The Popular Science Monthly 1872 - 1875: Vol 1-6 Supplement

Page 1

THE SCIENCE MONTHLY. POPULAR SUPPLEMENT. THE POLITICAL DESTINY OF CANADA. By GOLDWIN SMITH. GNORANCE of the future can hardly be good | for any man or nation; nor can forecast of | the future in the case of any man or nation well interfere with the business of the present, though the language of colonial politicians seems often to | | life. take his hand from the plough, no Canadian ar imply that it may. No Canadian farmer would | tisan would desert the foundery or the loom, no- Canadian politician would become less busy in | his quest of votes, no industry of any kind would | pire.” to speak of India and the military dependencies, slacken, no source of wealth would cease to flow, if the rulers of Canada and the powers of Down- | terest in hastening its arrival. On the other hand, mere party politicians cannot afford to see beyond the hour. Under the system of party govern- ment, forecast and freedom of speech alike belong generally to those who are not engaged in public The political destiny of Canada is here con- ' sidered by itself, apart from that of any other ‘Portion of the motley and widely-scattered “ em- This surely is the rational course. Not such as Malta and Gibraltar, which have abso- ing Street, by whom the rulers of Canada are | lutely nothing in common with the North Ameri- supposed to be guided, instead of drifting on in | can colonies (India not even the titular form ot darkness, knew for what port they were steering. | government, since its sovereign has been made For those who are actually engaged in mould- ing the institutions of a young country not to have formed a conception of her destiny—not to have made up their minus whether she is to re- main forever a dependency, to blend again in a vast confederation with the monarchy of the mother-country, or to be united to a neighboring republic — would be to renounce statesmanship. The very expenditure into which Canada is led by her position as a dependency in military and an empress), who can believe that the future of | Canada, of South Africa, of Australia, of the West Indies, and of Mauritius, will be the same? Who can believe that the mixed French and English population of Canada, the mixed Dutch and Eng- lish population of the Cape, the negro population of Jamaica, the French and Indian population of | Mauritius, the English and Chinese population of Australia, are going to run forever the same po- litical course ? Who can believe that the mould- Political railways, in armaments and defenses, | ing influences will be the same in arctic conti- and other things which assume the permanence | of the present system, is enough to convict Cana-) dian rulers of flagrant improvidence if the per- manency of the present system is not ty established in their minds. To tax forecast with revolutionary designs or | tendencies is absurd. No one can be in a less nents or in tropical islands as in countries lying within the temperate zone? Among the colonies, | those, perhaps, which most nearly resemble each other in political character and circumstances, ‘are Canada and Australia ; yet the elements of the population are very different—and still more different are the external relations of Australia, revolutionary frame of mind than he who foresees | with no other power near her, from those of Can- # political event without having the aaa in- | 1 | ada, not only conterminous with the United. States,

Page 2

2 THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. but interlaced with them, so that at present the | during a Franco-German War; for England, it road of the Governor-General of Canada, when | may be safely said, he has no feeling whatever, he visits his Pacific province, lies through the | It is true that he fought against the American in- territory of the American Republic. Is it possi- /"vaders in the Revolutionary War, and again in ble to suppose that the slender filament which | 1812; but then he was animated by his ancient connects each of these colonies with Downing | hostility to the Puritans of New England, in the Street is the thread of a common destiny ? In studying Canadian politics, and in attempt- ing to cast the political horoscope of Canada, the first thing to be remembered, though official op- timism is apt to overlook it, is that Canada was a colony not of England but of France, and that factories of whose descendants he now freely seeks employment. Whether he would enthusi- astically take up arms for England against the | Amnesteane at present, the British War-Office, | after the experience of the two Fenian raids, can | no doubt tell. With Upper Canada, the land of between the British of Ontario and the British of | Scotch Presbyterians, Irish Orangemen, and ultra- Nova Scotia and New Brunswick are interposed, in solid and unyielding mass, above a million of unassimilated and politically antagonistic French- British sentiment, French Canada, during the union of the two provinces, led an uneasy life; and she accepted confederation, on terms which men. French Canada is a relic of the historical | leave her nationality untouched, rather as a sev- past preserved by isolation, as Siberian mam- | erance of her special wedlock with her unloved moths are preserved in ice. It is a fragment of | consort than as a measure of North American the France before the Revolution, less the mon- | union, The unabated antagonism between the two archy and the aristocracy ; for the feeble parody | races and the two religions was plainly manifested of French feudalism in America ended with the | on the occasion of the conflict between the French abolition of the seigniories, which may be re- garded as the final renunciation of feudal ideas and institutions by society in the New World. The French-Canadians are an unprogressive, re- ligious, submissive, courteous, and, though poor, not unhappy people. They would make excellent factory-hands if Canada had a market for her manufactures ; and, perhaps, it is as much due to the climate as to their lack of. intelligent in- dustry, that they have a very indifferent reputa- tion as farmers. They are governed by the priest, with the occasional assistance of the notary; and the Roman Catholic Church may be said to be still established in the province, every Roman Catholic being bound to pay tithes and other ec- | half-breeds and the British immigrants in Mani- toba, which presented a faint parallel to the con- | flict between the advanced posts of slavery and antislavery in Kansas on the eve of the civil war; Quebec openly sympathizing with Riel and his fellow-insurgents, while Ontario was on fire to avenge the death of Scott. Sir George Cartier might, call himself an Englishman speaking French; but his calling himself so did not make him so; much less did it extend the character from a political manager, treading the path of | ambition with British colleagues, to the mass of | his unsophisticated compatriots. The priests | hitherto have put their interests into the hands of a political leader, such as Sir George himself, clesiastical imposts, though the Protestant minor- | in the same way in which the Irish priests used ity are exempt. The Church is immensely rich, to put their interests into the hands of O’Connell ; and her wealth is always growing, so that the "and this leader has made the best terms he could economical element which mingled with the relig- | for them and for himself at Ottawa. Nor has it ious causes of the Reformation may one day have | been difficult to make good terms, since both the its counterpart in Quebec. The French-Cana- | political parties bid emulously for the Catholic dians, as we have said, retain their exclusive na- | vote, and, by their interested subserviency to tional character. So far from being absorbed by | those who wield it, render it impossible for a Lib- the British population, or Anglicized by contact | eral Catholic party, or a Liberal party of any with it, they have absorbed and. Gallicized the | kind, to make head against priestly influence in fragments of British population which chance has ; Quebec. By preference the priests, as reaction- thrown among them; and the children of High- | ists, have allied themselves with the Tory party land regiments disbanded in Quebec have become | in the British provinces, and Canada has long thorough Frenchmen, and prefixed Jean Baptiste , witnessed the singular spectacle, witnessed for to their Highland names. For his own Canada | the first time in England at the last general elec- the Frenchman of Quebec has something of « | tion, of Roman Catholics and Orangemen march- patriotic feeling ; for France he has filial affection | ing together to the poll. Fear of contact with an enough to make his heart beat violently for her | active-minded democracy, and of possible peril — 6lUree Uh elhlUrrm CUCU COU Cee OC) Ue —_— => wh of | the tho mer

Page 3

to their overweening wealth, has also led the priesthood to shrink from annexation, though they have not been able to prevent their people from going over the line for better wages, an bringing back with them a certain republican leaven of political and ecclesiastical unrest, which in the end may, perhups, lead to the verifi- cation of Lord Elgin’s remark, that it would be easier to make the French-Canadians Americans than to make them English. Hitherto, however, French Canada has retained, among other heir- looms of the Ancien Régime, the old Gallican Church, the Church of Louis XIV. and of Bos- suet, national, quiet, unaggressive, capable of liv- ing always on sufficiently good terms with the state. But now the scene is changed. Even to French Canada, the most secluded nook of the Catholic world, Ultramontanism has penetrated, with the Jesuit in its van. There is a struggle for ascendency between the Jesuits and the Gal- licans, the citadel of the Gallicans being the Sulpician Seminary, vast and enormously wealthy, which rises over Montreal. forces of the hour on his side; he gains the day; the bishops fall under his influence, and take his | part against the Sulpicians; the Guibord case THE POLITICAL DESTINY OF CANADA. 3 in order to reduce to reality the pictures of uni- versal devotion to England and English interests which are presented by the speeches of official persons, or of persons professing to know Canada, but deriving their idea of her from the same source. Confederation, so far, has done nothing to fuse the races, and very little even to unite the provinces. New Brunswick and Nova Scotia, besides being cut off from Ontario by French Canada, have interests of their own, separate, and in some degree divergent, from those of Ontario, New Brunswick especially being drawn by her commercial interests toward New England. The representatives of each of the smaller provinces form a separate group at Ottawa, giving or with- holding their support to a great extent from pro- vincial considerations. Each ‘of the two political parties has its base in Ontario, which is the field of the decisive battles; and they can hardly be | said to extend to the maritime provinces, much less to Manitoba or to British Columbia. When The Jesuit has the | the Ontarian parties are evenly balanced the smaller provinces turn the scale, and Ontarian leaders are always buying them with “ better terms,” that is, alterations of the pecuniary ar- marks, distinctly though farcically, the triumph | rangements of confederation in their favor, and of his principles; and it is by no means certain that he, a cosmopolitan power playing a great game, will cling to Canadian isolation, and that he will not prefer a junction with his main army in the United States. Assuredly his choice will not be determined by loyalty to England, At all events, his aggressive policy has begun to raise questions calculated to excite the Protestants of the British provinces, which the politicians, with all their arts, will hardly be able to smother, and which will probably put an end to the long torpor of Quebec. case points to education as a subject which can scarcely fail soon to give birth to a cause of war. Besides the French, there are in Canada, as we believe we have good authority for saying, about 400,000 Irish, whose political sentiments are gen- The New Brunswick school | | ! } | | | | other inducements, at the sacrifice, of course, of the general interests of the Coffederation. From the composition of a cabinet to the composition of a rifle-team, sectionalism is the rule. Con- | federation has secured free-trade between the provinces; what other good it has done it would not be easy to say. Whether it has increased | the military strength of Canada is a question for | the answer to which we must appeal once more } erally identical with those of the Irish in the | mother-country, as any reader of their favorite | ince of the several states. But a dependency has journals will perceive. Thus, without reckoning | no external relations; Canada has not even, like & considerable German settlement in Ontario, | South Africa, a native question, her Indians be- Which by its unimpaired nationality in the heart | ing perfectly harmless; to the British War-Office. Canadians have shown, on more than one memorable occasion, that in military spirit they are not wanting; but they cannot be goaded into wasting their hardly-earned money on preparations for a defense which would be kopeless against an invader who will never come. Politically, the proper province of a fed- eral government is the management of external relations, while domestic legislation is the prov- and consequently the of the British population attests the weakness of | chief duty of a federal government in Canada is the assimilating forces in Canada compared with | those in the United States, or the Americans, who, | though not numerous, are influential in the com- mercial centres, we have at once to deduct 1 ,400,- 000 from a total population of less than 4,000,000 | Is | | to keep itself in existence by the ordinary agen- cies of party, a duty which it discharges with a vengeance. English statesmen bent on extend- ing to all the colonies what they assume to be the benefits of confederation, should study the

Page 4

’ 4 THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. Canadian specimen, if possible, on the spot. They will learn, first, that while a spontaneous con- federation, such as groups of states have formed under the pressure of a common danger, develops mainly the principles of union, a confederation brought about by external influence is apt to de- velop the principles of antagonism in at least an equal degree ; and, secondly, that parliamentary government in a dependency is, to a lamentable extent, government by faction and corruption, and that by superadding federal to provincial government the extent and virulence of those maladies are seriously increased. If an appeal is made to the success of confederation in Switzer- land, the answer is, that Switzerland is not a de- pendency but a nation. It is of Canada alone that we here speak, and we speak only of her political destiny. The ties of blood, of language, of historical association, and of general sympathy, which bind the British portion of the Canadian people to England, are not dependent on the political connection, nor is it likely that they would be at all weakened by its severance. In the United States there are millions of Irish exiles, with the wrongs of Ire- land in their hearts, and the whole nation retains the memories of the Revolutionary War, of the War of 1812, and of the conduct of the British aristocracy toward the United States during the rebellion of the South—conduct which it is difficult to forgive, and which it would be folly to forget. Yet to those who have lived among the Americans it will not seem extravagant to say that the feel- ings of an Anglo-American toward his mother- country are really at least as warm as those of the natives of dependencies, and at least as likely to be manifested by practical assistance in the hour of need. A reference to the history of the opposition made to the War of 1812 will suffice at least to bring this opinion within the pale of credibility. The great forces prevail. They prevail at last, however numerous and apparently strong the secondary forces opposed to them may be. They prevailed at last in the case of German unity and in the case of Italian independence. In each of those cases the secondary forces were so heavily massed against the event that men re- nowned for practical wisdom believed the event would never come. It came, irresistible and ir- revocable, and we now see that Bismarck and Cavour were only the ministers of Fate. Suspended of course, and long suspended, by the action of the secondary forces, the action of the great forces may be. It was so in both the

instances just mentioned. A still more remark. able instance is the long postponement of the union of Scotland with England by the antipa- thies resulting from the abortive attempt of Ed- ward I., and by a subsequent train of historical accidents, such as the absorption of the energies of Englaud in Continental or civil wars. But the union came at last, and, having the great forces on its side, it came forever. : In the case before us, it appears that the great forces are those which make for the political separation of the New from the Oid World. They are: 1. The distance, which may be shortened by steam and telegraph for the transmission of a despot’s commands, but can hardly be much shortened for the purposes of representative gov- ernment. Steam increases the transatlantic in- tercourse of the wealthier class, but not that of the people, who have neither money nor time for the passage. Everything is possible in the way of nautical invention ; fuel may be still further economized, though its price is not likely to fail; but it is improbable that the cost of ship-building or the wages of seamen wiil be reduced ; and the growth of manufactures in the New World, which | we may expect henceforth to be rapid, can hard- ly fail to diminish the intercourse dependent on transatlantic trade. A commonwealth spanning the Atlantic may be a grand conception, but po- litical institutions must after all bear some rela- tion to Nature and to practical convenience. Few have fought against geography and pre- vailed. 2. Divergence of interest, which seems in this case to be as wide as possible. What has Cana- da to do with the European and Criental concerns of England, with her European and Oriental diplomacy, with her European and Oriental wars? Can it be conceived that Canadian traders would allow her commerce to be cut up by Russian cruisers, or that Canadian farmers would take arms and pay war-taxes in order to prevent Rus- sia from obtaining a free passage through the Dardanelles? An English pamphlet called “The Great Game” was reprinted the other day in Canada; but the chapter on India was omitted, as having no interest for Canadians. For Eng- lish readers that chapter had probably more in- terest than all the other chapters put together. On the other hand, whenever a question about boundaries or mutual rights arises with the United States, the English people and the English Gov- ernment betray, by the languor of their diplo- macy and the ease with which they yield, their

< -_anaeenkhweeeaakwwwmeeanbtnneatp ih ean oe lUuekklUrhlUCUrerlClUCUrOlC lel ll elCU lll ele lCUwew![UC KC lCUcelCUelClC

Page 5

THE POLITICAL DESTINY OF CANADA. 5 comparative indifference to the objects in which Canada is most concerned. A Canadian periodi- cal some time ago had a remarkable paper by a native writer, showing that the whole series of treaties made by Great Britain with the United States had been a continuous sacrifice of the claims of Canada. It was not, assuredly, that Great Britain wanted either force or spirit to fight for her own rights and interests, but that she felt that Canadian rights and interests were not her own. Her rulers could not have induced her people to go to war for an object for which they cared so little, and had so little reason to care, as a frontier line in North America, An- other illustration of the difference between the British and the Canadian point of view was afforded by the recent dispute about the Extra- dition Treaty: England was disposed to be stiff and punctilious, having comparatively little to fear from the suspension of the treaty; while to Canada, bordering on the United States, the dan- ger was great, and the renewal of the treaty was a vital necessity before which punctiliousness gave way. One object there is connected with the American Continent for which the British aristocracy, if we may judge by the temper it showed and the line it took toward the American Republic at the time of the rebellion, would be not unwilling to run the risk of war. But that object is one with regard to which the interests of British aristocracy and those of Canadian democracy not only are not identical, but point _ directly opposite ways. With regard to eco- nomical questions, the divergence is, if possible, still clearer than with regard to diplomatic ques- tions. The economic interests of Canada must evidently be those of her own continent, and to that continent, by all the economic forces, she must be and visibly is drawn. Her currency, whatever may be the name and superscription on the coin, is American, and it is the sure symbol of her real connection. In the British manu- facturer the Canadian manufacturer sees a rival ; and Canada at this moment is the scene of a protectionist movement led, curiously enough, by those “Conservative” politicians who are loudest in their professions of loyalty to Great Britain. 3. More momentous than even the divergence of interest is the divergence of political charac- ter between the citizen of the Old and the citizen of the New World. We speak, of course, not of the French-Canadians, between whom and the people of Great Britain the absence of political affinity is obvious, but of the British communi- ties in North America. The colonization of the New World, at least that English portion of it which was destined to give birth to the ruling and moulding power, was not merely a migration, but an exodus; it was not merely a local exten- sion of humanity, but a development; it not only peopled another continent, but opened a new era. The curtain rose not for the old drama with fresh actors, but for a fresh drama on a fresh scene. A long farewell was said to feudalism when the New England colony landed, with the rough draft of a written constitution, which embodied a so- cial compact and founded government not on sacred tradition or divine right, but on reason and the public good. The more one sees of so- ciety in the New World, the more convinced one is that its structure essentially differs from that of society in the Old World, and that the feudal element has been eliminated completely and for- ever. English aristocracy, fancying itself, as all. established systems fancy themselves, the normal and final state of humanity, may cling to the belief that the new development is a mere aber- ration, and that dire experience will in time bring it back to the ancient path. There are people, it seems, who persuade themselves that America is retrograding toward monarchy and church establishments. No one who knows the Americans can possibly share this dream. Mon- archy has found its way to the New World only in the exceptional case of Brazil, to which the royal family of the mother-country itself migrated, and where after all the emperor is rather an hereditary president than a monareh of the European type. In Canada, government being parliamentary and “constitutional,” monarchy is the delegation of a shadow; and any attempt to convert the shad- ow into a substance, by introducing a dynasty with a court and civil list, or by reinvesting the viceroy with personal power, would speedily re- veal the real nature of the situation. Pitt pro- posed to extend to Canada what as a Tory minis- ter he necessarily regarded as the blessings of aristocracy ; but the plant refused to take root in the alien soil. No peerage ever saw the light in Canada; the baronetage saw the light and no more; of nobility there is nothing now but a knighthood very small in number, and upon which the Pacific-Railway scandal has cast so deep a shadow that the home Government, though inclined that way, seems shy of venturing on more creations. Hereditary wealth and the cus- tom of primogeniture, indispensable supports of an aristocracy, are totally wanting in a purely industrial country, where, let the law be what it might, natural justice has always protested against

Page 6

6 THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. the feudal claims of the first-born. To establish in Canada the state Church, which is the grand buttress of aristocracy in England, has proved as hopeless as to establish aristocracy itself. The Church lands have been secularized; the univer- sity, once confined to Anglicanism, has been thrown open; the Anglican Church has been re- duced to the level of the other denominations, though its rulers still cling to the memories and to some relics of their privileged condition. As a religion, Anglicanism has little hold upon the mass of the people: it is recruited by emigration from England, and sustained to a certain extent by a social feeling in its favor among the wealth- ier class. More democratic churches far ex- ceed it in popularity and propagandist force: Methodism especially, which, in contrast to Epis- copacy, sedulously assigns an active part in church-work to every member, decidedly gains ground, and bids fair to become the popular re- ligion of Canada. Nor is the militarism-of Euro- pean aristocracies less alien to industrial Canada than their monarchism and their affinity for state churches. The Canadians, as we have already said, can fight well when real occasion calls; so can their kinsmen across the line; but among the Canadians, as among the people of the North- ern States, it is impossible to awaken militarism —every sort of galvanic apparatus has been tried in vain. Distinctions of rank, again, are want- ing; everything bespeaks a land dedicated to equality ; and fustian, instead of bowing to broad- cloth, is rather too apt, by a rude self-assertion, to revenge itself on broadcloth for enforced sub- missiveness in the old country. Where the rela- tions of classes, the social forces, and the whole spirit of society, are different, the real principles and objects of government will differ also, not- withstanding the formal identity of institutions. It proved impossible, as all careful observers had foreseen, to keep the same political roof over the heads of slavery and antislavery. To keep the same political roof over the heads of British ar- istocracy and Canadian democracy would be an undertaking only one degree less hopeless. A rupture would come, perhaps, on some question between the ambition of a money-spending no- bility and the parsimony of a money-making people. Let aristocracy, hierarchy, and milita- rism, be content with the Old World ; it was con- quered by the feudal sword; the New World was conquered only by the axe and plough. 4. The force, sure in the end to be attractive, not repulsive, of the great American community along the edge of which Canada lies, and to which

the British portion of her population is drawn by identity of race, language, religion, and general institutions; the French portion by its connec. tion with the Roman Catholic Church of the States ; the whole by economic influences, against which artificial arrangements and sentiments con- tend in vain, and which are gathering strength and manifesting their ascendency from hour to hour. ; An enumeration of the forces which make in favor of the present connection will show their secondary and, for the most part, transient char. acter. The chief of them appear to be these: a, The reactionary tendencies of the priest- hood which rules French Canada, and which fears that any change might disturb its solitary reign. Strong this force has hitherto been, but its strength depends on isolation, and isolation cannot be per- manent. Even the “ palzocrystallic” ice which envelops French Canada will melt at last, and when it does French reaction will be at an end, We have already noted two agencies which are working toward this result—the leaven of Ameri- can sentiment brought back by French-Canadians who have sojourned as artisans in the States, and the ecclesiastical aggressiveness of the Jesuits, 6. “ United Empire Loyalism,” which has its chief seat in Ontario. Every revolution has its reaction, and in the case of the American Revo- lution the reaction took the form of a migration of the royalists to Canada, where lands were as- signed them, and where they became the politi- cal progenitors of the Canadian Tory’ party, while the “ Reformers” are the offspring of a subsequent immigration of Scotch Presbyterians, mingled with wanderers from the United States. The two immigrations were arrayed against each other in 1837, when, though the United Empire Loyalists were victorious in the field, the political victory ultimately rested with the Reformers. United Empire Loyalism is still strong in some districts, while in others the descendants of roy- alist exiles are found in the ranks of the oppo- site party. But the whole party is now in the position of the Jacobites after the extinction of the house of Stuart. England has formally rec- ognized the American Revolution, taken part in the celebration of its centenary, and through her embassador saluted its flag. Anti-revolutionary sentiment ceases to have any meaning, and its death cannot be far off. c. The influence of English immigrants, espe- cially in the upper ranks of the professions, in the high places of commerce, and in the press. These men have retained a certain social ascen- .

