs, methods of reasoning and rules of conduct. And, therefore, to\nthe organic evolution is added the social evolution, which enables us to\naccumulate our vast spiritual inheritance. The inheritance is\neverything, or almost everything, that makes the distinctions between\nthe civilised races of to-day and the wandering savages who roamed the\nfens and the forests which were supplanted by fields and towns. And\nthis, I think, makes room enough for all reasonable aspirations, though\nit certainly does not open any prospect that we shall ever become gods\nor angels.\n\nThus, for example, we look with sorrow, sometimes with something like\ndespair, upon the masses of the criminal or degraded population which\ngrovels at the base of modern society. If we were bound to say, the\ncrime and the stupidity are the necessary expression of the shape of the\nskull and the organisation of the brain; if we had therefore to infer\nthat the only possible remedy is by so modifying the struggle for\nexistence that the inferior forms may be killed off and a better breed\nof humanity take the place of the present; we should certainly feel that\nwe were confined within very narrow limits. I do not for a moment say,\nthat such considerations may not point to important practical\nconclusions. I should be very glad to hear of any practical suggestions\nfor so applying these doctrines as to increase the probability that the\nnext generation may be stronger, healthier, and more intelligent than\nthe present. But I also assert that the most obvious facts also show\nthat there are enormous possibilities of progress without supposing any\nsuch organic transformation. If all that makes the difference between\nthe England of to-day and the England of two or three centuries back is\nthe presence of the social factor, not of the organic change, it shows\nin the most striking way the vast educability of mankind, even without\nany ultimate change of human nature. We must all, I think, have been\nimpressed lately by one of the most singular phenomena which have ever\ntaken place in history. We have ourselves seen the transformation of the\nJapanese--whom we so recently regarded as semi-barbarians--acquire\nalmost at a bound all the arts of Western civilisation, and able not\nonly to use with singular effect that most complex and delicate piece of\nmachinery which forms a modern warship, but to adopt systems of military\norganisation and the strategy of a Moltke. That is not because the\nJapanese have changed any one of their physical characteristics, for\nthey are the very same men who the other day were chiefly known to us as\nperforming the \"happy despatch\". They have changed simply because they\nwere able to assimilate European results. Now, if that be a perfectly\npossible result, consistently with all the so-called laws of heredity,\nthe same laws cannot be inconsistent with changes of a similar character\nwithin ourselves. You take a thorough ruffian,--a drinking, rowdy,\nfighting brute, who has stamped his wife or his friend into a jelly.\nYou say that he is an illustration of slavism, or the reproduction of an\nancient type which once had its place among his ancestors. The fact may\nbe quite true; that he is, for example, acting-still in the spirit of\nthose ancient Vikings who have been idealised by our romantic writers;\nbut who, when they landed in an old British village, behaved pretty much\nas the modern roughs or some of those noble blackguards who are\ndescribed in Mr. Rudyard Kipling's novels. But if you mean that he is\ndivided from civilised beings by an impassable gulf, and is doomed to be\na scoundrel by the shape of his skull, I venture to dispute the\nassumption. The Viking in a generation or two became the Norman knight,\ncapable of the highest cultivation of his time; and even the rough,\naccording to Mr. Rudyard Kipling, is capable, under judicious\ndiscipline, of developing some very fine qualities, chiefly, it is true,\nin the shape of devotion to his colours. To wean him from some of his\nweaknesses it is probably necessary to catch him rather younger. All,\nhowever, that I desire to say, for the present, is this--as it seems to\nme--very undeniable fact: that the difference between a civilised man\nand a barbarian, between the highest types of modern life and the\napparently irreclaimable brutes who are exhibited in our police-courts,\nis not dependent upon the mark of the beast irreclaimably fixed upon\nthem at their birth; but to certain later influences, which may or may\nnot be brought to bear upon them effectually. There is nothing, for\nexample, in the doctrine of heredity inconsistent with the belief that\nif such influences could be properly directed, the standard, say, of\nsobriety and prudence among the lowest classes might be improved, as\nmuch as the standard of the same virtues has been improved in classes\nabove them. The consequences of such a change would, I suspect, be\nincomparably greater than the consequences of whole systems of laws\nregulating the hours of labour and whole armies of official inspectors.\n\nBut into this I need not go; and I have only one thing to say in\nconclusion. I have spoken of the enormous results of what we call\nprogress and civilisation. That they are in one sense enormous is, I\nsuppose, undeniable. That the power which we generally describe as the\ncommand of man over nature has been immensely increased is too palpable\na fact to be denied; that there has been a corresponding change in many\npolitical and social respects is a fact which I only mention without\nseeking to say how far it has been in all respects a change for the\nbetter. Further, I urge that this change, whatever it is, has not been\ndue to a change in the individual constitution, but to a change in the\nsocial factor. And, this being so, I simply suggest that, considering\nhow vast is the total change thus effected, we may reasonably hope, or,\nat the very least, we may reasonably endeavour to justify the hope, that\na change of great magnitude may be brought about in those directions\nwhere we all have to regret the survival or even the development of so\nmuch that is melancholy: of regeneration going on alongside of\namelioration. I think that the doctrine of heredity is sometimes\ninterpreted in such a way as to suggest the hopelessness or at least the\nextreme difficulty of introducing any sensible improvement within any\nlimited time; and what I have tried to urge is that, if properly\nunderstood, it does not in the least degree tend to justify such\nforebodings, or to imply that we are to abandon ourselves to a\ndemoralising fatalism.\n\n\n\n\nPUNISHMENT.\n\n\nI invite you to consider a rather dry problem. I ventured to select this\ntopic because it has lately been my duty to occupy myself with certain\nlegal writings, which, perhaps, took me a little beyond my depth. They\ntouched, however, problems which are common to the lawyer and to the\nmoralist. Although not a lawyer, I am interested in some moral problems\nwhich have also a legal aspect: What I propose to do this evening is, to\nconsider certain questions which lie in the region common to both\nprovinces of inquiry, and especially this question: What is the true\nethical theory of punishments inflicted by the criminal law? How, and in\nwhat sense, are they to be regarded as just? There is, obviously, a\nrelation between the two codes--moral and legal. Murder is both a sin\nand a crime: a breach of the moral law, and of the laws of every\ncivilised country. Yet, there is one broad and deep distinction between\nthe two systems of law. The moral law is essentially concerned with a\nman's motives. To say that a man's conduct is wicked, is necessarily\nalso to say that it is the action of a bad man, or due to evil passions.\nMurder is wicked, as it is the manifestation of the murderer's hatred of\nhis neighbour. The criminal law, on the other hand, has to deal, in the\nfirst instance, with the external facts. It contemplates, primarily,\nwhat a man does, not what he is. It does not attempt to punish every man\nwho hates his neighbour, but every man who has, in fact, killed, whether\nthe action springs from hatred or some other motive. Every one who\ndeliberately kills, unless the act falls under certain definite\nexceptions, is guilty of murder. This, of course, does not imply that\nthe moral aspect is of no account. The exceptions are so arranged that\nthe legal classification corresponds roughly to the moral\nclassification. Under certain exceptions, killing is regarded as\njustifiable homicide, and under others, it is only manslaughter, and,\ntherefore, receives none, or a slighter penalty. The coincidence between\nthe codes may thus be very close. In ninety-nine cases out of a hundred\nthe action condemned by the criminal law will be condemned by the\nmoralist. The man who is legally guilty of murder is also, almost\ninvariably, guilty of a great moral offence. Although, again, the moral\nlaw applies to large classes of conduct, which are not within the\ncognisance of the criminal law, it is, at least, plainly desirable that\nthe criminal law should condemn nothing which is not also morally wrong.\nThe sway of the moral law is universal; it applies to all conduct, and,\nof course, to the conduct of legislators and judges: they and the law\nwhich they define and apply should be consistent with the general law of\nright and wrong. They and all of us are bound not to make virtue more\ndifficult nor vice easier.\n\nBut, further, the questions as to the relations between the two codes\narise in various directions. It is obvious that the criminal law has to\nemploy very rough and ready methods. It cannot estimate, with any\naccuracy, the degree of immorality implied by any given action. It\ncannot, and it does not attempt to, look closely into the secrets of a\nman's heart. It cannot inquire, as a rule, how far a man's crime is the\nresult of bad education or bad surroundings; how far it implies thorough\ncorruption or only superficial faults of temper, or a misunderstanding\nof some fact or doctrine. It cannot take into account a number of\nmetaphysical or psychological considerations which are connected with\nthe theory of moral responsibility. To settle such points you would have\nto empanel a jury of philosophers, and the only thing of which you could\nbe certain would be, that such a jury would never agree upon a verdict.\nAgain, there are whole classes of virtues and vices with which the\ncriminal law is not concerned. Ingratitude, to take the common example,\nis a grave vice, but one which it would be absurd to punish legally. Not\nonly would such an attempt involve impossible inquiries, but the attempt\nwould be self-defeating. If the duty of gratitude to a benefactor were\nturned into a legal obligation, gratitude proper would cease to exist.\nTo confer a benefit would be the same thing as to acquire a right to\nrepayment. A man who allows his best friend to starve, or to go to the\nworkhouse, may be, morally, far worse than a thief; but you could not\npunish him legally, without adopting a principle which, even if\npracticable, would, so far as it operated, be destructive of all\ndisinterested friendship. The law, again, can deal only with criminals\nwho are found out. What proportion they may bear to the whole class of\nmoral offenders is not discoverable; but it is, at least, safe to say\nthat, for every man whom you convict of a crime, you must leave\nunpunished, because undetected, another sinner who is equally deserving\nof punishment. And, finally, it is apparently impossible to say, upon\nany intelligible grounds, what should be the proportion between crime\nand punishment. How many years' imprisonment does a man deserve for\nputting out his neighbour's eye? I do not see how such a rule of three\ncan be stated. The good old theory of an eye for an eye and a tooth for\na tooth, seems to suggest a possible criterion. But it was difficult to\ncarry out. Deloraine, in the _Lay of the Last Minstrel_, has, as he\npoints out, killed Musgrove's brother; but, on the other hand, Musgrove\nhas killed Deloraine's nephew, and, besides, got a thousand marks ransom\nout of Deloraine himself. Is the account to be regarded as accurately\nbalanced? Is one brother just equal to a nephew plus a thousand marks?\nThe theory, of course, is an application of an inappropriate analogy. If\nwe regard crime simply as a case of private injury, we may say that it\nis fair that the wrong-doer should restore the thing that he has taken,\nand so put matters where they were before. But this is obviously to take\na view which is quite inapplicable in most cases, and in all cases\nbecomes inadequate when we take the moral view, and regard crime as an\noffence against society--not simply as a wrong to another individual.\n\nFor such reasons, it is apparently impossible to say that a legal\npunishment can be just, in the full sense in which the moralist would\nuse the words. No doubt we may say,--and we wish that we could always\nsay,--that a man \"deserves\" what he has got; and that implies that we\nrecognise as desirable some satisfaction to our sense of justice. And,\nof course, too, we demand that justice should be done in another sense\nof the word; that the case, for example, should be impartially\ninvestigated; that a man should not be punished severely because he is\npoor, or because he is unpopular, or let off easily because he is a\nprivate friend of the judge. Such demands mean that justice should not\nbe perverted by applying irrelevant considerations; but they leave our\nprevious questions untouched. The criminal law, from its nature, cannot\nimpose equal penalties upon all men who are equally wicked; but only\nupon those who have made themselves liable: and that always involves\nelements of accident; it cannot take into account at all some of the\nelements upon which the depth of moral depravity essentially depends;\nand it is, at least, very difficult to say what specific meaning can be\ngiven to the proportion between crime and the suffering imposed upon the\ncriminal.\n\nIf, then, the legislative action must, of necessity, be very imperfect\nfrom the moral point of view, we may try what will be the effect of\ndismissing the moral question altogether, or, at least, reducing it to a\nsecondary place. We may, that is, consider crime not in so far as\nimmoral, but in so far as mischievous. Here we have the doctrine worked\nout very consistently by Bentham and his followers. Pain, they said, is\nan evil, the only evil; pleasure, a good, and the only good. To inflict\nneedless pain--pain which does not cause a balance of pleasure--upon any\none, be he a good man or be he a bad man, is, so far, wrong. For the\nsame reason, it is justifiable, and, indeed, right, to inflict pain, so\nfar as it prevents some greater evil. Hence, you should punish criminals\njust so far as the pain which you inflict is less than the pain which\nyou prevent. It is wrong to give a single useless pang even to the worst\nof men. If (according to a sentiment attributed to Bentham) a fine of\nfive shillings would prevent a man from committing murder, it would be\nwrong to fine him seven shillings and sixpence. This gives a\njustification of punishment, in so far as deterrent. It is obviously\nconnected with another doctrine. A man is the best judge of his own\npleasures and pains. Therefore, in so far as a man's actions affect\nhimself alone, they are not to be forbidden by the law. We may think\nthem bad or degrading; but so long as they do not affect others, the\nfact that a man chooses them is a proof that they give him pleasure; and\nwe shall, therefore, only diminish the sum of happiness by interfering.\nNow, it is plain that this distinction does not draw the line between\nwhat is morally bad or good. Every habit which affects a man's own\ncharacter, affects, also, his capacity to fulfil his duties to others.\nBut this theory overlooks immorality, except so far as it happens to\ninvolve certain extraneous consequences. We are, upon this showing, to\npunish a criminal precisely in the same spirit as we are to abate a\nnuisance. The thief is to be suppressed, as we are to extirpate a\nmischievous weed, and to be suppressed by just as much severity as is\nrequired for the purpose. The drunkard, so long as he confines himself\nto making a beast of himself in his own room, does his neighbours no\ndirect injury, and must be left to enjoy the pleasure which is shown,\nbecause he chooses it, to be a pleasure to him. Of this theory, it may,\nI think, be said that, however imperfect, it is tolerably consistent,\nand, moreover, that it undoubtedly does express one legitimate end of\npunishment. There can be no doubt, that is, that the punishment of\nmurderers may be rightly defended, among other grounds, at any rate, on\nthe ground that it discourages the practice; though we may not fully\nagree with the famous saying of the judge, \"You are not hanged for\nstealing sheep, but hanged in order that sheep may not be stolen\". And,\nfurther, though there are various difficulties about the distinction\nbetween \"self-regarding\" and \"extra-regarding\" conduct, we must also, I\nthink, allow, in general terms, that the fact that a man's conduct has a\ndirect and assignable influence upon his neighbour's happiness, must\nalways be one reason, and, frequently, the only sufficient reason, for\nsuppressing it by legal penalties.\n\nThis doctrine of simple deterrence, however, seems, to most critics, to\nbe insufficient. It omits the moral element too completely. When a man\nis punished for some revolting offence, we are not simply providing him\nand his like with reasons for abstaining in future. We are, as a fact,\nexposing him to infamy, sometimes more painful to bear than the\nimmediate penalty, and are thus, in fact, invoking the sanction of the\nmoral sentiment. Therefore, it is urged, we must still, whether we like\nit or not, be moralists. The purely utilitarian argument has omitted one\nelement of the calculation. The punishment not only deters offenders,\nbut gratifies the feeling of resentment to moral indignation, which has\nbeen approved by many moralists. Hence, it is urged, besides the\ndeterrent theory, we must make room for the vindictive theory. It is\nlegitimate and right to hate crime, and, therefore, to hate criminals;\nand legal punishments are defensible, not merely as adding to the\nmotives for refraining from crime, but as gratifying the desire for\nrevenge, which, in early ages, was assumed in the rude modes of putting\ndown violence, and which, even now, should be not eradicated but\nconfined within legal channels and directed towards the desirable ends.\n\nPostponing, for the present, a consideration of this proposed\nemendation, let us consider, a little more closely, the objection made\nto the theory of deterrence. In what way does it come into direct\nconflict with a moral theory of punishment? It looks upon immorality as\nmischievous, or as diminishing happiness; and upon the utilitarian view\nimmorality means the diminution of happiness. Now, without discussing\nultimate moral questions, I may assume that, for practical purposes,\nthis seems to be a sufficiently tenable position. After all, we admit,\nto whatever school we belong, that crime is mischievous, and, whatever\ndeeper meaning may be assigned to it, may be considered in that light by\nthe legislator. He cannot--certainly he ought not to--forbid actions\nwhich do no harm to anybody, or which nobody, at the time and place,\nfeels to be injurious to happiness. Even, therefore, if utilitarianism\nbe unsatisfactory as an ultimate theory, it may represent adequately the\npoint of view of the practical legislator. He tries to suppress violence\nand fraud because, as a fact, they cause what their victims unanimously\nagree to be painful consequences; and he need not look any further for a\nreason. People, it is said, have very different standards of pleasure.\nStill, we all dislike having our throats cut or our pockets picked; and\nthat fact supplies a sufficient ground upon which to base the whole\ncriminal law. When we go a little further, a point of divergence may be\nnoticed, a short consideration of which may help to clear the case. Let\nus assume the legitimate end of all punishment to be deterrence. It will\nfollow, that we must annex as a consequence to crimes an adequate\ncounterpoise, and a counterpoise not more than adequate to the\ncriminal's motives. The fine to be paid must be just sufficient to\nprevent the transgression. Now, it has been urged, this necessarily\nimplies a conflict with morality. The degree of moral guilt implied in a\ngiven crime varies inversely as the temptation. The greater the\ninducement to the offence, the less the wickedness shown in committing\nthe offence. A man may have enough virtue to refrain from a gratuitous\ninjustice, although he has not virtue enough to resist a large bribe, or\nthe threats of a man in power. But, if the legislator is to provide\nsimply a counterpoise, he will have to follow the opposite rule. The\ngreater the temptation, the greater must be the force of the motive\nwhich must be added to counterbalance the temptation. If there be a\ncrime by which a man might make a million of money, you must, if you\nwould prevent it, hold out the prospect of such pains as would, in his\nestimation, be cheaply avoided at the sacrifice of a million; or, making\nallowance for the uncertainty of detection, by the sacrifice of more\nthan a million. But if, by the same crime, he only got a five-pound\nnote, the prospect of paying a hundred pounds in case of detection might\nbe a sufficient preservative of his honesty. Yet, the man who is tempted\nby the million gives less proof of dishonesty than the man who commits\nthe same crime for a paltry five pounds. Therefore the punishment must\nbe increased, as the wickedness is less.\n\nI must first set aside one ambiguity which perplexes this argument. When\nwe speak of a temptation as varying, we may mean one of two very\ndifferent things. To say that I am more \"tempted\" than you to commit a\ngiven crime, may mean that the gain expected by me is itself greater;\nor, it may mean that I am more predisposed to the crime. I may be more\ntempted, let us say, to poison my uncle than you are to poison yours.\nThat may mean that my uncle is a rich old sinner and I am his heir,\nwhereas your uncle is a poor saint and you will get nothing by his\ndeath. Or it may mean that I am more tempted because, our uncles being\nalike, I am spiteful, and you affectionate, by nature. In the first\ncase, to say that I am under the stronger temptation would, perhaps,\ntend to alleviate the gravity of my crime; in the second, it would\nsimply be another way of saying that I was the greater brute. In both\ncases, of course, it is true that the greater temptation would require\nthe greater counterpoise. In one case, this only means that the worse\nthe man, the stronger the restraints which he requires; and, if you\ncould make different laws for bad men and good, it would follow that the\nbad would require the heaviest penalties. But this does not conflict\nwith the moral view. It is no excuse for a murderer to say, \"I am so\nbloodthirsty that I really could not help murdering\". No contradiction\nto morality arises from punishing his crime more severely. In the other\ncase alone,--the case in which we made distinctions founded upon the\ndifference of surrounding circumstances,--it is true that we should,\nfrom the point of view of simple deterrence, require heavier penalties\nwhere the temptations were greater, and, therefore, the intrinsic\nmalevolence proved to exist less.\n\nFor most purposes, this argument seems to have very little practical\napplication. The law is made for people in general; we cannot have one\nlaw for bad men and another for good; partly because good and bad people\ndo not carry about tangible marks of their quality written upon their\nfaces. No doubt, indeed, the atrocity of a crime is recognised, if not\nby the general law, by the nature of the sentence. An assault may show\nunnatural ferocity or merely a rather excessive warmth of temper; and,\nthough the offence may be forbidden under the same clause of the\ncriminal law, the judge may be empowered to give sentences of varying\nseverity, varying more or less according to the moral depravity implied.\nSo far, the worst offences (in a moral sense) get the heaviest\npunishment; and the deterring influence is rightly exerted by\nproportioning the penalty to the temptation, that is, to the\npredisposition to crime. The other case, again, requires some\nqualification. It is not true, as an absolute proposition, that the\ncriminality is always, or generally, diminished, in proportion to the\ngreatness of the temptation; for we must remember that both the\ntemptation and the crime will generally be greater in proportion to the\namount of mischief inflicted. It is more tempting, no doubt, to\nappropriate a thousand pounds than a shilling; but we cannot infer that\nthe man who takes the larger sum is, therefore, less wicked; that he has\na conscience which would have kept him honest under the smaller\ntemptation, and has only yielded to the greater. Compare, for example,\nthe case of the petty pilferer who appropriates my watch, with the case\nof the man of business who appropriates securities worth many thousand\npounds and ruins widows and orphans by the dozen. We should all agree, I\nimagine, that the perpetrator of the more gigantic fraud would require\nthe stronger deterring motive to be kept straight. He is playing for\nheavy stakes, and we cannot hold out too strong a threat of infamy and\nsuffering, if our aim is simply to prevent the crime. But neither, if we\nconsider him from the purely moral point of view, would it be fair to\nargue that he was a better man than the pickpocket, because the plunder\nwhich tempted him was greater. The opposite, I fancy, would be true. He\nshows a callousness to human suffering, and an amount of deliberate\nhypocrisy and treachery which proves him to be not only the more\ndangerous, but the more thoroughly corrupt of the two. The two ends of\nproviding a sufficient counterpoise and of punishing the worst men most\nseverely, would, therefore, coincide in this case also; and the argument\nthat the greater temptation implies less wickedness is plainly\ninapplicable.\n\nWithout going further into this, which may briefly indicate some of the\nperplexities involved, I may mention certain cases in which there seems\nto be a real divergence of the two principles. There are cases in which\nthe temptation may be fairly held to lessen guilt, and in which\npunishment has, notwithstanding, been made severer in consequence. The\ncriminal law of the last century, for example, imposed a penalty of\ndeath upon persons who stole certain kinds of property left in specially\nexposed positions. The ease of taking it would very possibly tempt to\ntheft men who would elsewhere be honest; and it was sought to compensate\nfor the strength of the temptation by more savage punishment of those\nwho yielded to it. Or, again, there are certain problems of a similar\nkind connected with political offences. A man who gets up a rebellion\nfrom sincere political motives is generally far better morally than the\nman who gets up a rebellion for the sake, say, of simple plunder. Ought\nthe motive to be allowed as an extenuation of the offence? It ought, it\nmay be said, from a moral point of view; but, from the point of view of\nsimple deterrence, we might rather consider that the patriotic rebel is\nthe more dangerous person of the two, and, therefore, requires the\nprospect of at least as heavy a punishment to keep him quiet. So, again,\nit has been asked, whether it should be admitted as an excuse for a\nrioter, that he has joined in violent courses under threats from the\nriotous mob. This is, of course, an excuse from the moralist's point of\nview; the man is only attacking the police in order to save his own\nhouse from being burnt, not from a disorderly or disaffected spirit. But\nit is replied, from the deterring point of view, that, if such an excuse\nbe allowed, you are ceasing to threaten at the precise moment when the\nthreats are most required. If the law is not to press from one side,\nall the pressure will come from the other, and every argument will be in\nfavour of joining the side of disorder. Hence, it is argued, we ought to\nproportion the punishment, not to the offence, but to the temptation.\n\nNow, I may say, very briefly, that such a divergence of the two\nprinciples appears to me to be possible; and, further, that cases may be\nput in which it might be necessary to deter, at all hazards, even to the\nneglect of moral considerations. A general who is defending a town must\nsometimes burn the houses of innocent people, without stopping to\nconsider whether they can ever be compensated; and I think that there\nmay be analogous cases even in regard to law, where the consideration of\nthe absolute necessity of putting down mischievous conduct may override\nthe normal moral considerations. But the general answer is, I think,\ndifferent, and may help to clear the principle. The law to which I have\nreferred, for the protection of exposed property, obviously suggests one\nremark. The true remedy for the evil would have been not to increase the\npenalty, but to increase the protection. You ought to have provided more\nwatchmen, or to have forbidden owners to put temptation in the way of\ntheir neighbours, and not to have tried to make the hangman do the work\nof the policeman. So our ancestors erred when they protected their\nfields, not by putting up fences, but by setting mantraps to mutilate\noccasional trespassers. In that, as in other cases, the mistake is to\nconfuse between the deterring influence of punishment and the preventive\ninfluence of protective measures. Arguments, questionable when used on\nbehalf of punishment considered as deterring, are perfectly applicable\nto the preventive measures. It is obviously right that such measures\nshould be proportioned to the temptation. When a starving man steals a\nloaf, he is not so bad as a man who steals when he is not starving. We\nshould, therefore, think it morally wrong to punish him as severely.\nBut, if we thought that he ought not to have the loaf, we should take\nstronger precautions in proportion to the probable temptation. If, for\nexample, we were sending supplies to relieve a starving district, it\nwould be clearly right to send such a force with them as might prevent\ntheir appropriation by the strongest, or the first comers. But, at the\nsame time, we should also think it right to save the men from\ntemptation, by providing as much as possible against the danger of\nstarvation. So, again, it would be monstrous to punish a poor man more\nseverely than a duke, for stealing a watch; but, as a matter of\nprudence, I should take more precautions if I were dining in a poor\npublic-house, than if I were dining in a ducal palace.\n\nThis suggests the true application of another doctrine, about the\nresponsibility of society. Society, it is sometimes said, has no right\nto punish, because it ought to have suppressed the causes of crime. This\ndoctrine is often stated very illogically, and would sanction a great\ndeal of false sentimentalism. If society includes many corrupt and\ndangerous elements, that is no reason at all for not suppressing them by\nall available means. But, no doubt, it is a very good and sufficient\nreason for trying, as far as possible, to remove the cause as well as\nthe effects; for getting rid of the temptations to crime, and training\npeople so as to make them less disposed to crime, instead of simply\npunishing more severely those who have yielded to temptation and given\nplay to instincts which have not been properly disciplined. This applies\nconspicuously to the case of the political criminal. It is generally\nessential to the welfare of a nation, that order should be preserved by\na settled government. It is the duty of every government, not only to\ncrush resistance, but to take such precautions as will make resistance\nhopeless. But a correlative duty is suggested when a rebellion actually\noccurs, and especially a rebellion which excites the sympathy of\notherwise moral people. Such a case, that is, affords the strongest\npresumption that there are real grievances to be redressed, and that the\nrebel should not be confounded with the vulgar criminal. It may be, and\noften is, quite necessary to shoot him down, so long as he is actively\nattacking authority; but, when he is disarmed, he cannot be regarded\nsimply as a thief or murderer, but as a man who has given a useful,\nthough a disagreeable, hint that the times are out of joint.\n\nI have gone so far into these questions--which might lead to a great\nmany other problems of legal casuistry--with the desire of bringing out\none essential part of the question. The difficulties which have arisen\npoint, I think, to the impossibility of treating the problem\nexclusively, from a simple consideration of the deterring influence of\npunishment. That, however, remains an essential element. If the sole\nreason for punishing a sheep-stealer be not the prevention of\nsheep-stealing, that is, at least, a very excellent reason as far as it\ngoes. But it seems to me an insufficient reason from the moral point of\nview, and, in particular, to fail in assigning a sufficiently distinct\nground for determining the desirable degree of punishment. The principle\nwas advocated as limiting the severity of the old laws; but it is not\nquite easy to define the limit suggested. There is a necessary\nclumsiness about the method. A punishment only becomes operative in the\ncases in which the threat has failed to deter. The fact that a man has\ncommitted a crime demonstrates the inadequacy of the system in his case;\nwe have not given him a sufficient motive for abstaining. When Bentham\nsays, that if a fine of five shillings would prevent a murder, you ought\nnot to fine the murderer seven and sixpence, he says what is, in a\nsense, obviously true. If I could prevent a murder, or, indeed, achieve\nany other desirable object, for a given sum, why should I throw away\nanother penny? But the fine is not inflicted till somebody has committed\na murder, and, in that case, the threat of fining has obviously failed.\nThe question arises, therefore, how far am I to go? Am I to go on\nraising the tariff till murder becomes altogether obsolete? But we have\nalready got as far as capital punishment, without achieving that result.\nAnd, if we consider the case upon this method, we begin to find a\ndifficulty in the method of calculation. We are to compare the pain\ninflicted upon the criminal with the pain saved to the victim. But the\ngreater the pain inflicted, the smaller, according to the assumption\nmade, will be the number of criminals, and the greater the number of\nvictims saved. If we could adopt the Draconic system, and be sure of\npunishing every crime with death, crime ought to disappear; for hardly\nanybody would break the law if he were quite certain of the gallows.\nBut, in that case, the pain, both of the criminal and the victim, would\ndisappear, for there would be no one in either class. The result,\ntherefore, would be a pure gain: no crime and no punishment. Against\nthis practical conclusion, indeed, Bentham was one of the first to\nprotest; and he uses one very sound argument. Punish all crime equally,\nhe says, and you put a premium on the worst crimes. If both robber and\nmurderer are to be hanged, the robber will have a good reason for\ndestroying evidence, by adding the murder to the plunder of his victims.\nBut, though the argument is very much to the purpose, it seems to make\nour calculations rather difficult. We cannot look simply to the\ndeterring influence of a given punishment, but have to consider its\nplace in the general tariff, and its influence in inducing people to\nprefer one variety of crime to another. And if we try to find our way\nout of this difficulty, we shall have, I think, to find that the mode of\nreasoning requires some modification.\n\nThe theory on which the calculation goes may, perhaps, be represented\nthus: It is supposed that by hanging a murderer, you prevent, say, ten\nmurders which would otherwise happen. The suffering saved to the ten\nvictims is greater than the actual suffering of the single criminal.\nTherefore, the infliction of the penalty gives a balance on the side of\nhappiness. The argument seems to me to be sound as far as it goes, and,\nin some cases, it would, I think, be sufficient. If, for example, it\nwere proved that the use of a certain remedy, such as inoculation,\ncaused a certain number of deaths, while, on the other hand, it\nprevented ten times as many, we should consider that a good case had\nbeen made out for its adoption. And, similarly, if we attended simply to\nthe number of executions and to the number of crimes, and could make the\nnecessary arithmetical comparison, we should be able to estimate the\nbalance of good or evil in terms of pain and pleasure. But this mode of\nconsidering the case is obviously inadequate; and, indeed, Bentham\n(though I cannot now go into his teaching) feels and makes allowance for\nits inadequacy. For, to say nothing else, the mere deterrence of a\ncertain number of crimes is an entirely insufficient measure of the\neffect of the law. The one obvious remark is that, by suppressing\nviolence, you not only save a certain number of lives, but you secure an\nessential condition of all civilised life. I came here to-night without\na revolver in my pocket; and I am not aware that I showed any particular\ncourage by doing so. But it would have been foolhardy to have shown the\nsame negligence, a few years ago, in some of the Western States of\nAmerica. If I had lived in such conditions, I should not only have taken\na revolver, but have, very possibly, thought it a duty to join a\nvigilance committee, with a view to the suppression of crimes of\nviolence. There are still regions where the fact that a man lives in a\nneighbouring village is a sufficient justification for shooting him down\nas soon as he comes in sight, for the simple reason that, otherwise, he\nwould shoot you. So, when private war was still part of the regular\ncustom, there was an obstacle which had to be crushed before any\nprogress could be made in industrial development, which presupposes\npeaceful intercourse and mutual confidence. The formation of all that is\nmeant by social order, the bringing about of a state of things in which\nmen can meet habitually without fear or precaution, counting with\ncomplete confidence upon the absence of any hostile intention, is,\nobviously, an essential condition of everything that makes life worth\nliving in a civilised country. The fact is too obvious to require much\nillustration; but it requires notice, for it is very imperfectly\nrecognised when you regard murder, for example, simply as a kind of\nsporadic disease, which breaks out here and there, and can be kept\nwithin limits by killing some murderers, and so frightening other\nwould-be murderers. The criminal law, no doubt, includes that\nconsideration; but it includes infinitely more. It is a necessary\ncorollary of that state of social relations which alone gives a secure\nbase for every conceivable kind of satisfactory social relation. It\nmight, perhaps, serve as a sufficient defence of the old system, when,\nin the absence of any settled order, the system of private vengeance, of\nblood-feuds, and so forth, served to restrain the prevalence of actual\nviolence. But it is a totally insufficient measure of the real advantage\ngained by enforcing order. We have to compare, not only the number of\nmurders and the number of victims which would exist in a given social\norder, supposing the penalty to be inflicted or not inflicted; but to\ncompare two radically different social states, and to ask, whether it is\nbetter to live in a society where peace is the almost invariable rule,\nand violence the rare exception, or in one in which there is a chaos of\nlittle societies, each of them being in constant fear of all its\nneighbours. The construction of a central authority which will keep the\npeace is a necessary part of the process of civilisation, and the\ncriminal law is involved in the process. For, of course, it follows\nthat, so long as anti-social elements exist within the borders of\nsociety, and some people resort to the old methods of the knife or the\nbludgeon, they must be put down; and the hangman and the jailer, clumsy\nas the action may be, represent the only kind of machinery which has\nhitherto been invented for the purpose.\n\nIt follows that we must understand \"deterrence\" in a wider sense than\nwe have hitherto given to it. When we speak of punishment as deterring\nfrom crime, we must consider, not merely the effect upon the individual\nof the prospect of punishment following detection, but the total effect\nof a systematic adherence to the law upon the preservation of a peaceful\nstate of society at large. We do not simply wish to provide a sufficient\nmotive to decide the individual who is asking himself, shall I steal or\nnot steal? but to maintain an organisation under which property shall be\nnormally respected, and stealing become as exceptional as we can make\nit. This, in turn, involves much more than a simple execution of the\ncriminal law; it involves the support of agencies for prevention,\neducation, and reformation; though it does, also, involve an inflexible\nadherence to the criminal law. The law has to use rough means, and\ncannot possibly affect to adhere precisely to the moral deserts of\nindividual cases. But it is justified by the simple ground that the only\nalternative is a chaos of barbarism. If you ask, therefore, in what\nsense is a criminal law just? we must confess that, in certain respects,\nit is impossible that it should be strictly just; it must deal with the\nfound-out exclusively and with those who are found out in certain\ndefinite cases of criminality, and it must, therefore, impose penalties\nwhich do not precisely correspond to the degree of criminality implied.\nBut the relation to morality is, nevertheless, intimate. For the growth\nof the social order depends upon the growth of the corresponding social\ninstincts; or rather, the two processes are correlative. If I love my\nneighbour I shall not wish to cut his throat; and, in order that I may\nlove him, I must be pretty sure that he does not mean to cut mine. The\nexternal framework provides a protection under which the primary moral\ninstincts can expand; and the expansion of the instincts supposes a\ncorrelative modification of the external framework. The moral\nrequirement in regard to the criminal law is, therefore, essentially,\nthat it should be such a law as is favourable, when considered in\nconnection with the whole order, to the strength and development of the\nexisting morality. If the criminal asks, How do you justify yourself for\npunishing me? the reply must be, Because the inflexible administration\nof the law is an essential precondition of the whole system, under which\nalone progress is possible. A society in which peace and order are\npreserved is superior, in morals as in other respects, to a society in\nwhich peace and order are made impossible by violence; and the\nsuppression by punishment of offenders is involved in the system. The\nadvantage of belonging to such a society is not to be measured by\ncounting up the working of individual cases; but by the whole\ncharacteristics of the social state, taken as a whole, and including, as\none essential part, the administration of criminal law in such a way as\nto be in conformity with the conditions of healthy social development.\nThe difficulty, I think, though I can only indicate the argument\nbriefly, results from a common illusion, which is illustrated by the\nonce famous social contract theory. You suppose a number of independent\nindividuals, agreeing to join and expecting to receive a precise\nequivalent for every sacrifice that they make in consequence. The reply\nis, that the individual is the product of the society, and it is a mere\nfiction to consider him as possessing any antecedent rights whatever.\nHis rights are to be deduced from, not to supply the premisses for\ndeducing, the social order. The only considerations which are relevant\nare those which affect the welfare of the social organism, taken as a\nwhole; and we must regard them as determined, before we come to the\ndistribution of benefits and burdens among its constituent facts.\nOtherwise, we should be falling into the same fallacy as if we argued\nabout the health of separate bodily organs, legs, and arms, and\nstomachs, as though they were independent things, fastened together to\nmake a single machine. Since the leg implies the stomach, any\nconsideration of the leg's separate rights would be absurd. So the\nindividual member of a political society cannot be regarded as though he\nhad existed outside society somewhere, and was entitled to a precise\nequivalent for the sacrifice of his independence. The doctrine involves\nimpossible considerations. I have to contribute to certain sanitary\nregulations, though I may be stronger or weaker than my neighbours, and\ntherefore less or more in need of them. Or, I have to pay a school-rate,\nwhether I have a dozen children or none at all. Do those facts give me a\nright to complain if I am taxed equally with my neighbours? If so, every\nbenefit which I receive from society must be set down as a separate item\nin an account to be balanced by itself. Obviously, the advantage which I\nreceive in such cases is the whole advantage received from living in a\nhealthy place or among educated people; and it is essentially impossible\nto cut that up into a number of different bits of happiness conferred in\nreturn for separate payments on account. If I use the contract formula,\nI must interpret it to mean that amenability to various regulations,\nincluding the criminal law, is part of the whole bargain, which would\nhave been made, if it had ever been real, when I decided, if I ever had\ndecided, to join the society. The instinct for punishing criminals\nguilty of violence is one of the fundamental instincts of civilisation,\nand we must accept it just as we accept any other fundamental instinct.\n\nThe question of justice, however, is not a whit the less essential\nbecause it presupposes this social characteristic instead of supplying\nthe primary axioms from which it is to be deduced. It is undoubtedly of\nthe highest importance that every difference in our method of treating\ndifferent classes should have its sufficient reason, to be assigned as\nclearly as possible. The preservation of the peace is essential; but\nthat does not settle the methods by which it is to be preserved.\n\nOn what ground, then, are we to deal with the problem of justice as\nregards different classes of crime? If the calculation of pain and\npleasure, as already stated, seems to be unsatisfactory, what is the\nright principle of proportioning punishment to offence? I have noticed\none argument which Bentham applied, and, as I think, with very good\nreason. To punish crimes equally, he said, is virtually to put a premium\nupon the worst. The \"in for a penny in for a pound\" maxim becomes at\nonce applicable. Moreover, as every one now admits, the old brutal\nsystem is condemned by experience. To punish a great number of offences\nwith death led to a mixture of excessive brutality with excessive\nuncertainty. The cruel punishment of some criminals was balanced by the\ncomplete escape of others. But this practical failure clearly resulted,\nin great measure, from an obscure sense of justice. It was grossly\nunjust, it seemed, to hang a man for stealing a loaf, when you could\nonly hang another for the brutal murder of his wife. The penalty in the\nfirst case, was, it was felt, altogether out of proportion to the\noffence. This instinctive sentiment was, as I think we all feel,\nsubstantially right. In any case, it would have to be taken into account\nby the legislator, for the obvious reason that punishments which outrun\npublic opinion, tend to make martyrs of criminals. They are either not\ninflicted, or they set the sympathy of the people on the side of the\noffender. But to say this, is not to prove the sentiment to be just,\nonly to take account of its existence. And the question, therefore,\nremains, how it is to be logically justified, for it may seem to imply\nthe theory to which I have objected--the hypothesis of a sort of debtor\nand creditor account--of the old \"eye for an eye\" doctrine, which, as I\nhave argued, involves a misconception of the true doctrine. My reply\nwould be, in general terms, that the doctrine requires restatement, and,\nif properly stated, will not lose but acquire new forces.\n\nLet us consider the consequences of my previous statements. The\nessential condition of social development is enforcement, where\nnecessary, of peace and order by adequate means. The criminal law\ncorresponds to one part of this process. The whole social system\nincludes machinery for prevention, for reformation and for education, as\nwell as for punishment; and it is only when taken in its relation to\nother parts of the system, that we can give the full justification. Its\nmethods are, as I have said, obviously full of imperfections, from the\npurely moral point of view. If we consider it as an isolated fact,\ncomparably to the interference of a quasi-supernatural power, which\nclutches an offender here and there, and punishes him simply to frighten\nothers, the arbitrary and unequal nature of the proceeding assumes an\nair of injustice. In fact, if you take the extreme individualist view,\naccording to which each man is an independent unit, while society\nrepresents a force impinging upon him from without, it always becomes\ndifficult to introduce the conception of justice without ending in the\napproval of anarchy. When, however, we consider the social organisation\nas including all the means of civilising society, of strengthening the\ngeneral spirit of order, as well as acting upon the fears of the\ndisorderly, we have to take wider considerations into account. We become\nsensible, in the first place, of the importance of the principle that\npunishment should never be substituted for prevention. Wherever it is\npossible to remove temptations, or take precautions which make crime\nimpossible, we can have no excuse for adopting the blundering and\nunsatisfactory system of punishing those who have committed it. We\nadmit, that is, that the criminal law, though absolutely necessary, is\nan essentially clumsy contrivance, to be used only when other methods\nfail. When certain punishments have been condemned as brutalising, it\nhas been replied that the persons punished were already so brutal that\nit is impossible to make them worse. But the brutalising influence is\neven more objectionable as it applies to the legislator than as it\napplies to the criminal. To make up for neglect of appropriate\nprecautions by severity against the offender, is to adopt the\nnecessarily arbitrary method in which chance must always play a part in\nplace of more effective and civilising methods. Frugality in applying\npunishment is desirable as a guarantee that we are acting in the proper\nspirit. An Indian official was asked why the native police were disposed\nto use torture for the detection of crime. The cause was, he said,\nmainly from laziness: it was so much easier to sit in the shade, rubbing\nred pepper in a poor devil's eyes, than to go about in a hot sun\ncollecting evidence. So, it would be very much easier to inflict cruel\npunishment than to try to remove the causes of crime; and a resolution\nnever to use the more brutal methods is not, as I think, to be regarded\nas a proof of weak sentimentalism, but as a judicious self-denying\nordinance, imposed upon society by itself, as binding it always to\nadopt, as far as it possibly can, what is at once the more humane and\nthe more scientific method. The same principle involves the careful\ngraduation of punishment. There are, indeed, as I believe, though I\ncannot give reasons, cases in which crimes ought to be punished with\ndeath. There are persons of whom we may say that it would have been\nbetter, especially for their neighbours, if they had never been born. \"I\nam worth inconceivably more for hanging than for any other purpose,\"\nsaid the heroic John Brown; and the words may be applied, in a very\ndifferent sense, to some of the wretches who occasionally make their\nappearance in the courts. To hang such a man is to act upon the\nassumption that murderers represent elements which are entirely and\nradically anti-social. The only remedy for them is extirpation. But, if\nthis be admitted, it suggests a sufficient reason for not applying it to\nthe cases of less gravity, in which such radical incompatibility has not\nbeen demonstrated. Punishment by death, even if necessary, is certainly\na confession of impotence. We are admitting that we can do nothing\nbetter with the man than convert him into a scarecrow for the benefit\nof his like. What more, it may be asked, can we do with a criminal? The\nobvious reply would be, reform him. Although no one can doubt that\nreformation would be an extremely good thing, wherever practicable, it\nmay be urged that the enterprise is exceedingly difficult; that, in many\ncases, it is hopeless; and that we might spend our money and our efforts\nto better purpose upon more hopeful materials. And yet, I think that the\nanswer is the true one, if properly understood, and will suggest the\nright meaning to be given to the word \"deterrence\". So long as we\nconsider the individual case alone, and merely mean that we are giving\nmotives to bad men for refraining from particular lines of conduct, the\nresults, however desirable, are of limited value. But if we consider\ndeterrence as including or coinciding with reformation, as indicating a\npart of the general system of moral pressure by which the classes\nexposed to temptation may be gradually raised in the scale of\ncivilisation, we recognise an acceptable meaning. In fact, if we ask\nwhat is the deterring influence of punishment, we must observe that at\none extreme it will always fail, or only induce a bad man to take\nprecautions against detection; and that, at the other end of the scale,\nthere are a great many cases in which it does not come into active\noperation at all. You and I, I hope, are not in the least disposed to\nassault each other, even though no policeman is present. The bare\nthought of resorting to violence, pelting me, say, with rotten eggs, has\nnot even suggested itself to you, even though I may be making a very\nprovoking use of my tongue. But there is also an intermediate class of\npeople upon whom the possibility of having to appear in a police court,\nand the strong sense of shame attached to such appearances, is an active\nrestraining force, tending to limit, and, in cases where the proper\nconditions exist, gradually to narrow, the sphere of violence. We, the\npeaceable and law-abiding citizens, have gained a right to those\nepithets, because we have lived in a sphere where the law has been\nhabitually enforced. We have ceased to carry deadly weapons about us,\nand have established a general condition of good order. The deterring\ninfluence of the criminal law acts, or ought to act, by gradually\nspreading that state of mind through a steadily widening circle. The\nclasses which are still in need of such a support to their moral\ninstincts are clearly capable of reformation, whatever may be the case\nof some of the individuals who break the law. A fighting tribe, which\nhas been in the habit of resenting every injury by the use of the knife,\nmay learn, in a very short time, that a court of law settles disputes\nmore agreeably than a free fight; and may become a most admirable and\nefficient part of the society to which it belongs. And the same may be\nsaid of large classes in our own society, which are perfectly capable of\nbeing converted into good citizens, though they may retain certain\npropensities developed under a rougher and more brutal system. To employ\nexcessive and brutalising punishments in order to suppress small\noffences, is, therefore, to abandon the aim of civilising, to declare\ninternecine war against the class, and to regard them simply as a\nnuisance to be abated. The effect might be, if the law could be carried\nout, to prevent a certain number of crimes; but it must also be to\ngenerate a more dangerous spirit in the class which you regard simply as\ndangerous, instead of regarding it as the possible raw materials of a\nmore civilised and orderly society. Without attempting to dwell upon a\nfamiliar argument, I merely say that this view of the case implies that\nthe governing power should be regarded, not simply as a machinery for\ncatching and killing noxious criminals, but as a great civilising\ninfluence, suppressing all temptations to crime, where possible;\npreferring prevention, in every practicable case, to punishment, and\nmaking use of the clumsy, though necessary, weapons in the last resort;\nand acting by a steady and regulated pressure upon all anti-social\nelements. It is only possible to give a satisfactory theory of the jail\nand the gallows, when you take them as a subordinate part of the system\nwhich includes reformatories and schools, and due precautions for the\nregular preservation of order. The ultimate criterion of justice is not\nto be found in any attempt to form a debtor and creditor account between\nthe government and the individual; but in the civilising influence of\nthe system, taken as a whole.\n\nAnd, finally, I come back to the other theory which I have noticed. To\nsupply the defects of the simply deterrent theory, it has been found\nnecessary, as I said, to invoke the vindictive theory. We should go, it\nwas suggested, upon the theory that a criminal is hateful, and,\ntherefore, that it should be a pleasure to punish him. The feelings of\nresentment and moral indignation are parts of our nature, to which the\npunishment of the offender affords them a legitimate gratification. Now,\nto this, I should reply that, in the first place, I do not admit that\nthe desire for revenge, as usually understood, can ever be legitimate.\nRevenge, as I understand the word, implies a personal feeling. It is\ntaking pleasure in giving pain to a man because he has given pain to me.\nAccording to my view of morals, any pleasure in causing pain is, so far,\nwrong; and the public punishment should be free from all personal\nmotive. I quite agree with Bentham that we ought not to take a positive\npleasure in the sufferings, even of the worst criminal; and to admit the\nlegitimacy of such pleasure is to admit an element of pure sentiment to\nwhich it is difficult to assign any precise limits. If you allow\nyourself to hate a man so as to take pleasure in his sufferings, you\nmight justify the infliction of superfluous torture and the old methods\nof hanging, drawing, and quartering. To do so is precisely to approve\nthe ferocious old treatment, to which, as I conceive, the theory of\nsimple deterrence was an excellent corrective, in so far as it at least\nimplied a definite limit to the indulgence of fiercer passions. There\nis, however, I think, an element of truth in the doctrine. I admit, that\nis, that the punishment of a criminal should carry a moral approval, and\nnot be regarded purely as a measure of convenience. Successful crime\nshould be regarded with abhorrence. If a man convicted of a grave\noffence should be allowed to go without punishment, we should be rightly\naggrieved. It is not, however, that we should take pleasure in his\nsuffering, but that we should be pained by an example of the practical\nimpunity of anti-social conduct. The escape of a murderer would, as we\nshould feel, be a blow to the security of all innocent people. In that\nsense, we may take pleasure in his punishment, not in the sense of\npositive enjoyment, but, certainly, in the sense of relief from positive\nsense of evil. It is, and should be, painful to see the rogues flourish\nand honest men droop, and to observe \"captive good attending captain\nill\". But the pleasure of seeing the necessary equilibrium restored is\ndifferent from the pleasure of dwelling upon the sufferings of the\ndisturber. The practical difference is that, while we regard the\ninfliction of suffering as necessary, we admit it to be a necessary\nevil, and are keenly alive to the inability of keeping it within the\nlimits fixed by the general necessities of the law.\n\n\n\n\nLUXURY.\n\n\nProfessor Sidgwick has been discussing the ethics of luxury, and,\naccording to his wont, has been giving fresh interest to a well-worn\ntopic. I do not wish to dispute anything that he has said, nor do I hope\nto clear up problems which he professedly left unsolved. In one sense,\nthey obviously cannot be solved precisely. Luxury is a relative term,\nwhich cannot be defined in absolute terms. A luxury, in the first place,\nis distinguished from a necessary. But, then, one man's necessary may be\nanother man's luxury. My very existence depends upon conditions with\nwhich another man can dispense. If, again, we admit that there are many\nthings which, though not absolutely necessary, may rightly be used, if\nthey can be used without injuring others, we see that we must also take\ninto account the varying social conditions. If we use luxury, in what\nBentham called the dyslogistic sense, we must distinguish between\nnecessaries and superfluities, and then divide superfluities into\ncomforts which may be rightfully enjoyed, and luxuries which cannot be\nenjoyed without incurring some degree of moral censure. But the\ndividing lines are always shifting. Scott tells somewhere of a\nHighlander sleeping on the open moor in a winter night. When he tried to\nroll the snow into a pillow his companion kicked it away, as a proof of\ndisgraceful effeminacy. Most of us would come to a speedy end if we\nlived in a social state where such a standard of hardiness was rigidly\nenforced. We admit that some kind of pillow may be permitted, if not as\nabsolutely necessary, as, at least, a pardonable comfort. We shall\nprobably agree, also, that nobody is to be blamed for using clean sheets\nand securing a certain amount of warmth and softness--as much, at least,\nas is desirable for sanitary reasons. But if we endeavour to prescribe\nprecisely how much may be allowed in excess of the necessary, how often\nwe are to send our sheets to the wash, whether it is right to have lace\nupon our pillows, and so forth, we get into problems where any attempt\nat precision is obviously illusory. We are the more perplexed by the\nquestion, whether the provision of a bed for ourselves causes other\npeople to go without a bed, and, perhaps, without supper, or how far we\nare bound to take such consequences into account. Without aiming,\ntherefore, at an impossible precision, I shall try to consider--not what\nobjects should be called luxuries, or comforts, or necessaries, but what\nare the really relevant considerations by which we should endeavour to\nguide our judgments.\n\nLuxury is, as I have said, a well-worn topic. Saints and philosophers in\nall ages, have denounced the excessive love of material enjoyments, and\nset examples of a more or less thorough-going asceticism. It was--to go\nno further back--one of the favourite topics of our ancestors, in such\npapers as the _Spectator_ and the _Rambler_. Addison, in his _Cato_,\ndescribed the simple Numidian, whose standard appears to have resembled\nthat of Scott's Highlander. The Numidian, he says, rests his head upon a\nrock at night, and, if next day he chances to find a new repast or an\nuntasted spring, \"blesses his stars and calls it luxury\". General\nOglethorpe quoted this passage, in an argument about luxury, to Johnson,\nand added, \"let us have _that_ kind of luxury, sir, if you will\".\nJohnson himself put down all this declamation as part of the cant from\nwhich we ought to clear our minds. No nation, he said to Goldsmith, was\never hurt by luxury. \"Let us take a walk from Charing Cross to\nWhitechapel, through the greatest series of shops in the world: what is\nthere in any of these shops (if you except gin-shops) that can do any\nhuman being any harm?\" \"I accept your challenge,\" said Goldsmith. \"The\nnext shop to Northumberland House is a pickle-shop.\" To which the\nexcellent Johnson replied, first, that five pickle-shops could serve\nthe whole kingdom; secondly, that no harm was done to anybody either by\nmaking pickles or by eating pickles. I will not go into the ethics of\npickles. I only quote this to remind you that this was one of the stock\nquestions of the period; and not without reason. The denunciation of\nluxury was, in fact, the mark of a very significant tendency. Goldsmith\nhad expressed the prevalent sentiment in the _Deserted Village_, as in\nthe familiar passage beginning:--\n\n\n     Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey,\n     Where wealth accumulates and men decay.\n\n\nAnd Goldsmith, like many contemporaries, was only versifying the\nsentiments uttered most powerfully by Rousseau in his famous exaltation\nof the ideal man of nature above the man of a corrupt civilisation. The\ntheory has some affinity to the ancient doctrine already expounded by\nclassical writers, according to which each form of government includes a\nprinciple of decay as well as of life. One stage in the process of\ncorruption of Plato's ideal republic is marked by the appearance of the\ndrones, people who take a surfeit of unnecessary pleasures, and, to\nobtain satisfaction, associate themselves with the fierce and rapacious.\nIn Rousseau's time, this view became connected with the growing belief\nin progress and \"perfectibility\". It was a symptom of warning to the\ndrones of his day. It showed that the thoughtful classes were becoming\ndimly sensible that something was wrong in the social organisation; and\nthat a selfish and indolent aristocracy should be called upon to put its\nhouse in order. The denunciation of luxury meant, in short, that the\nrich and powerful were accused of indulgence in pleasures which they had\nnot earned by services, but by the rigid enforcement of class\nprivileges. Considered from this point of view, as the muttering of a\ncoming storm, as the expression of a vague foreboding that the world was\nsomehow out of joint, we may see more meaning than appears at first\nsight, in the old-fashioned commonplaces of our great-grandfathers. The\nlanguage has changed its form; but the discontent at the misuse of\nwealth in various forms has certainly not diminished since that time.\n\nObviously, then, the question of luxury is connected with very wide and\ndeep problems as to what is the proper use of wealth, and might lead us\ninto ultimate questions as to the justification of the right to private\nproperty at all. I shall try, however, to keep as closely as may be to\nthe particular aspect of such problems, which is immediately relevant to\nthis particular question. And for this purpose, I think it will be\nconvenient to take two points separately. The objections to luxury may\nbe stated either with reference to the individual or with reference to\nthe society. That is to say, that if we consider a man by himself, we\nmay ask with Johnson, whether expenditure upon pickles is injurious to\nthe constitution, or at what point it becomes injurious. And, in the\nnext place, we may ask whether, if we see our way to decide that pickles\nare wholesome as well as agreeable, some of us may not be getting more\nthan our fair share of pickles, and so diminishing the total sum of\npleasure, by inordinate consumption. First, then, I discard, for the\nmoment, all social considerations. I take for granted, for the sake of\nargument, that my indulgence does no harm to any one else; that I am not\ndepriving others of a means of enjoyment, but simply adding to my own;\nor, at any rate, that I am not, for the moment, to take into account\nthat set of consequences. How far, on this hypothesis, or, say, setting\naside all question of duty to my neighbour, should I be prudent in\naccumulating wealth? I sometimes amuse myself with the problem, How rich\nshould I like to be, supposing that I were perfectly wise in that sense\nin which wisdom is compatible with thorough-going egoism, or with what\nis called enlightened self-interest? The obvious answer is that, in that\ncase, there would be no limits to my desires. An imaginative American,\nwe are told, defined competence as \"a million a minute and all your\nexpenses paid\". The suggestion is fascinating, but not, to my mind,\nquite satisfactory. It recalls a doctrine which used to be put forward\nby the old political economists. They had to meet the theory--a\npreposterous theory enough--of the danger of a universal glut; the\ndanger, that is, that a nation might produce so much that nothing would\nhave any value, and, therefore, that we should all be ruined by all\nbecoming enormously rich. To meet this, it was often urged--along with\nmore satisfactory arguments--that human desires were illimitable; and,\ntherefore, that however rich a man might become he would always wish to\nbecome a little richer.\n\nAccording to this doctrine, the desire for wealth cannot be satiated.\nThe millionaire would still choose an extra half-crown rather than\nrefuse it, although the half-crown brings him incomparably less\nadditional pleasure than it brought him when his pockets were empty. But\nit is also true that long before we were millionaires, the pleasure\nobtainable by additional wealth may be infinitesimal, or absolutely\nnon-existent. The simple desires may be easily saturated. Pope asks,\n\"What riches give us, let us then inquire\". And he replies, \"Meat, fire,\nand clothes--what more? Meat, clothes, and fire.\" This is, in fact, a\npithy summary of our most elementary and necessary wants. Now, our\ndemand for meat is obviously strictly limited. As soon as we have eaten,\nsay, a pound of beefsteak, we do not want more; by the time we have\neaten, say, three pounds we do not only not want more, we loathe the\nvery thought of eating. So, when we are clothed sufficiently for comfort\nand decency, more clothing is simply a burden; and we wish only for so\nmuch fire as will keep our thermometer within certain limits; a heat\nabove or below would mean death either by burning or by freezing. Our\nultimate aim, therefore, in regard to desires of this class, is not to\nincrease the stimulus indefinitely, but to preserve a certain balance or\nequilibrium. If we want more food after our appetites are satisfied, it\nmust either be with a view to our future consumption, which is still\nstrictly finite, or else with a view to exchanging the food for\nsomething else, in which case it is desired, not as food, but as the\nmeans of satisfying some other desire. If, then, Pope's doctrine were\nreally sound, which actually amounts to saying, if our desires were\nreally limited to the physical conditions necessary to life, we should\nvery soon reach the state in which they would be completely glutted or\nsaturated. It may be worth while to note the circumstance which rather\nobscures our recognition of this fact. We may distinguish between the\nwealth which a man actually uses and that which remains, as I may say,\nonly potential. A man may desire an indefinite quantity of wealth,\nbecause he may wish to have rights which he may yet never turn to actual\naccount. There is a certain satisfaction, no doubt, in knowing that I\nhave a vast balance at my banker's, though I have no desire to use it. I\nmay want it some time or other; and, even if I never want it, I may\nenjoy the sense of having a disproportionate barrier of money-bags piled\nup between me and the yawning gulf of actual poverty. Therefore, though\na very limited amount may be enough to satiate all our existing desires,\nwe may like to know that there is more at our disposal. If possession\ncarried with it the necessity of using our property, if we could not\nhave potential as distinguished from actual wealth, we should be so far\nfrom desiring an indefinite increase of wealth that we should regard the\nincrease beyond a certain limit as only one of two intolerable\nalternatives.