~_ mee pe_nnatk ee ee OlUmr,lUlUCrO.lUlU ee lCUlC(<C KC CO!

Page 7

a a PO 6 | kf THE POLITICAL DESTINY OF CANADA. 7 dency; they have valued themselves on their | a theme more congenial to the social humorist birth in the imperial country and the superior traditions which they supposed it to imply; they have personally cherished the political connec- tion, and have inculcated fidelity to it with all their might. But their number is rapidly de- creasing; as they die off natives take their places, | than to the political observer) we may couple the influence of those crumbs of titular honor which English aristocracy sometimes allows to fall from its table into colonial mouths. If such forces cannot be said to be transient, the tendencies of human nature being perpetual, they may at least and Canada will soon be in Canadian hands. Im- | be said to be secondary; they do not affect the migration generally is falling off; upper-class im- masses, and they do not affect the strong. migration is almost at an end, there being no longer a demand for anything but manual labor and the influence of personal connection with England will cease to rule. The press is passing into the hands of natives, who are fast learning to hold their own against imported writing in lit- erary skill, while they have an advantage in their knowledge of the country. d. While the British troops remained in Can- ada, their officers formed a social aristocracy of the most powerful kind, and exercised a some- what tyrannical influence over opinion. The traces of this influence still remain, but, with the exception of the reduced garrison of Halifax, the military occupation has ceased, and is not likely to be renewed. e. The Anglican Church in Canada clings to its position as a branch of the great state Church of England, and, perhaps, a faint hope of reéstab- lishment may linger in the breasts of the bishops, who still retain the title of “lords.” We have already said that the roots of Anglicanism in Canada do not appear to be strong, and its chief source of reénforcement will be cut off by the dis- continuance of upper-class emigration. It is rent in Canada, as in England, by the conflict between the Protestants and the Ritualists; and in Can- ada, there being no large endowments or legal system to clamp the hostile elements together, discord has already taken the form of disruption. As to the other churches, they have a connection with England, but not with England more than with the United States. The connection of Ca- nadian Methodism with the United States is very close. J. Orangism is strong in British Canada, as indeed is every kind of association except the country, It retains its filial connection with its Irish parent, and is ultra-British on condition that Great Britain continues anti-papal. Old Irish quarrels are wonderfully tenacious of life, yet they must one day die, and Orangism must fol- low them to the grave. g. The social influence of English aristocracy, and of the little court of Ottawa over colonists of the wealthier class. With this (to dismiss at once kh, Antipathy to the Americans, bred by the old wars, and nursed by British influences, mili- tary and aristocratic, not without the assistance of the Americans themselves, who, in the case of the Fenian raids, and in other cases, have vented on Canada their feelings against England. This antipathy, so far as it prevails, leads those who entertain it to cling to an anti-American connec- tion. But, generally speaking, it is very hollow. It does not hinder young Canadians from going by hundreds to seek their fortunes in the United States. It does not hinder wealthy Americans who have settled in Canada from finding seats at once in the Canadian Parliament. It never, in fact, goes beyond talk. So far as it partakes of the nature of contempt, it can hardly fail to be modi- fied by the changed attitude of the British aris- tocracy, who have learned to exhibit something more than courtesy toward the victorious repub- lic; while the Americans, it may be reasonably presumed, now that the causé of irritation is re- moved, will not think it wise to make enemies of a people whose destinies are-inextricably blended with their own. i. The special attachment naturally felt by the politicians, as a body, to the system with ref- erence to which their parties have been formed, and with which the personal ambition of most of them is bound up. Perhaps, of all the forces which make for the present connection, this is the strongest ; it has proved strong enough, when combined with the timidity and the want of inde- pendence which life-long slavery to a faction al- ways breeds, to prevent any Canadian politician from playing a resolute part in such efforts as there have been to make Canada a nation. In some cases it is intensified by commercial con- nections with England, or by social aspirations, more or less definite, which have. England for their goal. In this respect the interest of the politicians, as a class, is distinct from, and is liable to clash with, the real interest of the com- munity at large. So, in the case of Scotland, it was the special interest of the politicians to resist the union, as, without special pressure and in- | ducements, they would probably Have persisted

Page 8

eee a en SCRE s THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. in doing. It was the interest of the people to ac- ‘cept the union, as the flood of prosperity which followed its acceptance clearly showed. In the ease of Scotland, the interest of the people tri- umphed at last, and it will probably triumph at last in Canada. Such, we say, are the chief forces that make for the existing connection ; and we repeat that they appear to be secondary, and, for the most part, transient. United, all these strands may make a strong cable; but, one by one they will give way, and the cable will cease to hold. This conviction is quite consistent with the admission that the connectionist sentiment is now dominant, especially in Ontario; that in Ontario it almost exclusively finds expression on the platform and in the press ; and that the existence of any other opinions can only be inferred from reticence, or discovered by private intercourse. A visitor may thus be led to believe and to report that the at- tachment of the whole population to the present system is unalterable, and that the connection must endure forever. Those who have opportu- nities of looking beneath the surface may, at the same time, have grounds for thinking that, on economical subjects at least, the people have already entered on a train of thought which will lead them to a different goal. ; What has been the uniform course of events down to the present time? Where are the American dependencies of Spain, Portugal, France, and Holland? Those on the continent, with unimportant exceptions, are gone, and those in the islands are going; for few suppose that Spain can keep Cuba very long. Of the English colonies on the continent, the mass, and those that have been long founded, have become inde- pendent; and every one now sees, what clear- sighted men saw at the time, that the separation was inevitable, and must soon have been brought about by natural forces, apart from the accidental quarrel, If Canada has been retained, it is by the reduction of imperial supremacy to a form. Self-government is independence; perfect self- government is perfect independence ; and all the questions that arise between Ottawa and Downing Street, including the recent question about ap- peals, are successively settled in favor of self- government. Diplomatic union between two countries in different hemispheres, with totally different sets of external relations, common re- sponsibility for each other’s quarrels, and liability to be involved in each other’s wars—these inci- dents of dependence remain, and these alone. Is it probable that this last leaf can continue to flutter on the bough forever? Lord Derby some years ago said that everybody knew that Canada must soon be an independent nation. Now he thinks the tide of opinion has turned in favor of imperialism, and he turns with the tide. But what he takes for the turn of the tide may be merely the receding wave; and he forgets what the last wave swept away. It swept away the military occupation, with all its influences, politi- eal and social. Even since that time the com. mercial unity of the empire has been formally abandoned in the case of the Australian tariffs; and now the marriage-law of the colonies is clash- ing with that of the mother-country in the British House of Commons. It is, perhaps, partly the recoil of feeling from a severence felt to be imminent, as well as the temporary influence of Conservative reaction in England, that has led to the revival in certain quarters, with almost convulsive vehemence, of the plan of imperial confederation. Certainly, if such a plan is ever to be carried into effect, this is the propitious hour. The spirit of aggrandize- ment is in the ascendant, and the colonies are all on good terms with the mother-country. Yet, of the statesmen who dally with the project and smile upon its advocates, not one ventures to take a practical step toward its fulfillment. On the contrary, they are accessory to fresh inroads upon imperial unity, both in the judicial and in the fiscal sphere. Colonial governors talk with im- pressive vagueness of some possible birth cf the imperial future, as though the course of events, which has been hurrying the world through a series of rapid changes for the last century, would now stand still, and impracticable aspirations would become practicable by the mere operation of time; but no colonial governor or imperial statesman has ventured to tell us, even in the most general way, to what it is that he looks for- ward, how it is to be brought about, or even what dependencies the confederation is to include. It is, therefore, needless to rehearse all the argu- ments against the feasibility of such a scheme. The difficulties which beset the union under the same parliamentary government of two countries in different parts of the world, with different foreign relations, and differing internally in po litical spirit, would, of course, be multiplied in the case of a union of twenty or thirty countries scattered over the whole globe, bound together by no real tie of common interest, and ignorant of each other’s concerns. The first meeting of such a conclave would, we may be sure, develop forees of disunion far stronger than the vague sentiment

Page 9

THE POLITICAL DESTINY OF CANADA. ; 9 of union arising from a very partial community of descent, and a very imperfect community of langage, which would be the sole ground of the federation. Even to frame the agreement as to the terms of union with the shifting parties and ephemeral cabinets of a score of colonies under constitutional government would be no easy task. The two Parliaments, the one National, the other Federal, which it is proposed to establish in order to keep the national affairs of England separate from those of the Imperial Federation, would be liable to be brought into fatal conflict, and thrown into utter confusion by the ascendency of differ- ent parties, say a war party and a peace party, in the National and the Federal House. The veriest Chinese puzzle in politics would be a practicable constitution, if you could only get the redl forces to conduct themselves according to the programme. It was not in the programme of Canadian confederation that the provinces should form separate interests in the Federal Parliament, and force the party leaders to bid against each other for their support ; though any one who had studied actual tendencies in connec- tion with the system of party government might have pretty confidently predicted that such would be the result. That England would allow ques- tions of foreign policy, of armaments, and of peace and war, to be settled for her by any coun- cils but her own, it is surely most chimerical to suppose. A swarm of other difficulties would probably arise out of the perpetual vicissitudes of the party struggle in each colony, the conse- quent inability of the delegates to answer for the real action of their own governments, and the estrangement of the delegates themselves from colonial interest and connections by their neces- sary residence in England. An essential condi- tion of federation appears to be tolerable equality among the members, or freedom from the ascen- dency of any overweening power ; but, for a cen- tury to come, at least, the power of England in the Federal council would be overweening ; and, to obviate this difficulty, some advocates of the scheme actually propose to repeal the union of England with Scotland and Ireland, so that she may be reduced to a manageable element of a Pan-Britannic confederation. They have surely little right to call other people disunionists, if any opprobrious meaning attaches to that term. Supposing such a confederation to be practi- cable, of what use, apart from the vague feeling of aggrandizement, would it be? Where would be the advantage of taking from each of these young communities its political centre (which must also be, to some extent, its social and in- tellectual centre), and of accumulating them in ~ the already overgrown capital of England? Does experience tell us that unlimited extension of territory is favorable to intensity of political life, or to anything which is a real element of happiness or of greatness? Does it not tell us that the reverse is the fact, and that the interest of history centres not in megalosaurian empires, — but in states the body of which has not been out of proportion to the brain? Surely it would be well to have some distinct idea of the object to be attained before commencing this unparalleled struggle against geography and Nature. It can hardly be military strength. Military strength is not gained by dispersion of forces, by presenting vulnerable points in every quarter of the globe, or by embracing and undertaking to defend com- munities which, whatever may be their fighting qualities, in their policy are thoroughly unmili- tary, and unmilitary will remain. Mr. Forster, in fact, gives us to understand that the Pan-Britannic Empire is to present a beneficent contrast to the military empires; that it is to be an empire of peace. But in that case it must, like other Quaker institutions, depend for its safety on the morality and forbearance of the holders of real and compact power, which is very far from be- ing the dream of the advocates of “a great game.” ‘ In all these projects of Pan-Britannic empire there lurks the assumption of a boundless mul- tiplication of the Anglo-Saxon race. What are the grounds for this assumption? Hitherto it has appeared that races, as they grow richer, more luxurious, more fearful of poverty, more amenable to the restraints of social pride, have become less prolific. There is reason to suppose that in the United States the Anglo-Saxon race is far less prolific than the Irish, who are even supplanting the Anglo-Saxons in some districts of England, as the home-rule compliances of candidates for northern boroughs show. But the Irish element is small compared with the vast reservoir of industrial population in China, which is now beginning to overflow, and seems as like- ly asthe Anglo-Saxon race to inherit Australia, where it has already a strong foothold, as well as the coast of the Pacific. > Canada, however, with regard to the problem of imperial confederation stands by herself, pre- senting, from her connection with the United States, difficulties from which in the case of the Australian colonies the problem is free. Of this some of the advocates of the policy of aggran-

Page 10

10 dizement show themselves aware by frankly pro- posing to let Canada go. It is taken for granted that political depend- ence is the natural state of all colonies, and that there is something unfilial and revolutionary in proposing that a colony should become a nation. But what is a colony? We happen to have de- rived the term from a very peculiar set of institu- tions, those Roman colonies which had no life of their own, but were merely the military and po- litical outposts of the imperial republic. With the Roman colonies may be classed the Athenian cleruchies and, substituting the commercial for the political object, the factories of Carthage. But colonies, generally speaking, are migrations, and, as a rule, they have been independent from the beginning. Independent from the beginning, so far as we know, were the Pheenician colonies, Carthage herself among the number. Indepen- dent from the beginning were those Greek colo- nies in Italy which rapidly outran their mother- cities in the race of material greatness. Inde- pendent from the beginning were the Saxon and Scandinavian colonies, and all those settlements of the Northern tribes which founded England herself with the other nations of modern Europe. So far as we can see, the original independence in each case was an essential condition of vigor and success. No Roman colony, Athenian cle- ruchy, or Carthaginian factory, ever attained real greatness. New England, the germ and organizer of the American communities, was practically independent for a long time after her foundation, the attention of the English Government being engrossed by troubles at home; but she retained a slender thread of theoretic dependence by which she was afterward drawn back into a noxious and disastrous subordination. That thread was the feudal tie of personal allegiance, a tie utterly irra- tional when carried beyond the feudal pale, and by the recent naturalization treaties now formally abolished; yet probably the main cause of the continued subjection of the transatlantic colo- nies, and of the calamities which flowed both to them and to the mother-country from that source. It is natural that British statesmen should chrink from a formal act of separation, and that in their brief and precarious tenure of power they should be unwilling to take the burden and possible odium of such a measure upon them- selves. But no one, we believe, ventures to say that the present system will be perpetual ; cer- tainly not the advocates of imperial confedera- tion, who warn us that, unless England by a total THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. change of system draws her colonies nearer to her, they will soon drift farther away. Apart from lingering sentiment, it seems not easy to give reasons, so far as Canada is cop. cerned, for struggling to prolong the present sys. tem. The motives for acquiring and holding de. pendencies in former days were substantial if they were not good. Spain drew tribute direetly from her dependencies. England thought she drew it indirectly through her commercial system, It was also felt that the military resources of the colonies were at the command of the mother. country. When the commercial system was re. linquished, and when- self-government transferred to the colonies the control of their own resources, the financial and military motives ceased to exist, But the conservative imagination supplied their place with the notion of political tutelage, feign. ing—though, as we have seen, against all the evi- dence of history—that the colony, during the early stages of its existence, needed the political guidance of the mother-country in order to fit it to become a nation. Such was the language of colonial statesmen generally till the present con- servative reaction again brought into fashion something like the old notion of aggrandizement, though for tribute and military contingents, the solid objects of the old policy, is now substi- tuted “ prestige.” That the political connection between England and Canada is a source of military security to either, nobody, we appre hend, maintains. The only vulnerable point ~ which England presents to the United States is the defenseless frontier of Canada; the only danger to which Canada is exposed is that of being involved in a quarrel between the aris tocracy of England and the democracy of the United States. Defenseless, it is believed, the frontier of Upper Canada has been officially pronounced to be, and the chances of a des perate resistance to the invader in the French province can scarcely be rated very high. ‘It is said that the British fleet would bombard New York. If Canada were in the hands of the ene my, the bombardment of New York would hard- ly alleviate her condition. But the bombard ment of New York might not be an ony The force of floating coast-defenses seems ROW — to be growing superior to that of ocean gin E navies. Besides, America would choose the mo t ment when England was at war with some other 3 naval power. Soldiers and sailors, and of the 4 best quality, England might no doubt find im — Canada; but she would have to pay for them ~ more than she pays for soldiers and sailors Te —