\n\nThe question, therefore, How rich should I wish to be? requires an\nanswer to the previous question, How rich can I be? A man, even if on\nthe intellectual level of a savage, can be indefinitely rich in\npotential wealth: he may, that is, have a right to millions of pounds or\nbe the owner of thousands of acres; but in order to use them he must\nhave certain capacities and sensibilities. It is a curious question,\nfor example, how much of the wealth of a country would cease to be\nwealth at all if the intelligence of the possessors were lowered certain\ndegrees in the scale? A large part of the wealth of England consists, I\nsuppose, of machinery. If nobody knew more of machines than I do--and my\nwhole notion of a machine is that it is something that goes round\nsomehow if you happen to turn the right handle--all this wealth would\nbecome as useless as an electric telegraph in the possession of a hairy\nAinu. And if nobody had any better artistic perception than mine, and we\nwere therefore unable to see the difference between a Raphael and the\ndaub in an advertising placard, the pictures in the National Gallery\nwould have an average value, say, of eighteen-pence. A man, therefore,\nwho is at the lower levels of intelligence is simply unable to be\nactually rich, beyond a narrow limit. The fact is occasionally forced\nupon us by striking examples. I heard the other day a story--I am afraid\nwe all hear such stories too often--of a man who had become enormously\nrich by a freak of fortune. His only idea of enjoyment happened to be\ngin. He could, therefore, only use his wealth by drinking himself to\ndeath; a proceeding which he accordingly felt to be only a proper\ntribute to his improved social position. A similar result happens\nwhenever a sudden rise of wages to an insufficiently civilised class\nleads to the enrichment of publicans, instead of increased indulgence in\nrefined and innocent pleasures. The man, in short, whose idea of\npleasure is simply the gratification of the physical appetites in their\ncoarser forms is incapable of becoming actually rich, because a small\namount of wealth will enable him to saturate his desires by providing a\nsuperfluity of the material means of gratification. It is, perhaps, here\nthat we may take into account the remark so often made by moralists, by\nAdam Smith among others, as Professor Sidgwick reminds us, that\nhappiness is more evenly distributed among different classes than we\nsuppose. The king, according to Shakespeare, cannot--\n\n\n                       With all the tide of pomp\n     That beats upon the high shore of this world ...\n     Sleep so soundly as the wretched slave\n     Who with a body filled and vacant mind\n     Gets him to rest, cramm'd with distressful bread.\n\n\nThe \"body filled\" and the \"vacant mind\" make up for the \"distressful\nbread\". It is as well, that is, to have no wants except the want of mere\nphysical comfort, as to have higher wants and the means of gratifying\nthem, and yet to be saddled with the anxieties and responsibilities\nwhich the higher position involves. The doctrine, \"I am not really\nbetter off than you,\" is, indeed, not a very graceful one from those\nwho are actually better off. There was some excuse for the fox who said\nthe grapes were sour when he could not get them; it argued a judicious\ndesire to make the best of things: but if he made the remark while he\nwas comfortably chewing them, by way of pacifying the grapeless foxes,\nwe should have thought him a more objectionable hypocrite. The pauper\nmay fairly reply, \"If you really mean that your wealth brings no\nhappiness, why don't you change places with me?\" I will, therefore, not\ndefend the statement, considered as an exhortation to content; but I\naccept it as a recognition of the obvious fact, that if happiness means\na satisfaction of all our desires, a man of small means may be as happy\nas the man of the greatest means, if his desires are limited in\nproportion. But is it for our happiness to increase them?\n\nDoes our principle hold when we suppose a man to have the necessary\nsensibilities for the actual enjoyment of wealth? If he acquires the\ntastes which imply greater intellectual cultivation, a power, therefore,\nof taking into account sources of pleasure more complex and more distant\nin time and space, does it then become true that his power of using\nwealth will be indefinite? I should reply, in the first place, that we\nmust still admit the same psychological truth. Any desire whatever,\nthat is, is capable of yielding only a strictly finite amount of\nenjoyment; the pleasure which we can derive from it must be limited both\nby the necessity of gratifying other desires and by the fact that no\ndesire whatever is capable of an indefinite increase by increased\nstimulation. After a certain point of excitement is reached, we cannot\nget more pleasure by any accumulation of internal conditions. We assume\nfor the present that our aim is simply to extract the greatest possible\namount of gratification out of life. We must then take for our data our\nactual constitution, capacities, sensibilities, and so forth, and\ncalculate how much wealth could be actually applied in order to keep us\nmoving always along the line of maximum enjoyment. This would be to\nstudy the art of life on purely hedonistic principles. We should ask,\nwhat career will on the whole be fullest of enjoyment? and then, what\nmaterial conditions can enable us to follow that career? I imagine that\nthe amount requisite would vary indefinitely according to our\ncharacters. Suppose, for example, that a man has strong intellectual\ntastes, a love of art or science or literature. He will require, of\ncourse, enough wealth to enable him to devote himself without anxiety to\nhis favourite pursuits, and enough, moreover, to train himself in all\nrequisite knowledge. But granting this, the material conditions of\nhappiness will be sufficiently fulfilled. I think it was Agassiz who\nobserved when he was devoting himself to science that he had not time to\nget rich. Wealth to him would have been rather an impediment than an\nadvantage. A man like Faraday, who placed his whole happiness in the\nextension of scientific knowledge, and who was not less honoured because\nhe lived upon a modest income, would not have had a greater amount of\nthat kind of happiness had he possessed the wealth of a Rothschild. A\nman whose pleasure is in reading books, or contemplating works of art,\nor listening to music, can obtain the highest enjoyment at a very\nmoderate price, and could get very little more if he had the most\nunbounded wealth at his disposal. If we inquired what men possessing\nsuch tastes had derived from them the greatest happiness, we should, I\nfancy, find ourselves mentioning men comparatively poor, whose\nenjoyments were even comparatively keen, because they had to devote a\ncertain amount of care and contrivance to obtaining full play for their\ncapacities. Charles Lamb, plotting and contriving to get an old volume\nfrom a bookstall, possibly got more pleasure from his taste than if he\nhad been the possessor of a gigantic library. The sociable man, again,\nthe man whose pleasure in society is the genuine delight in a real\ninterchange of thought and sympathy, who does not desire magnificent\nentertainment, but the stimulus of intimate association with congenial\nfriends, would probably find the highest pleasure in comparatively\nsimple social strata, where the display of wealth was no object, and men\nmet, as Johnson met his friends at the club, to put mind fairly to mind,\nand to stimulate intellectual activity, instead of consuming the maximum\nof luxury. Milton's sonnet to Lawrence gives perhaps a rather severe but\na very fascinating ideal of refined luxury:--\n\n\n     What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice,\n     Of Attic taste with wine, whence we may rise\n     To hear the lute well touched, or artful voice\n     Warble immortal notes and Tuscan air?\n     He who of these delights can judge, and spare\n     To interpose them oft, is not unwise.\n\n\nNor need we be accused of inordinate boasting if we should say that we\nwould rather have made a third at such a feast than have joined a dozen\nrowdy courtiers at the table of Charles II.\n\nThere are, however, pleasures which undoubtedly suppose an indefinite\ncapacity for using wealth. There is, for example, such a thing as the\npure love of splendour, which is represented so curiously in some of\nDisraeli's novels. One of his heroes, if I remember rightly, proposed to\nfollow the precedent actually set by Beckford, who built at Fonthill a\ntower 300 feet high--not because it was wanted for any other purpose,\nbut simply for the sake of building a tower. Of course, if one has a\ntaste for towers 300 feet high, there is no particular limit to the\nquantity of wealth which may be found convenient. One of the gentlest\nand most delicate satirists of modern society, Mr. Du Maurier, has given\nus admirable illustrations of a more vulgar form of the same tendency in\nhis portraits of Sir Gorgius Midas. When that worthy denounces his\nservants because there are only three footmen sitting up till two\no'clock to save him the trouble of using a latch-key, we may admit that\nhis pleasures, such as they were, were capable of finding gratification\nin any quantity of expenditure. It might be a question, indeed, if we\nhad time to ask it, whether the pleasure derived from such expenses by\nthe millionaire be really so great as the pleasure which he had when he\nfirst turned the proverbial half-crown, with which he must have come to\nLondon, into his first five shillings; and it is certainly also a\nquestion whether his expenditure was ethically right. But at present we\nare only considering facts, and we may admit that there would be no\nfilling such a gulf of desire by any dribble of bullion; and, further,\nthat there are pleasures--not, on the face of them, immoral--in\nprocuring which any quantity of money may be spent. If a man is simply\ndesirous of obtaining influence, or, in some cases, political power; or\nif he decides to muddle away his money upon charity, there are no limits\nto the sums he may spend, especially if he has no objection to\ncorrupting his neighbours.\n\nBefore saying anything upon this, however, I must pause to deduce a\nconclusion. Keeping still to the purely hedonistic point of view, I ask,\nAt what point does expenditure become luxurious in a culpable sense?\nmeaning by \"culpable\" not morally culpable, but simply injudicious from\nthe point of view of enlightened self-interest. To this I think that one\nanswer is already suggested, that is to say, that since, on the one\nhand, a certain finite quantity of wealth will enable us to keep to the\nhappiest or most philosophic career; and since, on the other hand, a man\nmay possess a quantity of superfluous wealth which he can only use on\npenalty of deviating from that career, he becomes foolish, if not\nimmoral--upon which I say nothing--when he tries to use more. That\npeople frequently commit this folly is undeniable. Wealth ought to be (I\nmean would be by a judiciously selfish person) regarded as a means of\nenjoyment. Therefore the superfluous wealth should be left in the\npotential stage--as a balance at his banker's or accumulating in the\nfunds. But though the possession does not imply a necessity of using,\nit does generally imply a sort of tacit feeling of\nresponsibility--responsibility, that is, to a man's self. I have got so\nmuch money; surely it is a duty to myself to use it for my pleasure. So\nfar as a man yields to such an argument, he becomes the slave instead of\nthe master of his wealth. What ought to be machinery for furthering an\nend, becomes an end in itself: and, at that point of conduct, I think\nthat we are disposed to call a man's life luxurious in a distinctly bad\nsense. The error, as I have suggested, is perhaps at bottom much the\nsame as that which leads a poor man to spend an increase of wages at a\ngin-shop. But we do not call the gin-drinker luxurious, but simply\nvicious. For luxury seems to apply less to conduct which we can\ndistinctly call bad in itself, than to conduct which only becomes bad or\nfoolish as implying a disproportion between the end attained and the\nexpense of attaining it. It applies when a man has, as we say, so much\nmoney that he does not know what to do with it. We speak of luxuries in\nthe case of Sir Gorgius, where the prominent fact is that the man has\nbeen gorged with excessive wealth, and is yet too dull to use it in any\nmanner which would increase the happiness of a reasonable or refined\nbeing. So it is generally regarded as characteristic rather of the\nupstart or newly-made millionaire than of the man born to higher\nposition, whose life is perhaps as selfish and hardly superior morally.\nBut the nobleman by birth has inherited a certain art of life; he has\nacquired traditional modes of arranging his pleasures, which give him\nthe appearance, at least, of possessing more judicious and refined\ntastes; and we are less shocked than by the man who has obviously wealth\nwhich he knows not how to use, and which he, therefore, deliberately\ndevotes to coarse and vulgar ostentation. The upstart may not be more\nselfish at bottom; but he dashes in your face the evidence of his\nselfishness, and appeals for admiration on the simple ground that he has\na larger income than his neighbours. Luxury means, on this showing, all\nsuch expenditure as is objectionable, not because the pleasure obtained\nis intrinsically bad, but because we are spending for the sake of\nspending, and could get more real enjoyment at a lower sum. I need not\ndwell upon the fact that men of moderate means may fall into the same\nerror. The fault of exaggerating the importance of machinery is not\nconfined to those whom we call rich. Thackeray's discourses upon Snobs\nare full expositions of the same weakness in the middle classes. When we\nread, for example, of Colonel Ponto being miserable because he tries to\nmake an income of a thousand a year support the pomp accessible to\npersons with ten thousand, we see that he has as false a view as Sir\nGorgius of the true ends of life. And I refer to the same great satirist\nfor abundant illustrations of the weaknesses which too often make\nsociety a machinery for wasting money on display, and entirely oblivious\nthat it should be a machinery for the promotion of intellectual and\nrefined pleasures.\n\nNow, if I have given a fair account of luxury as considered simply from\nthe point of view of an enlightened selfishness, I may proceed to the\nethical question. So far, I have only asked, in substance, at what point\nour expenditure upon pickles becomes foolish. But, of course, the more\nimportant question arises, at what point it becomes selfish. A man may\nbe silly for spending money upon erecting towers; but if he does no harm\nto his neighbours we hardly call him wicked. We cannot say that it is\nunconditionally wrong to build a tower. We must inquire, therefore, how\nfar luxury necessarily involves a wrong to others. Here we must begin by\nlistening to all the philosophers and divines of whom I spoke at\nstarting. Any number of wise and good men will tell us, in various\ndialects, that pleasure is in itself bad, or, at least, that all the\npleasures obtainable by wealth are bad, or, at any rate, beneath the\nnotice of the higher spirits. There are the thorough-going ascetics, who\nstrive, not to regulate, but to suppress all except the absolutely\nnecessary physical instincts, and think that even those desires savour\nof evil; who consider the best man to be the man who lives upon bread\nand water, and, if possible, upon mouldy bread and ditch-water. There\nare, again, spiritually-minded people, who consider all happiness to be\nworthless, except such happiness as results from aspirations to another\nworld; who regard all riches as chains binding the soul to earth; who\ntake the words \"Blessed are the poor\" in the most literal sense, as\ndefining the true aim of life. We should seek, they say, for happiness\nelsewhere than in this transitory stage of existence, remember that the\nworld is a mere screen hiding the awful realities of heaven and hell;\nand despise even such pleasures as are generally called intellectual\npleasures, the pleasures, for example, of art or science, for they, too,\nbelong really to the sphere of illusion, and are simply more subtle\ntemptations than those of the flesh. And, besides these, we have the\nphilosophers, who would have us live in the world of pure intellect, and\ntell us that the true moral of life is to make ourselves independent of\nexternal circumstances by suppressing all the corresponding desires.\nRenunciation, therefore, is the first lesson to be learned by the wise\nman; and the practical rule, as has been said, is that we should\nendeavour not to increase our numerator but to lessen our denominator. I\ncannot now discuss such doctrines. I am content to say that I regard\nthem not as simply false, but as distorted views of truth. For my part,\nI am content to say that, even as a moralist, I wish to see people as\nhappy as possible; that being, after all, a poor utilitarian after my\nown fashion, I desire--however erroneously--the greatest happiness of\nthe greatest number; and, in particular, that I should like to see, not\na feebler, but a much keener appreciation of all the pleasures derivable\nfrom art, or science, or literature, or rational society, even, if I may\nsay so, from good cookery and athletic sports. Briefly, the ideal\nsociety seems to me to be one in which even our lower instincts should\nnot be suppressed, but regulated; and the typical man of the future to\nbe one whose whole faculties and their corresponding sensibilities\nshould be cultivated to the utmost possible degree. What is the\napplication of this to our special question? I do not know that I can do\nbetter than refer to the writings of Bernard Mandeville, who in his\n_Fable of the Bees_--one of the cleverest books in the\nlanguage--succeeded by the help of much paradox, and under a cloak of\ncynicism, in stating the problem with singular vivacity. Private vices,\nthat was his way of putting it, are public benefits. His meaning, put\nless paradoxically, was this: accept, on the one hand, the ascetic\ndoctrine that pursuit of pleasure is intrinsically vicious, and you\ncondemn all the impulses by which the structure of society, especially\nthe industrial structure, has been built up. Accept, on the other hand,\nthe doctrine that civilisation is, on the whole, a good thing, and you\nadmit that the instincts, which, upon this hypothesis, correspond to\nprivate vices, are the only means of producing a public benefit. In\nother words, if we took the language of theologians in its natural\nsense, and really regarded the world as worthless, we should have no\nindustry, no trade or commerce, and be still living in swamps and\nforests, digging up roots with our nails, living upon acorns and\nshell-fish, and scarcely even painting ourselves blue, for to the savage\nblue paint was a luxury. Now, apart from any question as to the fairness\nof this version of theological doctrine, we may ask, What is the real\nunderlying difficulty--or that aspect of it which is still worth\nconsidering? We may grant, in the first place, to Mandeville, that, in\npoint of fact, the construction of a civilised society presupposes the\ndevelopment of numerous desires, many of which are more or less\ncondemned by severe moralists. If the savage comes to value blue paint,\nhe may take to planting something to exchange for it, instead of simply\nlying on his back to digest his last handful of acorns; and, in so\ndoing, he makes the first step towards the development of an industrial\nsystem. The desire for wealth is, of course, implied in all stages of\nprogress if men are to create wealth; and we can partly answer\nMandeville's paradox by throwing over the ascetic and declaring that a\ndesire for good meat, and fire, and clothes, even for pictures, and\nbooks, and music, or for such comforts as most of us enjoy, is not in\nitself immoral; and that, on the contrary, the more there is of such\nenjoyment the better for men's bodies and minds, and therefore, on the\nwhole, the better for their morality. But the moral difficulty returns\nin a new shape. The desire for wealth, let us say, is not in itself bad;\nit is simply natural--it is a desire for one essential condition of a\ntolerably happy life. But is it not bad, in so far as it is selfish? Do\nnot the desires which have been the mainspring of all modern development\nimply a desire of each man to get rich at the expense of others? Have\nthey not been the source of all that division between rich and poor\nwhich makes one side luxurious and the other miserable? Has not Dives\nbecome rich and bloated by force of the very same process which has made\nLazarus a mass of sores and misery? Suppress the desire for wealth, and\nwe should still be savages \"running wild in woods\". But was not even the\nnoble savage better than the pauper who now hangs on to the fringes of\nsociety? and is his existence compensated by the existence of other\nclasses who have more wealth than they can use? And so the old problem\ncomes back; and we have, as of old, the most contradictory answers to\nthe problem.\n\nI am, I confess it, one of those old-fashioned people who believe in\nprogress, and hold that their own century is distinctly better than any\nwhich preceded it; who would on no account go back, if they could, to\nthe days of the noble savages or even to the brutalities and\nsuperstitions of the ages of faith. But I do not think that I need argue\nthat question for our present purpose. We have got to this century\nsomehow, and we can only get out of it by living till the twentieth.\nMeanwhile, we should make the best of the interval. I will, therefore,\nonly permit myself one remark. If we suppose, with Mandeville, that the\ninstincts which have developed modern society have been, to a great\nextent, selfish desires, that is, for the personal comfort of the agent,\nirrespectively of consequences to others, it does not follow that the\ncorresponding development has been mischievous. Good commonplace\nmoralists have been much in the habit of condemning the selfish passions\nof kings and conquerors. What can be an easier mark for denunciation\nthan such a man, for example, as Louis XI. of France, and the wily and\ncruel rulers of past ages, whose only aim was to enlarge their own\npowers and wealth? And yet, if we consider the matter historically, we\nmust admit that such men have rendered enormous services to mankind. A\nruler, let us say, had for his only object the extension and\nconcentration of his own authority. Still, it was by the conflicts of\nrulers that the great nations have been formed out of a chaos of\nstruggling clans; that peace and order, therefore, have been substituted\nfor violence, throughout broad territories; that law has taken the place\nof private war; moreover, that the privileges of selfish orders have\nbeen suppressed through the development of a larger and more civilised\nnational organisation; and that, although the immediate victory was won\nby the selfish ruler, the ultimate benefit has accrued to the people\nupon whom he was forced to rely for support against the oppressive\nsubordinate powers. The ruler, perhaps, did not look beyond his own\ninterests; but his own interest forced him to find allies among the mass\nof the population, and so gradually led to the formation of central\norgans, representing not the personal interest of the king, but the\ninterest of the whole nation in which they had arisen. We may make a\nsimilar remark upon industrial development. The great merchant and\ncapitalist and inventor of new methods and machinery has not looked, it\nmay be, beyond his own interest; but, intentionally or not, he was\nhelping to construct a vast organisation, which, whether it has, on the\nwhole, improved the world or not, has, at least, made it enormously\nricher. Perhaps Watt, when he was improving the steam-engine, thought\nonly of the profits to be derived from his invention. But the profit\nwhich he gained after a laborious life was but an infinitesimal fraction\nof the enormous increase of efficiency which resulted to the national\nindustry. We cannot doubt that the whole gigantic system which at least\nmaintains a population several times multiplied, which maintains part of\nit in wealth and a large proportion in reasonable comfort, has been due\nto the labours of many men, each working for his own interest and\nanimated chiefly by the desire of wealth. So much remains true of the\neconomist's doctrine of the natural harmony between individual and\npublic interest. In this case, as in the case of governments, we may,\nperhaps, say that men acted from motives which must be called selfish,\nin this sense at least, that they thought of little but their own\ninterests; but that, at the same time, their own interests compelled\nthem to work in a direction which promoted, more or less, the interests\nof others. I add, briefly, that these are only instances of what we may\ncall the general rule: namely, that morality begins from an external or\nunrecognised conformity of interests, and ends by recognising and\nadopting, as motives, the consequences which, in the earlier stage,\nseemed to be internal or accidental consequences. I begin by helping a\nman because circumstances make it useful to myself, and I end--and only\nbecome truly moral when I end--by doing what is useful to him, because\nit is useful to him. When, indeed, I have reached that point, my end\nitself is profoundly modified; it becomes much wider, and yet only\nregulates and directs to new channels a great deal of the corresponding\nconduct.\n\nThe consideration of this modification--of the change which should take\nplace when a man not only pursues such conduct as is beneficial on the\nwhole to a country, but pursues it with a view to the beneficial\nconsequences--brings us back to the question of luxury. The bare pursuit\nof wealth as the end of existence implies, of course, indifference to\nthe means by which it is produced; an equal readiness, for example, to\ngrow rich by cheating my neighbour, or by actually producing a greater\nquantity of useful produce. It is consistent with a simple desire to\nenlarge my business without reference to the effect upon the persons I\nemploy, as when manufacturers enriched themselves by cruel exploitation\nof the labour of infants. But if we hope for a state of things in which\nan employer should consider himself as essentially part of the national\norganism, as increasing his own wealth only by such means as would be\nalso advantageous to the comfort of the nation generally, the pursuit of\nwealth would become moralised.\n\nHere, in fact, we must once more consider Mandeville's paradox. Desire\nfor wealth, he substantially says, must be good because it stimulates\nindustry. When your lazy barbarian, who has no pleasure but gorging\nhimself with food, comes also to desire fine clothes, he is not only a\ndegree more refined in his tastes, but his increased industry leads him\nto produce enough food to support his tailor, and provision is made for\ntwo men instead of one. But desire for wealth, it is replied, is bad,\nbecause it leads our barbarian not only to consume the product of his\nown labour, but to consume that of somebody else. Mandeville gained\npiquancy for his argument by confusing the two cases. Since the desire\nis good, all its manifestations must be good. Extravagance, for example,\nis good, and, as he put it, the fire of London was a benefit to industry\nbecause it set up a greater demand for the services of carpenters and\nbricklayers. I need not say how frequently an argument substantially the\nsame has been adopted by good writers, and simple extravagance been\npraised because it was supposed to be \"good for trade\". Political\neconomists have been forced to labour the point that extravagant\nconsumption does not increase wealth; but the only curious thing is that\nsuch a point should ever have required demonstration. The conclusion,\nwhich is sufficient for our purpose, is simply that an absolute\ndenunciation or an absolute exaltation of the desire for wealth is\nequally impossible; for the desire may have contrary effects. In one\nshape it may stimulate to enjoyments which actually diminish wealth in\ngeneral, or, at any rate, to those which lead to the actual exploitation\nof the many for the benefit of the few; and, on the other hand, to\ndenounce it, simply would be to denounce all the springs of action which\nraise men above the barbarous state of society. When we look at the\ncontrasts between the rich and the poor, we must rightfully desire a\ngreater equality of distribution; but we may be tempted to approve too\neasily any means which may lead to such equality. It is, indeed, obvious\nthat if all the national resources which are now applied to producing\nsuperfluities could be turned to the production of necessaries, we could\nsupport the same population in a greater comfort, or support a much\ngreater population at a point just above starvation level. But it does\nnot at all follow that a society in which every man's labour was devoted\nentirely to the task of providing necessaries would in fact be either\nmore comfortable or more numerous. Historically speaking, the fact is\nthe very reverse. The only societies in which there is such an equality\nare societies in which the level is one of uniform misery, and whose\ntotal industrial efficiency is incomparably smaller than that of the\nmore civilised races. It has been only in so far as a nation has been\nable to support classes with sufficient means to devote themselves to\nscience and art, and the cultivation of the higher faculties generally,\nthat it has acquired the vast powers of production which enable some to\nbe disproportionately rich, but which also enable numerous masses to\nsupport themselves in tolerable comfort where there were once a few\nwandering barbarians. That the more cultivated classes have sought only\ntheir own advantage instead of the general benefit, may be too true; but\nthe conclusion is, not that they should cease to have the desires which\nentitle a man to be called a civilised being, but that these desires\nshould be so regulated and moralised as to subserve directly and\nnecessarily the ends which they have only promoted indirectly and\naccidentally. A society which has grown rich by mechanical discoveries\nand industrious organisation has acquired the power of greatly raising\nthe average level of comfort. If, in point of fact, its power has been\ngreatly misused, if a great development of poverty has taken place side\nby side with a great development of industrial efficiency, the proper\ninference is not that we should denounce the desires from which the\nefficiency is derived, but that we should direct them into such channels\nas may lead to the more universal distribution of the advantages which\nthey create.\n\nIt is, I think, from this point of view that we can best judge of the\nmoral objection to luxury. For, as I previously suggested, luxury begins\nwhen a man becomes the slave instead of the master of his wealth; when\nthat which ought to be a mere machinery becomes an end in itself; and\nwhen, therefore, there is a tendency to cultivate and stimulate to\nexcess those lower passions which, though necessary within limits, may\nbeyond those limits distort and lower the whole character, and make the\npursuit of worthy objects impossible. We know that the king who had the\nreputation of being the wisest of mankind, after building a splendid\ntemple and a gorgeous palace, and filling them with vessels of gold, and\nimporting ivory and apes and peacocks, could find nothing better to do\nwith the rest than to take 700 wives and 300 concubines--a measure which\nhardly increased his domestic felicity, but no doubt got rid of a good\ndeal of money. Although few men have Solomon's opportunities of\naffording a typical instance of luxury, many of us show ourselves\ncapable of weakness similar at least in kind. I need not multiply\nexamples. The great mystery of fashion is perhaps a trifling but a\nsignificant example. When people, instead of considering dress as a\nmeans of displaying the beauty of the human frame, consider their bodies\nas mere pegs upon which to display clothes, and are ready to distort\ntheir own forms to fill arbitrary shapes, changed at short intervals to\nincrease the cost, they are clearly exemplifying the confusion between\nmeans and ends. When a young gentleman spends a fortune upon the turf,\nor upon gambling, he shows that he has no more conception than the poor\nboy who plays pitch-and-toss with halfpence of the ways in which wealth\nmight be made conducive to undertakings worthy of absorbing human\nenergy. When, on pretence of cultivating society, we invent a whole\ncumbrous social apparatus which makes all rational conversation\nimpossible, we know that the display of wealth has become an end to\nwhich we are ready to sacrifice our ostensible purpose. Now, I suggest\nthat such luxury, such exaltation of the machinery above the ultimate\ngood, corresponds pretty nearly to the distinction between the desires\nwhich lead to the rightful use and those which lead to the shameful\nmisuse of wealth in a social sense. Human nature, indeed, is singularly\ncomplex, and it is impossible to deny that the hope of acquiring such\nluxuries may incidentally lead to that increase of industry and\ndevelopment of national resources which, as we have seen, is the ground\nupon which it is defended. The industrious apprentice may have been\nstimulated to become Lord Mayor by the odours from his master's\nturtle-soup; Arkwright, perhaps, was induced to invent the machinery\nwhich revolutionised the cotton manufactures by the hope of becoming Sir\nRichard, and rivalling the coarse luxury of some stupid Squire Western.\nBut we cannot doubt that upon a large scale the love of the grosser\nindulgences is bad, even from its purely economical point of view. If,\nincidentally, it encourages industry, it far more directly and\nnecessarily encourages wasteful expenditure. If a rich man can only\nspend his thousands at a gambling-table, the poorer man cannot be blamed\nfor gambling with a thimble-rigger. When Solomon set up his domestic\nestablishment, every shopkeeper in Jerusalem might be encouraged to\nmarry an extra wife. If a rich man, who has enough to saturate a healthy\nappetite, tries how much money he can spend, like the old classical\nepicures, upon new dishes of nightingales' tongues, you can hardly\nexpect the poorer man to refrain from an extra glass of gin. Briefly, so\nfar as the resources of a nation are spent upon the mere\nostentation--which we call vulgar, to imply that it is spending for the\nsake of expense, foolishly trying to get more pleasure for an appetite\nalready gorged to excess, by simply increasing the stimulus--it is\nencouraging all the forces which make rather for waste than increased\nproductiveness, and justifying the natural jealousy of the poorer. So\nfar, that is, as a desire for wealth means a desire to consume as much\nas possible on supersaturating the lower appetites, the commonest\nargument against private property in general is not only plausible but\njustified. I should say, then, that luxury in a bad sense begins\nwherever in expenditure it indicates an insufficient sense of the\nresponsibility which attaches to all wealth. This does not condemn an\nexpenditure which may seem, from some points of view, luxurious; though,\nas I have said, I cannot profess to draw any distinct line in what is\nessentially a question of degree and of actual possibilities, I can only\nsuggest in general that a man is _prima facie_ justified in all such\nexpenditure as tends to the highest possible cultivation of his\nfaculties and of the faculties of those dependent upon him. I hold it to\nbe a matter of the highest importance that there should be a thoroughly\ncivilised class--a class capable of all intellectual pleasures; loving\nthe beauties of art and nature; studying every possible department of\nknowledge, scientific and historical; maintaining all such modes of\nrecreation and social enjoyment as are naturally appropriate to such a\nclass. And I do not call any man luxurious for maintaining his position\nin such a sphere, or for enabling his children to follow in his steps. I\nbelieve that, as things are, the existence of such a class is a\nnecessary condition of national welfare and of the preservation and\nextension of the whole body of cultivation which we have received from\nour ancestors. What is requisite is, that the class should be not only\ncapable of refined enjoyment, but of discharging its functions\nrelatively to the nation at large, and spreading a higher standard of\nenjoyment through the whole community. So far as the richer class\nmaintains certain traditions, moral and intellectual--traditions of\npersonal honour and public spirit, of artistic and literary\ncultivation--it may be discharging an invaluable function, and its\nexistence may be a necessary means of diffusing a higher civilisation\nthrough the masses who have not the same advantage. Whatever employments\nof wealth contribute to make a man more efficient as an individual\nmember of society, to strengthen his understanding and his perceptions,\nto widen his intellectual horizon and interest his sympathies, and the\nenjoyments which correspond to them, are not to be condemned as\nluxurious. They are, at present, only within the reach of the richer\nclasses, ardently as we may hope that the power of partaking them may be\nextended as rapidly and widely as possible. But the growth of luxury, in\nthe bad sense, is the indication that the class which should act as the\nbrain of the social organism is ceasing to discharge its functions, and\nbecoming what we call a survival. It is a kind of moral gout--an\naristocratic disease, showing that the secretions are becoming\ndisordered for want of a proper application of the energies. It was in\nthat sense, as I said before, that our grandfathers denounced the luxury\nwhich proved that the ruling classes, especially in France, had retained\ntheir privileges while abandoning the corresponding duties. If in\nEngland we escaped so violent a catastrophe, it was because, with all\ntheir luxuries and levities and shortsightedness, the aristocratic\nclasses were still playing an active part, and, if not governing well,\ndoing whatever was done in the way of governing. But every class, and\nevery member of a class, should always remember that he may be asked\nwhether, on the whole, he and his like can give any sufficient reason\nfor his or their existence, and that he ought to be prepared with a\nsatisfactory answer. When he has to admit that his indulgences are in\nthe main what may be called luxuries in the bad sense, he may consider\nthat he is receiving notice to quit.