Page 11

BESPRASAISS FPF SRSRPRS sf . a = FRtR aR eee s & we “4 of on- ion nt, the sti- ion of re- at | is aly of ris- the the ally les- ach THE POLITICAL DESTINY OF CANADA. 11 eruited at home. Whether morality is embodied in Bismarck or not, modern policy is; and Bis- marck seems not to covet distant dependencies ; he prefers solid and concentrated power. “Commerce follows the flag,” is a saying which it seems can still be repeated by a states- man ; but, like the notion that dependencies are a source of military strength, it is a mere sur- vival from a departed system, Commerce fol- lowed the flag when the flag was that of a power which enforced exclusive trading. But exclusive trading has given way, as an imperial principle, to free-trade, and the colonies, in the exercise of their fiscal power of self-government, have dis- solved the commercial unity of the empire. They frame their independent tariffs, laying, in some cases, heavy duties on English goods, It will hardly be contended that, apart from com- mercial legislation, .colonial purchasers inquire whether goods were produced under the British flag. “The best customer,” says Sir George Lewis, “which a nation can have, is a thriving and industrious community, whether it be de- pendent or independent. The trade between England and the United States is probably far more profitable to the mother-country than it would have been if they had remained in a state of dependence upon her.” As to Canada, what she needs, and needs most urgently, is free ac- cess to the market of her own continent, from which, as a dependency of England, she is ex- cluded by the customs-line. With free access to the market of her own continent, she might be- come a great manufacturing country; but manu- factures are now highly specialized, and to pro- duce with advantage you must produce on a large scale. Nor is the evil confined to manu- factures; the farm-products of Canada are de- preciated by exclusion from their natural mar- ket, and the lumber-trade, which is her great industry, will be in serious jeopardy, since, by the fall of wages in the States, the production of lumber there has been rendered nearly as cheap as it is in Canada, while Canadian lumber is subject to a heavy duty. The projects for opening markets in Australia merely serve to show how severely Canada feels the want of a market close at hand. Cut off any belt of ter- ritory commercially from the continent to which it belongs, industry will be stunted, the inflow of capital will be checked, and impoverishment will follow isolation. The Canadians will find this out in time, and the discovery will be the first step toward a change of system. It is true that Canada has drawn a good deal of British capital into works little remunerative to the investors, though, perhaps, not more than the United States and other countries with which there was no political connection. But, if we consider credit as well as cash, the gain must be pronounced doubtful, and it is balanced by such a work as the Intercolonial Railway, into which Canada has been led by imperial influence, and which, after costing more than four millions ster- ling, will, as some leading Canadian men of busi- ness think, hardly “‘ pay for the grease upon the wheels.” The Pacific Railway, and the indemnity which Canada is forced to pay to British Colum- bia for the non-performance of an impracticable treaty, are too likely, in the opinion of many, to furnish another illustration of the expensiveness of the imperial connection. That emigration is ‘favorably influenced by political dependency is another lingering belief which seems now to have no foundation in fact, though it had in the days when emigration was a government affair. The stream of emigration, in ordinary times, sets, as has often been proved, not toward Canada, but toward the United States; and of the emigrants who land in Canada a large proportion afterward pass the line, while there is a constant exodus of French-Canadians from their own poor and overpeopled country (overpeopled so long as it is merely agricultural) to the thriv- ing industries and high wages of the States, Emi- grants, whose object is to improve their material condition, are probably little influenced by politi- cal considerations ; they go to the country which offers the best openings and the highest wages ; but English peasants and artisans would be likely, if anything, to prefer the social elevation promised them in a land of equality to anything like a rep- etition of the social subjection in which they have lived at home, while by the Irishman escape from British rule is deemed escape from oppression. Whether the tutelage of the mother-country has ever been useful to a colony, even in its in- fancy, except where there was actual need of mili- tary protection, is a question to which the lan- guage of the adherents of the colonial system them- selves, when reviewing the history of colonial government, seems to suggest a negative reply. “ Hitherto,” says Mr. Roebuck, “those of our possessions termed colonies have not been gov- erned according to any settled rule or plan. Ca- price and chance have decided generally every- thing connected with them ; and if success has in any case attended the attempts of the English peo- ple to establish colonies, that success has been ob- tained in spite of the mischevious intermeddling

Page 12

12 of the English Government, not in consequence of its wise and provident assistance.” Such is the refrain of almost all the works on the colonies, whether they treat of the general administration or of some special question, such as that of the crown-lands, which appears to have been solved by Downing Street in various ways, but always wrong. Not by government, but by fugitives from the tyranny of government, the great Ameri- can colony was founded ; unaided and unregulated it grew, and laid the deep foundations of society in the New World. With tutelage came blunder- ing, jobbery, mischief of all kinds, and at last a violent rupture, which, injurious as it was to the mother-country, inflicted a still greater injury on the colony by launching it on the career of de- mocracy with a violent revolutionary bias, where- as it needed a bias in favor of respect for author- ity. The presence of the British embassador at the Centenary was not only the ratification of the revolt, but the condemnation of the colonial system. After the American Revolution, the next step of the British Government was to divert the stream of English emigration from America— where there was abundant room for it, and whither, the pioneer work having then been done, it would have been most profitably directed—to Australia, where the pioneer work had to be done over again, measures being at the same time taken to ; taint the new society with convict-blood. To what good this scattering of English emigration has led, beyond the poetic conception of a bound- less empire, it would seem difficult to say ; and Can- ada, before she expresses conventional joy at the annexation of Feejee, should ask herself whether a new colony is anything more to her than a new competitor for the labor which is her prime need. In Canada herself, tutelage, while it was really exercised, led to every sort of evil. Government was jobbed by an oligarchy called the Family Compact, which Downing Street supported, not from bad motives, but from sheer ignorance of facts, till the misrule ended in the insurrection of 1837. Things have gone smoothly only since real tutelage has departed, and left nothing but an image of royalty which reigns with gracious speeches and hospitality, but does not govern. There has been no want of good intentions on the part of English statesmen, nor would it be reason- able to suppose that there has been any special want of wisdom; probably no other statesmen would have done so well; but the task imposed on them was hopeless. One tree might as well be set to regulate the growth of another tree, as one nation ‘to regulate the growth of another na- THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. tion; and in this case the two trees are of differ. — ent sorts and planted under different skies, We can imagine the single mind of a despot moulding the political character of a colony, if not well, at least with adequate knowledge, with intelligence, and upon a definite plan. But Eng. land is nota single mind. England is the vagt and motley mass of voters, including, since the Conservative Reform Bill, the most’ uneducated populace of the towns—people who, in polities, do not know their right hand from their left, who cannot tell the name of the leader of their own party, who vote for blue or yellow, and are led by senseless local cries, by bribery, or by beer, These are the political tutors of Canada, a coun try in which both wealth and education are more diffused than they are here. How much does the average Englishman, or ever the educated Eng. lishman, know about Canadian politics? As much as Canadians know about the polities of Tasmania or the Cape. In “ Phineas Finn,” the hero of the tale, being under-secretary for the colonies, goes on a,message to Marylebone “to find what the people there think about the Can- adas.” His report is: “ Not one man in 2 thou sand cares whether the Canadians prosper or fail to prosper. They care that Canada should not go to the States, because, though they don’t love the Canadians, they do hate the Americans. — That’s about the feeling in Marylebone, and it’s astonishing how like the Maryleboners are to the rest of the world.” It will hardly be said that this is an unfair picture of a Londoner's normal frame of mind with regard to Canadian ques tions, or that Dorsetshire and Tipperary are bet ter informed than London. When did a Canadian question influence an English election? How often is Canada mentioned in an election-address? Canadian journals are never tired of exposing — what they deem the scandalous ignorance of the — leading journals of England on Canadian subjects, but they fail to draw the obvious moral. If the — Times blunders, are the leaders of English opine ion generally, and their constituents, likely tobe better instructed and to decide aright ? Burke, — writing of the American Revolution, said that he — 3 could trace all the mischief “to the single source of not having had steadily before our eyes & get ~ eral, comprehensive, and well-proportioned view of the whole of our dominions, and a just sense of their true bearings and relations.” To say ~ nothing of the ordinary holders of political pow- 7 er, in how many English statesmen, occupied #8 — English statesmen are with home questions an¢- party struggles, would Burke have found i

Page 13

CS SEZSSTSTREEERE Ze PERE SEE = BeetSsarees er er FRLS ERE EREE THE POLITICAL DESTINY OF CANADA. 13 comprehensive view, or the knowledge necessary for the formation of it? The colonial secretary himself is as often as not a man personally unac- quainted with the colonies, not called to his post by special aptitude, but placed in it by party con- yenience. He must often depend for his infor- mation on such colonists as may find special ac- cess to Downing Street, or on the reports of gov- ernors, who, being images of royalty, are apt, like royalty, to be screened from truth. <A peer he may be, but his peerage will not make him a Providence. The annexation of Manitoba and of British Columbia to Canada—with which the latter, at all events, has no geographical connec- tion—is by some thought to have been a disas- trous, by all allowed to have been a most critical, step: it was taken under the auspices of the late Lord Lytton, a brilliant and prolific novelist, brought into the government to make set speeches. If any one supposes that the retention in Canada of the forms of monarchy excludes or mitigates any of the political evils, or even the coarseness to which democracy is liable in its crude condition, a year’s residence in the coun- try,a month’s perusal of the party newspapers, or an hour’s conversation with any Canadian man of business who has watched politics without taking part in them, will probably settle his opin- ion on that subject. That monarchical forms are no safeguard against corruption is a fact of which, unhappily, the colony has of late years had de- cisive proof. If the inquirer wishes to enlarge the basis of his induction, let him go through a file of Australian journals: he will there find a picture of public life, public character, and sena- torial manners, decidedly below the level of the better States of the Union. Canada has escaped the elective judiciary, but so has Massachusetts ; and both that and the removable civil service were the work not of real Republicans, but of the Democratic party—that is, of the slave-own- ing oligarchy of the South using as its instru- ments the Northern mob. Her exemption from the civil war and its fiscal consequences, Canada owes merely to her separation from the States ; it would have been the same had she been an in- dependent nation. Had the political connection with Great Britain never existed, and had the weight of Canada been early thrown into the scale of freedom, there might have been no civil war, In the case of the Pacific Railway scandal, the Governor-General may be said to have formal- . lyavowed himself a fainéant, He decided that he was absolutely bound to follow the advice of

his ministers, even when those ministers lay un- der the heaviest charges of corruption, and even as to the mode in which the investigation into those charges should be conducted ; and his con- duct was approved by the home Govérnment. He has, therefore, no authority, and of nothing, nothing comes. Most readers of the Fortnightly are probably prepared to regard with tolerance the proposition that figments and hypocrisies do no more good in politics than they do in general life. In Canadian politics they do much evil by blinding public men and the people generally to the real requirements of the situation. The hereditary principle was dead at its root; its work was done, and its age had passed away in the more advanced portion of humanity when the communities of the New World were founded. It lingers on, as things do linger on, in its native soil; but it can furnish no sound basis for government in the soil of reason and equality. The only conceivable basis for gov- ernment in the New World is the national will ; and the political problem of the New World is how to build a strong, stable, enlightened, and impartial government on that foundation. That it is a very difficult problem, daily experience in Canada, as well as in the neighboring re- public, shows, and to be successfully resolved it must be seen in its true bearings, which the ostensible retention of the hereditary prin- ciple as the security for good and stable gov- ernment obscures, Canada, though adorned with the paraphernalia of eight constitutional monar- chies (one central and seven provincial), is a democracy of the most pronounced kind; the Governor-General was not wrong in saying that she is more democratic than the United States, where the President is an elective king, and where the Senate, which though elective is conservative, possesses great power, whereas the nominated Senate of Canada is a cipher. Demagogism and the other pests of democratic institutions are not to be conjured away by forms and phrases; they can be repressed and prevented from ruining the state only by developing remedial forces of a real- ly effective kind, and by adjusting the actual ma- chinery of the constitution so as to meet the dangers which experience may reveal. The trea- son-law of the Plantagenets with which, as well as with the Lord-Chamberlain’s code of prece- dence, Canada is endowed, is not of much use to her while she is left without any legal means of repressing her real cancer, political corruption. Loyalty to the fainéant deputy of a distant crown may be in a certain sense real; it may be felt by

Page 14

Seether NA 14 THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMEN: T. those who profess it; but it probably does not often prompt to a good political action, and it certainly never restrains from a bad one. Among Canadians, as Among American politicians, the most “truly loyal” are often the most unscrupu- lous and corrupt. They are often, through the whole course of their public lives, disloyal to everything that represents public honor and the public good. <A provincial court adds flunkeyism to demagogism without making the demagogue less profligate, less dangerous, or less vile. It does not even make him less coarse. No refining influence can really be exercised by a few dinners and receptions even over the small circle which attends them; while the social expenditure and display which are imposed on the Governor-Gen- eral as the condition of his popularity in the colony, and of the maintenance of his reputation at home, are anything but a wholesome example for colonial society, which on the contrary needs an example of hospitality and social enjoyment cultivated in an easy and inexpensive way. At present the bane of Canada is party gov- ernment without any question on which parties can be rationally or morally based. The last question of sufficient importance to form a ra- tional and moral basis for a party was that of the Clergy Reserves and the Church Establishment, since the settlement of which there has been ab- solutely no dividing line between the parties or assignable ground for their existence, and they have become mere factions, striving to engross the prizes of office by the means which faction everywhere employs. The consequences are the increasing ascendency of the worst men, and the political demoralization of a community, which, if a fair chance were given it, would furnish as sound a basis for good government as any com- munity in the world. Of course, England cannot be charged with introducing the party system into Canada ; but she does fling over it the glamour of British association, and beguile a country really abandoned to all the instability and all the de- grading influences of government by faction with the ostensible stability and dignity of the he- reditary crown. Indeed, the provision in the draught of confederation that both the parties should be considered in the first nomination of senators is, perhaps, the only authoritative recog- nition which the party system has ever received. In common with the other colonies, Canada is deemed happy in being endowed with a counter- part of the British Constitution. The British Constitution, putting aside the legal forms and phrases, is government by party; and whatever | government by party may be in England, where there are some party questions left, in Canada it is a most noxious absurdity, and is ruining the political character of the people. When Canadian Nationalists say that patr. otism is a good thing, they are told to keep their wisdom for the copy-books; and the rebuke would be just if those who administer it would | recognize the equally obvious truth that there | can be no patriotism without nationality. Ina de pendency there is no love of the country, no pride | in the country ; if an appeal is made to the name of the country, no heart responds as the heart of an Englishman responds when an appeal is made to the name of England. In a dependency every bond is stronger than that of country, every inten est prevails over that of the country. The prov. ince, the sect, Orangism, Fenianism, Freemasonry, Odd-Fellowship, are more to the ordinary Cana dian than Canada. So it must be while the only antidote to sectionalism in a population with strongly-marked differences of race and creed is the sentiment of allegiance to a distant throne. The young Canadian leaving his native country to seek his fortune in the States feels no greater wrench than a young Englishman would feel in ‘leaving his county to seek his fortune in London, Want of nationality is attended, too, with a cer- tain want of self-respect, not only ‘political but social, as writers on colonial society and character have observed. Wealthy men in a dependency are inclined to look to the imperial country as their social centre and the goal of their social ambition, if not as their ultimate abode, and not only their patriotic munificence but their political and social services are withdrawn from the coum try of their birth. Mr. Trollope finds himself compelled to com fess that in passing from the United States into Canada you pass “from a richer country into one that is poorer, from a greater country into one that is less.” You pass from a country embrace ing in itself the resources of a continent, into one which is a narrow section of that continent cut * off commercially from the rest; you pass from @ country which is a nation into a country which is _ not a nation. " On the other hand, there were reasons which, not only to patriotic Canadians, but to patriotic Americans, if they took a comprehensive view of

wishing that Canada should remain politically

the interests of their country, seemed strong fog separate from the United States. Democracy i i a great experiment, which might be more safely — carried on by two nations than by one. By emt BRPaS BpPBSeB eB Be Tae ea F&F

Page 15

a8 BeSeESPASSSRSR ee SLE RE = PEREESHR ESS - Ts Sea A SKF Fe REP SBE S FP THE POLITICAL DESTINY OF CANADA. 15 lation, mutual warning and correction, mutual supplementation of defects, they might have helped each other in the race and steadied each other’s steps; a balance of opinion might have been established on the continent, though a bal- ance of power cannot; and the wave of domi- nant sentiment which spreads over that vast democracy like the tide running in over a flat, might have been usefully restricted in its sweep by the dividing line. Nor was there any insur- mountable obstacle in the way. Canada is want- ing in unity of race; but not more so than Switz- erland, whose three races have been thoroughly welded together by the force of nationality. She is wanting in compactness of territory, but not more so, perhaps, than some other nations— Prussia, for instance—have been. In this latter respect, however, the situation has been seriously altered by the annexation of Manitoba and Brit- ish Columbia, which in their present raw condi- tion have no influence beyond that of distant pos- sessions, but which, when peopled and awakened to commercial life, will be almost irresistibly attracted by the economical forces to the States which adjoin them on the south, and will thus endanger the cohesion of the whole confederacy. The very form of the Dominion indeed, drawn out and attenuated as it is by these unnatural additions, apart from the attractive influence of Minnesota and California, would seriously imperil its political unity, as will be seen, if, instead of taking Canada as it is presented by the political map, the boundary-line is drawn between the habitable portion and that which belongs only to arctic frosts. In the debate on confederation it was urged by the advocates of the measure that seven sticks, though separately weak, when bound together in a fagot would be strong. “ Yes,” was the reply, “ but not so seven fishing-rods tied together by the ends.” As to the expense of a national government, it would probably not be greater than that of the governor-generalship and the seven lieutenant- governorships is at present. Diplomacy in these days of rapid communication may be cheaply done, and Canada would not need much of it: she has no Eastern question. The question of military security has refer- ence solely to the danger to be apprehended on the side of the United States; and danger on the side of the United States, supposing Canada dis- entangled from English quarrels, we believe that there is none. The Americans, as has been repeatedly observed, have since the fall of slavery given every proof of an unambitious disposition. They disbanded their vast armaments immedi- ately on the close of the civil war, without wait- ing even for the Alabama question to be settled; they have refused to annex St. Domingo; they have observed a policy of strict non-intervention in the case of Cuba, which they might have made their own with the greatest ease; they have de- clined to take advantage of the pretexts fur- nished them in abundance, by border outrages, of conquering Mexico ; it is very doubtful whether they would even have purchased Alaska, if Mr. Seward had not drawn them by secret negotia- tions into a position from which they could not well retreat. Slavery wanted conquest for the creation of new slave States, but with slavery the spirit of aggression appears to have died. Wel- come Canada into the Union, if she came of her own accord, the Americans no doubt would. They would be strangely wanting in wisdom if they did not; for she would bring them as her dower not only complete immunity from attack and great economical advantages, but a political accession of the most valuable kind in the shape of a population, not like that of St. Domingo, Cuba, or Mexico, but trained to self-government, and capable of lending fresh strength and vitality to republican institutions. It is true that, slavery having been abolished, the urgent need of adding to the number of the free States in order to counterbalance the extension of slavery in the councils of the Union no longer exists; but there are still in the population of the United Siates large elements essentially non-republican — the Irish, the emigrants from Southern Germany, the negroes—to which, perhaps, may be added a con- siderable portion of Southern society itself, which ean hardly fail to retain something of its old character while it continues to be composed of a superior and inferior race. Against these non- republican elements, the really republican ele- ment still needs to be fortified by all the reén- forcements which it can obtain. Welcome Can- ada, therefore, into the Union the’Americans no doubt would. But that they have the slightest inclination to lay violent hands upon her, that such a thought ever enters their minds, no one who has lived among them, and heard the daily utterances of a by no means reticent people, can believe. Apart from moral principle, they know that, though a despotic government may simply annex, a republic must incorporate, and that to incorporate four millions of unwilling citizens would be to introduce into the republic a most dangerous mass of disaffection and disunion. That the Americans have been litigious in their

Page 16

16 dealings with Canada is true; but litigiousness is not piracy; and, as we have already said, the real object of their irritation has not been Canada, but England. The Monroe doctrine was held by Canning as well as by Monroe ; and, irrespectively of any desire of aggrandizement, the intrusion of an American power here would probably give as much umbrage to England as the intrusion of the English power in their own continent gives to the people of the United States. That the Ameri- cans would feel pride in behaving generously toward a weaker state, will appear credible only to those who have seen enough of them to know that, though supposed to care for nothing but the dollar, they have in reality a good deal of pride. As an independent nation, Canada would, of course, be at liberty to negotiate freely for the removal of the customs-line between herself and the United States, and for her admission to all the commercial advantages of her own continent At present not only is she trammeled by imperi- al considerations, but it can hardly be expected that the American Government will place itself on a lower international level than that of England by treating with a dependency as a nation, espe- cially as there are constant intimations that the dependency is retained and is being nursed up with the view of making it a rival power to the United States, and thus introducing into the con- tinent the germs of future jealousy, and possibly of war. That Canada can ever be made a rival power to the United States—that, if she is only kept long enough in a state of dependence, there will be an indefinite increase of her population and her strength—seems to be little better than a rhetorical fancy. The barrier of slavery being removed, the set of population is likely to be, not toward the frozen north, where the winter, be- sides suspending labor and business, eats up the’ produce of the summer in the cost of fuel, but toward those countries in which warmth is pro- vided by the sun, and work may be carried on during the whole year. The notion that the north is the natural seat of empire seems to have no more solid foundation. It is apparently a loose generalization from the success of the northern tribes which conquered the Roman Empire. It is forgotten that those northern warriors had not only been hardened by exposure to the full sever- ity of the northern climate, but picked by the most rigorous process of natural selection. Stove- heat is not less enervating than the heat of the sun. But a nation Canada, so far as we can see, might have been, had the attempt been vigorous- | THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. ly made at the propitious moment, when, to the effects of the civil war in the United the balance of prosperity was decidedly in hep favor, when her financial condition appeared im. mensely superior to that of her neighbor, and when the spirit of her people had been stirred by confederation. That opportunity was allowed to pass, and, in all probability, it will never re turn. A movement in favor of nationality there wag —one which had a twofold claim to sympathy, because it was also a movement against faction and corruption, and which, though it has failed, has left honorable traces on public life. But it was not strong enough to make head against the influences which have their centre in the little court of Ottawa, and the attacks of the lower class of politicians, who assailed it with the ut most ferocity, seeing clearly that the success of the higher impulse would not suit their game Moreover, the French province interposed be tween the British provinces of the east and west, is a complete non-conductor, and prevents any pulsation from running through the whole body, It must further be owned that, in industrial com- munities, the economical motives are stronger than the political, and that the movement in fa — vor of Canadian nationality had only political motives on its side. Perhaps the appearance of a great man might after all have turned the scale; but dependencies seldom produce great men. Had the movement in favor of nationality succeeded, the first step would have been a legis- lative union, which would in time have quelled sectionalism, and made up for the deficiency of material size and force by moral solidity and unity of spirit. Canada, as was said before, # hardly a proper subject for federal government, : which requires a more numerous group of and greater equality between them. Confederation — as it exists, we repeat, has done little more they 3 develop the bad side of democratic government A project is now on foot for a legislative union — between Nova Scotia, New Brunswick, and Prince Edward’s Island; but this will only make mat — ters worse by reducing the number of important states to three (Manitoba and British Columbia being in the merest infancy), two of which will be always combining against the third. That ; there would have been opposition to a legislative — union of the whole of Canada on the part of Que — bec is more than probable ; but Quebec, if she had been handled with determination, would most likely have given way.

Page 17

REF SERSER ESR SSGFe RSE S EFA PARSER TE oe Rey Ae Ve THE POLITICAL DESTINY OF CANADA. 17 Canadian nationality being a lost cause, the ultimate union of Canada with the United States appears now to be morally certain ; so that noth- ing is left for Canadian patriotism but to provide that it shall be a union indeed, and not an annex- ation ; an equal and honorable alliance like that of Scotland and England, not a submission of the weaker to the stronger; and at the same time that the political change shall involve no change of any other kind in the relations of Canada with her mother-country. The filaments of union are spreading daily, though they may be more visible to the eye of one who sees Canada at intervals than to that of a constant resident. Intercourse is being increased by the extension of railways; the ownership and management of the railways themselves are forming an American interest in Canada; New York is becoming the pleasure, and, to some extent, even the business, capital of Canadians ; American watering-places are be- coming their summer resort ; the periodical lit- erature of the States, which is conducted with extraordinary spirit and ability, is extending its circulation on the nprthern side of the line; and the Canadians who settle in the States are multi- plying the links of family connection between the two countries. To specify the time at which a political event will take place is hardly ever pos- sible, however assured the event itself may be ; and in the present instance the occurrence depends not only on the circumstances of Canada, where, as we have seen, there is a great complication of secondary forces, but on the circumstances of the United States. If the commercial depression which at present prevails in Canada continues or recurs, if Canadian manufactures are seen to be dying under the pressure of the customs-line ; if, owing to the depression or to over-costly under- takings, such as the Pacific Railway, financial dif- ficulties arise ; if, meantime, the balance of pros- perity, which is now turning, shall have turned decisively in favor of the United States, and the reduction of their debt shall have continued at the present rate—the critical moment may arrive, and the politicians, recognizing the voice of Des- tiny, may pass in a body to the side of conti- nental union. It will be fortunate if a misunder- standing between the Canadian Government and Downing Street, about some question such as that respecting the pecuniary claims of British Colum- bia, which is now assuming such exaggerated pro- portions, does not supervene to make the final dissolution of the political tie a quarrel instead of an amicable separation. To Canada the economical advantages of con- tinental union will be immense; to the United States its general advantages will be not less so. To England it will be no menace, but the re- verse: it will be the introduction into the coun- cils of the United States, on all questions, com- mercial as well as diplomatic, of an element friend- ly to England, the influence of which will be worth far more to her than the faint and invidious chance of building up Canada as a rival to the United States. In case of war, her greatest dan- ger will be removed. She will lose neither wealth nor strength; probably she will gain a good deal of both. As to glory, we cannot do better than quote in conclusion the words of Palmerston’s favorite colleague, and the man to whom he, as was generally supposed, wished to bequeath his power: “There are supposed advantages flowing from the possession of dependencies, which are ex- pressed in terms so general and vague that they cannot be referred to any determinate head. Such, for example, is the glory which a country is sup- posed to derive from an extensive colonial empire. We will merely remark, upon this imagined advan- tage, that a nation derives no true glory from any possession which produces no assignable advantage to itself or to other communities. Ifa country pos- sesses a dependency from which it derives no pub- lic revenue, no military or naval strength, and no commercial advantages or facilities for emigration, which it would not equally enjoy though the de- pendency were independent, and if, moreover, the dependency suffers the evils which (as we shall show hereafter) are the almost inevitable conse- quences of its political condition, such a possession cannot justly be called glorious.” —The Fortnightly Review.

Page 18

THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. “CRAM.” By Pror. W. STANLEY JEVONS, HUMAN institution has, like man, its seven ages. In its infancy, unknown and unno- ticed, it excites in youth some interest and surprise. Advancing toward manhood, every one is forward in praising its usefulness. As it grows up and be- comes established, the popular tone begins to change. Some people are unavoidably offended or actually injured by a new institution, and, as it grows older and more powerful, these people become more numerous. In proportion to the success of an undertaking will be the difficulties and jealousies which are encountered. It be- comes the interest of certain persons to find out the weak points of the system, and turn them to their private advantage. Thus the institu- tion reaches its critical age, which safely sur- mounted, it progresses through a prosperous mid- dle life to a venerable old age of infirmities and abuses, dying out in the form of a mere sur- vival. There is no difficulty in seeing what period of life the examination-system has now reached. It is that critical age at which its progress is so marked as to raise wide-spread irritation. To abuse examinations is one of the most popular commonplaces of public speeches and after-din- ner conversation. Everybody has something to say in dispraise, and the reason is pretty obvious. Many persons have been inconvenienced by ex- aminations ; some regret the loss of patronage; others the loss of patrons and appointments; schoolmasters do not like having their work rude- ly tested—they feel the competition of more far- sighted teachers who have adapted themselves betimes to a new state of things. In these and other ways it arises that a formidable minority actually have good grounds for hating examina- tions. They make their feelings widely known, and the general public, ever ready to grumble at a novelty of which they hear too niuch, and do not precisely appreciate the advantages, take up the burden of the complaint. Fortunately, too, for the opponents of exam- ination, an admirable “cry” has been found. Examination, they say, leads to “cram,” and “cram” is the destruction of true study. Peo- ple who know nothing else about examination know well enough that it is “cram.” The word ‘has all the attributes of a perfect question-begging | epithet. It is short, emphatic, and happily de rived from a disagreeable physical metaphor, Ae cordingly, there is not a respectable gentleman distributing prizes to a body of scholars at the end of the session, and at a loss for something — to say, who does not think of this word “ cram,” and proceed to expatiate on the evils of the ex- amination-system. I intend in this article to take up the less popular view of the subject and say what I can in favor of examinations. I wish to analyze the meaning of the word “ cram,” and decide, if pos sible, whether it is the baneful thing that so many people say. There is no difficulty in seeing at once that “cram” means two different things, which I will call “ good cram” and “ bad cram.” A candidate, preparing for an important competiy tive examination, may put himself under a tutor well skilled in preparing for that examination, This tutor looks for success by carefully directing — the candidate’s studies into the most “ paying” lines, and restricting them rigorously to those lines, The training given may be of an arduous, thorough character, so that the faculties of the — pupil are stretched and exercised to their utmost — in those lines. This would be called “cram” because it involves exclusive devotion to the am swering of certain examination-papers, I callit “ good cram.” “ Bad cram,” on the other hand, consists in temporarily impressing upon the candidates mind a collection of facts, dates, or formula held in a wholly undigested state and ready tobe — disgorged in the examination-room by an act of mere memory. A candidate, unable to - hend the bearing of Euclid’s reasoning in first book of his “Elements,” may learn the propositions off by heart, diagrams, letters, and — all, like a Sunday-scholar learning the col ; and gospels. Dates, rules of grammar, and the like, may be “ crammed ” by mnemonic lines, OF j by one of those wretched systems of : ‘ memory, teachers of which are always gomg about. In such ways it is, I believe, possible @ give answers which simulate knowledge, and more prove true knowledge than the chat of a parrot proves intellect. . Iam far from denying the existence of “ cram ” of: this character, but I.hold that it

Page 19

BES Age 8 SRURERESE PERS RSE EET “ ORAM.” 19 never be advantageously resorted to by those who are capable of “good cram.” To learn a | proposition of Euclid by heart is far more labo- rious than for a student of moderate capacity to master the nature of the reasoning. It is ob- vious that all advantages, even in an examina- tional point of view, are on the side of real knowledge. The slightest lapse of memory in the bad “crammer”—for instance, the putting of wrong letters in the diagram—will disclose the simulated character of his work, and the least change in the conditions of the proposition set will frustrate his mnemonic devices altogeth- er. If papers be set which really can be an- swered by mere memory, the badness is in the examiners. Thorough blockheads may be driven to the worst kind of “ cram,” simply because they can do nothing better. Nor do the blockheads suffer harm ; to exercise the memory is better than to leave the brain wholly at rest. Some qualities of endurance and resolution must be called into ex- istence before a youth can go through the dreary work of learning off by heart things of which he has no comprehension. Nor with examiners of the least intelligence is there any reason to fear that the best-directed “ bad cram ” will enable a really stupid candidate to carry off honors and appointments due to others. No examination- papers, even for junior candidates, should consist entirely of “ book-work,” such as to be answered by the simple reproduction of the words in a text- book. In every properly-conducted examination, questions are, as a matter of course, set to test the candidate’s power of applying his knowledge to cases more or less different from those de- scribed in the books. Moreover, good examiners always judge answers by their general style, as well as by their contents. It is really impossible that a stupid, slovenly candidate ean, by any art of “cramming,” be enabled to produce the neat, brief, pertinent essay, a page or two long, which wins marks from the admiring examiners. If we may judge from experience, too, “ bad cram” does not pay from the tutor’s point of view. That this is so, we may learn from the fact that slow, ignorant pupils are ruthlessly re- jected by the great “coaches.” Those who have their reputation and their living to make by the Cuseens of their candidates cannot afford to waste their labor upon bad material. Thus, it is not the stupid who fo to the “cramming” tutors to be forced over the heads of the clever, but it is the clever ones who go to secure the highest Places. Long before the critical days of the of- ficial examination, the experienced “coach” se- lected his men almost as carefully as if he were making up the university boat. There is hardly a university or a college in the kingdom which imposes any selective process of the sort. An entrance or matriculation examination, if it exists at all, is little better than a sham. All comers are gladly received to give more fees and the ap- pearance of prosperity. Thus, it too often hap- pens that the bulk of a college class consists of untutored youths, through whose ears the learned instructions of the professor pass, harmlessly it may be, but uselessly. Parents and the public have little idea how close a resemblance there is between teaching and writing on the sands of the sea, unless either there is a distinct capacity for learning on the part of the pupil, or some system of examination and reward to force the pupil to apply. For these and other reasons which might be urged, I do not consider it worth while to con- sider “ bad cram” any further. I pass on to in- quire whether “ good cram” is an objectionable form of education. The good “ cramming” tutor or lecturer is one whose, object is to enable his pupils to take a high place in the list. With this object he carefully ascertains the scope of the ex- amination, scrutinizes past papers, and estimates in every possible way the probable character of . future papers. He then trains his pupils in each branch of atudy with an intensity proportioned to the probability that questions will be asked in that branch. It is too much to assume that this training will be superficial. On the contrary, though narrow, it will probably be intense and deep. It will usually consist, to a considerable extent, in preliminary examinations, intended both to test and train the pupil in the art of writing answers. The great “ coaches ”’ at Cambridge, in former days, might be said to proceed by a con- stant system of examination, oral instruction or simple reading being subordinate to the solving of innumerable problems. The main question which I have to discuss, then, resolves itself into this: Whether intense training, directed to the passing of certain defined examinations, constitutes real education. The popular opponents of “cram” imply that it does not; I maintain that it does. It happened that, just as I was about to write this article; the Home Secretary presided at the annual prize-distribution in the Liverpool Col- lege, on the 22d of December, 1876, and took oc- casion to make the usual remarks about “ cram.” He expressed with admirable clearness the pre- vailing complaints against examinations, and I shall

Page 20

20 therefore take the liberty of making his speech in some degree my text. “ Examination is not educa- tion,” he said; “you require a great deal more than that. As well as being examined, you must be taught. . . . In the great scramble for life, there is a notion at the present moment of getting hold of as much general superficial knowledge as you can. That, to my mind, is a fatal mistake. On the other hand, there is a gfeat notion that if you can get through your examination, and ‘cram up’ a subject very well, you are being educated. That, too, is a most fatal mistake. There is nothing which would delight me so much, if I were an examiner, as to baffle all the ‘ cram- ming’ teachers whose pupils came before me.” (Laughter. ) Let us consider what Mr. Cross really means. Examination, he says, is not education ; we re- quire a great deal more—we must be taught as well as be examined. With equal meaning, I might say: “ Beef is not dinner; we want a great deal more—we must have potatoes, bread, pud- ding, and the like.” Nevertheless, beef is a prin- cipal part of dinner. Nobody, I should think, ever asserted or imagined that examination alone was education, but I nevertheless hold that it is one of the chief elements of an effective educa- tion. As Mr. Cross himself said, in an carlier . part of his speech: “The examination is a touch- stone and test which shows the broad distinction between good and bad. . . . You may manage to scramble through your lessons in the ‘ half,’ but I will defy you to get through your examinations if you do not know the subjects.” Another remark of Mr. Cross leads me to the main point of the subject. He said: “It is quite necessary in the matter of teaching that whatever is taught must be taught well, and nothing that is taught well can be taught ina hurry. It must be taught not simply for the examination, but it must sink into your minds, and stay there for life.” Both in this and his other remarks, Mr. Cross commits himself to the popular but wholly erro- neous notion that what boys learn at school and college should be useful knowledge indelibly im- pressed upon the mind, so as to stay there all their lives, and be ready at their fingers’ ends. The real point of the objections to examination commonly is, that the candidate learns things for the examination only, which, when {t is safely passed, he forgets again as speedily as possible. Mr. Cross would teach so deliberately and thor- oughly that the very facts taught could not be for- gotten, but must ever after crop up in the mind whatever we are doing. THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. I hold that remarks such as these proceed from a wholly false view of the nature and poses of education. It is implied that the mind jp early life is to be stored with the identical facts and bits of knowledge which are to be used in after-life. It is, in fact, Mr. Cross and those who think with him who advocate a kind of “ cram,” enduring it is true, but still “bad cram.” The true view of education, on the contrary, is to re gard it as a course of training. The youth ing gymnasium practises upon the horizontal bar, in order to develop his muscular powers generally ; he does not intend to go on posturing upon hori zontal bars all through life. School is a place where the mental fibres are to be exercised, trained, expanded, developed, and strengthened, not “crammed” or loaded with “useful knowl edge.” The whole of a youth's subsequent career is one long course of technical “ cramming” in which any quantity of useful facts are supplied to him nolens volens. Thé merchant gets his technical knowledge at the clerk’s desk, the bar- rister in the conveyancer’s offices or the law courts, the engineer in the workshop and the field. It is the very purpose of a liberal educa- tion, as it is correctly called, to develop and train the plastic fibres of the youthful brain, so as to prevent them taking too early a definite “set,” which will afterward narrow and restrict the range of acquisition and judgment. I will even go so far as to say that it is hardly desirable for the actual things taught at school to stay in the mind for life. The source of error is the failure to distinguish between the form and the matter of knowledge, between the facts themselves and the manner in which the mental powers deal with facts. It is wonderful that Mr. Cross and those who moralize in his strain do not perceive that the actual facts which a man deals with in life are infinite in number, and cannot be remembered in a finite brain. The psychologists, too, seem t me to be at fault in this matter, for they have not sufficiently drawn attention to the varying degrees of duration required in a well-organized memory. We commonly use the word memory so as to cover the faculties of retention, reprodue- tion, and representation, as described by Hamil- ‘ ton, and very little consideration will show that in different cases we need the powers of retem 2 tion, of suggestion, and of imagination, in very different degrees. In some cages we require — remember a thing only a few moments, or afew 4 minutes; in other cases a few hours or days;

Page 21

BPsSFEePSaRsseS es SETS: “ CORAM.” 21 yet other cases a few weeks or months: it is an infinitesimally small part of all our mental impres- sions which can be profitably remembered for years. Memory may be too retentive, and fa- cility of forgetting and of driving out one train of ideas by a new train is almost as essential to a well-trained intellect as facility of retention. Take the case of a barrister in full practice, who deals with several cases in a day. His busi- ness is to acquire as rapidly as possible the facts of the case immediately before him. With the powers of representation of a well-trained mind he holds these facts steadily before him, com- paring them with each other, discovering their relations, applying to them the principles and rules of law more deeply graven on his memory, or bringing them into connection with a few of the more prominent facts of previous cases which he happens to remember. For the details of laws and precedents he trusts to his text-writers, the statute book, and his law-library. Even before the case is finished his mind has probably sifted out the facts and rejected the unimportant ones by the law of obliviscence. One case done wifh, he takes up a wholly new series of facts, and so from day to day, and from month to month, the matter before him is constantly changing. The same remarks are even more true of a busy and able administrator like Mr. Cross. The points which come before him are infinite in variety. The facts of each case are rapidly brought to his notice by subordinates, by correspondents, by de- bates in the House, by deputations and interviews, or by newspaper reports. Applying well-trained powers of judgment to the matter in hand, he makes a rapid decision and passes to the next piece of business. It would be fatal to Mr. Cross if he were to allow things to sink deep into his mind and stay there. There would be no difficul- ty in showing that in like manner, but in varying degrees, the engineer, the physician, the mer- chant, even the tradesman or the intelligent arti- san, deals every day with various combinations of facts which cannot all be stored up in the cere- bral framework, and certainly need not be so. The bearing of these considerations upon the subject of examinations ought to be very evident. For what is “cram” but the rapid acquisition of a series of facts, the vigorous getting up of a case, m order to exhibit well-trained powers of com- prehension, of judgment, and of retention, before an examiner? The practised barrister “crams” up his “brief” (so called because, as some sup- pose, made brief for the purpose), and stands an examination in it before a judge and jury. The ; candidate is not so hurried ; he spends months, or it may be two or three years, in getting up his differential calculus, or his inorganic chemistry. It is quite likely that when the ordeal is passed, and the favorable verdict delivered, he will dis- miss the equations, and the salts, and the com- pounds, from his mind as rapidly as possible; but it does not follow that the useful effect of his training vanishes at the same time. If so, it fol- lows that almost all the most able and successful men of the present day threw away their pains at school and college. I suppose that no one ever heard of a differential equation solving a nice point of law, nor is it common to hear Sophocles and Tacitus quoted by a leading counsel. Yet it can hardly be denied that our greatest barristers and judges were trained in the mathematical sciences, or, if not, that their teachers thought the classics a better training-ground. If things taught at school and college are to stay in the mind to serve us in the business of life, then al- most all the higher education yet given in this kingdom has missed its mark. I come to the conclusion, then, that well- ordered education is a severe system of well-sus- tained “cram.” Mr. Herbert Spencer holds that the child’s play simulates the actions and exer- cises of the man. So I would hold that the agony of the examination-room is an anticipation of the . struggles of life. All life is a long series of com- petitive examinations. The barrister before the jury; the preacher in his pulpit; the merchant on the Exchange-flags ; the member in the House —all are going in for their “ little goes,” and their “great goes,” and their “triposes.” And I un- hesitatingly assert that, as far as experience can guide us, or any kind of reasoning enable us to infer, well-conducted competitive examinations be- fore able examiners are the best means of training and the best method of selection for those who are to be foremost in the battle of life. I will go a step further, and assert that exam- ination in one form or another is not only an in- dispensable test of results, but it is a main element in training. It represents the active use of fac- ulties as contrasted with that passive use which too often resolves itself into letting things come in at one ear and go out at the other. Those who discuss examinations in the public papers seem to think that they are held occasionally and for the sole purpose of awarding prizes and appointments. But in every well-ordered course of instruction there ought to be, and there usually are, frequent less formal examinations of which outsiders hear nothing. The purposes of these