\n\nThis may suggest the last remark that I need make. It is impossible, I\nhave said, to say definitely this is, and that is not, a luxury: and, in\ngeneral, that is not the way in which the question presents itself. We\nhave rather to decide upon our general standard of life, and to adopt a\ncertain scale of living more or less fixed for us by our social\nsurroundings. We can all do something towards rationalising the habitual\nmodes of expenditure, and adapting the machinery to such ends as are\nworthy of intelligent and cultivated beings. So far as inclination is in\nthe direction of vulgarity, of ostentatious habits, of multiplying idle\nceremonies and cumbrous pomposities, we can protest by our own conduct,\nat least, in favour of plain living and high thinking. But so far as\nsocial life is really adapted to the advancement of intellect, the\nhumanising and refinement of our sympathies, it promotes an improvement\nwhich cannot but spread beyond the immediate circle. Even such pursuits,\nit is true, may incidentally become provocative of an objectionable\nluxury. A man who is a lover of art, for example, occasionally shuts\nhimself out all the more from the average sympathies, and indulges in\npleasures, less gross but, perhaps, even more enervating than some which\nwe should call distinctly sensual. The art, whether literary or\nplastic, which is only appreciable by the connoisseur, is an art which\nis luxurious because it is on the way to corruption. Nothing is clearer\nin the vague set of guesses which pass for aesthetic theory, than this:\nthat to be healthy and vigorous, art must spread beyond cliques and\nstudios, and express the strongest instincts and emotions of the society\nin which it is developed. This, I think, is significant of a general\nprinciple. Luxury is characteristic of a class with narrow outlook, and\ndevoted to such enjoyments as are, by their nature, incapable of\ncommunication. Whenever the enjoyments are such as have an intrinsic\ntendency to raise the general standard, as well as to heighten the\npleasure of a few, they cannot be simply stigmatised as luxurious. The\nold view of the responsibilities of wealth was chiefly confined to the\ndoctrine that the rich man should give away as many of his superfluities\nas possible, to be scrambled for by the poor, in order to appease the\nFates. We have come to see that charity, though at present a necessary,\nshould be regarded as a degrading necessity; and, therefore, not in the\nlong run a possible alternative to luxury. Too often it is itself a kind\nof luxury as mischievous as selfish disregard to the natural\nconsequences of our expenditure. The true direction of our wishes should\nrather be to direct social energies into such channels as have a\nnatural affinity to public spirit. A man who really loves art because he\nhas a keen sense of beauty, not because he wishes to have the reputation\nof a skilful collector, would surely try to beautify the world in which\nwe all live, to get rid of the hideous deformities which meet us at\nevery turn, and not simply to make a little corner into which he may\nretire for simple self-indulgence. A lover of truth should not be\ncontent, as some philosophers were forced to be content, with discussion\nin an esoteric circle, but should endeavour, now that thought is free,\nto stimulate the intellectual activity of all men, confident that the\ngreater the number of investigators, the more rapid will be the advance\nof truth. I do not venture to suggest what special direction should be\ntaken by those who have the privileges and responsibilities of great\nwealth. I have never had to consider that problem in any practical\nreference. Still, considering how vast a part they actually play in\nsocial development, how great is their influence, and how many people\nand enterprises seem to be in want of a little money, I cannot help\nfancying that a rich man may find modes of expenditure other than\nreckless charity or elaborate pampering of his personal wants, which\nwould be not only more useful to the world, but more interesting to\nhimself than many of the ordinary forms of indulgence. But I am only\nspeaking of general tendencies, and have disavowed any capacity for\nlaying down precise regulations. If I have stated rightly what is the\nevil properly attacked when we speak of luxury as vicious, it will, I\nthink, come mainly to this: that the direction in which we should look\nfor improvement is not so much in directly prescribing any Spartan or\nascetic system of life, as in cultivating in every one who possesses\nsuperfluities, the sense of his implicit responsibility to his fellows,\nwhich should go with every increase of wealth, and the conviction, not\nthat he should regard pleasure as in itself bad, but that he should\ntrain himself to find pleasures in such conduct as makes him a more\nefficient member of the body corporate of Society. If, indeed, there\nshould be any man who feels that he has no right to superfluities at\nall, while so many are wanting necessaries, and should resolve to devote\nhimself to the improvement of their elevation, I should say, in the\nfirst place, I fully and heartily recognise him to be one of the very\nlarge class which I regard as my superiors in morality; although, in the\nnext place, I should insinuate that he is one of those heroes who, while\nthey deserve all honour, cannot be taken as models for universal\nimitation, inasmuch as I cannot help thinking that the ultimate end is\nnot the renunciation but the multiplication of all innocent happiness.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DUTIES OF AUTHORS.\n\n\nI propose to speak to you to-day upon a subject which, though I may\nperhaps be tempted to exaggerate its importance, possesses some real\nimportance. I have undertaken to speak upon the duties of the class to\nwhich I belong. I make, however, no claims to the position of censor. I\nhave no such claim, except, indeed, the claim of possessing some\nexperience. There are two ways, I may observe, in which a man may\nacquire a sense of the importance of any moral law. One is by keeping\nthe law, and the other is by breaking it. In some ways, perhaps, the\nsystematic offender has acquired the most valuable experience. No one\ncan speak more feelingly about the evils of intemperance than the\nreformed drunkard, unless it be the drunkard who has not reformed. The\nsober gentleman who has never exceeded can realise neither the force of\nthe temptation nor the severity of the penalty. On the other hand, I\nmust admit that some writers upon ethical questions have been men of\nfair moral character. I only make the statement by way of explaining\nthat, in speaking of the duties of authors, I do not assert, even by the\nmost indirect implication, that I personally have either observed or\ndisregarded the principles which I shall discuss. Whether I am a model\nfor imitation or an example of the evils to be avoided, matters nothing\nto this discourse; though the question to which of these classes I\nbelong has a certain interest for myself.\n\nThere is one other matter which I can deal with very briefly. I have\nsaid that the subject has a certain importance. Upon that it is needless\nto dilate; for, in the first place, authors have been engaged for\ngenerations, and never more industriously than in this generation, in\npreaching the vast importance of authors to mankind. I could not hope to\nadd anything to their eloquence upon a topic with which they are so\nfamiliar. We may, however, assume that the enormous mass of literature\nwhich is daily produced, whether its abundance be a matter of regret or\nexultation, is at least a proof that a vast number of people read\nsomething, and are, we may suppose, more or less affected by what they\nread. It cannot be indifferent to inquire what are the duties of those\nwho undertake to provide for this ever-growing demand.\n\nOne matter has been lately discussed which may serve as a starting-point\nfor what I have to say. A French author who came the other day to\nobserve our manners and customs, was impressed by the fact that so much\nof our writing is anonymous. The public, that is, reads without knowing\nwho are its instructors, and the instructors write without incurring any\ndefinite personal responsibility. The problem is naturally suggested,\nwhether such a system be not morally objectionable. Ought not a man who\nundertakes to speak as an authority let us know who he is, and therefore\nwith what authority he speaks? The question could hardly be answered\nsatisfactorily without some study of the facts; and especially of the\nway in which the system has grown up. I can only notice one or two\nobvious reflections. A century ago we boasted--and we had reason to\nboast--that the English Press was the freest in Europe. It was already a\nvery important factor in political life. But at that period the\nprofession of letters was still regarded as more or less disreputable.\nThe great author--the poet, divine, or historian--was indeed fully as\nmuch respected as he is now; but to write for money or to write in\nperiodicals was held to be not quite worthy of a gentleman. Byron, for\nexample, refused to take money for his poetry, and taunted others for\ntaking money, until so much money was offered to him that he swallowed\nhis scruples. Burns, though as much in need of money, had shortly\nbefore refused to write for money; and Wordsworth held that his high\ncalling imposed upon him the duty of rather repelling than seeking the\npopularity by which money is to be won. We have changed all this, and\nthe greatest modern authors are less apt to disavow a desire for pay,\nthan to complain that their pay is insufficient. The employment--it can\nhardly be called the profession--of periodical writing, again--the only\nkind of writing which could make literature a source of a regular\nincome--was long regarded as a kind of poor relation of the respectable\nor so-called learned professions, clerical, legal, and medical. Jeffrey,\nwhose fame now rests upon his position as the editor of _The Edinburgh\nReview_, was for a long time anxious to conceal his employment as not\nexactly creditable. In the year 1809 the benchers of Lincoln's Inn\npassed a resolution that no one should be called to the Bar who had\nwritten for money in a newspaper. Writers in newspapers since that time\nhave frequently risen to the Bench, and have been not the least honoured\nof Cabinet Ministers. Yet the sentiment which involved a certain stigma\nhas only disappeared in this generation. And the historical cause seems\nto be obvious. The newspaper Press had gradually grown up in spite of\nauthority. It had first been persecuted, and writers had escaped\npersecution by consenting to be spies or dependants upon great men.\nHalf the hack-authors aspired to subsidies from the secret-service\nmoney, and the other half were looking for a reward when their patrons\nshould have a turn in the distribution of good things. The Press was\nfreer than elsewhere, for the English system of government gave\nimportance to public discussion. Both Ministers and Opposition wished to\ninfluence voters through the papers. But the authors were in the\nposition of dependent auxiliaries, prosecuted for libel if they went too\nfar, and recompensed by pensions for the risks they had to run; they\nwere despised, even by those who used them, as a set of mercenary\nguerillas, employed to do dirty work and insinuate charges which could\nnot be made by responsible people, and ready, as was supposed, to serve\non whichever side would pay them best. According to a well-known\nanecdote, two writers of the eighteenth century decided by the toss of a\nhalfpenny which should write for Walpole and which should write for his\nadversary Pulteney; but the choice was generally decided by less\nreputable motives. Now, so long as the Press meant such a class it was\nof course natural that the trade should be regarded as discreditable,\nand should be carried on by men who had less care for their character\nthan for their pockets. In England, where our development has been\ncontinuous and traditions linger long, the sentiment long survived; and\nthe practice which corresponded to it--the practice, that is, of\nanonymity--has itself survived the sentiment which gave it birth.\n\nI do not, indeed, mean to insinuate that the practice may not have\nbetter reasons than that which led to its first adoption. The mask was\nformerly worn by men who were ashamed of their employment, and who had\nthe same reasons for anonymity as a thief or an anarchist may have for a\ndisguise. It may now be worn even by men who are proud of their\nprofession, because the mask has a different significance. When a\njournalist calls himself \"we\" instead of \"I,\" the word really represents\na fact: the fact that he speaks not simply as an individual, but as the\nmouthpiece of a corporation, which itself claims to be the organ of a\nparty. The plural covers whatever additional weight may be due to this\nrepresentative character. To consider the value of this justification\nwould take me too far. I have spoken of this historical fact because I\nthink that it illustrates a more general problem.\n\nFor, in the first place, I think that there were some elements in the\nolder sentiment which deserved respect. When an author was as anxious to\ndisavow the charge of writing for money as an author at the present day\nis to claim his reward, I cannot, for my part, simply set him down as\nsilly. \"My songs,\" said Burns, \"are either above price or below price,\nand, therefore, I will accept nothing.\" I respect his feelings. He may\nnot have been quite logical; but he was surely right in the belief that\nthe poet whose inspiration should come from his breeches-pocket would\nnever write true songs or embody the very spirit of a nation. I do not\ndoubt that authors ought to be paid; but I certainly agree that a money\nreward never ought to be the chief aim of their writing. And I confess\nthat some utterances about copyrights in these days have jarred upon me,\nbecause they seem to imply that the doctrine is not disavowed so\nunequivocally as it should be by our leaders. I am, indeed, happy to\nbelieve, as I fully believe, that there has never been a time at which\nmore good work has been done for pure love of the work, independently,\nand even in defiance, of pecuniary considerations. But I cannot help\nthinking that in their desire to establish a right to the profits of\ntheir work, authors have condescended at moments to speak as if that\nreward constituted their sole motive to work, instead of being\ndesired--as it may most properly be desired--simply as the means of\nenabling them to work. The old contempt was aristocratic, and in these\ndays we have come to use aristocratic as a term of abuse. My own\nimpression is that we ought to be just even to aristocrats; and in that\ncontempt for all such work, I think that there was a genuine element of\nself-respect. The noble despised the poor scribe who had to get his\nliving by his pen. We, my lords, as Chesterfield put it, may thank\nProvidence that we do not depend upon our brains. It is wrong, no doubt,\nto despise anybody; and especially mean to despise a man for poverty.\nBut the sentiment also included the belief--surely not so wrong--that\nthe adventurer who joined the ranks of a party for the sake of the pay\nwas so far contemptible, and likely to join the party which paid best.\nThe misfortune, no doubt, was that the political state involved such\ndependence; and the desirable solution that every one should become\nindependent. Till that solution was more or less reached, the\ncorresponding sentiment was inevitable, and not without meaning.\n\nWell, the literary class has had its declaration of independence. An\nauthor has long ceased to need a patron, and he is in little danger of\nthe law of libel. The question occurs: What are the qualities by which\nwe should justify our independence? Have we not still a certain stoop of\nthe shoulders, a kind of traditional shamefacedness, an awkwardness of\nmanner, and a tendency to blush and stammer, which shows that we are not\nquite at ease in our new position? Or have we not--it is a more serious\nquestion--exchanged dependence upon the great for dependence upon the\npublic, rather than learnt to stand upon our own feet? Have we made\nourselves, and, if we have not, how can we make ourselves, worthy of our\nposition as free men? We boast that the Press does part of what used to\nbe done by the priesthood, that we enlighten and encourage and purify\npublic opinion. There is a whole class which depends upon us for\nintellectual culture; which reads nothing that is not in newspapers and\nmagazines. Do we give them a wholesome training, provide them with sound\nknowledge, and stimulate them to real thought? Are we such a priesthood\nas is really raising the standard of human life; or such a priesthood as\nis clinging to power by echoing the superstitions of its congregations?\nNature is ruled by obeying her; and what is called ruling public opinion\nis too often servilely following its dictates. There is an old story\nwhich tells how a certain newspaper used to send out an emissary to\ndiscover what was the common remark that every one was making in\nomnibuses and club smoking-rooms, and to fashion it into next morning's\narticle for the instruction of mankind. The echo affected to set the\ntune which it really repeated. Now, there is nothing more flattering\nthan an echo. \"This must be an inspired teacher, for he says exactly\nwhat I thought myself,\" is a very common and effective argument. To\nreproduce the opinions of the average reader; to dress them so skilfully\nthat he will be pleased to see what keen intelligence is implied in\nholding such opinions; to say just what everybody wishes to have said a\nlittle more neatly than everybody could say it, or, at the outside, to\nsay to-day what every one will be saying to-morrow, is one path to\nsuccess in journalism. There is, I am afraid, much so-called education\nwhich tends to nothing better than a development of this art. I was\nconsulted the other day by a young gentleman who was proposing to put\nhimself under a professor of journalism. So far as I could gather from\nhis account, the professor did not suggest that the pupil should study\nany branch of serious knowledge: that he should become, for example, a\ngood political economist, or read ancient or modern history, or make\nhimself familiar with continental affairs or bimetallism, or other\nthorny and complex subjects. The aim was precisely to enable him to\ndispense with all study, and to spin words out of absolute mental\nvacuity. If such an art can really be acquired, it is scarcely an art to\nbe recommended to ingenuous youth. And yet, as I understand, it is an\nart which is more or less countenanced even at our universities. A\ndistinguished classman learns much, but the last thing he learns is the\ndepth of his own ignorance. He is too often practised in the power of\nbeating out his gold or his tinsel to cover the largest possible\nsurface; he becomes an adept in adopting the very last new fashion of\nthought; he can pronounce dogmatically upon all previous thinkers after\nreading not their own works, but the summary given in the last\ntext-book. Success in the art of passing examinations requires the same\nqualities which enable a man to write off-hand a brilliant leading\narticle upon any side of any subject. I have often heard remarks upon\nthe modern diffusion of literary skill. Ten people, it is said, can\nwrite well now for one who could write well fifty years ago. No doubt\nthe demand for facile writing has enormously increased the supply. But I\ndo not think that first-rate writing--the writing which speaks of a full\nmind and strong convictions, which is clear because it is thorough, not\nbecause it is shallow--has increased in the same proportion, if, indeed,\nwe can be sure that it has increased at all. Perhaps there are ten times\nas many people who can put other men's thoughts into fluent phrases; but\nare there ten times as many, are there even as many, who think for\nthemselves and speak at first hand? The practice of anonymous writing\naffords, of course, obvious conveniences to a superficial omniscience.\nThe young gentleman who dogmatises so early might blush if he had to\nsign his name to his audacious utterances. His tone of infallibility\nwould be absurd if we knew who was the pope that was promulgating\ndogmas. The man in a mask professes to detect at a glance the absurd\nsophistries which impose upon the keenest contemporary intellects; but\nif he doffed the mask and appeared as young Mr. Smith, or Jones, who\ntook his degree last year, we might doubt whether he had a right to\nassume so calmly that the sophistry is all on the other side. I am,\nhowever, quite aware that this is only one side of the question of\nanonymity. Were the practice abolished, the journalist who was forced to\nappear in his own character might abandon not his superficiality, but\nwhatever power of blushing he retains. The more fluent phrase-monger\nmight take himself even more seriously than he now does, and might\npersuade other people to take him seriously too. The charlatan, in\nshort, might have a better chance, and use his notoriety as a\nstepping-stone to more mischievous ambition.\n\nI refrain from discussing this question: the rather because it is\nobvious that such changes must work themselves out gradually, and that\nwe may assume, for the present, that the position will not be materially\nchanged. I am, therefore, content to infer that the journalist should at\nleast bear in mind one obvious criterion. He should never say anything\nanonymously to which he would be ashamed to sign his name. I do not mean\nmerely that he should not be libellous or spiteful--I hope and believe\nthat the underhand assassin of reputations, who at one period was common\nenough, has almost ceased to exist,--but rather that he should refrain\nfrom that pompous assumption of omniscience which would he ludicrous in\na simple individual. He should say nothing when he speaks in the plural\nwhich would make him look silly if he used the first person singular.\nNow, this modest requirement involves, I think, a good deal. I will try\nto say what it involves by an example, of which I frequently think. I\nremember a young gentleman, who, in my hearing, confessed, in answer to\na question from Carlyle, that he did a certain amount of journalistic\nwork. The great man thereupon said, with his usual candour, and, I must\nadd, without any personal discourtesy, that, in his opinion, the\njournalism of the period was just so much ditch-water. What should be a\nwell of English undefiled poured forth streams little better than a\npublic sewer. The phrase, like some other prophetic utterances, sounded\na trifle harsh, but was all the more calculated to set me thinking. My\nthinking naturally led me to reflect upon Carlyle's own example. I was\ninvited some time afterwards to sign a little testimonial presented to\nhim upon his eightieth birthday, in imitation of the gift which he had\nhimself forwarded to Goethe. In this it was said, and said, I think,\nmost truly, that Carlyle was himself an example of the heroic life in\nliterature. And why? A good many epigrams have been levelled at Carlyle,\nand he has more than once been ridiculed as the philosopher who preached\nthe virtues of silence in thirty volumes. Now, Carlyle's utterances\nabout silence may not have been unimpeachable; but I think that, stated\nin a commonplace way, they substantially come to this: that idle talk, a\nmere spinning of phrases, is a very demoralising habit, and one great\nmischief of the present day; but that the serious and careful utterance\nof real thought and genuine knowledge must be considered rather as a\nmode of action than of talk, and deserves the cordial welcome of all\nmen. A Goethe affects action as much as a Napoleon. Carlyle did not\nreally mean to draw the line between an active and a literary life; for\nhe knew as well as any man that literature may at once require the most\nstrenuous activity, and be the source of life and vigour in active men;\nbut between frivolity and earnestness, between the mere waste and\ndissipation of energy and its concentration upon some worthy purpose.\nJudged by such a standard, Carlyle's words were also deeds. He wrote a\ngood deal, for he lived a long time, and had for many years to live by\nhis pen. I could, I think, mention several professional authors who\nhabitually provide as much copy in a month as Carlyle ever achieved in a\nyear. But, luckily for them, their works are not collected. Carlyle\nappears to be voluminous because he never wrote anything which was not\nworth preservation, and that because he never wrote an essay without\nmaking it as good as his abilities permitted. He did so, although he was\ntill middle life hard pressed for money, and helping to support his\nfamily out of his narrow earnings. He stuck indomitably to his own ideal\nof what was best, though he had slowly to form a public which could\nappreciate him. And through long years of struggle and hardship he never\ncondescended to make easy gains at the price of inferior workmanship, or\nto lower his standard of excellence in order to meet the immediate\ndemands of editors. In that sense, if in no other, I call Carlyle a\nworthy hero of literature, and I reverence his example a great deal\nmore, I fear, than I have imitated it.\n\nPerhaps, indeed, a man must have an unusually, even unreasonably, strong\nconviction of the truth and importance of his mission before he can make\nsuch sacrifices in order to discharge it worthily. To most of us the\nquestion occurs whether it can possibly be worth while to do so.\nPerhaps, if I devoted myself exclusively to delivering my message to\nmankind as forcibly as I could, and to making all necessary\npreparations, it might be rather more effective than the second-hand\ntwaddle which I actually produce. But would the game be worth the\ncandle? I have, it may be, a family to support. Should I not, as an\nhonest man, think first of my butcher and my baker and of paying the\ncollector of rates, before I undertake to become an immortal author?\nProbably, at the best, my immortality would be a very short one, for\nthere is not one author in a thousand who can make his voice audible at\nthe distance of a generation. Is it not better and wiser to earn an\nhonest living by innocent small talk, than to aim at a great success and\nlet my children go barefoot and lose their schooling? That low man, says\nBrowning's Grammarian--\n\n\n     That low man goes on adding one to one,\n       His hundred's soon hit:\n     This high man, aiming at a million,\n       Misses an unit.\n\n\nIs it not better to hit your hundred than to aim at your million and\nmiss it? That is a problem which I do not think it possible to answer by\na general rule. We rightly honour the Carlyle or the Wordsworth who has\nforced the public to admire him in spite of critical gibes and long\nobscurity; but we must not forget that even success does not\nnecessarily justify the audacity which has won it, and that a good many\npeople who fancied themselves to be capable of enlightening the world\nhave been empty-headed impostors who would have done better to take the\ncritic's advice: drop their pens and mind their gallipots. Devotion to\nan ideal, like other high qualities, may be misplaced or counterfeited\nby mere personal vanity. But leaving each man to decide by the concrete\ncircumstances of his own case, I still hold that at least we should try\nin this respect to act in Carlyle's spirit. I cannot blame the author\nwho, under certain conditions, feels that his first duty is to pay his\nweekly bills, so long, of course, as he does not earn the money by\npandering to the bad passions of his readers; for there are modes of\nmaking a livelihood by the pen to which starvation or the workhouse\nwould be preferred by any high-minded man. But we will not judge harshly\nof the author who lives by supplying innocent, if rather insipid, food\nfor public amusement. He might be capable of better things; but, then,\nhe might certainly be doing much worse. Yet in any case, I say that, to\nhave a tolerably comfortable conscience, an author should try to look a\nlittle farther than this. The great mass of mankind has to devote most\nof its energies to employments which require nothing more than honest\nwork; and yet even the humblest can do something to maintain and elevate\nthe moral standard of his surroundings. The author, so far as he is\nsimply a journeyman, a reporter of ordinary events and speeches, for\nexample, does his duty so far as he reports them honestly; and we have\nno more to say to him. But the author who takes part in political and\nsocial or religious discussions has a responsibility which involves\nsomething more. Probably he feels--I am sure enough that I feel--that\nhis performance makes remarkably little difference to mankind in\ngeneral; and that he is playing only an infinitesimal part in the great\nprocesses by which the huge world blunders along, struggling into some\napproximation to a more tolerable order. He may compare himself to one\nof the myriads of insects building up one square yard on the coral reef\nwhich stretches for hundreds of leagues. Yet even the coral reef depends\non the units, and if the insect's powers are small it concerns him to\nmake the best of them. Now, to make the best of them implies some\ngenuine interest in his work; something that makes the reader perceive\nthat he is being addressed by a human being, not a mere machine for\nvamping up old materials. I have been struck in reading newspaper\narticles, even my own, by the curious loss of individuality which a man\nseems to suffer as a writer. Unconsciously the author takes the colour\nof his organ; he adopts not only its sentiment but its style, and seems\nto become a mere transmitter of messages, with whose substance he has no\nmore to do than the wires of the electric telegraph which carries them.\nBut now and then we suddenly come across something fresh and original;\nwe know by instinct that we are being addressed by another man, and are\nin a living relation to a separate human being, not to a mere drilled\ncharacterless unit of a disciplined army; we find actually thoughts,\nconvictions, arguments, which, though all arguments are old, have\nevidently struck the writer's mind, and not merely been transmitted into\nhis pen; and then we may know that we are in the presence of a real\nforce, and meeting with a man who is doing his duty. I refrain from\nmentioning, though I easily could mention, living modern instances. But\non looking to the history of the past, it is curious to notice how rare\nthe phenomenon is, and how important it is when it occurs. Think for a\nmoment, for example, of old Cobbett, agricultural labourer and soldier,\nwith nothing to help him but his shrewd mother-wit and his burly English\nstrength. He wrote much that was poor and clumsy enough; much, too, that\nwas pure claptrap, and much that was dictated by personal motives and\ndesire for notoriety. But in spite of this the untaught peasant became\none of the great political forces, more effective than the ninety and\nnine elegant _Edinburgh_ and _Quarterly_ reviewers, who had all the\nadvantages which he lacked. Why? Partly, no doubt, because he was a\nreally strong man; but also because he had at least one genuine and\ndeeply-rooted conviction, springing out of his profound desire for the\nwelfare of the class which was both the largest and the most helpless of\nthe England of his day. He is, therefore, one example, and there are\nmany others, of the singular power which is exercised in journalism by a\nman, under whatever disadvantages, who possesses, or rather who is\npossessed by, some master-thought, and utters it in season and out of\nseason with perhaps disproportionate intensity, but with perfect\nsincerity. Now, though Cobbett would be in some respects a bad model, I\nonly refer to him in this sense. When my young friends consult me as to\nthe conditions of successful journalism, my first bit of advice comes to\nthis: know something really; at any rate, try to know something; be the\nslaves of some genuine idea, or you will be the slaves of a newspaper--a\nbit of mechanism instead of a man. You can carry on the business with\nself-respect--whatever your success--if it is also something more than a\nbusiness; if, for example, you can honestly feel that you are helping on\nthe propaganda of sound principle, denouncing real grievances, and\nspeaking from genuine belief. No man has a right to lay down the law to\nstatesmen as though he were in possession of absolute knowledge, or as\nthough he were a man of science talking to a class of ignorant\nschoolboys. But every man ought to believe that truth is attainable, and\nto endeavour with all his power to attain it. He should study the great\nproblems of the day historically: for he must know how they have arisen;\nwhat previous attempts have been made to solve them; how far recent\nsuggestions are mere reproductions of exploded fallacies; and so qualify\nhimself to see things in their true relations as facts of a great\nprocess of evolution. He should endeavour to be philosophical in spirit,\nso far, at least, as to seek to base his opinions upon general\nprinciples, and to look at the events of the day from a higher point of\nview than that of personal or party expediency. And he must, though upon\nthis it is hardly necessary to insist, be familiar with the affairs of\nthe day: for no one can apply principles to politics effectively without\na genuine first-hand knowledge of the actual currents of political life.\nUnless a man can take up his calling in some such spirit, he can be but\na mere retailer of popular commonplaces, and must live from hand to\nmouth or upon the chance utterances of people as thoughtless as\nhimself, increasing the volume of mere noise which threatens to drown\nsense. But if he seriously cultivates his powers, and enriches his mind,\nhe may feel sure that even in journalism he may be discharging one of\nthe most important functions which a man can undertake. He may be right\nor wrong in the particular doctrines which he supports. Indeed, the\nfirst and most obvious result of any attempt to take wider views of\npolitics is the admission that wisdom (and as certainly, nonsense) is\nnot the exclusive possession of any party in politics, literature, or\nphilosophy. But something is done whenever a man of trained intellect\nand genuine conviction lifts popular discussion to a higher plane. At\nsuch times it rises above the region of personal invective or pure\nplatitude, and involves a conscious reference to great principles and to\nthe remote conditions of the little bit of history which we are actually\ntransacting. When John Stuart Mill became a member of the House of\nCommons, and was accepted as a philosopher coming among practical men,\nhe said much that displeased his hearers; but it was observed by\ncompetent judges at the time, that the tone of parliamentary debates was\nperceptibly raised. Members of Parliament were forced to reflect for the\nmoment, not only how their speeches would tell in next day's reports,\nand what traps they were setting for opponents, but also for a brief\ninstant, how their arguments would stand the test of impartial logic.