Page 22

92 THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. examinations are manifold: they test the progress of the class, and enable the teacher to judge whether he is pursuing a right course at a right speed; they excite emulation in the active and able; they touch the pride even of those who do not love knowledge much, but still do not like to write themselves down absolute blockheads; and they are in themselves an exercise in English composition, in the control of the thoughts, and the aseful employment of knowledge. In direct educational effect a written examination may be worth half a dozen lectures. Mr. Cross says that examination is not education; I say that it is. Of course, you cannot examiné upon nothing, just as you cannot grind flour in a mill unless you put the grain in. Nevertheless, examination in some form or other represents the really active grinding process in the pupil’s mind. It is not merely that which goes into the eyes and ears of a student which educates him; it is that which comes out. <A student may sit on the lecture-room benches and hear every word the teacher utters; but he may carry away as much useful effect as the drowsy auditor of a curate’s sermon. To instruct a youth in gymnastics, you do not merely explain orally that he is to climb up one pole, and come down another, and leap over a third. You make him do these motions over and over again, and the education is in the exertion. So intellectual education is measured not by words heard or read, but by thoughts ex- cited. In some subjects mental exertion in the pupil is called forth by the working of problems and exercises. These form a kind of continuous examination, which should accompany every lect- ure. Arithmetic is only to be learned by sums upon the schoolboy’s slate, and it is the infinite variety of mathematical tasks, from common addition upward, which makes mathematical sci- ence the most powerful training-ground of the in- tellect. The late Prof. De Morgan was probably the greatest teacher of mathematics who ever lived. He considered it requisite that students should attend his expository lectures for an hour and a quarter every day; but he always gave an abundance of exercises as well, which, if fully worked out, would take at least as long, and often twice as long, a time. Exercises are the sheet- anchor of the teacher, and in this: way only can we explain the extraordinary propensity of clas- sical teachers toward Latin verses. As I have heard such teachers explain, verses though use- Jess in every other way afford a definite measura- ble amount of exercise—a manageable classical treadmill. For many years past it was my duty

to teach several subjects—logic, mental ang , moral philosophy, and political economy, Er perience made me acutely aware of the very dif. ferent educational values of these diverse guh jects. Logie is by far the best, because wheg properly taught it admits of the same active training by exercises and problems that we find im mathematics. It is no doubt necessary that some instruction should also be given to senior students in philosophy and political economy; but it is difficult in these subjects to make the student think for himself. Examination, then, represents the active as opposed to the passive part of education, and, in answer to Mr. Crogs’s statement that examination is not education, J venture to repeat that, in some form or other, examination is the most powerful and essential means of training the intellect. T now pass on to the wholly different question whether open competitive examinations are the best means of selecting men for important ap- pointments, In this view of examinations the educational results are merely incidental, and the main object is to find an impartial mode of put ting the right man into the right place, and thus avoiding the nepotism and corruption which are almost inseparable from other methods of ap- pointment. At first sight it might seem absurd to put a man in a position requiring judgment and tact and knowledge of the world because he answers rightly a few questions about mathe matics and Greek. The head-master of a great school succeeds not by the teaching of the higher forms, but by the general vigor and discretion of his management. He is an administrator, nota pedagogue ; then why choose a high wrangler, because of his command over differential equa- tions? Why make a young man a magistrate in Bengal, because of his creditable translations from the classics, or his knowledge of English history? Would it not be far better to select men directly for any success which they have shown in the management of business exactly analogous to that they will have to perform? Experience must decide in such matters, and 3 it seems to decide conclusively in favor of exam nations. Public opinion and practice, at any rate, are in favor of this conclusion. For a long time — back the honors’ degrees of Oxford and Cam bridge have been employed as a means of selec % tion. It does not, of course, follow that a high — wrangler, or a double first, will suit every im portant position; but it is almost always @% ~ pected nowadays that a man applying for a high post shall have some high degree. Even those ~

-e-reaoopeprerscontw#nf&eeawtse a.

Page 23

“ Ser rer reser a SSREE & RPE Faeaeie class eter es ES LASS eS EERSTE ay Sheng “ CRAM.” 23 who are unfettered in their powers of appoint- | aminations must be looked upon as tests of gen- ment will seldom now appoint a young man to a conspicuous post unless his degree will justify the appointment in the eyes of the public. The President of the Council, for instance, is unre- stricted in the choice of school-inspectors, but he practically makes a high degree a sine gua non, Not only does he thus lessen his responsi- bility very greatly, and almost entirely avoid sus- picion of undue influence, but the general success and ability of those appointed in this manner fully bear out the wisdom of the practice. The fact seems to be, that the powers which enable a man to take a conspicuous place in a fierce competitive examination are closely cor- related, if they be not identical, with those lead- ing to success in the battle of life. It might be expectéd that a high wrangler, or a double first, would generally be a weakly bookworm, pre- maturely exhausted by intense study, unable to expand his mind beyond his books, and deficient in all the tact and worldly knowledge to be ac- quired by mixing in the business of life. But experience seems to negative such ideas. The weakly men are weeded out before they get to the final struggle, or break down in the course of it. The true bookworm shows himself to be a bookworm, and does not fight his way to a high place. Success in a severe examination re- quires, as a general rule, a combination of robust physical health, good nerve, great general energy, and powers of endurance and perseverance, added to pure intellectual ability. There are, of course, exceptions in all matters of this sort, but, so far as we can lay down rules in human affairs, it is the mens sana in corpore sano which carries a candidate to the higher part of the list. A man must not always be set down as a blockhead because he cannot stand the examina- tion-room. Some men of extensive knowledge and much intelligence lose their presence of mind altogether when they see the dreadful paper. They cannot command their thoughts during the few hours when their success in life is at stake. The man who trembles at the sight of the paper is probably defective in the nerve and moral courage so often needed in the business of life. It by no means follows, again, that the man of real genius will take a conspicuous place in the list, His peculiar abilities will often lie in a narrow line, and be correlated with weakness in other directions. His powers can only be ren- dered patent in the course of time. It is well known that some of the most original mathema- ticians were not senior wranglers. Public ex- eral rather than special abilities ; talent, strength, and soundness of constitution win the high place —powers which can be developed in any direction in after-life. If evidence were needed to support this view of the matter, it is amply afforded by the recent parliamentary report on the education and train- ing of candidates for the Indian Civil Service. Whatever may be thought as to the details of the methods of training, which have been recently modified, there can be no doubt that this report is conclusive as to the success of examinational selection. The ability of the statements furnished to this report, by officers appointed by open com- petition, goes far to prove the success of the sys- tem. It is impossible to imagine a severer test than that system has passed through in the case of the Indian Civil Service. Young men selected for the amount of Latin, Greek, mathematics, French, German, logic, political economy, ete., which they could “ cram up,” have been sent out at twenty-one or twenty-three years of age, and thrown at once into a new world, where it is dif- ficult to imagine that their “ crammed” knowl- edge could be of the least direct use. There they have been brought into contact with a large body of older officers, appointed under a different system, and little prejudiced in favor of these “ Competition Wallahs.” Yet the evidence is overwhelming to the effect that these victims of “cram” have been successful in governing India, A large number of the best appointments have already been secured by them, although the sys- tem has only been in existence for twenty-two years, and seniority is naturally of much account. The number who are failures is very small, cer- tainly smaller than it would be under the patron- age system. It is impossible that I should, within the limits of this article, present the evidence accumulated on this subject. I must refer the reader to the “ Blue-book”’ itself, which is full of interest for all concerned in education.’ I must also refer the reader to the remarkably able essays on the subject, published by Mr. Alfred Cotterell Tupp, B. A., of the Bengal Civil Service,* to which essays I am indebted for some of my ideas on this subject. Mr. Tupp gives a powerful answer to the celebrated attack on the competi- tive system contained in the Edinburgh Review 1 The Selection and Training of Candidates for the In- dian Civil Service (C. 1,446). 1876. Price 3s. 5d. 2 The Indian Civil Service and the Competitive Sys- tem, a Discussion on the Examinations and the Training in England: London: R. W. Brydges, 187 Gower Street. | 1876.

Page 24

24 of April, 1874, He gives statistical tables and details concerning the careers of the men selected by competition, and a general account of the ex- aminations and of the organization in which the civil servant takes his place. The evidence against selection by competition seems to come to this, that, after a most complete inquiry, the worst that can be made out against the “ Competition Wallahs” is that some of them do not ride well and that there is a doubt in some cases about the polish of their manners, or the sweetness of their culture. Doubt, indeed, was thrown by some writers upon the physical suitability of selected candi- dates ; but on this point a most remarkable fact was brought to light. All the candidates for the Indian Civil Service have to undergo two strict medical examinations before Sir William Gull, so that this eminent physician is able to speak with rare authority as to the physical health of the candidates. This is what he says (Report, p. 36): “T still continue to be impressed with the fact that a sound physical constitution is a necessary element of success in these competitive examina- tions, The men who have been rejected have not failed from mere weakness of constitution, but (with only a solitary exception or two) from a mechanical defect in the valves of the heart in otherwise strong men, and, for the most part, traceable to over-muscular exercises. . . . There is a somewhat prevalent opinion that the courses of study now required for the public service are calculated to weaken the physical strength of can- didates. Experience does not only not confirm this, but abundantly proves that the course of life which conduces to sound intellectual training is equally favorable to the physical health of the student.” Unless, then, we are prepared to reject the opinion of the physician who has had the best possible means of forming a sound conclusion, a competitive examination is actually a good mode of selecting men of good physical health, so close- ly are the mental and bodily powers correlated as a general rule. It is impossible that I should, in a single arti- cle, treat of more than two or three of the prin- cipal arguments which may be urged in defense of the examination-system. Did space admit, I might go on to pcint out the great improvement which has taken place in education since effective examinations were established. The condition of Oxford and Cambridge as regards study in the present day may not be satisfactory, but it is cer- tainly far better than at the close of the last cen- THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. tury. The middle-class schools are yet far from what they ought to be, but the examination.ayg tem, set on foot by the old universities, is doing immense good, giving vigorous and definite pur. pose where before a schoolmaster had hardly any other object than to get easily through the “ half” Primary schools would for the most part be ag bad as the old dames’ schools, did not the visits of her majesty’s inspectors stir them up to some. thing better. In one and all of the grades of English education, to the best of my belief, ex. amination is the sheet-anchor to which we must look. I will not conclude without adverting briefly to a few of the objections urged against the ex. amination-system. Some of these are quite illu. sory ; others are real, though possibly exaggerated, No institution can be an unmixed good, and we must always strike a balance of advantage and disadvantage. One illusory objection, for in- stance, is urged by those who take the high mor- al ground and assert that knowledge should be pursued for its own sake, and not for the ulterior rewards connected with a high place in the ex- amination-list. The remarks of these people bring before the mind’s eye the pleasing picture ofa youth burning the midnight oil, after a sue- cessful search for his favorite authors. We have all of us heard how some young man became a great author, or a great philosopher, because, in the impressible time of boyhood, he was allowed to ransack the shelves of his ancestral library. I do not like to be cynical, but I cannot help as- serting that these youths, full of the sacred love of knowledge, do not practically exist. Somene doubt there are, but so small is the number with which the school or college teacher will meet in the course of his labors, that it is impossible to take them into account in the general system, Every teacher knows that the bulk of a junior class usually consists of intellects so blunt or 80 inactive that every kind of spur is useful to incite them to exertion. Nor do I believe that the few who are by na- ture ardent students need suffer harm from a well- devised system of university examinations. It is very pleasant to think of a young man pursuing a free and open range of reading in his ancestral library, following his native bent, and so forth; but such study directed to no definite objects ‘would generally be desultory and unproductive. He might obtain a good deal of elegant culture, but it is very doubtful whether he would acquire those powers of application and concentration of thought which are the basis of success in life. if

Page 25

SER Ses rks Pes - 5 Essfag = se Fs RASS es erO eae SF. “ ORAM.” ; 25 a man really loves study and has genius in him, he will find opportunities in after-life for indulg- ing his peculiar tastes, and will not regret the three or four years when his reading was severely restricted to the lines of examination. Of course, it is not desirable to force all minds through ex- actly the same grooves, and the immense pre- dominanee formerly given to mathematics at Cam- bridge could not be defended. But the schemes of examination at all the principal universities now offer many different branches in which dis- tinction may be gained. The main difficulty which I see in the exami- nation-system is that it makes the examiner the director of education in place of the teacher, whose liberty of instruction is certainly very much curtailed. Tie teacher must teach with a con- stant eye to the questions likely to be asked, if he is to give his pupils a fair chance of success, compared with others who are being specially “crammed” for the purpose. It is true that the teacher may himself be the examiner, but this destroys the value of the examination as a test or means of public selection. Much discussion might be spent, were space available, upon the question whether the teacher or the examiner is the proper person to define the lines of study. No doubt a teacher will generally teach best, and with most satisfaction to himself, when he can teach what he likes, and, in the case of university professors or other teachers of great eminence, any restriction upon their freedom may be unde- sirable. But as a general rule examiners will be more able men than teachers, and the lines of ex- amination are laid down either by the joint judg- ment of a board of eminent examiners, or by authorities who only decide after much consul- tation. The question, therefore, assumes this shape: Whether a single teacher, guided only by his own discretion, or whether a board of compe- tent judges, is most to be trusted in selecting profitable courses of study. Few have had better opportunity than I have enjoyed, both as teacher and examiner in philo- sophical and economical subjects, of feeling the difficulties connected with a system of examina- tion in these subjects. Some of these difficulties have been clearly expounded in the series of arti- cles upon the state of philosophical study at the different universities published in Jind. It is hardly needful to refer to the excellent discussion of the philosophical examination in the London University by the editor in No. IV. I should not venture to defend university examinations against all the objections which may be brought against them. My purpose is accomplished in attempt- ing to show that examination is the most effective way of enforcing a severe and definite training upon the intellect, and of selecting those for high position who show themselves best able to bear this severe test. It is the popular cry against “cram” that I have answered, and I will con- clude by expressing my belief that any mode of education which enables a candidate to take a leading place in a severe and well-conducted open examination must be a good system of education. Name it what you like, but it is impossible to deny that it calls forth intellectual, moral, and even physical powers, which are proved by un- questionable experience to fit men for the business of life. This is what I hold to be education. We can- not consider it the work of teachers to make philosophers and scholars and geniuses of various sorts ; these, like poets, are born, not made. Nor, as I have shown, is it the business of the educa- tor to impress indelibly upon the mind the useful knowledge which is to guide the pupil through life. This would be “cram” indeed. It is the purpose of education so to exercise the faculties of mind that the infinitely various experience of after-life may be observed and reasoned upon to the best effect. What is popularly condemned as*‘cram” is often the best-devised and best-con- ducted system of training toward this all-impor- tant end.— Mind.

Page 26

THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. THE RADIOMETER AND ITS LESSONS. By WILLIAM B. CARPENTER, M. D., F. RB. 8. OMEW AAT less than two years ago, the large | short distance, the flame of a spirit-lamp wag assemblage of scientific men gathered at the soirée of the Royal Society was startled at the sight of a phenomenon which was altogether new and strange to the great majority of them. In the interior of a thin glass globe, about the size of a small orange, prolonged below into a cylindrical stem by which it was supported on a stand, Mr. Crookes presented to our view an hor- izontal cross of four slender arms radiating at right angles from a common centre; the extrem- ity of each arm carried a thin disk about the size of a threepenny-piece, black on one side and white on the other, the black sides all facing alike; while beneath the centre was a pointed steel pivot, resting on a cup that formed the summit of a rod fixed into the cylindrical stem,! on which the cross with its terminal disks was free to revolve horizontally—exactly after the fashion (in miniature) of Dr. Robinson’s cup-an- emometer for recording the velocity of wind. The globe, Mr. Crookes informed us, had been exhausted of air to the utmost degree attainable by the “Sprengel pump” as improved by him- self, and had been then hermetically sealed. Without any other perceptible agency than the general light of the apartment, the cross slowly rotated horizontally in the direction of the white sides of the disks. When a candle was brought within a foot or so of the globe, the rotation became much quicker. When the candle was approximated to within two or three inches of the globe, the cross spun rapidly round. And when a piece of magnesium wire was burned close to it, the rapidity of the rotation became*so great that the disks could no longer be separately distinguished ! The effect was not perceptibly diminished by the interposition, between the globe and the can- die or other source of light, of a glass trough containing a solution of alum, which, while trans- parent to light, stops a large part of the radiant heat which accompanies it. And—what was yet more remarkable—if, while the cross was rotating rapidly under the influence of a candle within a 1In the radiometer as now constructed, the arms radiate from an inverted cup, which rests upon the pointed pivot—an arrangement that is in many re- spects more convenient. made to play over the surface of the globe, the rotation was checked in a very peculiar manner; the cross being, as it were, pulled up with a jerk. ing action, much as when the swinging of a com. pass-needle is stopped by the attraction of a mag. net brought near it. When, on the other hand, the spirit-lamp was withdrawn, the candle re. maining where it was, the rotation commenced anew as the globe cooled. It is scarcely surprising, then, that a general impression should have at once prevailed that a - capital discovery had been made—that of the direct mechanical action of light ; which, though not indicating the existence of a new force in Nature, showed that the most universally diffused of all forces, next to gravitation, has a mode of action which was previously not merely unknown, but altogether unsuspected. And this impres- sion was not confined to those who had onlya general acquaintance with physical optics ; for it was shared by the greatest masters of that de partment of science, who had followed the course of the experimental researches on whieh Mr. Crookes had been for some time engaged, and of which this discovery was the culmination. The origin of these researches was rather singular. In the course of the weighings made by Mr. Crookes to determine the atomic weight of the new metal thallium, his discovery of which by spectrum analysis had acquired for him de- served distinction as a chemist, he noticed that when the balance was inclosed in a case, and — the substance weighed was of a temperature higher than that of the surrounding air and ap- paratus, there was an interference with the due action of the balance, which seemed attributable to the currents set up in the air within the case ~ by the inequality of its temperature. Expert ments were then made to render the action more pe sensible, so as to discover and eliminate sources } of error; and in the course of these it was dis F covered that, when a small light body is delicately — suspended in the most perfect vacuum that cam a be produced, it is repelled by radiant heat or — light, although the same body suspended in the | same vessel, from which the air has not been r exhausted, seems attracted by the same radiant force. This can be demonstrated by suspending 4 m™m emee«e060«, wewdqazezreoseoeeFer#e#s 2 i ee ee ee le ee ee i ee,