\nMill tells a significant story in his autobiography, which, perhaps,\nindicates one source of his influence. When he appeared upon the\nhustings he was asked whether he had not said that the English\nworking-classes were generally liars. He replied simply, \"I did,\" and\nthe reply was, he says, received with \"vehement applause\". The incident,\nhe adds, convinced him that the working-classes valued nothing more than\nthorough straightforwardness, and honoured a man for daring to tell them\nof their faults. I hope that it is so: I believe, in point of fact, that\nno quality is more heartily honoured than unflinching political honesty.\nAnd I confess that I have often wondered why it is that where the reward\nis so clear, so few people take the plain road which leads to it. It\nseems equally clear that moral courage pays better than any other\nquality in politics, and that it is the rarest of all qualities even to\nbe simulated. We are all anxious to show how profound is our affection\nfor the masses; but how many candidates for their favour dare to give\nMr. Mill's proof of genuine respect? No doubt you must make it clear\nthat you possess some other qualities before you can hope to conciliate\nthe respect of a class by accusing it openly of habitual lying. Indeed,\nthis might be taken as a test of genuine independence. Till you can\ntell men of their faults without being suspected of spite or bad\ntemper--till you can praise them without being suspected of unworthy\nflattery--you are not really in a position worthy to be called\nindependent. How many journalists--I say nothing of statesmen--stand\nfirmly enough on their own legs to speak out without giving offence? We\nare often told of a great revolution of opinion, and especially of the\nabandonment of the old prejudice against government interference. That a\ngreat change has taken place in the opinions which men profess is\nundeniable; though how far that change has been due to unbiassed\nscientific reflection, and how far to a change in the conditions of\npopularity, is a very different question. I see, for example, a\nstatement by an honourable gentleman that he approves of the Eight Hours\nBill because the principle of non-interference with adult labour is\nobsolete. It is too late to avow it. If the honourable gentleman means\nto say that experience has proved the principle to be erroneous, he is,\nof course, justified in abandoning it. But, if his meaning be simply\nthat the principle has gone out of fashion, what is this but to admit\nthat you will abandon any doctrine as soon as it ceases to be popular?\nDo we really mean to assert that a fallacious doctrine can never get the\nupper hand; that the beliefs of to-day are always better than the\nbeliefs of yesterday; that every man who has dared to stick to an\nopinion condemned by a majority must necessarily be a fool for his\npains? That really seems to be a common opinion. We hear a great deal at\nthe present day about \"mandates,\" and a mandate seems to be regarded not\nsimply as a declaration of the will of a majority which must, in point\nof fact, be obeyed, but as the official utterance of an infallible\nchurch which cannot in point of logic be erroneous. Now, I confess that\nI have always had a weakness for the faithful Abdiel. I believe that a\nman is often doing invaluable services who resists the dominant current\nof opinion, who denounces fallacies when they are growing and\nflourishing, and points out that a revolution in belief, even though it\nbe inevitable for the time, and even though it contain an element of\nright reason, may yet contain errors and hasty judgments and deviations\nfrom the true line of progress, which require exposure the more\nunsparing in proportion to their temporary popularity. Is not the\nordinary journalist's frame of mind singularly unfavourable to his\ndischarge of this function? and is it not inevitable that it should be\nso as long as the journalist's only aim is to gain a hearing somehow? It\nmatters not which side he takes. He denounces some new doctrine, but\nonly in the name of the current prejudices which it happens to shock.\nHe advocates it, but only because it is the last new fashion of the day.\nIn either case he falls into the ordinary party vice of imagining that\nhis opponents must be fools or knaves, that their opinions are directly\ninspired by the devil or a judicial blindness inflicted by Providence,\nsimply because he will not take the trouble to understand them. The man\nwho would try to raise himself above the position of the mere pander to\npassing antipathies must widen his intellectual horizon. He must qualify\nhimself to take broad views; he must learn that his little list of\ncommonplaces does not represent real thought, but is often the\nembodiment of mere prejudice, or perhaps the deposit of words left by\nthinkers of past generations; he must learn to do more than merely dish\nthem up with a new sauce; he must concentrate his abilities upon\ndefinite problems, consider how they have arisen, and what is their\nrelation to the past and the future. To do so requires some\ndisinterestedness: some love of truth for its own sake; and a capacity\nfor answering your opponent by explaining him, instead of a mere\nquickness for taunting him personally. It requires, no doubt, serious\nand prolonged application. Even such a training will not enable a man to\nunlock all the puzzles of the day; but it may help towards the\ndesirable consummation in which a solution is at least sought in\nconnection with established principles, and with a constant reference to\nthe organised experience which also can be a safe guide to more\nreasonable conclusions. Even the attempt to do so may strengthen a man\nagainst the temptation to take short cuts to notoriety, and seek a\nmomentary sensation at the sacrifice of permanent effect. We owe\ngratitude to all who have acted upon such principles and won the\ninfluence which comes at last, though it comes slowly, to honest work,\nbestowed even upon such shifting materials as political and moral\nphilosophy.\n\nI have dwelt so far chiefly upon political journalism, because it is so\ncharacteristic a part of modern literature, and illustrates so clearly\nsome obvious tendencies of the time. I must say something, however, of\nanother department of literature, which is sometimes said to have\nnothing at all to do with morality. The poet or the novelist, it is\nsuggested, has no duties except that duty which Scheherazade discharged\nat the risk of her neck,--the duty of keeping her master amused. If,\ninstead of telling him stories about genii, she had read him every\nmorning an orthodox sermon or an ethical discourse, the one thousand and\none nights would have been diminished by one thousand. Am I to tell our\nmodern Scheherazades to forget the _Arabian Nights_, and adopt for our\nuse passages from the homilies of Tillotson? Some religious persons have\ntaken that horn of the dilemma, and perhaps with some plausibility. When\nthe world is heaving with the throes of a social earthquake, what right\nhave you or I to be lounging on sofas, telling silly stories about young\nladies' and gentlemen's billings and cooings? Perhaps the condemnation\nshould be extended to recreations less obviously frivolous. Your\nphilosopher who tries to distinguish or to identify \"is\" and \"is not,\"\nand to draw the true line between object and subject, has a very\nfascinating plaything, but is perhaps as far from influencing the world.\nJudging from the history of past philosophical cobwebs, he might as well\nbe framing conundrums, or learning how to throw grain through the eye of\na needle.\n\nI only refer to this to say that I am not in favour of suppressing\neither art or philosophy. I have a kind of hankering after them in some\nforms myself. I assume, without further argument, that Shakespeare, and\nMilton, and Wordsworth, and Fielding, and Scott, and Dickens, did well\nin devoting themselves to literature, and probably did more to make the\nworld happier and better than if they had composed sermons or systems of\nphilosophy. I must, as I said, refrain from pronouncing any set eulogy\nupon the services rendered by authors. This only I take for granted. No\none, I think, of any intellectual capacity can remember the early days\nwhen his faculties were ripening, when he wandered, for the pure delight\nof wandering, in the enchanted world of the great imaginative writers,\nsaw through their eyes, and unconsciously caught the contagion of their\nsympathies, without feeling a deep gratitude to the men who not only\ngave him so much innocent pleasure, but who incidentally refined his\ntaste and roused his enthusiasm, and quickened his perception of\nwhatever is beautiful, or heroic, or pathetic, in the moral or the\nnatural world. The highest literature embodies the instincts by which a\ncultivated people differs from the barbarous, and the classes are in a\ntrue sense civilised, which enjoy and appreciate the ennobling as\ndistinguished from the coarser pleasures, and rise above the merely\nbrutal life. One who aspires to be a leader, or to follow the steps of\nthe leaders, in this band of crusaders against barbarism, must surely\nhave some corresponding duties. I am here upon the edge of certain\ntroublesome controversies which I shall refrain from discussing at\nlength. This only I need say. Some great authors explicitly accept the\nfunction of preaching. Milton, and, in later days, Wordsworth,\nidentified the offices of the prophet and the poet, and set themselves\ndeliberately to expound an ideal of life, and justify the ways of God to\nman. And Milton gave the principle in his famous saying, that he who\nwould write well hereafter of laudable things must be himself a true\npoem. Yet men equally great have impressed readers by their apparent\nindifference to such considerations. They accept the new commandment\nwhich, as Emerson tells us, the Muse gave to her darling son, \"Thou\nshalt not preach\". Shakespeare and Scott did not consciously and\ndeliberately write to set forth any ideal; they even wrote, more or\nless, to make money; they were magnificent opulent geniuses, who poured\nout their imaginative wealth liberally and spontaneously, without a\nthought of any particular moral, simply because their minds were full to\noverflowing of great thoughts and vivid images, which they diffused as\nliberally as the rose gives its scent. Are we to say that they were\nwrong or morally inferior, even if artistically superior, to those who\nwrote, like Milton or Dante, with a more definite aim? Must I condemn\nScott because he did not write, like the excellent Miss Edgeworth, or\neven like Dickens in some of his stories, to preach consciously that\nhonesty is the best policy, or that selfishness is a vice; and, if so,\nmust I not condemn a man from whom I have not only received an\nincalculable amount of innocent enjoyment, but imbibed--it is my own\nfault if I have not imbibed--many thoughts that have strengthened and\nstimulated the best elements of my nature? If I insist upon the moral\ninfluences, am I not confounding the poet and the preacher, and falling\nunder the lash of I know not how many critical connoisseurs? If I\nrenounce the preachers, I am renouncing some of the greatest artists,\nand indirectly sanctioning even such art as is worthy only of Holywell\nStreet, and panders to the worst passions.\n\nI will say what I think. Great writers, it seems to me, may be great in\ntwo ways; and the greatest is he who combines them most thoroughly. The\nfirst-rate writer, in the first place, must--to use a frequently\nmisapplied word--be a thorough realist. He is great in proportion to the\nwidth and depth of the truths which he grasps, and to which he gives the\nmost perfect expression. When we read Shakespeare at his best, what\nstrikes us is that he has expressed once for all some home-truth about\nhuman nature and the world, round which all inferior writers seem to\nhave been blundering without ever achieving a complete utterance. More\ngenerally, every great period of our literature has been marked in one\nshape or other by a fresh realism, or what is called the desire to\nreturn to Nature: to get rid of the phrases which have become\nconventional and unreal, and express the real living ultimate truth.\nShakespeare and the great men of his time were inspired by such a\npassion; they were animated by the desire to \"hold the mirror up to\nNature\" and to portray real vivid human passion, for they had burst\nthrough the old mediaeval chains of theological dogma, and were aroused\nto a sudden fresh perception of the beauties which had been unrecognised\nand misconceived by ascetic monks. The men of Pope's time, again,\nbelieved in what they, too, called the \"religion of Nature,\" and tried\nto hasten the day when enlightened reason should finally crush what\nBerkeley called the \"pedantry of courts and schools\". Wordsworth and his\nfollowers inaugurated a new era by proposing a return to \"Nature,\"\nbecause the language, which with Pope expressed a real meaning, had\nagain become the conventional language of a narrow class of critics and\nthe town. It is in all ages one great function of the imaginative\nwriters to get rid of mere survivals; to forego the spectacles used by\ntheir ancestors as helps, which have now become encumbrances; to destroy\nthe formulas employed only to save the trouble of thinking, and make us\nsee facts directly, instead of being befooled by words. In that sense it\nis their great service that they break up the old frost of dreary\ncommonplace, and give life and power, in place of an acceptance of mere\nossified or fossilised remnants of what once was thought. Briefly, they\nteach us to see what is before us. So far the function of the poet\nresembles that of the scientific and philosophic observer. He differs\nradically in method, because he proceeds by intuition instead of\nanalysis; shows us the type, instead of cataloguing the attributes of a\nclass; and gives us a real living man--a Falstaff or a Hamlet--instead\nof propounding a psychological theory as to the relations of the will,\nthe intellect, and the emotions.\n\nI take it, therefore, that realism in this sense is one essential\ncharacteristic of great imaginative power. I hold it to be more than\never necessary; more necessary because scientific methods of thought are\nmore developed. It is less possible for a serious writer to make use of\nthe merely fanciful symbols which were perfectly legitimate as long as\nthey represented real beliefs, but are now fitter for only the lighter\nmoods. The greatest writers have to dispense with fairies and fighting\ngods and goddesses, and the muses, and to show us a direct portraiture\nof the forces by which society is actually moved. But the functions of\nthe great writer, though they involve a perception of truth, are not\nadequately defined by the simple condition of truthfulness. He has to\nbe--may I say it?--a preacher; he cannot help it; and, so far as he\ncannot help it, his preaching will be elevating in proportion as it is\ntruthful. He does not preach in the sense in which a moralist preaches,\nby arguing in favour of this or that doctrine, or expounding the\nconsequences of opinions. It is not his business to prove, but to see,\nand to make you see. But, in another sense, he cannot help preaching,\nbecause his power over you is founded upon sympathy, upon his personal\ncharms, upon the clearness with which he sees and the vividness with\nwhich he portrays the real nature of the instincts which make men\nlovable or hateful. What are really the most fascinating books in the\nlanguage? I was impressed the other day by discovering that perhaps the\nmost popular of all English books, judging by the number of editions, is\nGoldsmith's _Vicar of Wakefield_. To what does it owe its popularity?\nObviously to the exquisite keenness of Goldsmith's perception of the\nmoral beauty of a simple character, which is always saved from the\ncharge of being unctuous or sentimental by the constant play of gentle\nand yet penetrative humour. Do we not love Charles Lamb for a similar\nreason? Why, again, do we love Scott, as all men ought to love him? Is\nit not because his Jeanie Deans and his Dandie Dinmont, and a hundred\nmore characters, show the geniality, the manliness as well as the\nshrewd common-sense of their creator, and his vivid perception of the\nelements which ennoble the national character which he loved so well?\nWhy does the British public love Dickens so well? For his incomparable\nfun, no doubt; but also because the fun is always associated with a keen\nperception of certain moral qualities which they regard with, it may be,\nexcessive admiration. But to give no more examples, I am content to say\nthat the enduring power of every great writer depends not merely on his\nintellectual forces, but upon the charm of his character--the clear\nrecognition of what it really is that makes life beautiful and\ndesirable, and of what are the baser elements that fight against the\nelevating forces. We are under intellectual obligations to the man of\nscience who will tell us, for example, how mountain chains have been\nraised and carved into their present shape. But we are grateful to the\ngreat poets and prose writers, to Wordsworth and Mr. Ruskin, for\ninterpreting and stimulating the emotions which make the vision of the\ngreat peaks a source of pure delight. We may, in the same way, thank the\npsychologist who can make more intelligible the principle of association\nof ideas, or trace the development of the moral sense or the social\naffections. But we love the man who, like Goldsmith, and Lamb, and\nScott, and Wordsworth, has revealed to us by actual portraits of\ntypical characters, the sweetness and tenderness and truthfulness which\nmay be embodied in humble characters. Love, says Wordsworth, of his\nshepherd lord--\n\n\n     Love had he found in huts where poor men lie,\n       His daily teachers had been woods and rills;\n     The silence that is in the starry sky,\n       The sleep that is among the comely hills.\n\n\nThe power of discovering and of making us discover such thoughts in the\nhuts of poor men and in natural scenery is the true prerogative of the\npoet, and it is to that power that he owes his enduring place in our\nhearts.\n\nI have said this much because I think that it is in a perversion of\nthese principles that we shall find some of the temptations to which the\nauthor is in these days most liable. I can only glance at them briefly.\nOne perversion, for example, is indicated by the common use of the\nphrase \"realism\". This word has various meanings; but the commonest,\nperhaps, would not be misrepresented by saying that it involves a\nconfusion between the functions of the man of science and the poet. In a\nscientific sense, it is a sufficient reason for setting forth any theory\nthat you believe it to be true. The facts which you describe may be\nhideous and revolting: it is not the less desirable that they should be\naccurately known. The poet and novelist may be equally justified in\ntaking hideous and revolting facts into account. That, for example, is\nthe duty of a satirist; and I am not at all concerned to say that satire\nis illegitimate--I think it perfectly legitimate. I should be the last\nto assert that a writer should confine himself to such facts as can be\ndiscussed with decency in presence of a young ladies' school. On the\ncontrary, I think that, if not the most enviable privilege, it is\nsometimes a duty of the novelist to set forth vice and crime, and even,\nit may be, to set them forth in impressive and startling shapes. It is\nhis duty to represent them truly and to make them intelligible; to show\nhow they may be natural, and not to misrepresent even a villain. All I\nsay is, that he should also recognise the fact that they are hideous and\nrevolting. And, therefore, this is no excuse for the man who really\ndwells upon such facts, not because they are facts, but because he knows\nthat such descriptions are the easiest way of attracting morbid tastes;\nand that he can get a readier market by being irreverent and indecent\nthan by other expedients. To defend such work on the excuse of realism\nis simply to indulge in a bit of contemptible humbug, too transparent to\nneed exposure. The purpose of an artist, you say, is to give pleasure,\nnot to preach. That is perfectly true; but to give pleasure to whom? If\nit is to give pleasure to the prurient, to the cynical, to the\ndebauchee, to give the kind of pleasure which, to a pure-minded man, is\npain, and of which even the blackguard is ashamed, then I will not\nquarrel over words, and ask whether it can be truly artistic, but I will\nsimply reply that I should have a greater respect for a man who lived by\npicking pockets. But, you reply, it requires a great deal of skill. So\ndoes picking pockets, and so do some other kinds of human energy which I\nneed not particularise. If the ethical judgment be really irrelevant\naesthetically, the aesthetic judgment must be irrelevant ethically. If\nthat doctrine be true, we are, therefore, quite at liberty to say that a\nthing may be beautiful and at the same time blackguardly and beastly. I\nwill, however, express my own conviction, that what is disgusting to a\nright-minded man cannot be really beautiful, and that the sentiments\nwhich it offends cannot be put out of court simply because they are\ncalled moral. They have as good a right to be considered as any others.\n\nThere is a temptation of the opposite kind: the temptation to what I may\nbriefly call sentimentalism. The virtue of idealism is as necessary as\nthe virtue of realism; and every great writer shows his greatness by\ncombining the two. The contradictory of the real is not properly the\nideal, but the unreal--which is a very different thing. For idealism\nmeans properly, as I take it, that quality in virtue of which a poem or\na fiction does not represent merely the scientific or photographic\nreproduction of matters of fact, but incarnates an idea and expresses a\nsentiment. A great work imparts to us the impression made upon a mind of\nunusual power, reflectiveness, and emotional sensibility by some aspect\nof the world in which we all live, but which he can see more vividly\nthan others. To be really impressive, therefore, it must correspond to\nfacts and be the genuine product of experience. The erroneous idealism\nis that which perverts the truth in order to gain apparent emphasis;\nwhich deals in the impossible, the absurd, and the exaggerated; and\nsupposes a world which cannot even be better than the actual, because it\ncannot exist; which, therefore, has the defect of being arbitrary and\ninconceivable. So political Utopias are interesting in proportion as\nthey suggest a legitimate construction, based upon actual facts and\nobserved laws of human nature. As soon as we see that they presuppose a\nworld of monstrosities, of impossible combinations of incompatible\nqualities, they become mere playthings. And the same is true of every\nwork of imagination; as soon as it ceases to have a foundation in\ntruth--to be other than realistic--it loses its real hold upon our\nsympathies. You solve no problem when you call in a god to cut the\nknot. This is the tendency of the sentimentalist, who refuses to be\nbound by the actual conditions. His creations are ephemeral because only\nplausible, even to the imagination, so long as the illusions to which\nthey are congenial survive. And he probably falls into the further error\nthat the emotion which he utters becomes as factitious as the laws which\nhe invents. The man who weeps because he is melted at the sight of\nmisery, touches us; but when he weeps because he finds it pleasant, or\nbecause he wishes to make a public exhibition of his tenderness of\nheart, we find him out by degrees and call him a humbug and a\nsentimentalist. Sham feelings and moral facts are the staple of the\nsentimentalist and the cause of his inevitable decay.\n\nThese remarks may serve to suggest the temptations which most beset the\nauthor in our days, though peculiar to our day only in the degree in\nwhich authorship has become more professional. For the ideal author is\nthe man who, having discovered truth, desires to reveal it to his\nfellows, or, being full of perceptions of beauty, cannot resist the\nimpulse to embody them in words or outward symbols. But when he desires\nalso to live by his powers, he is at once in a position of which all\nauthors know the peril. He becomes self-conscious; for he has a\nperpetual poultice of public favour or enmity applied to soften his\nfibres, and to make him feel, even in his study, that an eye is upon him\nand that he must so act as always to preserve attention. He is tempted\nto produce sensation at any cost--to shock and startle by horrors if he\ncannot move the sympathies by gentle arts: for a man who cannot command\nthe pathetic, can, at least, always be disgusting. He can turn our\nstomachs if he cannot move our hearts. He is tempted, at least, to\ncaricature--to show how keen is his perception by crude and glaring\ncolours, and to indulge in the grotesque as an easy substitute for the\nreally graphic; he can affect a facile cynicism to show how profound is\nhis penetration, and display that marvellous knowledge of the world and\nthe human heart, and that power of discovering the emptiness of all\napparent virtues which is so common an endowment of young gentlemen upon\ntheir first initiation into real experience of life. There is nothing\nwhich the author affects so easily at his first start as the world\nweariness which comes from long experience and years of disappointed\nhope. And when a man has once gained applause for his sentiment, he\nfinds himself his own covert rival, and is forced to substitute for the\nfirst \"sprightly runnings\" a fanciful pumping up of the last dregs of\nhis old feelings. Nothing, unfortunately, is more common, or could be\nmore easily illustrated by examples of good writers, than the spectacle\nof the veteran trying to reproduce in cold blood the effects which he\nstruck out spontaneously and unconsciously in youth. And, then, at every\ninstant the poor author feels that he must keep up with the fashion; he\nlives in fear of that verdict which will come some day, that he is an\nold fogey, and that he is transgressing those eternal principles which\nwere discovered by some ingenuous youth a fortnight ago.\n\nSome such danger is, indeed, shared by others than the author. It is the\nmisfortune of his calling that success with him is intrinsically\nassociated with notoriety. A man may do good work in many departments of\nlife, of which no one will ever hear beyond a narrow circle. I hold, for\nmy part, that the greatest part of the good work which is done in the\nworld is actually of that kind, and that the best is done for the pure\nlove of work. The world knows nothing of its greatest men, and as\nlittle, perhaps, of its best. But what would be the good of writing even\na _Hamlet_ or a _Divine Comedy_ if nobody was to read it? Some great\nwriters, I know, have prided themselves on finding fit audience and few;\nand I fully agree that a man who could really influence a few seminal\nminds might be well content with such a result of his labours. But,\nafter all, the genuine aim of a great author must be, directly or\nindirectly, to affect the world in which he lives, whether by changing\nits beliefs or stimulating its emotions. And, as a rule, he cannot do so\nwithout becoming known, and even known to vast numbers of readers. Some\nreligious writers, the author, for example, of the _Imitation of\nChrist_, have influenced many generations, while absolutely concealing\ntheir identity. Even they must, at least, have desired that their works\nshould be known; and the case is a rare one. For the author generally,\nsuccess of the worthiest kind, success in enlightening, encouraging, and\nstimulating his fellow-men, is inextricably connected with success of a\nlower kind, the success measured by fame and popularity. That, of\ncourse, is equally the case with statesmanship: a statesman has to\nappeal to crowds, and is too apt to be fascinated by thunders of\napplause; public oratory, even in the pulpit, is a terrible stimulant to\nunworthy vanity. The author only differs in this, that his very function\npresupposes a temperament of more than average sensibility; that he does\nnot get that case-hardening which is administered to the statesman by\nthe opposition orator; and that publicity has a specially intoxicating\neffect upon the man whose proper home is in his study, and who, perhaps,\nleaves it only to mix with a circle of reverent admirers.\n\nI have tried to indicate some of the obvious temptations of authors,\nespecially so far as they are strengthened by the practice of authorship\nas a profession. They may be summed up by saying that they tend to\ndegrade the profession into a trade, and a trade which has as many\ntricks as the least elevating kind of business. It would be, perhaps,\ndesirable to end by deducing some definite moral. But, in the first\nplace, I think that any such moral as I could give is sufficiently\nindicated by the statement of the dangers. And, in the second place, I\ndo not think that there is any moral that can be regarded as peculiar to\nauthors. For an author, after all, is a man, and, as all men ought to\nbe, a workman. His power comes to this, that he is a man with a special\ncapacity for exciting sympathy. That he should be a good workman,\ntherefore, goes without saying; and it follows that he should have a\nsense of responsibility in whatever department he undertakes; that he\nshould not bestow his advice upon us without qualifying himself to be a\ncompetent adviser; nor write philosophical speculation without serious\nstudy of philosophy; nor, if possible, produce poetry or even fiction\nwithout filling his mind by observation or training it by sympathy with\nthe great movements of thought which are shaping the world in which we\nlive. It is a sort of paradox which cannot be avoided, that we must\nwarn a man that one condition of all good work is that it should be\nspontaneous, and yet tell him that it should be directed to make men\nbetter and happier. It seems to be saying that the conscious pursuit of\na given end would be inconsistent with the attainment of the end. Yet I\nbelieve that this is a paradox which can be achieved in practice on the\nsimple condition of a reasonable modesty. The author, that is, should\nnot listen to those who would exaggerate the importance of his work. The\nworld can get on very well without it; and even the greatest men are far\nmore the product than the producers of the intellectual surroundings.\nThe acceptance of that truth--I hold it to be a truth--will help to keep\nin check the exaggerated estimate of the importance of making a noise in\nthe world, which is our besetting sin, and help to make a regulating\nprinciple of what is a theoretical belief, that a man who is doing\nhonestly good work in any department, whether under the eyes of a\nmultitude or of a few, will be happiest if he can learn to take pleasure\nin doing it thoroughly rather than in advertising it widely. And,\nfinally, with that conviction we shall be less liable to the common\nerror of an author who grumbles at his want of success, and becomes\nmorbid and irritable and inclined to lower his standard, when in reality\nhe ought to remember that he is as unreasonable as a marksman who\nshould complain of the target for keeping out of the line of fire. \"It\nis my own fault\" is often a bitter reflection, but a bitter may be a\nvery wholesome tonic.\n\n\n\n\nTHE VANITY OF PHILOSOPHISING.\n\n\nWhen the Preacher exclaimed, \"Vanity of vanities, all is vanity,\" he did\nnot exclude his own wisdom. \"I communed with my own heart, saying, Lo, I\nam come to great estate, and have gotten more wisdom than all that have\ngone before me in Jerusalem: yea, my heart hath great experience of\nwisdom and knowledge. And I gave my heart to know wisdom and to know\nmadness and folly: I perceived that this also is vexation of spirit. For\nin much wisdom is much grief: and he that increaseth knowledge\nincreaseth sorrow.\" The Preacher, whoever he may have been, has uttered\nthoughts upon which many eloquent followers have expatiated. More than\ntwo thousand years have passed since the words were written;\nphilosophies have risen and spread and decayed; and yet, in this year\n1895, can we say that they have brought more than a multiplication of\ndoubt? Has the increase of knowledge as yet diminished sorrow, or\nestablished any firm standing ground from which we may look upon the\nuniverse and say that the eternal riddle is, I will not say solved, but\nbrought a step nearer to solution? A great poet--I can't tell whether\nhe lived in the twelfth or the nineteenth century, for the phrase is\nequally characteristic of either Omar Khayyam or Edward\nFitzgerald--gives the same thought:--\n\n\n     Myself, when young, did eagerly frequent\n     Doctor and saint, and heard great argument\n     About it and about: but evermore\n     Came out by the same door as in I went.\n\n\nWhat, indeed, are eight or twenty centuries in the life even of this\nplanet? There are moments at which we all have suddenly felt by flashes\nthe sensation of being suspended in vast abysses of space and time: when\nwe see, for example, a chart of the heavens which has been recently\nrevealed to us by astronomers, and find that spaces between the stars\nshown to us by ordinary eyesight are filled in every direction with\nworld beyond world, vast systems of worlds, worlds in every stage of\nevolution, growing out of nebulous vapour or sinking into eternal\ncoldness: while the imagination is staggered and bewildered by the\ninconceivable vastness of the spaces indicated, and its own\ninfinitesimal pettiness. If we stroll into a museum and look at the\npetrified bones of some grotesque monster, and after rejoicing, perhaps,\nthat there is an end of him, we are struck by the thought of the vast\nlapse of ages during which he was being slowly hammered out of some\nmere primitive form, and then slowly decayed, and was gradually elbowed\nout of existence by monsters a degree less preposterous than himself,\nand gain a new measure of the portentous lapse of time. The greatest of\npoets has summed up the impression in the phrase which Carlyle was fond\nof quoting: \"we are such stuff as dreams are made of\": and our little\nspeck of existence a vanishing quantity in comparison of the infinite\nabove and below and around us, which we dimly infer though we cannot\ndistinctly realise it. If in such a mood, common at times to all who can\nthink or feel, we take up some philosophical work, and find the writer\ncomplacently setting forth a cosmogony or a theory of the Universe;\nexplaining how things came into being; what is the reason why they are\nnot better or worse; what is the end of the whole drama: are we not\njustified in exclaiming with Carlyle:--\n\n\n     The builder of this Universe was wise,\n     He planned all souls, all systems, planets, particles:\n     The plan he shaped all worlds and aeons by\n     Was--Heavens!--was thy small nine-and-thirty articles!\n\n\nCarlyle has been, to some of us, the most stimulating of writers, just\nbecause he succeeded in expressing, with unsurpassed power, the emotion\nwhich I must be content with indicating--the emotion which is roused by\nsudden revelations of the infinitudes, the silences and eternities that\nsurround us. We cannot keep it permanently before us; the present\nabsorbs us, and its little interests seem to be all that is important.