Page 27

fetes 3 Se5c # ae ease ” i Hs ee eee OT Pe, ERS F THE RADIOMETER abar of pith by a fibre of cocoon-silk within a glass globe, so as to constitute what is known as a“ balance of torsion,” and subjecting one end of this bar to the influence of heat. When the globe is full of air, the warmed end of the bar swings toward the source of heat ; but, when the globe has been thoroughly exhausted and her- metically sealed, the bar is made to swing away to the extent of 90°, by merely touching with the finger the part of the globe near one of its ex- tremities ; while, on the other hand, it follows a piece of ice as a suspended needle follows a magnet. These contrary effects are very strik- ingly shown when two similar globes, each hav- ing a pith-bar suspended in it, but the one full ot air and the other exhausted, are placed side by side, and a hot glass rod on the one hand, and a piece of ice on the other, are moved round each in succession. For the bar in the unexhausted globe behaves exactly with the heated rod as the bar in the exhausted globe does with the ice; and the bar in the unexhausted globe behaves with the ice exactly as the bar in the exhausted globe behaves with the heated rod. Again, when a candle is brought within about two inches of a well-exhausted globe, the pith-bar begins to oscillate backward and forward, its swing grad- ually increasing until its position is reversed ; and when the “dead centre” has been passed it re- volves continuously, until the torsion of the sus- pended fibre offers a sufficient resistance to prevent any further movement in the same direction. A contrary revolution then begins, which proceeds as far in the opposite direction, the alternating series of revolutions being kept up as long as the candle burns. A still more sensitive apparatus of the like kind was afterward devised by Mr. Crookes, in which two disks of pith were attached to the extremities of a very slender glass rod, and this was suspended horizontally by a fine fibre of spun glass; the whole being hermetically sealed within a glass vessel of suitable form, from which the air was removed as completely as possible. The advantage of suspending the beam by a glaés fibre lies in its elasticity ; which is so perfect, that, however much the fibre may have been twisted, the beam always returns accurately to zero when free to do so. And by drawing out the fibre to the requisite degree of fineness, this : torsion-balance” may be made of any degree of Sensitiveness that may be required ; one which was used in Mr. Crookes’s subsequent experiments be- ing 80 delicate as to turn to the millionth of a grain. From this form of apparatus, the transition AND ITS LESSONS. 27 was obvious’to one in which the arms, instead of being suspended by a fibre, should rest on a point, so as to be free to rotate continuously in either direction ; and thus originated the radiom- eler—the name given to it by Mr. Crookes being intended to express its action as a measurer of the mechanical power directly exerted by that radiant energy which had been previously known to manifest itself only under the forms of light, heat, and actinism (or chemical agency). This was the sense in which its phenomena were brought under discussion at the ordinary meet- ing of the Royal Society next following the first exhibition of the radiometer; and so demon- strative did these seem to be of ‘‘ A Repulsion resulting from Radiation” (the title of Mr. Crookes’s memoir), that no one of the eminent physicists present on the occasion called his in- terpretation of them in question ; Prof. Stokes, in particular, confining himself to the statement that such mechanical action must lie outside the undulatory theory, which deals only with light as light—i. e., as producing visual phenomena, But it was noticed by several as anomalous, that the black should be the “driving” side of the disks, since it might have been anticipated that the mechanical action of light would manifest itself in pushing away the surface from which its rays are reflected, and that the surface into which they are absorbed would move*toward the source from which the rays emanate. In subsequent communications to the Royal Society, Mr. Crookes committed himself explicitly to the doctrine that the radiometer (to which he also gave the name of “light-mill”) is driven by light, the mechanical effect of which he assumed to be proportional to its illuminating power; so that an exact measurement of the former would furnish an equally exact measurement of the lat- ter. And thus, as a thermometer, which meas- ures heat by its physical action in producing ex- pansion, is a far more trustworthy instrument than the human hand, the action of heat upon which gives rise to a sensation that is not capable of precise measurement, and may be altogether deceptive, so he contended the radiometer, which measures /ight by its physical power of repulsion, is a far more exact photometer than any which depends upon the physiological action of light upon the retina. For the absolute measurement of the repulsive force exerted by radiation, Mr. Crookes employed the delicate torsion-balance already described, and found the mechanical effect of the light of a can- dle at twelve inches’ distance, acting on two

Page 28

28 THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. square inches of surface, to be 444 millionths of | a grain. This he called “ weighing a beam of | light.” In his subsequent lecture at the Royal | Institution, he stated it as the result of his ex- | periments that the radiant energy of the sun | equals that of 1,000 candles at twelve inches’ distance, its mechanical power upon two square | inches of surface being thus equal to 444 thou- sandths of a grain. This is equivalent to about | 82 grains per square foot, to two hundred-weight per acre, to 57 tons per square mile, or to nearly 3,000,000,000 tons on the exposed surface of the globe—sufficient to “ knock the earth out of its orbit if it came upon it suddenly,” and to “ drive | the globe into space if it were not counteracted by the force of gravitation.” But, as Mr. Crookes considerately added, “ it must be remembered that our earth is not a lamp-blacked body inclosed in a glass case ; noris its shape such as to give a maxi- mum of surface with the minimum of weight.” For comparative estimates, however, Mr. Crookes devised another form of “ torsion-bal- ance,” in which one half of the pith-bar was blacked and the other left white, so that, when the whole was subjected to a broad beam of light, the bar would be made to swing by its different | action on the white and on the black surfaces. This bar being made to carry a mirror and a small magnet, its slightest deflection from the north and south zero could be detected by the movement of a spot of light reflected from the | mirror along a graduated scale: while the me- chanical force required to produce any degree of deflection could be very exactly estimated, the apparatus being made more or less sensitive as desired by the use of a controlling magnet on the outside. The results of a long series of experi- ments served to show the photometric value of this apparatus when lights of the same kind were ‘compared ; the amount of deflection produced by the light of the same standard candle at different distances being obviously conformable to the law of inverse squares, while the effect of two such candles placed side by side was found to be prac- tically double that of a single candle, and that of three candles practically triple. Again, when a candle was placed on either side of the apparatus and equidistant from it, so that each would neu- tralize the effect of the other, the index-spot of light remained at zero; but, by shading one or other of the candles, the index-spot was made to fly off to the extremity of the scale. This arrangement afforded a ready means of comparing the radiant energy of different sources of light. Thus, if a “standard candle.” was placed on one side at a distance of 48 and a gas-burner on the other was found to bring the index-spot to zero when removed to a dig. tance of 113 inches, their relative motor powers | would be as 48? to 113*—that is, the radiant ep. ergy of the gas-burner was equal to that of § candles. But it was as pure an assumption on Mr. Crookes’s part to affirm that the mechanical action exerted by two flames of different kinds would measure their relative illuminating powers as it would have been to say that their action would be proportional to their illumi action, which we know perfectly well not to bethe case—the gas-flame, as every one knows, havinga much greater heating-power than the candle-flame in proportion to the light it gives. The same form of “ torsion-balance” was em. ployed by Mr. Crookes to determine the relative effects of the interposition of screens of different kinds, Thus, a deflection to 180° being pro duced by a candle at three feet distance, its amount was reduced to 161° by the interposition of a screen of yellow glass, to 128° by a screen of.red glass, and to 102° and 101° respectively by screens of blue and green glass. A far more potent effect, however, was produced by the in terposition of a glass trough containing water, which brought down the deflection to 47°, while a screen formed of a plate of alum reduced it to 27°. As the absorption of the luminous rays in passing through such transparent media thust have been very slight, while they practically cut off the rays of “dark heat,” this marked reduce tion would seem mainly attributable to the ab- straction of the latter ; but, strong in his convie- tion of the immediate mechanical effect produced by radiation, Mr. Crookes thus expressed himself in regard to it: “ There is no real difference be- tween heat and light ; all we can take account of is difference of wave-length, and a ray of a def nite refrangibility cannot be split up into two rays, one being heat and one light. Take, forim stance, a ray of definite refrangibility in the red. Falling on a thermometer it shows the actionof — heat; on a thermopile it produces an electrie current; to the eye it appears as light and color; on a photograpiaic plate it causes chemical action; and on the suspended pith it causes motion” Now, so far as light, heat, and chemical action, are concerned, this mode of expressing theirt® — lations is undoubtedly that which all physicists — now accept ; these agencies being regarded, not as separate and distinct, but as different manifiee — y tations of that one physical action which consti tutes radiation. This action, according to the ~ =e ogoeoedtiaornedqdHoiktdai”Z repre o 3 as

Page 29

SRR FRRFE ES e A eo ESPPQesesg Pubs as PRR T= re Se THE RADIOMETER undulatory theory, consists in the propagation, through an ethereal medium, of systems of waves of different lengths; and it is in virtue of this difference that their direction is more or less al- tered by refraction, the longest waves being least and the shortest most deflected by passing through the prism. The solar beam is the composite re- sultant of the whole aggregate of these undula- tions. When falling on the eye, it excites the sen- sation of colorless light ; when falling on the hand, it affects us with the sensation of warmth; when falling on the bulb of the thermometer it causes the expansion of the mercury; and, when falling on a photographic surface, it produces chemical change. But, when made to pass through a prism, it is decomposed not only into that succession of col- or-bands, formed by rays of different degrees of refrangibility, which constitutes the luminous spectrum, but into two other successions of rays, one of much /ower and the other of much higher refrangibility, which lie beyond the two ends of the luminous spectrum. These dark rays are not recognizable by the eye, because the retina is no more sensible to them than the ordinary cutaneous surface is to luminous impressions ; but their heating power can be measured by a thermometer or a thermo- pile, and their chemical power by the action they excite on a photographically-prepared surface. The heating power is thus found to attain its maximum a little outside the red end of the color- spectrum ; and from that point it progressively diminishes toward the violet end of the luminous spectrum, beyond which it is scarcely traceable ; while it diminishes in the contrary direction also, until it dies out at about the same distance from the maximum on one side as that at which the violet lies on the other. The illuminating power has its maximum in the yellow band of the spec- trum, and shows a gradual reduction toward the violet end, a more rapid toward the red. The chemical power, on the other hand, has its maxi- mum in the violet band; and, while it gradually diminishes towaftd the red end of the luminous spectrum, beyond which it is scarcely traceable, it diminishes at about the same rate in the oppo- site direction, dying out at nearly the same dis- tance from the maximum on one side as that at which the red lies on the other. Thus, while the rays of low refrangibility, whose wave-length ex- ceeds 812 millionths of a millimetre, are charac- terized almost exclusively by their heating power, and those of high refrangibility, whose wave- length is less than 400 millionths of a millimetre, are characterized almost exclusively by their 29 AND ITS LESSONS. chemical power, the rays of medium refrangibility, whose wave-lengths are between 400 and 800 millionths of a millimetre, combine these with illuminating power, in proportions varying with their respective wave-lengths. But there is no more reason, as Mr. Crookes has justly remarked, for attributing these several effects to different rays, than there is for hypothetically splitting up the element iron (for example) into a number of components, of which one gives its specific grav- ity, a second its chemical reactions, a third its magnetic properties, and so on. But, to the three attributes of radiation uni- versally recognized by physicists, Mr. Crookes proposes, in the passage already cited, to add a JSourth—the power of producing an electric cur- rent in a thermopile ; and a fifth—the power of producing a mechanical motion when acting on light bodies freely suspended in a vacuum. Now, the notion that radiation directly excites the elec- tric current of a thermopile is one, I apprehend, which no well-informed physicist would indorse ; for, as the name of the instrument implies, it is by the disturbance of the thermal equilibrium be- tween the two metals of which it is composed that the electric current is produced. And, since this disturbance may be produced in a variety of ways (as by friction or conduction), and the po- tency of the electric current is strictly propor- tional to the amount of that disturbance, there is no reason whatever for attributing to radiation any other power of exciting an electric current than that which it exerts mediately through its power of heating the thermopile. And the ques- tion which, after the first shock of novelty passed off, hes greatly exercised the minds of physicists, is whether the mechanical motion, also, is not an intermediate effect of some one of the previously- known forms of radiant energy—that which first suggests itself being the action of heat upon that residual vapor of which it is impossible to get rid entirely by any means at present known. This idea very early occurred to some of the distinguished physicists who took most interest in the experiments first communicated by Mr. Crookes to the Royal Society. I more than once conversed with Wheatstone on the subject; and he expressed a very strong belief that the swing- ing round of the pith-bar was due to the disturb- ance of the thermal equilibrium in the residual vapor, dwelling very strongly upon the impossi_ bility of obtaining a perfect vacuum, since “ even glass,” he said, very emphatically, “ would give off a vapor if all other vapor were withdrawn.” On the other hand, two of the most distinguished

Page 30

30 among British mathematical’ physicists, whose opinions I had the opportunity of learning from themselves, were disposed to concur with Mr. Crookes in regarding the repulsion of the heated end of the pith-bar as an immediate effect of ra- diant energy ; dwelling especially on the fact that the repulsion was stronger in proportion to the completeness of the vacuum, from which it seemed fair to infer that it would be most strongly mani- fested in a perfect vacuum (if such could by possi- bility be obtained), in consequence of the entire removal of mechanical resistance (save the fric- tion of the pivot) to the rotation of the mill. Now, since our belief in Newton’s “ First Law of Motion” has no other experiential basis than the fact that, the more completely we can elimi- nate friction and the resistance of the air, the | longer is the persistence of motion in a body once put in movement, provided that no opposing force be brought to bear upon it, this argument for the directness of radiant repulsion seemed alike val- id and cogent. We shall presently see, however, that it proves fallacious when brought to an ex- perimental test of greater delicacy. The doctrine propounded by Mr. Crookes was first explicitly called in question in a communi- cation made to the Royal Society on the 18th of June, 1874, by Prof. Osborne Reynolds ; who maintained that, on the kinetic theory of gases (which represents any gaseous substance as con- sisting of molecules constantly in motion at great velocities), the effect on the torsion-balance is really due to alternate evaporation of vapor from, and its condensation at, the surface of the pith; evaporation producing a reactionary force equiv- alent to an increase of pressure on the heated surface, while condensation must be attended with a force equivalent.to a diminution of pressure over the cooling surface. Thus, when the heat radiated from the lamp falls on the pith, its tem- perature will rise, and any moisture on it will be- gin to evaporate, thus generating a mechanical force which will drive the pith from the lamp. Conversely, when a piece of ice is brought near, the temperature of the pith will be reduced, caus- ing a condensation of vapor which will cause the pith to move toward the ice. When the two arms of the pith-bar are unequally exposed to heat, the evaporation will be greatest in that which is nearest the lamp; and this is driven away, therefore, until the force on the other arm becomes equal, after which the bar will come to rest, unless the momentum it has acquired in swinging carries it farther. In a subsequent communication (March 23, THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. 1876) Prof. O. Reynolds applied a similar doctrine ; to the continuous rotation of the “ light-mill ; » maintaining, from theoretical considerations, thé existence of reactionary forces, or “ heat-reag. tions,” whenever heat is communicated from g surface to a gas, and vice versa; and sh that there is enough residual air in the best ex. hausted globe to enable an amount of force to be thus developed, which is sufficient to keep up the rotation of its contained mill. This explanation obviously implies the existence of a reactionary force, communicated by the intervening gas, be tween the disks of the mill and the inclosing glass; and the existence of such a reaction was experimentally proved by an ingenious arrange. ment first devised by Dr. Schuster, and subse. quently improved on by Mr. Crookes. A radé ometer, on whose arms a magnet is fixed, is floated in a vessel of water, round which four candles are fixed, so as to keep the mill in rota- tion. When a powerful magnet is brought near she outside of the globe, the arms immediately stop; but at the same time the globe begins to revolve slowly in the opposite direction, and con- tinues to do so as long as the candles burn, and the arms remain fixed by the magnet. When the magnet is removed, the “mill” begins to rotate in its original direction, and the glass envelope quickly comes to rest. ‘Now, as the existence of a reactionary foree, which seems unmistakably indicated by this ex- periment, cannot be accounted for on the suppo. sition that the “mill” is driven round by the im- mediate mechanical impulse of radiation, while it is exactly what would be anticipated if the radi _ ant energy acts calorifically on the residual gas, a very strong support is obviously afforded to the latter interpretation. And hence, although phy® icists may differ as to the precise manner im which the unequal heating of the disks produces the movement, there is now, I believe, a very gen- eral accordance in the conclusion that this is the real modus operandi of the radiant energy; 0 — that, instead of either a “new force,” or a “new mode of force,” we have simply a well-known My mode of force acting under peculiar conditions. — This conclusion derives very striking confit : mation from two of Mr. Crookes’s more experiments, which seem to possess & . value. Having still further improved his “ Spreme 4 gel pump,” he has been able to carry the exhaus ~ tion of his globe to a yet greater degree than be fore, so that its internal condition more nearly 1 See Mr. Johnstone Stoney, in Philosophical zine, April, 1876.

Page 31

sSRPELREG Za eS FSERR BEFES oa + Rar Base h eet sh & Le, te *° THE RADIOMETER approaches a perfect vacuum. Now, while the rate of rotation of the “miil” at first increases with the degree of attenuation of the gaseous atmosphere in which it moves, and ought, on Mr. Crookes’s original principle, to go on increasing, it is found to attain its maximum at a certain de- gree of exhaustion, and, when the exhaustion is carried beyond that degree, to undergo a retar- dation ; and this can scarcely be accounted for in any other way thah on the supposition that the mechanical power exerted by the disturbance of thermal equilibrium in the residual gas then di- minishes at a more rapid rate than its mechani- cal resistance to the rotation of the disks. Again, it has been found that when the place of air in several radiometers is taken by different gases (as oxygen, hydrogen, carbonic acid, ete.), and | fused to institute a scientific investigation into their globes are all exhausted to the same degree, as tested by a delicate pressure - gauge, their “mills” rotate at different rates. Now, this is exactly what would be expected on the Kinetic theory of gases; since these different gases have such diverse rates of molecular movement that the reactionary forces generated by the disturb- ance of thermal equilibrium will likewise vary ; while, on the other hand, there seems no reason whatever why the rate of rotation should be af- fected by the nature of the residual gas (its elas- tie force, and therefore the mechanical resistance it exerls remaining the same), if the repulsion of the disks is directly produced by radiant energy. Before adverting to the lessons which this re- markable history seems to me to convey, I would point out that this change of interpretation of | the facts discovered by Mr. Crookes does not in the least diminish either the interest of the facts themselves, or the merit of his discovery. Nor is the value of his radiometer in any degree low- ered by the demonstration that it does not (as Mr. Crookes at first supposed) afford a mechani- cal measure of radiant energy under any of its | aspects. What (according to present views) it | | same degree by his own muscular effort ; and, on really does measure is the amount of “ heat-reac- tion” producible in gaseous atmospheres of dif- ferent kinds and of different degrees of attenua- tion. And such a precise method of measure- ment appears wore likely than any other mode of investigation to furnish a test of that kinetic theory of gases, the recent development of which by Prof. Clerk-Maxwell is regarded by competent Judges as constituting (if it should receive such Verification) the most important advance ever made in molecular physics. Most deservedly, therefore, did Mr. Crookes receive from the Royal AND ITS LESSONS. 31 Society the award of one of its chief distinctions ; and I would not be thought for one moment to disparage his merits as the inventor of the radi- ometer by now bringing into contrast with the admirable series of scientific investigations which led up to that invention what I cannot but regard as his thoroughly unscientific course in relation to another doctrine of which he has put himself prominently forward as the champion. In the Quarterly Journal of Science for July, 1871, there appeared a paper by Mr. Crookes, en- titled “ An Experimental Investigation of a New Force,” in which he not only gave an account of his own experiences with Mr. Home and other spiritualistic ‘ mediums,” but indulged in very unseemly reflections on the conduct of “ scien- tific men,” whom he charges with having “ re- the existence and nature of facts asserted by many competent and credible witnesses, which they are freely invited to examine when and where they please.” The principal evidence adduced by Mr. Crookes for the existence of this “new force” was the power he attributed to Mr. Home of being able to “ alter the weight of bodies,” the chief proof of which was Mr. Home’s depression of a lever-board, whose farther end was attached to a spring-balance, by laying upon it near its ful- crum the tips of the fingers of both his hands; | placing a small hand-bell under one hand, and a little card match-box under the other, to satisfy the by-standers that he was not himself exerting any downward pressure, Now, “ common-sense ” | would teach that, if the end of 2 board kept up by a spring goes down when a man’s hands are laid upon it, however near to its fulcrum, its go- | ing down is due to the pressure of those hands ; /and the onus probandi obviously lies with those who affirm that it is not so. Nothing would have been easier than for Mr, Crookes, on the one _ hand, to have carefully watched Mr. Home, to have precisely imitated his whole procedure, and to have done his best to depress the boaid to the the other hand, to have devised an “ indicator” for downward pressure (on the principle of Fara- day’s for lateral pressure), by which it could be at once determined whether Mr. Home could de- press the lever-board without such muscular ef- fort. But, although Mr. Crookes, so far as I am aware, has never published any proof obtained from either of these test-experiments, although explicitly challenged to do so,' he leaves on rec- ord the claim to the possession of a power to 1 Quarterly Review. October, 1871, p. 345.