\nIt is only at moments when, for example, we reflect that our action of a\nminute ago is already a part of the mysterious past, sinking downwards,\nand rapidly becoming invisible in the depths of the infinite ocean, that\nwe are startled by a momentary pang, and feel as though to live with a\nconstant sense of our insignificance would be to risk the paralysis of\nall our powers of thought and action. That way, we are inclined to say,\nlies madness. We shall lose our heads if we gaze too long into such\ntremendous depths. Possibly we may restore our equilibrium by meditating\nupon the infinitesimal, though possibly too we may rather feel that such\nmeditations only reveal another infinite. I intended to make a few\nreflections suggested by such thoughts, when I found a guide, and, to a\ngreat extent, an ally, in a writer who has lately taken up the ancient\nparable. Mr. Balfour, in a book rather quaintly entitled _Foundations of\nBelief_ has dwelt upon the vanity of all known philosophy, and has\nshown, or appears to some of his readers to have endeavoured to show,\nthat it is hopeless to lay any sound foundations on the little film of\nknowledge beneath which lie the great unknown abysses. He tries to\nindicate some other basis, though, so far as I can understand him, the\nfoundations of his edifice are ingeniously supported by the\nsuperstructure; and that is a kind of architecture which, to my mind,\nlacks stability. Through a large part of his argument, however, I find\nmyself in the pleasanter position of an ally. He asserts, and I doubt\nwhether any competent thinker would materially differ from him, that\nthere does not, as a matter of fact, exist any established system of\nphilosophic truth--any system upon which we can rely, as we do, in fact,\nrightly or wrongly rely, upon certain scientific doctrines. We no more\ndoubt the truth of the Newtonian system of astronomy than we doubt that\nfire burns or that bread nourishes. But the briefest glance at the old\nsystems of philosophy shows us, as Mr. Balfour says, nothing but\nimperishable ruins--imperishable aesthetically--but, logically, mere\ncrumbling fragments. We can still read Plato with delight; but the\ndelight is due to the beauty of style and exposition, not, certainly, to\nthe conviction produced by his reasoning. Aristotle's philosophy is a\nmarvel--for his time: but his theory of the Universe is no more tenable\nthan his Natural Science. The luxuriant growths of later Greek\nphilosophy are interesting only to the curious investigators of the\npathology of the human intellect. The vast development of scholastic\nphilosophy in the middle ages showed only how far unlimited ingenuity\nand subtlety may lead in the wrong direction, if it starts with mistaken\nprinciples. It ended by upsetting the doctrines which it attempted to\nprove, and had finally to commit suicide, or fall before the\ninsurrection of living thought. The great men who revolted against its\ntyranny in its later stages constructed new systems, which, to them,\nseemed demonstrable, but which, to us, are already untenable. We cannot\naccept Descartes, or Spinoza, or Leibnitz, or Bacon, or Hobbes, or\nLocke, as giving satisfactory or even coherent systems, or as having\ndone more than lead to the thorough scepticism of Hume. If Kant\npresented one solution of the difficulties in which philosophy was\nlanded, we have still to ask what precisely Kant meant; whether his\ncriticism was simply all-destructive, or really left anything standing,\nand, if so, what it left standing; and who represents the proper line of\ndevelopment. Shall we, with Schopenhauer, pronounce Hegel to be a\nthorough impostor? and, if so, can we seriously accept Schopenhauer's\nown system? If, here and there, some people accept his theories for\nliterary purposes, nobody will maintain that they rest upon any\npermanently settled foundation. If, again, we believe in Hegel, we have\nto make out what we mean by believing in Hegel, and to which school of\nhis followers we are to attach ourselves. I need not consider the\npolemic which Mr. Balfour has directed against the writers who have\ngiven a version of Hegelian principles in England. Personally, I agree\nwith his criticisms in a general way; but I fancy that even the\nadherents of those principles would defend themselves mainly by\ndeclaring that they do not make such pretensions as he ascribes to them.\nThey try, at most, to indicate a way of approaching, not of solving the\nproblems. But, at least, they would claim to have done one thing:\nnamely, to have proved the inadequacy of the rival system of empirical\nphilosophy, accepted by the English followers of Locke, and now mainly\nrepresented for us by Mr. Herbert Spencer. I only add to this, that it\nis not a question of the convictions of any individual thinker, however\neminent. Philosophies of every different variety have been not merely\naccepted by those who first devised them, but have been taken up in good\nfaith by whole schools of disciples; they have been tested, on a large\nscale, by systematic application to all relevant questions, and one\nafter the other has become bankrupt; has lost its hold on the world, and\nconfessed that it leaves the riddle as dark as it was before. All that\ncan be claimed for the greatest philosophers is, that they have, at\nleast, proved that certain paths which seemed to lead through the\nlabyrinth, end in a deadlock; that they have exposed certain fallacies\nby the process of provisionally believing in them; and that they have\nbuoyed certain shoals, and demonstrated that no channel leads in what\nseemed to be a promising direction. Is there any channel open?\n\nOnce more, I might follow--I might even, if I had time, expand Mr.\nBalfour's argument in another direction. He has pointed out--not for the\nfirst time certainly--how men's beliefs are due not to reasoning, but to\ncountless causes which prevent them from reasoning. The argument is too\nfamiliar, indeed, to require much emphasis. Some one, arguing in the\ndays of the old orthodoxy upon the necessity of the true faith to\nsalvation, put the case of a couple of infants deserted by their\nparents. One of them is carried off by a Mohammedan and the other by a\nChristian. Each will, of course, adopt the faith of the party into whose\nhands it has fallen; and the problem was, whether the infant seized by\nthe Mohammedan would be eternally damned, and the one taken by the\nChristian go straight to heaven; and whether, on the whole, that would\nsatisfy our sense of justice. The argument implies the inevitableness of\nerror. Men not only do, but ought to hold, contradictory opinions. Take\na Scottish Davie Deans, brought up in the shadow of John Knox's pulpit;\na Tyrolese peasant, educated in the Catholic Church; and a Mohammedan,\nliving at Mecca; and, of course, it is plain, not only that each will\naccept the creed which pervades what is for him the whole world known to\nhim, but that as a reasoning being each is probably in the right. That\nis to say, the accessible evidence is in each case overwhelmingly in\nfavour of the doctrine, inasmuch as the supposed reasoner is entirely\nunaware of the evidence which might be produced on the other side. But\nwhat is true of the peasant is true of the philosopher. Measured on a\nsufficient scale, the difference vanishes. This intellectual horizon is\njust as much limited, though not so narrowly limited. No one but a bigot\nwould deny that a mediaeval philosopher might accept on perfectly\nreasonable grounds the dogmas of the Catholic Church. The historical\ndifficulties had not even been presented to his mind. He had no reason\nfor doubting innumerable assumptions as to fact which have since turned\nout to be erroneous; and if the method of his reasoning was itself\nfundamentally vicious, the fact only came to light gradually in the\nprocess of working out the results. We--including in the \"we\" the\nphilosophers--have to approach truth by the help of assumptions, and by\ntrying how in point of fact they will work; it is so hard to remember\nthat they are only assumptions that we generally call them self-evident\ntruths. Considering how many assumptions are involved even in the very\nstructure of language itself; how we are led into all kinds of\ndifficulties by the essential instrument of thought, which has been\nfashioned by the unconscious logic of our ancestors; it is not strange\nthat the best that can be said of philosophies is, that they represent\nconvenient working hypotheses. That, at least, seems to be a liberal\nview of their logical value. In another sense they are really to be\nconsidered as poetry, rather than as logic. They are modes of presenting\ncertain conceptions of the world by apparently logical formulae, instead\nof by concrete imagery; but, substantially, they represent the emotions\nwith which men regard their dwelling place, and are radically imperfect\nif we insist upon considering them as providing us with correct plans\nand drawings of its various arrangements.\n\nLet us look for a moment at another set of reflections upon which Mr.\nBalfour touches. What has been the influence of these systems upon men's\nlives? Have these provisional constructions, these fluctuating,\nconflicting, unstable combinations of pretentious formulae, really\ndecided or directed the course of human history? It would seem so, if\nyou read certain histories of philosophy. They seem to suggest that the\nhinge upon which all the course of human affairs ultimately turns is\nthe growth of certain metaphysical conceptions. There is a preliminary\ndifficulty in seeing how such pretensions can be established. The\nphilosopher in his study or his lecture room discusses problems in which\nthe enormously preponderating majority of the race has so little\ninterest, that it is not even aware that there are any such problems to\nbe discussed. He lays down dogmas so vague and unsatisfactory that half\nhis hearers give up the attempt to understand, or understand them in a\nsense which the more intelligent half would utterly repudiate; and that\nintelligent half is itself divided into different schools, interpreting\nthe dogmas in radically contradictory ways. Is it not hard to believe\nthat speculation leads to vast results, when for ninety-nine men out of\na hundred it is practically non-existent, and with the small minority it\namounts to providing new weapons for endless controversy? We must, of\ncourse, admit that men's conduct is in some sense determined by their\nthoughts. Change the radical beliefs, and you will certainly change the\nwhole constitution of society. And, again, it is obvious that in one\nsphere of thought the progress of inquiry is of vast importance. Nobody\ncan deny that scientific and mechanical discoveries have, for good or\nevil, materially affected our lives. The great inventions of modern\ntimes, from gunpowder and printing to the steam-engine and electricity,\nhave changed things as much as if they had altered the physical\nconstitution of the world. They have indeed altered it for us, for they\nhave given us the means of applying forces previously dormant, and\ntherefore for practical purposes non-existent. Such beliefs have an\nimmediate bearing upon the practices of ordinary human beings. But if we\nare to set down all philosophies as at once untenable and as absolutely\nunknown to the enormous majority of mankind, it becomes difficult to\nunderstand by what process they come to influence, or apparently to\ninfluence, the position of the race. A philosopher frames his scheme of\nthe universe to his own satisfaction; but you and I hear nothing about\nit, and do not trouble ourselves to understand it, and go on working\nwith our good old common-sense conceptions of things, leaving it to the\nphilosopher to construct or destroy the fanciful system which he somehow\nsupposes to lie beneath them. One answer is of course obvious. Religious\nand ethical systems, it is said, presuppose a philosophy: no one denies\nthat men are profoundly affected by the gods whom they worship and the\nrules of conduct which they adopt; and therefore the sceptic who is\nburrowing at the base may be ruining the whole superstructure, although\nhis operations are no more obvious upon the surface than those of some\nminute parasite. Accordingly, we are often told that revolutions are\nultimately produced by speculation; and that old systems fall with a\ncrash because some shrewd witness has been boring into the foundations\nupon which they really repose. The French Revolution, according to one\nfamiliar statement, was due to the freethinkers who had set about prying\ninto the ultimate grounds of the old faith, and had succeeded in shaking\nthe convictions necessary to social welfare.\n\nThat this argument expresses a truth is what I am so far from denying\nthat I should be most anxious to give it emphasis. But what is precisely\nthe truth expressed? Destroy the belief in a church as a social system,\nand the organisation will crumble. But what is the real cause of the\nloss of belief? Is it the logical argument that is effective? Does the\nphilosophical revolution underlie the political or religious revolution,\nor is that to invert cause and effect? Let me take an example to\nillustrate my meaning. The doctrine of the \"rights of man,\" proclaimed\nby the whole revolutionary school, was, it is said, the cause of the\nrevolution. The destruction of the old order was caused by the sudden\nconviction which spread through Europe of the truth of this theory, and\nthe consequent decay of the old authority. Now we may proceed, if we\nplease, to trace the origin of this doctrine back through certain\nspeculations to the days of the Roman jurists, themselves influenced by\nthe Stoical philosophy. The view suggested is that the doctrine was a\nkind of germ, a something which preserved its vitality through\ncenturies, like the bacteria of modern physiologists, and which,\nsomehow, developed a baleful or a beneficial activity about a century\nago, and changed all the conditions of social equilibrium. But, if this\nbe true, we naturally remark that the potency of the doctrine must have\nbeen due, not to the doctrine itself, which lay dormant so long, but to\nthe conditions which suddenly made it effective. The doctrine, indeed,\nis so obvious, in a sense, that it is not to be doubted that anybody who\nonce began to philosophise about laws and political constitutions, after\nthey had reached a certain stage, would hit upon it in one shape or\nanother. It is not comparable to those scientific discoveries which\nrequire patient thought and a dexterous combination of arguments: but\none of the primary axioms which present themselves on the very threshold\nof inquiry. The mediaeval peasant who put the question:--\n\n\n     When Adam delved, and Eve span,\n     Who was then the gentleman?\n\n\nwas, probably, no great philosopher; but he was giving the essential\npith of the doctrine of liberty, fraternity, and equality. It may be\nregarded as an obvious logical canon, converted by an illegitimate\nprocess into a statement of fact. If I make any general statement\nwhatever about men or beasts or stones, I, of course, assume that there\nis a corresponding class of things in respect of each of which the\nproposition is equally true. As soon as I say anything, therefore, about\nmorality or politics, which is intended to be true of men in general, I\nassume, in this sense, that men are so far equal that something may be\npredicated, indifferently, of every member of the class man. It is very\nnatural and easy to convert this into the proposition that the concrete\nmen of whom I am speaking are, in some sense, actually equal. In doing\nso, however, I am either making a false statement, or begging the\nquestion. As a matter of fact, men are, in many respects, as far as\npossible from being equal. The real question, therefore, is whether the\ninequalities which undoubtedly exist are or are not relevant to the\npolitical inequalities which I have to consider. As a matter of fact,\nthe inequalities which were challenged by the revolutionary writers\nwere, as I think, and as most of us think, entirely unjustifiable. At\nany rate, they had, as a matter of fact, produced widespread discontent\nand bitter antipathies between classes. It was the existence of these\nantipathies to which the outbreak was due. The peasant, for example,\nfelt that he was forced to give up the fruit of his labour to the noble,\nand that the noble was discharging no duty to justify his demands. The\npeasant, probably, could not read; he was unaware that Rousseau or\nVoltaire was laying down principles which would cover his case; he had\nnever even heard of philosopher or philosophy; only, when the time was\nripe, when the upper orders had become useless, and the lower classes\nhad accumulated a sufficient quantity of passion, of indignant or\nvindictive feeling, an outraged sense of justice, the crash came, and\nany formula which would cover the particular case was acceptable. The\ndoctrine then made its fortune; not because it was true, or because it\nwas demonstrable, but because it gave the shortest and simplest\nexpression to the prevailing sentiment. The philosophical dogma, which\nhad been lying idle for generations, doing no particular harm or good,\nwas, suddenly, converted into a war-cry, the more effective because the\nreal vagueness and uncertainty of its application enabled those who used\nit to save themselves the trouble of thinking or arguing. Instead of\nsubstituting particular grievances, and showing that this or that\ninequality in general was useless and objectionable, they could, in half\na dozen words, denounce all inequality, and be perfectly satisfied with\na formula which was imposing for its generality, though true only in its\nparticular application.\n\nI take this familiar case, not only as familiar, but because it seems to\nme to be typical. Similar general remarks might, I fancy, be made about\nany of the great religious movements which have, undoubtedly, most\nprofoundly affected human society. They are not due to the philosophers;\nto the abstract meditations of refined thinkers upon ultimate\nprinciples; but to great underlying social changes. Our Christian\napologists of the last century held the quaint belief that a new creed\nwas caused by the occurrence of certain miraculous facts, susceptible of\nlegal proof. It is sufficiently obvious to us that this is to invert the\nprocess. Given the faith, and there is never any difficulty in supplying\nthe miracles. No quantity of assertions as to miraculous events would\nhave the slightest effect, unless there were a predisposition to accept\nthem. The same answer applies to the theory that a new religion owes its\nsuccess to the discovery of new moral truths. In the first place, there\nare, properly speaking, no sudden discoveries in morality; and in the\nnext place, the mere statement of a moral doctrine, and even the\npresentation of a lofty moral type, can have little importance unless\nthe soil is already prepared, and the doctrine is but the overt\nutterance of the sentiments which are seeking for expression. The only\nexplanation that we can give of such events is the social explanation.\nThere are periods, that is in history, when the old order is out of\njoint; when society has outgrown the institutions which were adequate at\na previous stage, and when, therefore, the beliefs associated with them\nbecome oppressive, and can no longer pass without challenge; when\ndifferent races and nations have been brought into collision or\ncombination, and crushed together into new forms by conquest and\ncommerce; when, therefore, the several creeds are no longer supported by\nthe patriotism which has ceased to have a meaning; when a vast amalgam\nof different faiths and modes of life has been formed out of many\nheterogeneous elements; and thus a need is created for some wider and\nmore comprehensive system of belief corresponding to the general needs\nof society. In that case the influence of the philosopher may be of some\nimportance, because he can do something towards suggesting the most\nworkable compromise, and of exposing superstitions which have lost their\nold support, and the instinctive loyalty of their adherents. Even then\nhis voice will not be predominant. The creed will survive which is most\nsuited to the state of the average intellect; it will include a large\nelement of the ancient modes of thought, which still insist upon\nfinding some satisfaction, and which, indeed, have a strange vitality\nbeneath the surface, even when explicitly disavowed by the official\ninterpreters of the faith.\n\nNow, if this be accepted as a rough sketch of the actual course of the\ndevelopment of belief, what is the conclusion as to the philosopher's\nfunction? Does it go to suggest that philosophy is but a vanity and\nvexation of spirit, and does it reduce the philosopher to a humbler\nposition than is sometimes claimed for him? My answer would be, in the\nfirst place, that the case against philosophy would have to be frankly\nadmitted if the criterion sometimes tacitly suggested be the true one.\nNothing could be more hopeless than the claim of any philosophy whatever\nto have laid down a definitively satisfactory plan of things in general.\nWhen Mr. Balfour observes that an Aristotle or Aquinas or Descartes has\nnot laid down a tenable theory of the universe, I can only add that the\nvery phrase--theory of the universe--conveys a sufficient refutation. It\nis idle, or worse than idle, to imagine that we can lay down, or even\nhope to lay down, anything of the kind. It needs only one of those\nglances into the surrounding infinities which I have suggested, or the\nbriefest survey of the history of philosophy, to reveal the sheer\nimpossibility of the attempt. No one, perhaps, ever quite imagined that\nhis speculation could really lay bare the ultimate ground plan of things\nin general. But, certainly, philosophers have, at times, thought, or\nspoken as if they thought, that they could construct a body of first\nprinciples which should be to knowledge in general what a science is to\nsome particular application,--the general theory of physics, for\nexample, to astronomy. Philosophy would then be a system of such\nultimate principles. The day for such systems has, I think, passed. We\nhave learnt that it is for ever impossible to spin real knowledge out of\npure logic. What the universe, or the little bit of it that we know,\nactually is, can only be learnt by experience; and if experience\npresupposes categories or forms of intuition, still, without experience,\nthey remain empty; as incapable of producing truth as a mill of grinding\nflour without corn. Philosophers must admit that on such terms we get\nonly \"brain cobwebs\"; ingenious feats of intellectual legerdemain, where\nthe operator shows his skill by dexterously hiding away his assumptions,\nand bringing them out at the end as triumphantly demonstrated\nconclusions. The more modest ideal, which is now presented to us, is\nwhat is called the unification of knowledge. That means, no doubt, that\nwe have to bring our theories into harmony and consistency; to get rid\nof the hypothetical and conjectural elements which have intruded\nthemselves from earlier and cruder speculation; and so to analyse the\nprimary factors of thought and the most general conceptions, that we may\nnot have to assume in one relation what we dispute in another. Even this\nprocess is, no doubt, exceedingly difficult; it is difficult partly\nbecause the human mind has, generally speaking, to begin at the wrong\nend; to proceed upon postulates which break down here and there and\nleave inconvenient fragments remaining elsewhere; partly because some\nphilosophers are still open to the charge that they raise a dust and\nthen complain that they cannot see; and, briefly, because, in one way or\nother, what with the dulness of the ordinary mind and what with the\nover-subtlety of the acute, our thoughts and beliefs have got into\nintricate tangles, which will require enormous patience and judgment to\nwind off and weave into a satisfactory tissue. Genuine philosophers,\ndoubtless, will learn in time how to set about the work. It will\nprobably strike them that instead of evolving pretentious systems of\ntheology, and ethics, and politics, and art, each purporting to give an\nexhaustive theory of the subject, and each destined to melt away,\nleaving some infinitesimal residuum of real suggestion, they will have\nto follow a slower method of gradual and tentative investigation. If\nso, we must undoubtedly assign to philosophy a more modest position than\nhas sometimes been claimed for it. It must resign its claim to a vision\nof transcendental realities, to a knowledge of things in themselves, and\nof the ultimate groundwork of the universe. It has not, I hold, a\nsubject-matter peculiar to itself; it reveals no principles belonging to\na separate sphere of thought; it corresponds simply to the attempt to\ncorrect and harmonise the cruder thoughts of the average human being,\nand to state explicitly in their purity the principles which have been\nall along implicitly involved in his ordinary observations. It is,\ntherefore, not a substantive, but an adjective; philosophy is not a\ndistinct department of thought, and cannot be defined by itself. All we\ncan say is, that we think philosophically in so far as we think rightly.\nWhen our mode of conceiving the world includes no heterogeneous or\nconflicting element, we shall be philosophers; but we shall not, in that\ncapacity, have a separate dominion of our own.\n\nNow, it will probably do no harm to philosophers more than to other men,\nto be impressed with a sense of modesty and a right appreciation of the\nnecessary limitations of their enterprise. You have been trying to soar\nbeyond the atmosphere, and you will make the better use of your wings\nwhen you learn that they won't support you in a vacuum. Your failure is\nnot due to the want of aquiline powers of flight, but to the melancholy\ntruth that even an eagle can't do much in an air-pump. Is not that a\nrather consoling reflection? But here the philosopher begins to be\nrecalcitrant. You are not lowering my pretensions, he says, but\nattacking the power of man to attain truth upon any terms. All that is\ngiven to us in experience is the effect of underlying causes; if the\ncauses vary the effects would vary; and, unless, therefore, you can get\nback to the cause, your knowledge must remain empirical and radically\nuncertain. Destroy all transcendental truths, and the phenomenal world\nitself becomes a mere shifting phantasmagoria, on which we can trace\nonly coincidences and sequences, but are entirely unable to say that\nthey will ever recur again. The argument, of course, raises the\nrecollection of library upon library of controversy. I can only touch\none point. Practically, we do not trouble ourselves about this\ndifficulty. We are quite convinced that we know a great many things: we\nare sure that the sun will rise and set to-morrow; we have no doubt as\nto the properties of the ordinary objects, of trees and stones and\nsteam-engines; every action of our lives implies a certain confidence in\nwhat is called the uniformity of nature; and it is plain enough that\neven if our knowledge be, in some sense, only a knowledge of\nprobabilities, yet, from its effect upon conduct, it may be exactly the\nsame as a knowledge of certainties. There may be an indefinite distance\nbetween the \"necessary truth\" that two and two make four and the\nempirical truth that a stone will fall; but if all the evidence\nattainable goes to prove that the stone will fall, I should be as\nfoolish not to act upon that hypothesis as not to assume the truth of\nthe arithmetical formula. Now, it is, of course, the growth within\nrecent generations of vast systems of such truths which has alarmed the\nphilosopher. He contrasts his own fluctuating and conflicting dogmas\nwith the steady growth and assured results and mutual confirmation of\nthe established physical sciences. He fears that they will obtain a\nprestige which will enable them to crush him and sweep his pretended\nknowledge into the limbo of alchemy and astrology and scholastic\nlogomachy. Here comes in the argument which is really the keystone of\nMr. Balfour's whole theory; and, as I cannot accept it, I must dwell\nupon its true nature. It looks, at first sight, like a retort upon the\nmen of science. Your knowledge, he seems to say, is as vain as your\nantagonist's. Your physics, and astronomy, and chemistry, and physiology\nare mere empty shows, like the metaphysical theories that have gone to\ntheir long home in histories of philosophy. But to say this would be to\naccept complete scepticism, and a kind of scepticism which Mr. Balfour\nwould, I am sure, disavow. He believes, of course, just as strongly as\nany one of us believes, in the astronomical theories of Newton and\nLaplace; or in the mathematical theories of the great physical sciences.\nThat in which he disbelieves is a kind of bastard science called\n\"naturalism,\" which, as he tells us, leads to contradictory or\nincoherent results. The naturalist, it appears, proposes to confine\nhimself to the evidence of the senses, and ends by accepting a view of\nthe world entirely inconsistent with the sensible perceptions. I see a\ngreen field: an object which has visual and other properties recognised\nby my organs of sense. No, says this misguided naturalist, you do not\nsee what you suppose; what really happens is, that there is a vast\nwhirlpool of atoms impinging upon each other and setting up vibrations,\nthe last set of which is communicated to another set of atoms, called my\noptic nerve. These atoms, by their very nature imperceptible to the\nsenses, are the only realities. We thus start from the senses and we get\na world beyond the senses, a world which is a mere dance of infinite\nmultitudes of bits of matter performing all manner of extraordinary\ngyrations and evolutions. The sensible impressions of colour, sound, and\nso forth, are mere illusions, somehow arising in a figment called the\nmind. This mind is a mere phantom--an unreal spectator of things and\nevents, among which it has no place, and upon which it exercises no\ninfluence.\n\nNow, let me say first that I agree with Mr. Balfour that the doctrine\nthus imputed to the \"naturalist\" is absurd. I do not believe, for I\ncannot believe, that I am only a dance of atoms. I \"cannot\" believe, I\nsay, for the words are to me meaningless. My sensations and emotions are\nto me the typical realities. I cannot doubt the real existence of pain\nand pleasure, grief and joy, whatever else I may doubt. I believe, for\nexample, that my toothache is a reality; and nobody will ever persuade\nme that it is merely a set of molecular changes in my tooth. That it, in\nsome way, is dependent upon such changes I fully believe; but that is\nquite a different statement. And, secondly, I agree with Mr. Balfour (or\nwith what I take to be Mr. Balfour's belief) that the scientific\ndoctrines which are reached by help of these atoms are established\ntruths. I believe those doctrines, not because I am convinced by the\narguments, which I may not have examined or be capable of examining; nor\nsimply because I trust, though I do trust, in the ability and the\ncandour of the scientific reasoners; but because the doctrines can be\nand have been independently verified. I believe, that is, in modern\nastronomy because it has enabled modern astronomers to predict eclipses,\nand enabled Adams and Leverrier to discover Neptune. That is the\nconclusive proof; for it is impossible to suppose that the power of\nprediction should be a result of erroneous belief, and such proofs are\nverifiable by anybody who can observe the phenomena.\n\nHere, then, we have the difficulty, the difficulty upon which the whole\nof Mr. Balfour's argument depends. Solve it, and the whole sceptical\nargument crumbles. The naturalistic theory, we both say, is incredible.\nThe scientific doctrines based upon it are, as we both admit,\nunassailable. How is this? I reply, first, because the atoms represent\nnothing more than a logical scaffolding which enables us to infer one\nset of sensible phenomena from another. We start from phenomena and we\nend with phenomena. When we have discovered the so-called \"law\"--the\nconnecting formula--we can remove the hypothesis as the engineer can\nremove the provisional supports when he has once got the keystone into\nhis arch. That this is so appears, I think, from the whole scientific\nprocedure. How is the atomic theory obtained? Not by any direct\nobservation of atoms themselves. They are, as Mr. Balfour says, not only\nnot objects of observation, but incapable by their nature of ever being\ndirectly observed. The man of science begins by saying, _if_ the\nphenomena of light correspond in some way to a vibration of atoms, the\natoms must vibrate in such and such ways. He finds, again, that the laws\nso discovered will give the law of other phenomena of light; and he\nargues quite correctly that his hypothesis is for his purpose verified.\nThat is, it has enabled him to discover a verifiable and verified\nformula. In order to do this he has assumed from the very first the\ntheory which of course appears in his conclusions. All physical science\nconsists ultimately in giving definite formulae in terms of space and\ntime. It is therefore assumed that the atoms are to have no qualities\nexcept those which are definable in terms of space. We exclude any other\nquality because our whole purpose is to obtain purely geometrical\nmeasurements. We have asked how those atoms, infinitesimal bits, so to\nspeak, of solid space, arranged in certain positions, must move in order\nto correspond to the law given by observation, and we have therefore, of\ncourse, predetermined that our answer must come out in terms of atoms.\n\nBut, now, what is the error of the \"naturalist\"? Simply that he has\nconverted the scientific doctrine into an ontological doctrine. He\nreally knows nothing, and cannot possibly know anything, about his\natoms, except just this, that they give the law of the phenomena. He\nhas nothing whatever to say to them in any other relation. If he\nproceeds, as Mr. Balfour says that he proceeds, to declare that nothing\nexists except atoms, that they are the ultimate realities, that they are\n\"things in themselves,\" or objects independent of any subject, he is\ngoing beyond his tether, passing from science to transcendental\nmetaphysics, and getting into hopeless confusion. In fact, after he has\ndone his worst we may still follow Berkeley and deny the existence of\nmatter, or declare with Clifford that atoms are only bits of mindstuff,\nor adopt any other metaphysical theory we please. The atoms at most are\nthings which we judge from the analogy of the senses; and it is a pure\nillusion to suppose that they can ever take us into an extra-sensible\nworld. They represent not only a convenient but an indispensable\ncontrivance for enabling us to formulate scientific laws, such as those\nof light and heat; but they take us no further.\n\nIn a remarkable passage, Mr. Balfour sketches an analogy, which gives\nthe application of this to philosophical or theological questions; and I\nwill venture to give my own interpretation of the argument because it\nseems to lead to the real point. We believe, he says, in a scientific\ntheory of heat, although our view of the \"realities\" has changed. People\nonce thought that heat was a substance. They now hold it to be a mode\nof motion. Yet our \"scientific faith\" (our faith, I suppose, that things\nare hot, and that their heat varies according to certain assigned laws)\nremains unaffected. On the other hand, he says, if we cease to believe\nin the Christian doctrine of the atonement, we cease also to have that\n\"sense of reconciliation\" between God and man which the doctrine was\nintended to explain. This he seems to regard as a kind of melancholy\nparadox. Why is the scepticism harmless in science and fatal in\ntheology? First, what are the admitted facts? A man of science propounds\na theory of heat. If his theory does not give us the observed laws, we\nreject it and adopt a more successful theory. In any case, we, of\ncourse, continue to believe in heat. We may know facts without knowing\ntheir causes; as, for example, the fact of gravitation, which is not the\nless certain because it is at present an ultimate fact. Otherwise our\nknowledge would be limited indeed; for even if the cause (in the\nscientific sense) were given, we should still have to ask, what is the\ncause of that cause? If heat is due to certain systems of atoms, we\nmight still inquire how the atoms came to occupy their places, and\npossess the properties which they actually have. An effect \"depends\nupon\" a cause, as we naturally say; but it does not follow that the\nknowledge of the effect depends upon the knowledge of the cause. Now,\nwhat are the facts which correspond to the facts of heat in the theory\nof the atonement? If we believe in a certain being, an anthropomorphic\ndeity, who will punish us or reward us, it is, of course, obvious that\nif we cease to believe in him we shall cease to desire to be reconciled\nto him. So if I believed that the warmth of my house depended upon a\nfire next door, and then discovered that no such fire existed, I should\nof course cease to care about lighting it. In this there is nothing\nwhich wants explanation. I suppose, therefore, that what Mr. Balfour\nmeans is, that if men have certain emotions,--remorse, for example, or\nwhat is called a conviction of sin,--and then learn to reject the theory\nby which these emotions were explained, they cease also to feel the\nemotions. In fact, he emphatically accepts the view that, if we cease to\naccept theology, we shall cease to be moral. The perversity of a few\nwretched \"naturalists\" in continuing to be moral is explained as a case\nof survival; the moral naturalist is the parasite who draws his\nsustenance from the organism which he infests. Let us consider the\nscientific analogy. I believe in heat, and I accept a scientific theory\njust as far as it gives me verified laws of heat. I believe, too, in the\nexistence of conscience; that is, I believe that people have real\nemotions, such as remorse and shame, which correspond to the name. I\nhold that to be a fact of experience. It would have to be explained,\nagain, so far as explanation is possible, by psychology in the first\ninstance, as heat must be explained by scientific theories. Remorse is a\nfact, as heat is a fact; and an explanation would consist in giving\naccurately its place in the moral organism and the laws of its\noperation. The explanation furnished by any given psychology, by\n\"association,\" for example, must be accepted or rejected in so far as it\nexplains or fails to explain the facts. If some theory about spiritual\n\"monads\" enabled us to show what the conscience is, and how it is, in\nfact, stimulated or suppressed, we should accept it in the same way as\nwe accept the physical theory of heat. As yet, I need hardly say, no\nsuch result has been achieved; and psychology is still far too vague to\noffer any definite laws of the emotional nature. But in any case, how\ncan a theory about facts make the facts themselves vanish? Would not\ngrief be real just as pain would be real if we could clearly explain how\nand why it occurred? Why should the \"sense of reconciliation\" vanish\nbecause we show the conditions of its existence? The reason of Mr.\nBalfour's difficulty, I think, appears from what I have said. In the\nphysical theory we can draw the line clearly between the scientific and\nthe philosophical spheres. Mr. Balfour can accept the scientific truth,\nthough he does not accept the doctrine which results from translating it\ninto ontology. But the boundary between psychology and philosophy is far\nless distinct. We constantly confound questions about the constitution\nof man, as known to us by experience, with questions about supposed\nintuitions of ultimate truth. The fact that sin causes remorse is\ninterpreted as meaning that remorse actually is a knowledge of an\navenging deity; and when the emotion is thus identified with the belief,\nit becomes easy to suppose that to destroy the belief is also to destroy\nthe emotion. I think, indeed, that fallacies of that kind are among the\ncommonest in philosophical writings. Now, of course, psychology has\nsomething to say in this matter. It may help, and I think that it has\nhelped us to explain how men come to believe in anthropomorphic deities,\nand to invest them with the attributes of human rulers. But in that way\nit tends to show not that the conscience is caused by the belief, but to\nshow how, under certain conditions, it has given rise to a belief by\nother than logical grounds. It suggests no probability that the\nconscience will disappear with the fallacy, but only that it will act\ndifferently when enlightened by a different logic. Conscience\ndisappears no more than heat disappears, when both are explained; though\nthe conduct which the emotions or the sensations determine will, of\ncourse, be affected.\n\nAnd now, I can say what I take to be the difficulty, and the escape. Mr.\nBalfour draws a kind of parallel between the scientific creed, which is,\nas he would put it, \"based upon\" a metaphysical doctrine, and the\ntheological creed, which has a similar foundation. If the metaphysical\nfoundation is so uncertain in both cases, must not the scientific be as\nuncertain as the theological? If we know nothing about atoms, or, on the\nother hand, about souls, we must be either sceptical in both cases, or\ncredulous in both. There are the same underlying difficulties, and if we\nmanage to overlook them in the case of science, why not overlook them in\nthe case of theology? Conversely, if we elect to be sceptics in\ntheology, how can we escape from scepticism in science? And, as a\nthorough-going scepticism is, doubtless, an impossible state of mind in\npractice, the conclusion of many people will be to accept belief in\nspite of certain gaps in our logical foundations. This, no doubt, is\neminently convenient for the \"constructive\" process adumbrated by Mr.\nBalfour, which I certainly regard as extra-logical. But is any such\ndilemma really offered to us? The obvious answer is, that scientific\ntruth, as Mr. Balfour admits, is not \"based upon\" metaphysical theory.\nThe astronomical doctrine of a Newton remains equally valid, whatever is\nthe ultimate nature of space or laws or atoms; whether we are\nmaterialists or empiricists or idealists. The philosophical \"basis\" is\nnot really a set of truths which we must know before we can know the\nastronomical theory; but simply a set of hypotheses which have to\nconform to the truths given by experience. The unassailable truths are\njust the facts which we observe, and which science enables us to\ndescribe accurately and state systematically. If a metaphysical doctrine\nhas any bearing upon these facts, which seems to be doubtful, it must\nconform to the facts, and not the facts to it. So long as no such theory\nis proved, we can afford to remain metaphysically sceptical without\nlosing our hold upon the scientific truth. Now, I should say, what is\ntrue of the physical sciences is true of all our knowledge. We may study\nthe moral sciences as we can study the physical sciences. We can observe\nand colligate the facts of emotion and volition, as we can observe the\nposition of the stars and the laws of heat. Therefore, in so far as\ntheology is an attempt to give a theory of the universe in general, we\nmust accept or deny the doctrines just in so far as they serve to\nexplain or fail to explain the facts. But, in any case, the facts will\nremain unaltered, and will not vanish because we may be unable to\nunderstand them. But theology corresponds, also, not to the scientific\nmethod, but to the ontological inquiries which are represented by Mr.\nBalfour's \"naturalism\". Both doctrines, as I should say, lead to\nincoherence, to contradictions covered by ambiguous language, and to\nhopeless difficulties, which, in theology, are described as inscrutable\nmysteries. I am, therefore, quite ready, with Mr. Balfour, to reject\nnaturalism, but, on the same grounds, I also reject the transcendental\ntheology. Attainable truth is equally independent of all such theories;\nand were it otherwise, we should be doomed to hopeless scepticism. Mr.\nBalfour's analogy, therefore, apparently upsets his conclusion. I\nbelieve in heat, and I believe in the conscience. I reject the atoms,\nand I reject the doctrine of atonement. I reject it, if it be meant for\nscience, because, so far from explaining the facts, the facts explain\nhow the false doctrine was generated. I reject it, if it is meant for\nphilosophy, because, like other transcendental theories, it leads to\nhopeless controversies, and appears to me to be incredible as soon as\nany such theology as is tenable by a philosopher is substituted for the\ncrude theology of a savage.\n\nWe are driven to scepticism, then, if we first declare that scientific\nknowledge depends upon metaphysical theory; and then that all\nmetaphysical theory is moonshine. I do not accept the first principle;\nand I hold that the danger to morals from metaphysical difficulties is\npretty much the same as the danger that the stars will leave their\ncourses if we adopt a wrong theory of an astronomy. We fancy that when\nwe are explaining facts, we are, somehow, creating them; as the\nmeteorologist in _Rasselas_ observed the clouds till he came to think\nthat he caused the rain. The facts upon which morality depends are the\nfacts that men have certain emotions; that mothers love their children;\nthat there are such things as pity, and sympathy, and public spirit; and\nthat there are social instincts upon the growth of which depends the\nvitality of the race. We may, of course, ask how more precisely these\nemotions act, and what functions they discharge. We may make historical\nand psychological and metaphysical inquiries; and we may end, if ever we\nreach such a consummation, by establishing what we may call a science of\nethics. But the facts do not depend upon the explanation. The illusion\nof their dependence is easily produced. You make your theory of\nmorality, and then you define morality as a belief in the object\nrequired by your theory. It follows, of course, that morality will\ndisappear with the belief--or else that your theory is wrong. Morality,\nsaid some people, is a belief in future rewards and punishments. If that\nbelief disappears, morality--that is, their morality--must disappear\ntoo. But that morality--taken as the actual sentiment which they have\nerroneously defined--should disappear also, no more follows than it\nfollows that heat will disappear when we discover that there is no such\nthing as the old imaginary substance of heat. The doctrine is now more\ngenerally urged in a different form. Theology, it is said, is essential\nto morality. Such bold assertions may be best met by a dogmatic\nassertion of the inverse case. Theology, as I hold, is not the source of\nthe moral instincts, but, under certain conditions, derives its real\npower from them. Theology, in the first place, is a word including not\nonly heterogeneous but contradictory meanings,--Baal and Jehovah, the\nMumbo-jumbo of the negro and Spinoza's \"ens absolute infinitum\". To the\nenormous majority of the human race, the more metaphysical conception is\nhopelessly unintelligible. When a savage expresses his crude sense of\nduties to the tribe under the form of belief in an ancestral ghost, is\nthe morality made by the belief, or the belief generated by the\nincipient moral emotion? Does he believe in God or really in a man like\nhimself, and respected precisely because he is like himself? Is not the\ntruth tacitly acknowledged by the more philosophical religions? Their\nadherents admit that the God of philosophy is too abstract a Being to\nexcite any emotion; he fades into Nature or the Unknowable, and it is\nimpossible to love one whom, by his very definition, you can neither\nbenefit nor injure and whose omnipotence makes even justice a mockery.\nTherefore, they make a God out of a man, and by boldly combining in\nwords two contradictory sets of attributes, make what in theology is\ncalled a mystery, and in common sense called by a different name. Does\nnot that amount to confessing that the true source of morality is in the\nhuman affections of like for like, and not in that sentiment towards a\ntranscendental object of which you have chosen to make your definition?\nAnd, finally, if we ask what is the relation of theology to morality,\nfrom a historical point of view, we see the same result. Undoubtedly,\ntheology has been a bulwark of morality in one way. It has expressed the\nveneration of mankind for the most deeply-seated customs of the race. It\nhas been the form through which, though not the cause owing to which,\nmen have expressed the importance of adhering to certain established\ninstitutions of the highest importance to mankind. Briefly, therefore,\nit represents the conservative instincts. But, for that reason, it has\nnaturally lagged behind an advancing morality. The newer religions have\nbeen precisely protests against the objectionable conduct of the\nold-fashioned deities who retained the manners and customs of a more\nbarbarous period; and have, therefore, been regarded by the older faith,\nsometimes with justice, as atheistic. Without referring to the familiar\ncases, I am content to appeal to the present day. What are the relative\npositions of the theologian and his opponent during the modern phase of\nevolution? The theologian has, in the main, maintained the sanctity of\nold institutions and customs; and I do not doubt that he has rendered a\nuseful service. But the demand for justice, for the abolition of\nslavery, of the hardships of the poor and oppressed, the desire to\nconstruct society upon a wholesomer ideal, has been generated, not by\ntheological speculation, but by the new relations into which men have\nbeen brought and the new sentiments developed. It has been accepted most\nfully by men hostile to all theology, by the free-thinker, the atheist,\nand the materialist, whom the orthodox denounces as criminal. Doubtless\nthe denouncer has excuses: the reformer may err in the direction of\nexcessive demolition; but the very survival of the older creeds depends,\nas we all see, upon their capacity for assimilating and finding\nutterance for the moral convictions which have arisen outside of their\nlimits, and, generally, in defiance of their authority. To say,\ntherefore, that the morality depends upon the survival of the\nmetaphysical theory, seems to me to be inverting the true relation.\n\nI end by suggesting what is to my mind the true moral of these\nspeculations. The vanity of philosophising means the vanity of certain\nphilosophical pretensions; of the chimerical belief that the philosopher\nlays down the first principles of belief in ethics or in other\ndepartments of life, in such a sense that the destinies of the race or\nof knowledge depend upon accepting and applying his principles. His\nfunction is a humbler one, though one of vast importance. The great\nphilosophical systems have vanished, though they have cleared the air.\nThey were primitive attempts at construction; results of the fact that\nwe have to act before we can think; and to assume postulates which can\nonly be verified or falsified by the slow experience of ages. But the\nprocess by which truth is advanced is not confined to the philosopher;\nor perhaps we should rather say that some sort of crude philosophy is\nembedded even in the feeblest and earliest speculations of mankind. Our\nthoughts are guided by an implicit logic long before we have even a\nconception of logic in the abstract, or have the least thought of\ncodifying and tabulating its formulae. So every savage who begins to\nmake a tool is exemplifying some mechanical principle which will not be\nput into accurate and abstract language till countless generations have\npassed. Every one at the present day who is using his wits is\nphilosophising after a fashion, and is contributing towards the\nadvancement of philosophy. He is increasing the mass of still more or\nless chaotic knowledge, the whole of which is to that philosopher what\nthe particular set of facts is to the student of physical science. The\nphilosopher has not to evolve first principles out of himself, so much\nas to discover what are the principles which have been unconsciously\napplied; to eliminate the obsolete elements; to bring the new into\nharmony; to verify them, or describe how they may be verified; and so to\nwork towards the unification and systematisation of knowledge in\ngeneral. Probably he will make a great many blunders in his task; but it\nmay be some comfort to reflect that even blunders are often useful, and\nthat he is not in the terribly responsible position of really framing\nlaws for the universe or for man, but only of clearing up or codifying\nthe laws which are already in operation.\n\n\n\n\nFORGOTTEN BENEFACTORS.\n\n\nI was reading not long ago some remarks[A] which impressed me at the\ntime, and upon which, as it came to pass, I have had reason to reflect\nmore seriously. The writer dwelt upon the vast services which have been\nrendered to the race by men of whom all memory has long since faded\naway. Compare, he said, the England of Alfred with the England of\nVictoria; think of the enormous differences which have been brought\nabout in thirty generations; and then try to estimate how large a share\nof all that has been done in the interval should be put to the credit of\nthousands who have long sunk into oblivion, and whose achievements, by\nthe very necessity of the case, can never be properly estimated. A few\ngreat names mark every period; the great statesmen, the great churchmen\nand warriors, are commemorated in our official histories; they are\nplaced upon exalted pedestals; and to them is attributed everything that\nwas done in their time, though, but for the co-operation of innumerable\nnameless fellow-labourers, they would not have been provided even with\nthe foundations upon which their work was necessarily based.\n\nThis remark recalls the familiar discussion about the importance of the\nindividual. Is the hero whom we are invited to worship everything, or is\nhe next to nothing? Is it true, as some writers put it, that had\nCleopatra broken her nose, or had a cannon ball gone a hair's breadth\nfurther to the right or left when Napoleon was directing the siege of\nToulon, \"the whole course of history would have been changed\"? Or is it\nrather true that, as some philosophers would say, no man is\nindispensable, nor even any man very important: that, if any even of the\ngreatest of men had died of the measles in his infancy, we should have\ncarved a different set of letters upon the pedestals of our statues, but\nthe course of affairs would have run in much the same channel? I will\nnot seek to discuss that old theme, to which it is evident that no very\nprecise answer can be given. It is clearly a question of degree. Nobody\ncan deny that a great man has an influence in the spheres of action and\nof thought; but to attempt to say how great an influence he has, how far\nhe depends upon others or could be replaced by others, involves\nconsiderations lying in the unprofitable region of vague conjecture.\nThis only I wish to note. It seems often to be suggested that there is\nsomething degrading or ungenerous in taking a side against the\nimportance of the hero. It raises a suspicion that you are a valet,\ncapable of supposing that men are distinguished by the quantity of lace\non their coats, and not by the intensity of the fire in their souls.\nAnd, moreover, the view is fatalistic: it supposes that the destinies of\nthe race are determined by what are denounced as blind \"laws,\" and not\nby the passions and aspirations which guide their energies. To me it\nseems that it would be easy enough to retort these imputations. I cannot\nfeel that a man of generous sympathies should be therefore inclined to a\ndoctrine which would tend to make the future of the race a matter of\nchance. The more you believe in the importance of the great men, the\nmore you have to admit that our progress depends upon the innumerable\naccidents which may stifle the greatest as easily as the smallest\ncareer. If some great social change was so absolutely dependent upon the\nleader who first put into words the demand upon which it is based, or\nwho led the first forlorn hope which made victory possible, that his\nloss would have been the loss of his cause, it follows that the cause\nmight have been lost if a crust of bread had gone the wrong way. It\nought surely to be pleasanter if we are entitled to hold that we have a\nstronger ground of confidence; that the great victories of thought and\naction prove the diffusion of enthusiasm and courage through a wide\ncircle; and that the fall of the chief is sure to make room for a worthy\nsuccessor. The wider and deeper the causes of progress, the more\nconfidently we can derive hope from the past, and accept with\ncomparative equanimity even the most painful catastrophes.\n\nNor can I agree that such a view implies any want of susceptibility to\nthe claims of the hero. I do not think that we can pay homage too\ncheerfully to the great men who form landmarks in history. I admit, most\ngladly, that the admiration which we feel for such men; the thrill which\nstirs us in reading of the great patriots and martyrs of the past; the\nreverence which we are now and then able to pay to a contemporary--to a\nLincoln, proving that political action may represent real faiths, not\nparty formulae; to a Gordon, impersonating the sense of duty; or a Father\nDamien, sacrificing his life for the lepers--is one of the invaluable\nelements of moral cultivation. But I do not see the connection between\nthis and the desire to exalt the glory of the great man by ignoring the\nunknown who followed in his steps, and often made them possible. I have\nnot so far attained to the cosmopolitan point of view that my blood is\nnot stirred by the very name of Nelson. Nay, however cosmopolitan I\nmight become, I hope that my sympathies would never blind me to the\ngreatness of the qualities implied in his patriotic devotion. My\ncosmopolitanism would rather, I hope, lead me to appreciate more\ngenerously the similar qualities in his antagonists, and, also, the\nsimilar qualities in the \"band of brothers\" whom he was proud to lead. I\nshould be sorry so to admire Nelson as to forget the sturdy old race of\nsea dogs who did their duty, and helped him to do his in a memorable\nway, some ninety years ago. I would rather believe than not that, had\nNelson been killed at the Nile, there were many among his followers who,\nhad the chance come to them, would have led the _Victory_ at Trafalgar,\nand have made England impregnable. \"I trust we have within this realm\nfive hundred good as he\" is surely the more heroic tone. But, to drop\nthe old-fashioned appeal to patriotic spirit, is it not true that, in\nevery department of life, it is more congenial to our generous feelings\nto remember the existence and the importance of those who have never won\na general reputation? This has come to be a commonplace in the sphere of\nscientific discovery. We find, over and over again, that the great\ndiscoverer has been all but anticipated by his rivals; that his fame, if\nnot his real greatness, depends upon the circumstance that he has just\nanticipated by a year, or, perhaps, in extreme cases, by a generation,\nresults to which a comparatively second-rate thinker would have been\ncompetent a few years later. The winner of the race is apt to monopolise\nthe glory, though he wins only by a hair's breadth. The familiar\ninstance of Darwin and Mr. Wallace is remarkable, not because the\nrelation of the two thinkers was unique, but because, unfortunately, the\ngenerosity with which each acknowledged the merit of the other was\nexceptional. A great discovery is made when the fertile thought is\nalready going through the process of incubation in a whole circle of\nintelligent minds; and that in which it first comes to the birth,\nclaims, or, at least, receives, the whole merit, by a right of\nintellectual primogeniture not much more justifiable than the legal\nright. Admitting, again, in the fullest sense, the value and the\ndifficulty of that last step which has to be made in order to reach the\ncrowning triumph, it would surely be ungenerous to forget the long\nseries of previous explorations by which alone it was made possible.\nThere must have been countless forgotten Newtons and Descartes', who, in\ntheir day, had to exert equal powers in order to discover what are now\nthe most familiar truths; to invent the simplest systems of arithmetical\nnotation, or solve the earliest geometrical problems, without which\nneither a Newton nor a Descartes would have been possible. And what is\ntrue in science is, surely, equally true of activities which touch most\nof us more nearly. Of all undeniable claims to greatness I suppose the\nmost undeniable to be the claim of the founders of religions. Their\ndisciples are so much impressed by their greatness that they regard them\nas supernatural beings, or, in other words, as beings who are the sole\nand indispensable causes of all the consequences attributed to the\nprevalence of their doctrines. We are told, constantly, and often as\nthough it were too obvious to need proof, that every moral improvement\nwhich has taken place in the world since the origin of Christianity, is\ndue to Christianity, and that Christianity itself is entirely due to its\nfounder. Human nature was utterly corrupt until the Deity became\nincarnate in the form of a Jewish peasant; and every social or moral\nstep which has since been made in advance--and not one of the\nunfortunate backslidings by which the advance has since been\ntrammelled--is a direct consequence of that stupendous event. This is\nthe theory of the importance of the individual, raised, so to speak, to\nits very highest potence. We not only attribute the most important and\nfar-reaching of all changes to a single agent, but declare that that\nagent cannot have been human, and indeed cannot have been less than the\nfirst cause of all changes. I shall not, of course, discuss the\nplausibility of a doctrine which, if accepted, breaks the whole chain of\ncause and effect, and makes the later history of the world not an\nevolution of previously operative process, but the result of an abrupt,\nmysterious interference from without, incommensurable with any other set\nof spiritual forces. I am content to say that to my mind the doctrine\nbecomes daily more impossible to any one who thinks seriously and tries\nto picture to himself distinctly the true nature of the great world\nprocesses. What is to my purpose is, that it seems to me to be not only\ninfinitely more credible, but also more satisfactory and more\ngenerous--if there be properly a question of generosity--to do justice\nto the disciples as well as to the master--to believe that the creed was\nfermenting in the hearts and minds of millions of human beings; and\nthat, although the imperfect and superstitious elements by which it was\nalloyed were due to the medium in which it was propagated, yet, on the\nother hand, it succeeded so far as it corresponded to the better\ninstincts of great masses of men, struggling blindly and through many\nerrors to discover rules of conduct and modes of conceiving the universe\nmore congenial than the old to their better nature, and prepared to form\na society by crystallising round the nucleus which best corresponded to\ntheir aspirations. When so regarded, it seems to me, and only when so\nregarded, we can see in the phenomenon something which may give us solid\nground for hopes of humanity, and enable us to do justice to countless\nobscure benefactors. The corruption of human nature, as theologians\nsometimes tell us, expresses a simple fact. Undoubtedly, it expresses a\nfact which nobody, so far as I know, ever thought of denying--the fact\nthat there are bad instincts in human nature; that many men are cruel,\nsensual, and false; and that every man is more or less liable to succumb\nto temptation. But the essential meaning of the old theological dogma\nwas, I take it, something different. It meant that man was so corrupt\nthat he could only be made good by a miracle; that even his apparent\nvirtues are splendid sins unless they come from divine grace; and, in\nshort, that men cannot be really elevated without supernatural\ninterference. If all that is good in men comes from their religions, and\nif religions are only explicable as inspirations from without, that, no\ndoubt, logically follows. I prefer, myself, to believe that, though all\nmen are weak, and a good many utter scoundrels; yet human nature does\ncontain good principles; that those principles tend, however slow and\nimperfect may be the process, gradually to obtain the mastery; and that\nthe great religions of the races, while indicating the intellectual and\nmoral shortcomings of mankind, indicate also the gradual advance of\nethical ideals, worked out by the natural and essential tendencies of\nthe race. And thus, as it seems to me, this conception of the mode of\ngrowth of religions and of morality, which gathers strength as we come\nto take a more reasonable view of the world's history, is closely\nconnected with the doctrine that, instead of ascribing all good\nachievement to the hero who drops from heaven, or springs spontaneously\nfrom the earth, we should steadily remember that he is only possible,\nand his work can only be successfully secured, by the tacit co-operation\nof the innumerable unknown persons in whose hearts his words find an\necho because they are already feeling after the same ideal which is in\nhim more completely embodied.\n\nIn our judgment of such cases there is, then, an injustice so far as we\nmake a false estimate of the right distribution of praise and gratitude.\nIt would be an injustice, in a stricter sense, to the persons ignored,\nif we regarded such gratitude as the appropriate and main reward of a\nnoble life. I need not repeat the commonplaces of moralists as to the\nreal value of posthumous fame, nor inquire whether it implies an\nillusion, nor how far the desire for such fame is, in point of fact, a\nstrong motive with many people. This only I will note--that obscurity is\na condition, and by no means an altogether unpleasant condition, of\nmuch of the very best work that is done. The general or the statesman is\nconspicuous in connection with successful enterprise in which his\nsubordinates necessarily do a great part of the labour. It is impossible\nfor the outside world to form a correct judgment in such cases; and,\ntherefore, there is no hardship to the particular persons concerned, if\nthey are simply ignored where they would, certainly, be misjudged; and\nif they, therefore, work in obscurity, content with the approval of the\nvery few who can estimate their merits. There is a compensation, as we\nsee, when we reflect upon the moral disadvantages of conspicuous\nstation. Literary people, for example, must be very unobservant if they\ndo not notice how demoralising is the influence of public applause, and\nthe constant inducement to court notoriety. It is unwholesome to live in\nan atmosphere which constantly stimulates and incites the weaknesses to\nwhich we are most liable. And many of our first writers must, I should\nfancy, feel pangs of self-humiliation when they contrast the credit\nwhich they have got for popular work with the very scanty recognition\nwhich comes to many who have applied equal talents to the discharge of\nduties often far more beneficial to mankind, but, from their nature,\nperformed in the shade. \"I,\" such a man, I fancy, must sometimes say to\nhimself, \"am quoted in every newspaper; I am puffed, and praised, and\ndenounced; not to know me is to write yourself down a dunce; and, yet,\nhave I done as much for the good of my kind as this or that humble\nfriend, who would be astonished were his name ever to be uttered in\npublic?\" Some such thought, for example, is inspired by Johnson's most\npathetic verses, when the great lexicographer, the acknowledged dictator\nof English literature, thought of the poor dependant, the little humble\nquack doctor, Levett, who was content, literally, to be fed with the\ncrumbs from his tables. But the obscure dependant, as the patron felt,\nhad done all that he could to alleviate the sum of human misery.\n\n\n     His virtues walked their narrow round,\n       Nor made a pause, nor left a void;\n     And, sure, the Eternal Master found\n       The single talent well employed.\n\n\nHave I not, Johnson seems to have felt, really done less to soothe\nmisery by my _Dictionary_ and my _Ramblers_ than this obscure labourer\nin the back lanes of London, of whom, but for my verses, no one would\nhave heard even the name?\n\nA full answer to questions suggested by these thoughts would, perhaps,\nrequire an estimate of the relative value of different aims and\ndifferent functions in life; and, for such an estimate, there are no\nadequate grounds. In one of Browning's noblest poems, Rabbi Ben Ezra--of\nwhom I must say that he strikes me as being a little too\nself-complacent--puts a relevant question. \"Who,\" he asks, \"shall\narbitrate?\"\n\n\n       Ten men love what I hate;\n     Shun what I follow, slight what I receive;\n       Ten who, in ears and eyes,\n       Match me; we all surmise,\n     They this thing and I that: whom shall my soul believe?\n\n\nAnd he answers or suggests one condition of a satisfactory answer, by\nsaying that we are not to take the coarse judgment of the world, which\ngoes by the work achieved. We must remember--\n\n\n       All instincts immature,\n       All purposes unsure,\n     That, weighed not as his work, yet swelled the man's account;\n       Thoughts hardly to be packed\n       Into a narrow act;\n     Fancies that broke through language and escaped;\n       All I would never be,\n       All men ignored in me,\n     That I was worth to God, whose wheel the pitcher shaped.\n\n\nIf it were proper to treat a poetical utterance of this kind like a\ndeliberate philosophical theory, I might wish to argue the point a\nlittle with the rabbi. But, at any rate, he points to considerations\nwhich show how little any one can judge of merit by any tangible and\ngenerally accessible test. I am content to say that this sentiment gives\none--and a very impressive--answer to a problem which presses upon us\nthe more as we grow older. It is natural for a man who feels that he has\ndone most of his work, that the night is coming, and, as it seems,\ncoming with accelerated speed; who feels, too, that whatever he has done\nor may do, he can no longer have the approval of those whose approval\nwas dear to him as his breath;--it is natural for such a man to look\nback, to take stock more or less of his own performances perhaps, and at\nany rate to endeavour to estimate at their true worth the services which\nhe has received from others. What, he may ask, has he done with his\ntalents? what little fragment has he achieved of what might once have\nbeen in his power? The answer is pretty sure to have a very melancholy\nside to it; and it will lead to the question, what part of that fragment\nwas really worth doing? What were the few really solid services which he\nmay set off as some satisfaction to his self-esteem, against his\ncountless errors and his wanderings in wrong directions, and his\nattempts to achieve the impossible, and the waste of energy upon the\ntrifling and the worthless in which he is pretty sure to have spent a\nvery large proportion of his time? When we try to return a verdict upon\nsuch issues, we feel painfully to how many illusions we are subject.\nWhen we are young we naturally accept the commonplaces, and do not\nquestion the ideals amid which we happen to have grown up; we are not\nconscious of the movement which we share. As long as we are floating\nwith the current, we are not even aware that any current exists. We take\nour own little world to be the fixed base, quite unconscious that it is\nall the time whirling and spinning along a most complex course. And so\nit is difficult, even if the thought of making the attempt ever occurs\nto us, to try to occupy the position of a bystander looking on at life\nfrom outside, and endeavouring to pronounce some general opinion as to\nits merits or defects--its happiness or misery as a whole. \"What a queer\nplace this is!\" I remember a man once saying to me abruptly; and I\nthought that he was referring to the steamboat on which we were\nfellow-passengers. I found that he had been suddenly struck by the\noddity of the universe in general; and it seemed to me that there was a\ngreat deal to be said for a remark which seldom occurs to those people\nwho take things for granted. We are roused sometimes by a philosopher\nwho professes pessimism or optimism, to ask and to try to answer such\nquestions. The answers, we know, are apt to be painfully discordant. Is\nthe world on the whole a scene of misery, of restless desires, proving\nthat we are miserable now, and doomed never to obtain satisfaction? is\nit our only wisdom to give up the will to live; to hope that all this\nvisible and tangible scenery is so much illusion, and to aspire to sink\ninto Nirvana? Shall we try to conquer all earthly appetites by a\nthorough-going asceticism, and cultivate those spiritual emotions which\ncan only find full satisfaction in another and a better world? Or shall\nwe agree that, after all, the love of the true and the beautiful, or, it\nmay be, the physically pleasurable, gives a real solid comfort for the\ntime, which it would be idle to drop for a shadow? Is the world a scene\nof probation, in which we are to be fitted for higher spheres beyond\nhuman ken by the hearty and strenuous exertion of every faculty that we\npossess? or shall we say that such action is a good in itself, which\nrequires to be supplemented by no vision of any ulterior end? Shall we\nsay that this is the best of all possible worlds because the fittest\nalways tends to prevail, or that it is the worst because even the\ngreatest wretchedness which is compatible with bare existence can still\nsurvive?