Page 32

32 alter the weight of bodies which he originally ad- vanced for Mr. Home, together with his own as- sertion of the existence of a “new force,” and his charge against “ scientific men” for not ex- perimentally investigating it. Their justification for abstaining from such an investigation was the utter unreliability of the evidence adduced, which consisted simply ix Mr. Home’s assertion that he was not exerting downward pressure, and in Mr. Crookes’s belief that he could not thus have pro- duced the effect ; but, having previously allowed himself to become “ possessed ” by the spiritual- istic idea, Mr. Crookes could not see this fallacy, accepted Mr. lfome’s assertion as a scientific fact, and scolded “scientific men” for their incredu- lity!’ And yet, while asserting that they were “ freely invited to examine” (these asserted facts) “when and where they please,” Mr. Crookes ad- mitted that Mr. Home’s preternatural power could not be commanded, that he was “subject to un- accountable ebbs and flows of this force,” and that “it has but seldom happened that a result obtained on one occasion could be subsequently confirmed and tested with apparatus specially contrived for the purpose.” Now, this is precisely what has happened over and over again within my own and others’ expe- rience of these pseudo - scientific phenomena which depend upon the instrumentality of a hu- man personnel, Thus it was claimed by Mr. Lew- is, a noted mesmerist of twenty-five years ago, that he could not only draw his somnambules after him by mesmeric traction, but could raise them off the ground against the force of gravity. “ When Mr. L. stood on a chair,” says Dr. Gregory,! *‘ and tried to draw Mr. H. without con- tact from the ground, he gradually rose on tiptoe, making the most violent efforts to rise till he was fixed by cataleptic rigidity. Mr. Lewis said that, had he been still more elevated above Mr. H., he could have raised him from the floor without con- tact, and held him thus suspended for a short time, while some spectator should pass his hand under the feet. Although this was not done in my pres- ence,” continues Prof. Gregory, ‘ yet the attraction upward was so strong that I see no reason to doubt the statement made to me by Mr. Lewis and by others who saw it, that this experiment has been successfully performed.” Yet when a committee of Aberdeen professors subsequently tested Mr. Lewis’s powers, under conditions admitted by himself to be perfectly fair,? not only did he entirely fail in his endeavor to control the actions of his “subjects” from a 1“ Letters on Animal Magnetism,” p. 351. 2 Edinburgh Monthly Journal of Medicine, 1852. THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. distance, but, finding himself unable to keep either of them, when standing sideways againg: a wall on the foot nearest to it, in the erect posi. tion, he explained that he had never claimed any other power of overcoming the force of gravity, than that which he exerted in causing a subject lying on the ground, by the traction of his hand above him, to rise and stand upright. This is the Mr. Lewis whose pretensions have’ been recently indorsed by Mr. Alfred R. Wallace; a gentleman for whose achievements in the domain of natural science I have the same respect as I have for those of Mr. Crookes in the line of physical re search, but all whose statements on this are vitiated (like those of Mr. Crookes) by his deficient knowledge of the abnormalities of hy man nature, by his want of due discrimination be tween facts and inferences, and by his disability to perceive how much greater should be the cogency of the evidence adduced to command our belief in statements of a most extraordinary kind, than that on which we rest our acceptance of the ordinary facts of daily life. Thus, to revert to the cases just cited, the fad in the first of them was simply that the lever board went down when Mr. Home’s hands were laid upon it; and the testimoney of Mr. Crookes and his friends was quite sufficient to justify others in accepting it as such. On the other hand, Mr. Crockes’s assertion that the lever-board went down in obedience to some other force than that of Mr. Home’s muscular pressure was not & fact, but an inference drawn by Mr. Crookes; and this inference he had no scientific right to draw, until he had assured himself by every conceiva- ble test that Mr. Home did not and could not @ depress it. So, again, the rising-up of Mr. Lewis's subject from the prostrate to the erect position, under Mr. Lewis’s outstretched hand, was a fad as to which Prof. Gregory's testimony may be uw questioningly accepted, since it involves no im probability whatever; but of Mr. Lewis's pal to lift him of the ground, and to keep him su pended in the air, we obviously require @ m! stronger assurance than the assertion made Prof. Gregory by Mr. Lewis, and by others saw it. And those who refused to accept assertion at the time were fully justified by Lewis's explicit disavowal of it to the Abe professors a few months afterward. So, again, Mr. Wallace’s recently affirmation of the possession of the elai power by Alexis, Adolphe, and other somnam | is merely the believer's inference from facts | no extraordinary testimony is needed to estat

Page 33

ESeEGsSRE5 oo i . AM ee OE INGE s Fis AP EN lie 1 RE THE RADIOMETER AND ITS LESSONS. 33 viz, that they read books or played cards with | Mr. Crookes evinced the spirit of the true philoso- their eyes bandaged, or deciphered words in closed | pher in varying his experiments in every conceiv- boxes put into their hands. But the skeptic’s «eommon-sense” inference from the very same facts would be that, in the first case, the eyes of the supposed clairvoyants had not been effectually blinded; and, in the second, that they had either taken a sly peep into the boxes (as George Goble was detected in doing), or had guessed the word by “fishing” with the help unconsciously given by the questioner, as I saw Alexis and Adolphe do many times. And that this latter inference is the true one, is indicated, on the one hand, by the failure of one performer after another under ade- quate test-conditions (as in the cases investigated by the French Academy of Medicine and Sir John Forbes, and in many besides); and, on the other, by the détection of the mode in which the cheat was practised. I am confident that Mr. Wallace cannot point to a single case of clairvoyance thor- oughly investigated by a skeptical expert, which has survived such investigation. But of cases which satisfied intelligent and truthful witnesses, upon whose testimony we should rely in the ordi- nary affairs of life, and who were yet afterward proved to have been completely taken in, there are enough to show how little such testimony is worth as to matters requiring special qualifica- tions for their thorough investigation. Of the two distinct claims set up by Mr. Crookes, therefore, to the discovery of a new agency in Nature, I hold the one to have been as scientific as the other was unscientific. The facts of radiant repulsion did not rest upon the unsup- ported testimony of Mr. Crookes and his friends ; they could be exhibited to as many as wished to see them, and could be verified for himself by every one who could construct the apparatus. And while his inference from the first series of those facts (ascertained by the torsion-balance) was regarded by some of our most eminent phys- icists as by no means improbable, there were few, if any i 9S any, among those whe saw the radiometer | ten seconds, and then slowly descend. At another spin round when a candle was brought near it, who did not for a time accept his view. In as- suming, however, that there was such a quanti- tative relation between radiant repulsion and light as justified the use of his radiometer as a photometer, Mr. Crookes undoubtedly went be- yond what his facts warranted; and his claim to have “ weighed a beam of light” I feel sure that he would now abandon. But no sooner was ade- quate ground shown for calling in question his imterpretation of the phenomena, and a vera | } | ‘ausa found in an agency already known, than | 3 able mode, so as to test the validity of his original interpretation: And if he still shows some linger- ing unwillingness to surrender his position, it is no more than the best of us would probably feel under the like circumstances in regard to a pet hypothesis. Yet at the very time that Mr. Crookes was car- rying out this beautiful inquiry in a manner and spirit worthy of all admiration, he gave to the public, in his ‘“ Notes of an Inquiry into the Phe- nomena called spiritual,” ! the most conclusive evidence that his mind has its unscientific as well as its scientific side; so that, while pursuing with rare ability and acuteness a delicate physical in- vestigation in which nothing.is taken for granted without proof satisfactory to others as well as to himself, he has yet allowed himself to become so completely possessed by a “dominant idea” in regard to the “ phenomena called spiritual,” as to accept either the products of his own imagination, or the deceptions practised upon him by others, as facts that should command the same credence as the demonstrations of his radiometer. Of “The Alteration of Weight of Bodies,” a class of phenomena capable of precise physical determi- nation, Mr. Crookes simply says, “I have re- peated the experiments already described in this journal, in different forms, and with several me- diums.” But why does he not tell us precisely what were the weights so altered, and what force was exerted by the medium, as detérmined in each case by the precise measurement he so well knows how to apply? Of his yet more extraor- dinary assertions, the following are samples : “On one occasion I witnessed a chair, with a lady sitting on it, rise several inches from the ground. On another occasion, to avoid the suspi- cion of this being in some way performed by her- self, the lady knelt on a chair in such a manner that its four feet were visible to us. It then rose about three inches, remained suspended for about time two children, on separate occasions, rose from the floor with their chairs, in full daylight, under (to me) most satisfactory conditions; for I was keeling and keeping close watch upon the feet of the chair, and observing that-no one might touch them.—On three separate occasions I have seen Mr. Home raised completely off the floor of the room, once sitting in an easy-chair, once kneeling on his chair, and once standing up. There are at least a hundred recorded instances of Mr. Home’s rising from the ground, in the presence of as many separate persons. 1 Quarterly Journal of Science, January, 1874.

Page 34

| i | | ¢ 34 THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. ‘A beautifully-formed small hand rose up from an opening in a dining-table, and gave me a flower; it appeared and then disappeared three times at intervals, affording me ample opportunity of satisfying myself that it was as real in appear- ance as myown. This occurred in the light in my own room, while I was holding the medium’s hands and feet. I have more than once seen, first an object move ; then a luminous cloud appear to form about it; and, lastly, the cloud condense into shape and become a perfectly-formed hand. In the light I have seen a luminous cloud hover over a heliotrope on a side-table, break a sprig off, and carry the sprig to a lady ; and on some occasions I have seen a similar luminous cloud visibly con- dense to the form of a hand, and carry small ob- jects about.—A luminous hand came down from the upper part of the room, and, after hovering near me for a few seconds, took the pencil from my hand, rapidly wrote on a sheet of paper, threw the pencil down, and then rose up over our heads, gradually fading into darkness.” Whether, since the exposure of Katie King in Boston (United States), the exhibition in the same city of the methods by which numerous “ spiritualistic” tricks have been played, the publication in this country of the affidavit of Mrs. N. Culver, the near relative of the sisters Fox, as to the mode in which these originators of “ spir- itualism” played on the credulity of the public, and the imitation of many of the performances of its professors by Messrs. Maskelyne and Cooke, Mr. Crookes has begun to question whether he may not have been rather hasty in committing himself, I have no means of knowing; but I do not think that any save those who have ¢ selves yielded to the same “ possession ” wil] tertain any doubt about the matter. Any one who reads the account of the New England 5 epidemic nearly two hundred years ago, will that able, intelligent, and honest judges juries, under the influence of a theological a possession, allowed themselves to be “ luded and deceived” (as they esmeaa al ward found out), to the extent of hanging some scores of innocent people; so that the curious “duality” of Mr. Crookes’s mental constitution has plenty of parallels in past time, to say i ing of the present. The lesson which this curious contrast seems to me most strongly to enforce is, that of the importance of training and disciplining the whole mind during the period of its development, of cultivating scientific habits of thought (by which I mean nothing more than strict reasoning based on exact observation) in regard to every subject, and of not allowing ourselves to become “pos cessed” by any ideas or class of ideas that the common-sense of educated mankind pronounces to be irrational. I would not for a moment up hold that test as an infallible one, But it ought to be sufficiently regarded to make us question the conclusions which depend solely upon our own or others’ subjectivity ; and to withhold ts” from affirming the existence of new agencies in Nature, until she has been questioned in every conceivable way, and every other possibility bas been exhausted.— Nineteenth Century. , : me sit ON STIMULANTS. By J. BURNEY YEO, M.D. M* object in this paper is not to confine my- self to the consideration of the effects of alcoholic drinks alone, but to regard the question of the uses and properties of the various beverages commonly consumed in this country from a gen- eral point of view, and to inquire what has been learned, from trustworthy physiological experi- ment and from medical and general observation, as to their influence on the human organism for good or for evil. A beverage of some sort is a physiological necessity. No one can exist with- ~~ ee Mm » a eee Srey ig pie Ne Rn out consuming a certain quantity of water, is the essential basis of all drinks. It has calculated that the body of a man weighing en stones contains sixty-six pounds of solid ters and eighty-eight pounds of water, and he loses in various ways about six pounds of ter in twenty-four hours, and this loss of must be supplied in his food and drink. ordinary physiological processes nothing into the blood, and nothing passes out of it, wi out the intervention, in some way or

Page 35

ON STIMULANTS. - 35 water as a solvent.’ It will thus be seen that [ by evaporation from the surface of the body. water plays a most important part in relation to | The sensation of thirst is the natural warning animal life and nutrition. It is also the agent by | that the blood wants water. I may here remark, which the body is cleansed inwardly as well as | incidentally, that it is not a wise custom to take outwardly, and it is as necessary, though not | excessive quantities of any fluid, even simple wa- quite so obvious, that the interior of our bodies | ter, with our food, for by so doing we dilute too should be washed and made clean as the exterior. | much the digestive juices, and so retard their sol- In the processes of nutrition—in the physi- | vent action on the solid food we have consumed. cal and chemical changes—upon which life de- | A draught of fluid, however, toward the end of: pends, effete waste products are constantly being | digestion is often useful in promoting the solu- discharged into the blood from the tissues of the | tion and absorption of the residuum of this pro- body, and these have to be got rid of; for, if they | cess, or in aiding its propulsion along the diges- are permitted to accumulate in the blood, the | tive tube. Hence the custom of taking tea a few body becomes poisoned by them, and life is de- | hours after dinner, or seltzer or soda water a lit- stroyed as certainly as if a large dose of prussic | tle before bedtime. acid or opium were introduced from without. It was a necessary preliminary to my present Men do, indeed, frequently die, poisoned by toxic | inquiry that I should call attention to this fun« agents which they manufacture within their own | damental physiological requirement. Moreover, I organisms. am willing to admit at the outset that water is One of the uses of water, taken into the body | the only beverage physiologically essential to as a beverage, is to dissolve these effete products | healthy life. But is this admission of any real of the work of the organism, and so to convey | consequence? I think not; for our mode of life them out of the body through the action of the | is rarely constructed in strict accordance with secreting organs. Water is readily absorbed | rigorous physiological or chemical analysis. into the blood, and is rapidly discharged from it. It is scarcely necessary that I should insist fen BetAEEsked FF SEP sa ekeae Fe nal In its rapid course through the body it washes, | upon the fact that in practical life the strictly estion so to speak, the circulating fluid, and carries | essential does not go for much. WE need not 1 or away, through the channels of excretion, sub- | only that which makes us live, but that also which old us stances, the retention of which in the blood would | makes us care to live. And, in my estimation, a ios in prove in the highest degree harmful. It may | delicate appreciation of the qualities of foods every” readily be imagined that pure, unadulterated wa- | and beverages may fairly take its place among y has ter performs this function better than any modi- | our cultivated and reasonable pleasures. I know y fication of it which we may drink as a beverage. | some persons of intellectual habits who look upon It is, however, quite true that some slightly-min- | eating and drinking as simply a necessary nui- eralized waters pass through the organism with | sance; and it has been said of the celebrated even greater rapidity than pure water, on ac-| John, Lord Hervey, that he “breakfasted on an count of the stimulating action they most of | emetic, dined on a biscuit, and regaled himself them exercise on certain of the excretory organs. | once a week with an apple.” But his meagre Mild alkaline waters may also, under certain cir- | dietary did not make him an amiable or a virtu- cumstances, prove more ¢leansing than pure wa- | ous person. ter, on account of their greater solvent action on It has often been objected to the general use some substances, of stimulating beverages that they are luxuries, The quantity of water we need in the form of | but I shall not discuss the question whether cer- beverage depends greatly on the nature of the | tain beverages are luxuries or necessaries. No other substances we consume as food. With a! reasonable person that I am acquainted with reg- dietary composed largely of succulent vegetables | ulates his own life on any such narrow principle, and fruit, very little of any kind of Beverage is | and we have no right to apply such an unpracti- required. Much also depends on the manner in | cal test to the lives of others. The terms whole- which our solid food is cooked—whether, in the | some and unwholesome are more suited to my case of animal food, the natural juices of the | purpose. It concerns every one to know wheth- flesh are retained in it or not; much, too, will | er any acquired habit of life is immediately or depend on those atmospheric and other condi- remotely injurious to his physical organism. tions which determine the amount of fluid lost In examining the influence for good or evil "It is posetble that some gascous bodies may be an which the various beverages commonly consumed exception to this rule. in this country exert on human life, it is neces-

Page 36

eS ee a ae ee EEE ———————— Controversy.” 5 36 THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. sary to consider them in two distinct classes: 1. Those which contain alcohol, i. e., the various wines, spirits, and beers; and, 2. Those which are non-alcoholic, as tea, coffee, and chocolate. Before I examine the effects of the more com- _ mon beverages of the first class, it is necessary that I should review briefly certain points in con- nection with what has been called the “ Alcohol That controversy has turned chiefly on the question whether alcohol is or is not to be regarded as a food. Everybody admits that it is a poisonous agent when administered in large doses, and everybody also admits, except certain irreconcilable enthusiasts, that it is useful as a medicine, under certain conditions, in botk large and small doses. On looking over the rec- ords of this dispute, one cannot help being struck with the fact that those who desired to decide _ the question against alcohol were never, in any of their experiments, content with giving it in moderate quantities, but invariably used large, intoxicating doses, and in the majority of in- stances doses which were actually poisonous; and from its effects in such quantities all their conclusions are deduced. This is certainly not satisfactory, for such a mode of procedure could only have ghe effect of proving what, I take it, every one is ready and anxious to admit—that the use of alcohol in poisonous or intoxicating doses cannot on any grounds be justified. But it leaves, as I shall hope to show, the moderate and occasional use of alcoholic beverages unaf- fected. Years ago Liebig classed alcohol among heat- forming foods. Like starch and sugar, it con- tains carbon and hydrogen, which can undergo a process of combustion within the organism by the aid of oxygen admitted from without, and thus contribute to maintain the heat of the body—a most important function of food. Of course, in order to prove that alcohol does act thus as a ’ food, it is necessary to show that it undergoes decomposition within the animal body. Some fif- teen or twenty years ago, three French chemists (Lallemand, Perrin, and Duroy) originated a series of experiments, from which they concluded that this view of Liebig, that alcohol acts as food, was altogether erroneous. They appealed to their experiments as proving that all the alcohol taken into the system left it unchanged, passing out of the body in the secretions. To use a French expression, alcohol simply “ made a promenade around the organism.” It was not decomposed. It was not burned within the body. It was not a food. This view was gratefully accepted and made the most of by the total abstainers fn * country. It was put forward so authoritatively, 4 and with such an appearance of conclusivenegs, that those who had long held a contrary opinion — were for the moment staggered. Yet these French chemists were wrong. They had given to dogs enormous doses of alcohol—nine ounces, in one instance, that is, an equivalent to three quarts of sherry. Three quarts of sherry to one dog! Was it to be wondered at that much unchanged aleo. hol appeared in the secretions? We are indebted to the late Dr. Anstie for an exposure of the fal. lacies of these experimenters. He, in conjune- tion with Dr. Dupré, proved that alcohol, when given in small arid moderate doses, was almost wholly consumed within the organism, and that only a trifling portion passed out of the body in the secretions; and Anstie’s conclusions were confirmed by the experiments of Schulinus, So that Liebig’s theory that there was a rapid and complete combustion of alcohol within the system turns out to be very near the truth. We may conclude, then, that when alcohol is taken in non-poisonous doses, a small portion is rapidly eliminated by the secreting organs, and the re mainder is burned within the body as hydro-car- bonaceous food. The oxygen necessary for this combustion, if not thus utilized, would have been expended in the oxidation of the proteine or albumenized tissues of the body, so that in pro- portion to the amount of alcohol oxidized or burned there is a corresponding diminution in the combustion of the nitrogenized tissues. Henee the usefulness of alcohol in some acute febrile diseases, and hence the French expression, ap- plied to alcohol as well as to tea and coffee, that they are boissons d’épargne. It was because of this property of sparing the tissues that Liebig spoke of the use of alcoholic beverages a8 e00- nomical, Ifa laboring-man drank a pint or two of beer, he needed much less bread and meat. It also accounts for Dr. Hammond's personal experience related in his “ Physiological Researches” (p. 55). He states’ that, having placed himself on a very insufficient allowance of food, he took daily with each meal half an” ounce of alcohol, and under this regimen be found he gained rather than lost weight, and preserved, at the same time, the highest mental and bodily vigor. A case mentioned by Dr, At” stie is to the same effect: “A male, eighty-thr years of age, intemperate for many years, took bottle of gin per diem for twenty years; ate ¢ one small fragment of toasted bread in the day.” Being acquainted with many other facts of ~~ 2s 4» = = oD. & ~> =—- es mm