\n\nPhilosophers, no doubt, contradict each other, because even philosophers\nare not exempt from the universal weakness. The explanation that\npessimism means a disordered liver, and the counter remark that\noptimism means a cold heart and a good digestion, are too familiar to\nneed exposition. Each man's macrocosm is apt to be related to his\nmicrocosm, as the convex to the concave of a curve. To say the world is\ndisagreeable, means that I find it disagreeable; and that may be either\nmy own fault or the world's. Nor is it easy to correct the personal\nerror by observation, for the observer carries himself and his illusions\nwith him. Has such-and-such a life been a happy one? How are we to\ndecide? We are often subject to what may be called the dramatic\nillusion. We judge by the catastrophe, by the success or failure of the\nassumed end. We see a noble young man struck down by some accident, and\nwe think of his career sadly, because the promise has not been\nfulfilled. Is it not equally reasonable to say that the promise was\nitself a blessing? that the man we regret had his twenty or thirty years\nof hopefulness, confidence, and happiness, and that that was a clear\ngain even if we lose the result which we might have anticipated? Or we\nare impressed by the more exciting incidents of a life, the blows which\ncrushed a man at intervals; and we forget all the monotonous years of\ntranquil happiness which, if we apply an arithmetical test, may have\noccupied by far the greater part of his existence. Southey, for example,\nargues that although we remember Cowper chiefly for his terrible mental\nsuffering, we shall find, if we add up the moments of happiness and\nmisery, that he probably had, on the balance, a life of much more\nenjoyment than torture. So, when we speak of the misery of a nation at\nthe time of some great trouble--the French Revolution, for example--it\nis difficult to remember how small was the proportion of actual\nsufferers; how many thousands or millions of children were enjoying\ntheir little sports, utterly ignorant of the distant storm; how many\nmothers were absorbed in watching their children; and how many quiet\ncommonplace people were going about their daily peaceful labour, pretty\nmuch as usual, and with only a vague--and possibly\npleasurable--excitement at the news, which occasionally drifted to them,\nof the catastrophes in a different sphere. Carlyle, in one of his most\nvivid and famous passages, has incidentally drawn the contrast. Or, if\nwe try to form an estimate of the balance of happiness and misery\nthrough any portion of the race, and appeal to experience for an answer,\nwe must certainly remember how limited is the field of observation, even\nof the best informed, and the most impartial; how rigidly they are\nconfined for their direct knowledge to one little section of one part of\nthe race; and how the vast majority--the thousand millions or so who are\naltogether beyond their ken--are known to them only by statistical\ntables or the casual reports of superficial observers.\n\nAs there are so many difficulties in forming an estimate, as we are not\nagreed as to the true ends of human life, nor as to the degrees in which\nthose ends are actually attained, nor as to the efficacy of the various\ncauses which determine the success or failure of the means employed, it\nbecomes any one to put forward his own opinion upon the topics to which\nsuch considerations apply, with all modesty. And, yet, I think that I\nmay dwell upon some truths which may be admitted by those who differ\nupon these difficult problems, and, as I fancy, deserve more weight than\nthey generally receive, even though they have become commonplaces. The\nmain condition of human happiness, say some people, is physical health.\nA man whose organs are all working satisfactorily cannot fail to be\nhappy under any but very abnormal conditions; as, conversely, a grain of\nsand in the wrong place will make any life a burden. No one will dispute\nthe truth contained in such _dicta_; and, perhaps, as we realise more\ndistinctly the importance of sound health to our neighbours and to our\ndescendants, as well as to ourselves, we shall lay greater stress upon\nthe conduct which is conducive to its preservation. We shall see that\nwhat is, apparently, a mere dictate of personal prudence, has, also,\nits ethical aspect. But, without dwelling upon this view, we may apply\nthe analogy to society. Whatever morality precisely means, and whatever\nhappiness means, it clearly indicates what we call--and I think that it\nis no mere metaphor--a healthy state of society. This, again, implies,\nfirst of all, the health of those domestic relations which are as the\nultimate molecular forces which bind together the social tissue. The\nsociety, we may say without hesitation, in which the reciprocal duties\nof husbands and wives, parents and children, are instinctively\nrecognised and habitually observed, has, so far, secured the most\ndeeply-seated and essential condition of happiness and virtue; the\nsociety in which the union of married people normally produces harmony,\nand the absolute identity of interests and affections, in which children\nare brought up in a pure home atmosphere, with an embodiment of the\nbeauty of domestic love always before their eyes, imbibing unconsciously\nthe tradition of a high moral standard, and so prepared to repay, in due\ntime, to others the services lavishly and ungrudgingly bestowed upon\nthem by their elders,--so far represents perfectly sound health. The\ndegree in which any ethical theory recognises and reveals the essential\nimportance of the family relation is, I think, the best test of its\napproximation to the truth. An unworthy view of domestic happiness may\nlead to the ascetic view which sets up a sham and Quixotic ideal; or to\nthe cynical view which regards it as a mere case of selfish indulgence.\nI do not deny that the relation, like all other human relations, may\nrequire modification as circumstances change. Difficulties arise, as\nwhen we notice the great social changes which have broken up ancient\nties, and have tended to weaken the family bond by facilitating\ndesertion, and increasing the floating population. And many socialist\nschemes appear at first sight to be, and sometimes are, consciously\ndesigned to weaken the sense of responsibility of parents. I, of course,\ncannot now discuss a point which is, undoubtedly, of the highest\nimportance; but I am certainly convinced that the merits of any change\nmust be tested by its tendency to preserve, and, if possible, intensify\nthe strength of this underlying bond upon which the welfare of society\ndepends far more intimately than upon any other human relation.\n\nIf this be true, it follows also that to those activities which knit\nfamilies together, which help to enlarge the highest ideal of domestic\nlife, we owe a greater debt than to any other kind of conduct. And to\nthis I add that, as I believe, the highest services of this kind are\nrendered by persons condemned, or perhaps I should say privileged, to\nlive in obscurity; whose very names will soon be forgotten, and who are\nentirely eclipsed by people whose services, though not equally valuable,\nare by their nature more public. To prove such an assertion is, of\ncourse, impossible. I give it only as my personal impression--for what\nit is worth, after any deductions you may please to make upon the score\nof the great fallibility of such impressions; and only because, correct\nor otherwise, it may serve to bring out aspects of the truth which we\nare apt to neglect. I have lived long enough to have had opportunities\nof seeing many eminent men and women. I have insensibly formed some kind\nof estimate of the services which they have rendered to me and my like;\nand I record, as far as I can, the result upon my own convictions. I\nwill put aside for the moment the half-dozen men of really first-rate\neminence,--the men whose names are written upon all the great\nintellectual and social movements of the century. I will think for the\npresent only of those who may be placed in the second rank; of those who\ndo not profess to have originated, but only to have diffused, important\nthoughts; who have acted as lieutenants to the great leaders, and become\nknown to their contemporaries, with little prospect of filling any\nimportant place in the memory of their successors. Yet even such men\nbulk far more largely in our eyes than multitudes of men and women\nwhose names will never be known outside their own little parish, or even\ntheir family circles. And then I ask myself, how far the estimate thus\nformed corresponds to the real value of the services performed. I think\nthat I can speak most easily by deserting the line of abstract argument,\nand endeavouring to draw a portrait or two, which you need not assume to\ncorrespond too closely to particular facts. I mean to suggest\nreflections which will really apply in many representative cases, and to\nrefer to typical instances of general truths. I will first mention one\nsuch case which happened to strike me forcibly at the time, and which no\none here, I am quite certain, will be able to identify. Long years ago I\nknew a young man at college; he was so far from being intellectually\neminent that he had great difficulty in passing his examinations; he\ndied from the effects of an accident within a very short time after\nleaving the university, and hardly any one would now remember his name.\nHe had not the smallest impression that there was anything remarkable\nabout himself, and looked up to his teachers and his more brilliant\ncompanions with a loyal admiration which would have made him wonder that\nthey should ever take notice of him. And yet I often thought then, and I\nbelieve, in looking back, that I thought rightly, that he was of more\nreal use to his contemporaries than any one of the persons to whose\ninfluence they would most naturally refer as having affected their\ndevelopment. The secret was a very simple one. Without any special\nintellectual capacity, he somehow represented with singular completeness\na beautiful moral type. He possessed the \"simple faith miscalled\nsimplicity,\" and was so absolutely unselfish, so conspicuously pure in\nhis whole life and conduct, so unsuspicious of evil in others, so sweet\nand loyal in his nature, that to know him was to have before one's eyes\nan embodiment of some of the most lovable and really admirable qualities\nthat a human being can possess. He was a living exemplification of the\ntruth which some great humorists have embodied in their writings, the\ntruth that simplicity at which fools laugh may be venerable to wise\nobservers. Young men were not always immaculate in those days: I don't\nknow that they are now; some of them probably were vicious in conduct,\nand might be cynical in the views which they openly expressed. But\nwhatever might be their failings, they were at the age when all but the\ndepraved--that is, I hope and fully believe, all but a very small\nminority--were capable of being deeply impressed by this concrete\nexample. They might affect to ridicule, but it was impossible that even\nthe ridicule should not be of the kindly sort; blended and tempered\nwith something that was more like awe--profound respect, at least, for\nthe beauty of soul that underlay the humble exterior. The direct moral\naddresses which took the form of eloquent sermons or of good advice\nnaturally gained an incomparably higher reputation for those who uttered\nthem. But, considering the facility with which the impressions so made\nevaporate from the minds of the hearers, I often thought that this\nobscure influence, the more impressive when one felt it because of its\nentire unconsciousness, probably did far more to stimulate good feelings\nand higher aspirations among his companions than all the official\nexhortations to which they ever listened. He would have been unfeignedly\nsurprised to hear, what I most sincerely believe to be the truth, that\nhis tutor owed incomparably more to his living exemplification of what\nis meant by a character of unblemished purity and simplicity, than he\nowed to the tutor whose respectable platitudes he received with\nunaffected humility.\n\nThe case--for various reasons--impressed me deeply; and I have often\nthought of it and of the principle which it illustrates in later years.\nI once knew, for example, a woman whose whole life was devoted to\ndomestic duties, and who confessed to me that she had sometimes felt a\ntouch of humiliation when she thought how narrow was her own sphere of\naction, while her husband was daily deciding upon great questions of\nhigh political importance. Some women would have drawn the conclusion,\nthat the exclusion of women from political activity was a grievance to\nbe abated; and such people might receive with scorn the suggestion that\nthe discharge of the domestic duty might possibly be as important as the\ndischarge of the more conspicuous function. The argument about the\nproper sphere of women is now generally treated with contempt; and I am\nperfectly ready to admit that it begs the question, and is often a mere\nutterance of blind prejudice. No one, I hope, could assert more\nwillingly than I, that the faculties of women should be cultivated as\nfully as possible, and that every sphere in which their faculties can be\neffectively applied should be thrown open to them. But the doctrine\nsometimes tacitly confounded with this, that the sphere generally\nassigned to women is necessarily lower or less important than others, is\nnot to be admitted, because the contradictory may be misapplied. The\ndomestic influence is, no doubt, confined within narrower limits; but\nthen, within those limits it is incomparably stronger and more certain\nof effect. The man or woman can really mould the character of a little\ncircle, and determine the whole life of one little section of the next\ngeneration; when it may be very difficult to say whether the influence\nwhich they can bring to bear upon a class or a nation is really\nperceptible at all, or does not even operate in the direction opposite\nto that intended. And I could not help thinking that a woman who was\nbringing up sons and daughters ready to quit themselves like brave men\nand women in the great struggle of life, might be doing something more\nreally important than her conspicuous husband, who was, after all, only\npart of a vast and complicated machinery, nominally directed by him,\nbut, in reality, controlling all his energy, and, not impossibly,\nworking out the very results which he most disapproved.\n\nIt is, therefore, with no reference to any of the political theories of\nwomen's rights, and so forth, that I venture to insist upon this topic.\nI think that we habitually under-estimate the enormous value of the\nservices, whether of man or woman, done in the shade, and confined\nwithin a very limited area. Let me attempt, again, to draw a portrait,\nnot all imaginary, which may explain, at least, what I often feel--the\ncontrast between the real worth of such lives and the recognition which\nthey can ever receive. Wordsworth, in one of those poems which show best\nhow true and tender were his moral instincts, has described one who\nwas--\n\n\n     A perfect woman, nobly planned\n     To warn, to comfort, and command;\n     And yet a spirit too, and bright\n     With something of an angel light.\n\n\nThe words have often come to me of late, till I fancy that I could\nsupply a commentary. The woman of whom Wordsworth speaks was, when he\nfirst saw her, a \"phantom of delight,\" an embodiment of feminine beauty,\nand, as such, possessing a characteristic perhaps superfluous from a\nmoral point of view. I have known and know women, not exactly beautiful,\nbefore whom I would gladly bow as deeply as I would if they were\nbeautiful as Helen of Troy. But a poet must be allowed to take pleasure\nin beauty, and we may grant to it a certain place that it deserves among\nhigher qualities. For it does so when the possessor is absolutely--not\nunaware of the fact, for that is hardly possible, nor, perhaps,\ndesirable--but absolutely untouched by any vanity or self-consciousness.\nThe beauty, one may say, gives, at least, an opportunity for displaying\na quality which otherwise would not have so good an occasion of\nmanifestation. And, moreover, there is a beauty of the rarest and most\nexquisite, which, if not the product, is, or at least seems to be, the\nspontaneous accompaniment of nobility of mind and character. Some\npersons, by a singular felicity, possess beauty as one of their\nessential attributes; it seems to be not an accident or an addition,\nbut a part of their essence, which must mould every detail, which shines\nthrough body as well as soul, and is but the outward and visible sign of\nall that is sweet and elevated. Wordsworth's ideal woman is--\n\n\n     Not too bright or good\n     For human nature's daily food,\n     For transient sorrows, simple wiles,\n     Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and smiles:\n\n\nand yet displays equally--\n\n\n     The reason firm, the temperate will,\n     Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill.\n\n\nWe cannot, even in our thoughts, separate the artistic homage which we\npay to the external appearance, and that which we pay to the inner\nqualities, of which they are apparently the inevitable and predestined\nsymbol. We have before us the ideal--the type which reconciles all the\nconditions of human life, physical and moral--the \"perfect woman,\" who\nis also the fitting vehicle of the angel light.\n\nBut it is, of course, upon the qualities symbolised and not upon the\noutward symbols that we must insist. I will, therefore, say, that the\ninward beauty, whether fully represented or not by the outward form,\nimplies, in the first place, the absence of all those qualities which\ntend to lower and vulgarise life. What we call the worldly view, for\nexample, of love and marriage, is simply unintelligible to such a\nnature. Love means, to it, an absolute self-surrender, and the complete\nfusion of its own life with the life of the beloved object. It can only\nbe granted in return for a reciprocal surrender; and becomes the mutual\npassion by which fear and distrust are utterly cast out; and the\nintensity proves not liability to weak illusions, but the sure insight\nof the lofty instincts which cannot fail to recognise corresponding\ninstincts in others. To the lower mind, such a character appears to be\ntoo highly strung, too impassioned, romantic, and careless of the solid\nadvantages which secure at least comfort. To those of more or less\ncongenial sentiment, it will rather appear to imply a spirit which,\nbecause it breathes a higher element than that at which men habitually\nlive, perceives also more distinctly what are the truest and deepest\nsources of all that deserves to be called real happiness. To live in an\natmosphere of the strongest and most unqualified affection, to have the\nvery substance of life woven out of the unreserved love of a worthy\nobject, is its ideal; and that ideal represents, I am convinced, the\nhighest and purest happiness that can be enjoyed in this world.\n\nSuppose, now, that one so endowed is struck by one of those terrible\nblows which shiver the very foundations of life; which make the outside\nworld a mere discordant nightmare, and seem to leave for the only\nreality a perpetual and gnawing pain, which lulls for an instant only to\nbe revived by every contact with facts. Sorrow becomes the element in\nwhich one lives and moves. Consolation, according to the familiar\nphrase, is idle; for the vulgar notion of consoling is that which Sir\nWalter Scott attributes to one of his characters: it is to try to prove\nthat the very thing for which we offer consolation has not happened--in\nother words, to undertake an enterprise which is obviously hopeless and\nillusory. Yet the greatest test of true nobility of character is its\npower of turning even the bitterest grief to account. The lofty and\nsimple nature sorrows; it does not attempt to shut its eyes to the full\nextent of the calamity, nor seek to distract itself by a forgetfulness\nwhich might obscure its most sacred visions of the past; nor, on the\nother hand, to make a parade of its sensibility, or try to foster or\nstimulate enervating emotions. It knows instinctively that grief,\nterrible as it is, is yet, in another sense, an invaluable possession.\nThe sufferer who has eaten his bread with herbs learns, as the poet puts\nit, to know the heavenly powers. For he or she acquires a deeper and\nkeener sympathy with all who are desolate and afflicted; and the natural\naffections become blended, if with a certain melancholy, yet with that\nquick and delicate perception of the suffering of others which gives the\nonly consolation worthy of the name--the sense of something soothing and\nsoftening and inspiring in the midst of the bitterest agony. Grief, so\ntaken, may be stunning and deadening for the time; it may make life a\nheavy burden, from which hope and eager interest have disappeared:\n\"weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable\"; but by slow degrees it undergoes\na transmutation into more steady and profound love of whatsoever may\nstill be left. The broken and mangled fibres imperceptibly find new\nattachments; and the only solution of the terrible dilemma is reached\nwhen time, which heals the actual laceration, enables the sufferer to\nfeel that the new ties do not imply infidelity to the objects still\nbeloved, but are a continuous development of the indelible emotions, and\nthat the later activities are but a carrying on of the old duties, made\nmore sacred and solemn by the old grief and its associations.\n\nA lofty nature which has profited by passing through the furnace\nacquires claims not only upon our love but upon our reverence. It\nbecomes perhaps within the little circle with which it is familiar the\nobvious and immediate resort whenever some blow of sorrow or sickness\nhas fallen upon one of its fellows. The figure which I attempt truly to\ndescribe is happily not unfamiliar. We have all, I hope, known some one\nwho is instinctively called to mind whenever there is need of the loving\nkindness which seems so obvious and spontaneous that it does not even\noccur to the bestower to connect the conduct with self-sacrifice. Such\npersons appear to be formed by nature for ministering angels, and move\namong us unconscious of their claims to our devotion, and bringing light\ninto darkness by their simple presence with as little thought that they\ndeserve our gratitude as that they ought to emerge from obscurity.\nHappiness, peaceful and contented at least, if not the old bright and\nconfident happiness, may come in time; and new spheres be bound together\nby the attractive force of a character which, if it is not more\nintrinsically lovable, has gained a more pathetic charm from its\nexperience. The desire to relieve suffering has become a settled\ninstinct; and, even when there is no special appeal to it, is\nincessantly overflowing in those \"little, nameless, unremembered acts of\nkindness and of love\" which, according to Wordsworth again, are the\n\"best portion of a good man's life\". Whether that be quite true I know\nnot; but in so far as such acts seem to testify most unequivocally to\nthe constant flow of a current of sympathetic tenderness, always ready\nto seize upon every occasion of giving happiness, on a child's birthday\nas on the parent's deathbed, they perhaps speak to us most convincingly\nof an all-pervading sweetness of character. An assiduous and watchful\ndesire to show kindness, which makes a perpetual succession of such\nlittle attentions a part of the practical religion of the doer, may\ngenerate a corresponding love even more forcibly than the sacrifices\nmade in obedience to a more conspicuous appeal for help.\n\nThe value of such a life as I have tried imperfectly to indicate is not\nto be estimated by the number of good actions performed, or by any\ndefinite list of the particular consequences achieved. It may be hard to\nsay how many pangs have been soothed, how much happiness has been added\nin special cases, by one who goes through life absorbed in such\nactivities. But above and beyond all the separate instances, such a\nperson,--the object only to a few, perhaps, of love and reverence, but\nto those few the object of those feelings in the most unreserved and\nunequivocal form,--is something far more than a source of any number of\nparticular benefits. To reckon up and estimate the value of such\nbenefits is a conceivable undertaking; but we cannot attempt to\ncalculate the value of a spiritual force which has moulded our lives,\nwhich has helped by a simple consciousness of its existence to make us\ngentler, nobler, and purer in our thoughts of the world; which has\nconstantly set before us a loftier ideal than we could frame for\nourselves; which has bestowed upon us an ever-present criterion of the\ngoodness or badness of our own motives by our perception of the light in\nwhich they appear to a simple and elevated character; which has made\nevery cowardly and worldly thought shrink away abashed in the presence\nof noble instincts; which has given us a sympathy so close and constant\nthat, as with the light of the sun, we are apt to be unconscious of its\nessential importance to us until some accident makes us realise the\neffect of its eclipse; and which, therefore, has in some sense become a\npart of ourselves, a restraining and elevating and softening impulse, to\nwhich we cling as to the worthiest and most indispensable of our\npossessions.\n\nI am not speaking from imagination. I am trying to utter convictions\nspringing from my personal experience, and which I feel--most\npainfully--that I cannot adequately express. I could not say more, even\nif by saying more I could express myself adequately, without a sense of\na kind of profanity for uttering what should be kept for a few. But\nthough I speak for myself, I hope and I entirely believe that I am\ntherefore speaking for many others also. There are few who have the eyes\nto see who have not recognised some such light shining upon their\nlives, and as one main source of what they have done or said if least\nunworthy. I fancy that the thought which naturally occurs to us when we\nreflect upon such an influence will be: was I, could I, be worthy of it?\nwhat am I that such goodness should have come to me? or, what, if\nanything, have I done to transmit to others the blessings conferred upon\nme? Such questions have various aspects, and I do not quite see how they\ncould be reduced to a form admitting of a bare logical answer. It now\nseems to me almost unbecoming to dwell upon the comparison which I\ncontemplated at starting. I imagined a man who has made some such\nimpression upon the world as is recognised by public reputation, to\ncompare his own achievement with such achievements as these, which are\nabsolutely private, and neither seek nor desire any public reward. In\ntruth, the two things are, perhaps, strictly incommensurable. They must\nbe measured by different standards, and are of importance in different\nspheres. And yet I must try to say this much. The achievements to which\nI have referred as in their nature public and recognisable, should\ncertainly be considered with gratitude. Yet, when we attempt to estimate\ntheir worth we are sensible of terrible drawbacks. I have passed, let us\nsay, a measure admirably useful, or written a book which has made a\nmark. Certainly I have done a good action. But what if I had not done\nit? Were there not hundreds of people who would have been only too glad\nto take my place? I have been successful because I happen to have been\nin the front rank, which was impelled by thousands of eager supporters.\nI have said just a little better than my rivals what they were all\nstriving to say; and my highest reward will be that my name will be\nattached in my own generation, and possibly even in the next, to some\nparticular opinion which yet would have come to the birth without me. I\nhave made a certain commotion on the surface for a moment or two, but\nthe ripple will die away in a few years; and, important as I may seem to\nmyself, I have only to look back for a generation to recognise the plain\nfact that there have not been at any period more than one or two\nconspicuous workers the products of whose activity can be distinctly\nrecognised at the present day. Even in regard to them, it is often\ndoubtful whether they did more harm or good; whether they did not direct\nhuman energy along the wrong paths, and do as much in giving currency to\nfallacies as in extending permanent truths.\n\nNow, after making such deductions, which to me, at least, seem to be\nessentially necessary, we can, I think, do justice to the truth which\nis contained in Browning's poem. You are not, he seems to say, to\nmeasure the worth of life by the amount of work done in it, by the\ntangible and obvious results which can be tested by the world's coarse\nfinger and thumb. Rather, he suggests, the value depends upon the\nexcellence of the soul which is fashioned into \"heaven's consummate cup\"\nby the stress of the potter's wheel; by the joys and sorrows, the trials\nand triumphs, which have affected it in its passage through life. I\nshould prefer to say that the kind of dilemma so suggested is not really\nto the purpose. The rabbi may seem to speak, as I said, with a little\ntoo much complacency, if he be interpreted as sharing the feeling which\nis often, however unjustly, attributed to Goethe--that his supreme end\nwas the cultivation of his own nature, and that he regarded himself as a\nwork of art, to be elaborated for its own sake, and enriched by\nexperience even at the cost of others. But in a better interpretation\nthis does not apply: for the very process by which the noble nature is\ndeveloped and cultivated, implies the closest and most active sympathy\nwith suffering, and an invariable reference to the highest aims of life.\nIt becomes perfect, that is, by constantly rendering invaluable services\nto others; and there is, therefore, no meaning in drawing a distinction\nbetween the services and the influence upon the soul itself. They are\nparts of the same indivisible process. What is true and noble, as I\nthink, in the rabbi's doctrine, is that which I have already tried to\nindicate: namely, that the worth of such a life is not exhausted by a\ncatalogue of the good deeds done, but that, beyond and above all them,\nremains the inestimable value within its own circle of the very\nexistence of a natural symbol of the good and holy--by the \"holy\" I\nunderstand that which is not only moral, but beautiful by reason of its\nmorality--and the incalculable benefits to it of the pure fountain of\nall good influences which descend upon all within its reach. The\nstimulus which is given to the beholders of such a life--by the clear\nperception that morality does not mean a string of judicious\ncommonplaces, but can be embodied as the spring of a harmonious life,\nand reveal itself as a concrete flesh-and-blood human being--is\nsomething which transcends in value all the particular results which we\ncan tabulate and reckon up. We must think of it, not as the cause of so\nmany external benefits, but as the manifestation of a spiritual force\nwhich modifies and raises the characters of all its surroundings. If the\nsphere within which it distinctly operates is far narrower than that of\npolitical or literary achievement, it is also incomparably purer, and\nworks without a single drawback. Every religion has its saints, and\nhonours them in various ways, not always altogether edifying. But that\nman is unfortunate who has not a saint of his own--some one in whose\npresence, or in the very thought of whom, he does not recognise a\nsuperior, before whom it becomes him to bow with reverence and\ngratitude, and who has purified the atmosphere and strengthened the\naffections in a little circle from which the influence may be\ntransmitted to others. The saint will be forgotten all too soon--long\nbefore less valuable, but accidentally more conspicuous, services have\npassed out of mind--but the moral elevation, even of a small circle, is\na benefit which may be propagated indefinitely.\n\nIf we cannot hope to preserve the name, we can try to carry on the good\nwork; to maintain the ties which have been formed and propagate the\ngoodwill through widening circles. That, I think, is what every one\nfeels under the stress of the most terrible trials of life. We are\nshocked by the sense of the inevitable oblivion that will hide all that\nwe loved so well. There is, according to my experience, only one thought\nwhich is inspiring, and--if not in the vulgar sense consoling, for it\nadmits the existence of an unspeakable calamity--points, at least, to\nthe direction in which we may gradually achieve something like peace and\nhopefulness without the slightest disloyalty to the objects of our\nlove. It is the thought which I can only express by saying that we may\nlearn to feel as if those who had left us had yet become part of\nourselves; that we have become so permeated by their influence, that we\ncan still think of their approval and sympathy as a stimulating and\nelevating power, and be conscious that we are more or less carrying on\ntheir work, in their spirit. We find, as Lowell says in his noble ode--\n\n\n     We find in our dull road their shining track;\n         In every nobler mood\n     We feel the orient of their spirit glow,\n     Part of our life's unalterable good,\n     Of all our saintlier aspiration;\n         They come transfigured back,\n     Secure from change in their high-hearted ways,\n     Beautiful evermore, and with the rays\n     Of morn on their white shields of expectation.\n\n\nAlas, he adds, even the best deeds will be hidden before long by \"the\nthoughtless drift of the deciduous years\". Yes; they will be forgotten\nbefore long, as we too shall be forgotten--the incalculable majority\nwithin a generation or two. The thought may be painful, but the\nreasonable conclusion is, I think, not that we should fret over the\ninevitable; rather that we should purify our minds from this as from\nother illusions, and feel ashamed of the selfish desire that our own\nnames should be preserved when we know that so many who were far better\nand nobler than ourselves will inevitably be forgotten, and were better\nand nobler without the stimulus of any such paltry desire. Gratitude to\nthe obscure is, in this sense, I take it, a duty, which we cannot\npractise without a proportional moral benefit. It enables us to rise\nabove the constant temptation to seek for notoriety at any price, and to\nmake our ultimate aim the achievement of good work, not the chorus of\npopular applause which may be aroused. Thoroughly to conquer that\ntemptation is, I take it, one of the objects which every man should set\nbefore himself. And nothing, I think, helps one more than a vivid and\nenduring consciousness of the enormous debt which we owe to men and\nwomen who lived in obscurity, who never had a thought of emerging out of\nobscurity, and whose ennobling influence has yet become a part of every\nhigher principle of action in ourselves. I may or I may not have formed\ntoo low an estimate of the services of the few heroes who stand\nconspicuously above the ordinary level; but I am certain that nothing\nthat I can say would exaggerate the importance of many who have no\nclaims to such a position. To cherish and preserve that influence by\nevery faculty we possess seems to me to be our plainest duty; and we may\ncomfort ourselves, if comfort be needed, by the reflection that, though\nthe memory may be transitory, the good done by a noble life and\ncharacter may last far beyond any horizon which can be realised by our\nimaginations.\n\n\nTHE END.\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[A] See the \"Wealth of Nature,\" in _Essays by a Barrister_ [Sir\nJames Fitzjames Stephen].\n\nABERDEEN UNIVERSITY PRESS.","title":"Social Rights And Duties: Addresses to Ethical Societies. Vol 2 [of 2]","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":61865}