Page 37

SERES EE Ee 3 - g ae EBEEESE: ON STIMULANTS. 37 import, it was with a feeling of great disappoint- ment that I discovered in what purports to be a popular scientific account of alcohol, eighteen thousand copies of which are said to be in the hands of the public, the following statement: “ Alcohol cannot, by any ingenuity of excuse for it, be classified among the foods of man. It nei- ther supplies matter for construction nor heat. On the contrary, it injures construction and it reduces temperature.” ! I wish, in the first place, to put alongside of this statement another con- temporary utterance on the same subject. “It” (i. e., alcohol) “ undergoes combustion in the body, maintains or increases the body-weight, and pro- longs life on an insufficient diet. It is therefore entitled to be reckoned as a food.” * Now, both these statements, of which I believe the latter to be unquestionably true, are founded on experi- ments, but Dr. Richardson’s experiments appear to have been undertaken with that fatal desire to establish a preaccepted theory which is the bane of experimental science. In all his experiments he appears to have administered alcohol in poi- sonous or intoxicating doses, and then, when the system was struggling with the influence of a potent poison, he found some reduction of bod- ily temperature. “In man,” he says, “it is con- fined to three-fourths of a degree;” that is, in what he calls the second stage of alcoholism. In plain English, when a man has taken enough alcohol to make him drunk, and when he is drunk, you may find the temperature of his body reduced three-fourths of a degree. But Dr. Richardson is compelled to admit that in the first stage of alcoholism “the external temperature of the body is raised.”” Now, no decent person, who may wish to know whether alcohol acts as a food or not, contemplates ever passing into that second stage, until he reaches which he may feel assured, even on Dr. Richardson's authority, that his body temperature will be raised and not low- ered. A great deal has been said recently about alcohol lowering the temperature of the body, and the late Dr. Parkes investigated this subject with his usual carefulness and accuracy. The following are some of his conclusions: “In healthy men who have been accustomed to take alcohol in moderate quantities the results are rather contradictory. In a man accustomed to alcohol, Ringer found no change; in two men, temperate, but accustomed to take beer and ? Richardson on “ Alcohol,” Cantor Lectures, p. 73. *Brunton: “The Physiological Action of Alcohol,” the Practitioner, vol. xvi., p. 135. sometimes spirit, I could not detect any raising or lowering of the thermometer. Dr. Mainzer found no fall of temperature in trials on himself, but a slight fall in another healthy person. Some experiments by Obernier and by Follker are also quite ‘negative. . . . We may conclude that the effect on temperature in healthy men is extremely slight ; there is no increase, and in many persons no decrease. In those in whom there is a slight decrease the amount is trifling.” It appears; therefore, that we have no sound scientific basis for the general assertion that alcohol in moderate quantity lowers the bodily temperature. It cer- tainly does so, however, in very large doses. The following is the explanation usually given of the manner in which alcohol produces a reduc- tion of the temperature of the body: It has two very marked effects on the organs of circu- lation. In the first place, it quickens the action of the heart—the heart under its influence beats with increased frequency and with additional force; in the second place, it relaxes the blood- vessels on the surface of the body, by paralyzing what are called the vaso-motor nerves, i. e., the nerves which control the condition of the walls of the blood-vessels as regards their state of con. traction of relaxation. Alcohol thus leads to dilatation of the peripheral vessels, and the blood, therefore, under its influence flows freely to the surface of the body. Hence the comfort- able warmth and the diffused glow which are felt soon after taking a dose of spirits, and hence the common practice of taking spirits to keep out the cold. But itis asserted that, instead of “keeping out the cold,” this practice, under cer- tain circumstances, may have the contrary effect of letting in the cold. For, as the blood is brought to the surface in greater quantity on ac- count both of the dilatation of the vessels and the increased rapidity of the heart’s action, it parts with its heat, by radiation from the surface, with greater readiness ; and as the blood, cooled at the surface, is rapidly carried away into the interior of the body, the blood in the internal organs, and indeed the whole mass of blood in the body, be- comes quickly reduced in temperature. This is the theory, but I am not aware of any experiment on record in which any noteworthy fall of tem- perature has been observed during this period of cardiac excitement; reduction of temperature is the characteristic of the stage of depression from alcoholic poisoning when the cardiac action is weakened. Nor need we conclude that the gen- eral experience of mankind as to the effect of a moderate dose of alcohol in conferring, for a

Page 38

38 time, upon the human organism a resisting pow- er against the injurious influence of cold, is with- out foundation. The subjective feeling of warmth, which, under such circumstances, is universally admitted to occur, is not an unimportant fact; whereas, a slight lowering of the body tempera- ture, even should it be proved to occur, is not jnconsistent with perfect heath, provided no sense of chill accompanies it. It is a well-known fact that subjective feelings of warmth and chilliness are by no means wholly dependent upon, or pro- portional to, the actual temperature of the body as registered by the thermometer. In the shiv- ering stage of ague, when the teeth are chattering and the subjective feeling of cold is intense, the thermometer often registers a body temperature six to eight degrees above the normal. Now, before we accept the theory of the alco- holo-phobists that alcohol, in any dose, small or large, lessens rather than increases the power of resisting the injurious influence of cold, let us examine the question more carefully, for it has a most important practical bearing. When, on a bitterly cold night, we send out to our coachman a glass of hot brandy-and-water, are we running a great risk of having him laid up with inflamma- tion of the lungs the next day? When the coun-. try doctor is summoned, on a cold night, out of his warm bed to take a drive of four or five miles in the teeth of a cold east wind, is he running increased risk of taking cold by drinking a tum- blerful of mulled claret before he starts ? In order to answer these questions satisfacto- rily, we must ask another question. In what way does exposure to cold affect us injuriously ? And it must always be remembered that I am not re- ferring to continuous exposure to the cold of the arctic regions, but to such temporary and occa- sional exposure as is common in a changeable temperate climate like our own. In order to an- swer the question I have asked, I will quote two short passages from Huxley’s well-known “ Ele- mentary Lessons in Physiology: ” “ The feeling of warmth or cold is the result of an excitation of sensory nerves distributed to the skin” (p. 192). “When exposure to cold gives a man catarrh, or inflammation of the lungs, or diarrhcea, or some still more serious affection of the abdominal vis- cera, the disease is brought about through the ner- vous system. The impression made by the cold on the skin is conveyed to the nervous centres, and so influences the vaso-motor nerves (as the nerves which govern the walls of the vessels are called) of the organ affected as to cause their par- tial paralysis, and produce that state of congestion THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. (or undue distention of the vessels) which so come > monly ends in inflammation” (P. 53). lf : It is clear, then, that if mischief arises from) exposure to cold, it is due to an impression made _ on the peripheral nerves, and that the injury o deep-seated organs is usually caused by a reflex influence acting along the nerves of those organs, é Now, when such injurious impression is made on _ the peripheral nerves, it is almost invariably re. membered as a disagreeable feeling of chilliness, _ But, I contend, a moderate dose of any warm bey- erage containing alcohol, judiciously taken before — temporary exposure to cold, does commonly tend to prevent this injurious impression, and it doesso, in the first place, by quickening the circulation and _ so conveying the warm blood more freely and fre. quently through the cutaneous vessels, and second ly, by its tendency to relax the vessels of the skin, it counteracts the opposite tendency of cold, which is to constrict them, and so, by maintaining a free circulation of warm blood over the surface of the body, the sensitive extremities of the peripheral nerves.remain bathed, as it were, in warm fluid, instead of being starved and chilled, through con. striction of the blood-vessels, by the external cold, — It is argued, and, to a certain extent, no doubt truly, that the contraction of the vessels of the surface by cold is a natural conservative effort by which the blood is kept from coming to the sux — face of the body, and there parting with its heat — by evaporation, etc. But, apart from the fact that in a very cold atmosphere little heat can be — lost by evaporation, it is pretty well known that — the so-called conservative processes of Nature prove often very indiscriminating processes, andy in this particular instance, it is precisely when — this process reaches an extreme degree that the baneful effects of chill are produced ; and it would: 4 seem that, in the careful and moderate use of ab — : coholic beverages, we have an agent that will a us to resist this extreme degree of Nature’s com servatism.! es ihe] cae 1 Dr. Brunton, with whose observations on “The — Physiological Action of Alcohol” I, in the a agree, makes the following judicious remarks on tee j point discuesed above: ** While alcohol is thus injurious during exposure to cold, the case is very different after th po expoeure is over, and its administration may thus be very beneficial. Supposing a man, after being out a” day, comes home much chilled to a warm fireside, He” stands before the grate and turns himself round and round, but he cannot get himself warmed through.” The cutaneous vessels so long contracted by the will not relax all at once, and the deeper tissues galt heat very slowly, just as they very slowly lose it by mere conduction through the skin. « If a little : oe ~ eoreesoenee sc fF22ESBBBREHWB PES ew oa oo

Page 39

SSESEERE = RSS, FSPERR ELE BEM Ny tip angtiemiwrciDs tun Gr! = & ON STIMULANTS. 39 Another question of the greatest practical im- portance in connection with the alcohol contro- yersy is this: Does the use of alcohol increase the bodily strength ? does it increase our capacity for exertion, muscular or mental ? does it, if taken when the body is fatigued, fit us for renewed ef- fort? This is a question of great interest to a great diversity of persons—to the sportsman as well as to the student, to the military commander and to the employer of labor, to the sedentary man of business as well as to the trained athlete. An interesting contribution to the solution of this problem is the report by Dr. Parkes, “ On the Issue of a Spirit Ration during the Ashantee Campaign.” “ When,” he asks, “as so frequently happens in campaigns, soldiers are marching nearly the whole of the ddy, and can obtain their regular food only late in the evening, what can be given to léssen the sense of great fatigue, and to enable them not only to continue the march, but to be ready for any emergency which may arise? The usual resort is to a spirit ration, and there is no doubt that, for a time, this exerts a reviving effect. But is it the best thing which can be given, and are its advan- tages without alloy? The first effect of alcohol, when given in a moderate dose, is reviving; but this effect is transient. The reviving effect goes off after, at the utmost, two and a half miles of ad- ditional march, and sometimes much before this. ... It is clear, then, that alcohol is not a very trustworthy aid ; for, supposing that a command- ing officer, having marched twelve or fourteen miles, finds his men weary, and, not being able to halt and feed them, orders an issue of spirits of an amount sufficient to revive but not to depress. The first effect will be good, but in less than an hour his men will be as weary as before, or prob- ably more so. If he then reissues the spirit within 80 short a period of time, it is certain that, in the case of many men—perhaps the majority—the marching power will be lessened. . . . It appears to me, therefore, that spirits, as an issue, should be kept for emergencies, as when, after great fa- tigue, a sudden but short exertion is required, or be now taken, and especially if it be taken hot, the cutaneous vessels dilate, allow the blood to circulate through them, and become warmed by the fire; it re- turné warm to the internal organs. and soon the whole body is in a pleasing glow. At the same time the dila- tation of the cutaneous vessels opens new channels to the blood which has been pent up in the interior of the body, and thus lessens any tendency to congestion or inflammation of internal organs, so that a glass of hot brandy-and-water at the proper time may possibly Prevent @ bronchitis or pleurisy.” He also goes on to admit that there are circumstances under which al- cohol may be beneficial “even while the exposure con- tinues”— The Practitioner, vol. xvi., p. 132. when, a march being ended, there is great depres- sion and failure of the beart’s action.” Sir Anthony Home, who was principal medical officer on the Gold Coast, speaks as follows : “ Men cannot keep in health on poor, insipid, badly-cooked rations. Under these circumstances I believe that, after their day’s work, rum is de- sirable (beer and wine are impossible of attain- ment). There is a moment in which we may so keep up the system of a man tired to death by over-exertion as to bridge over the period in which lassitude ends in the beginning of disease. Good food will probably do this best, but it is rarely at hand when wanted ; and, even if it were, the di- gestive functions participate in the general lassi- tude, so that neither digestion nor assimilation goes on sufficiently. At this time a glass of beer or rum sends the machine on again.” Dr. Parkes gives also some results of experi- ments on the effect of rum on men making long marches in this country. His object was to com- pare its reviving and sustaining effects with those of meat-extract and coffee. As I shall explain hereafter, my own view is that the best effects would be produced by combining these latter with a small quantity of spirit. A few brief ex- tracts from the evidence of the men themselves will best serve my immediate purpose. One says: “ After the rum! he felt a decided reviving effect ; it gave him a spurt. This was not last- ing.” Another says: ‘‘ On the first day, after the first dose, felt at first much revived; felt easy and marched better; after two miles felt thirst, and then got weak ; the good effect of the rum had passed off.” A third says: “ The first dose of rum seemed to quicken his appetite and in- crease his thirst ; for about two miles or so felt lighter and revived, and as if he could have jumped over a five-barred gate with all his accoutrements on; then this effect entirely went off, and he felt as tired as before.” All three men preferred the meat-extract. Mr. R. E. Carrington, of Guy’s Hospital, who has published an excellent paper on “ Alcohol” in the Guy's Hospital Gazette, calls attention to the habits of the Cambridge crew when training, as he says, for “ Perhaps one of the severest tests of musculai power that can possibly occur. I find the system pursued to consist of good hours, a moderate amount of good, wholesome food, a moderate amount of stimulants, with plenty of exercise. The stimu- lants may consist of a pint of beer for dinner and 1 They bad already marched thirteen and a quarter miles.

Page 40

40 THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. a similar quantity for supper. A glass or two of does. good port or sound claret are generally taken dur- ing the day. Even champagne is given. Spirits are against all regulations, and are never given, for it is found they do not tend to strengthen in any way. It is found, then, that a regimen like this . . is the one most calculated to call forth the | best strength of the men.” It would seem, therefore, to be capable of demonstration, that the daily consumption of a moderate amount of alcoholic beverage is con- sistent with the most perfect development of muscular energy. It is also clear that a moderate dose of alcohol enables a man to put forth a sudden spurt of muscular effort. But it is also clear that if it be taken by itself it does not long sustain muscular strength. It rather enables a man to draw upon his reserves of strength than to produce new energy. But if it can be com- bined with something which will also sustain—as It is a physiological fact that when small or moderate dose of alcohol comes in con. tact with the mucous membrane of the stomach it promotes the secretion of the gastric juicg And when the system is fatigued and overworked, and particularly when the mind has been espe. cially engaged, and the other organs have been inactive, some stimulant is often needed to excite the gastric ¢irculation, and to promote the secre. tion of the digestive juices. A jaded, overworked man of business comes appetiteless to his din. ner; a dessert-spoonful of brandy will often ip. duce appetite, and enable him to enjoy and digest his dinner, and no harm will come of it, unless it becomes a frequent habit. A distinguished medi. cal teacher and physician of this town tells me that, after an exhausting day of teaching-work, he frequently finds he has no appetite for food until he has taken a glass of sherry. I have legs” hesitation in thus calling attention to the aid meat-extract, or meat-soup, or coffee, tea, or milk | Which alcohol occasionally gives to the stomach —it may prove most valuable in tiding over that | When taken judiciously, since I shall have occa shorter or longer period before these sustaining | sion by-and-by to show how, when habitually foods can take effect. It is especially useful | taken in excess, it utterly destroys the digestive when a short and sharp effort has to be made | power. before a prolonged rest, since its stimulant effect | I now proceed to pass in review the various is followed by a sedative one. Unlike some other | beverages which we commonly drink in this stimulants, such as tea and coffee, it brings in its , Country, into which alcohol enters as a constite wake that greatest of all restorers, sleep. With | uent. The distilled spirits chiefly used in Eng _ regard to the effect of moderate doses of alcohol | !and are—brandy, containing fifty to sixty per on mental work much difference of opinion exists, | cent. of alcohol; gin, forty-nine to sixty per Many students find that, instead of helping them | ¢ent.; whiskey, fifty to sixty per cent. ; and rum, in their work, it hinders them. It dulls their | Sixty to seventy-seven per cent. Of all these receptive faculties, “Others, on the contrary, find ; Whiskey at the present moment enjoys the greats real help in moderate quantities of wine. These | St share of popularity; the only reason for this differences of effect would seem to depend greatly | that I know of is, that good whiskey costs less than on differences in constitutional temperament, It | $004 brandy, and that it is generally believed t is certainly capable, for a time, of calling some | be less subject to falsification than other spirit, of the mental faculties into increased activity. | Its flavor is also more agreeable to many persons, Some of the best things that have ever been said | have been said under the influence of wine. The circulation through the brain is quickened, the nervous tissue receives more nourishment, the imagination is stimulated, and ideas flow more rapidly, but it is doubtful if the power of close reasoning be not always diminished. It is useful for reviving mental power when from accidental circumstances, such as want of food, etc., it has been exhausted, but it should never be relied upon as an aid to continuous effort or close appli- cation. The third and last point which I shall have space to consider under the general properties of alcohol is whether it does or does not promote digestion. Under certain conditions it certainly than that of brandy. One of our highest a ties on this subject thinks, however, that w “is inferior in delicacy to good brandy,” * 1Dr. Druitt: ‘* More Notes on Wines and Spirit” Medical Times and Gazetie, 1875 and 1876. § This writer goes on to say: “As for the poo : decrepit creatures who are past work and past hop but who want to make their hearts beat a little lively, they take their little glass of gin “‘three-ha’porth "—and who is to blame them? tainly it is not for the well-fed philanthropist nor rich and luxurious invalid, who can command comfort, to throw derision and scorn at the poor gin-drinker. Really it would seem as if com! sense and chemistry lost their hold upon the mi every one who writes against gin. Any one knows practically the use and abuee of spirits, that the best way of making the drinker with a small quantity is to flavor it strongly

Page 41

FEr E Bee: shes 3 FE&gss ERs ON STIMULANTS. 41 he calls attention to the fact that all brandy in the ordinary market is colored with burned sugar, and adds very pertinently, “ Considering that our reason for using brandy (instead of wine) is to get rid of the saccharine and other substances requiring digestion, it seems highly inconsistent to add sugar to the spirit just to please the eye.” He points out also the importance of using an unsweetened and uncolored spirit in a particular disease where sugar is inadmissible. “The Eng- lishman likes his veal white and his brandy dark ; but both are better without any tampering with their color. colorless brandy) from the house of Boulestin of Cognac.” Rum is very little drunk among the up- per classes in this country. It has, however, a fair share of popularity among the poor. It is the spirit which is used in the army and navy. Its pe- culiar flavor is due to the presence of butyric ether, of which it contains a considerable quantity. Gin js also more popular among the poor than among the rich, It was originally a medicine, and under the designation of spirit of juniper has appeared | in every pharmacopeeia for the last two hundred | years, It is the spirit of all others which, in this | town, is especially subject to falsification. But | there is a spirit called Plymouth gin, distilled in the town of Plymouth, which is very pure and wholesome, quite as much so as whiskey, and it is, I believe, a little cheaper. The use of wine as a beverage has greatly in- creased during the last sixteen or seventeen years in this country. Since 1859 the imports from | Portugal have doubied, those from Spain trebled, | and those from France increased tenfold. Now, | seeing that the production of the best wines is | strictly limited, we may safely infer that there is more bad wine in this country at present than at any previous time. The best qualities of wine | are without doubt the most wholesome of all | alcoholic beverages. The alcohol that exists in | them is modified by its combination with the | delicate ethers and other constituents found in | all well-fermented high-quality wines that have | been long in bottle. A great physiological au- thority has said that the effects of all alcoholic drinks depend entirely upon the quantity of alco- hol they contain, and that equivalent quantities | matics, so that the stomach may be gratified quickly ' without any guantity of spirit in excess. We are told | that gin contains oi! of juniper, oil of bitter-almonds, potassa, alum, nitric acid, oil of vitriol or sulphuric | acid, and butyric acid. Chemistry stands aghast at | such @ description ; still more so does the cause of | true temperance—for what good cause was ever car- tied by exagseration ? | I have had some myself (i. e., pure, | been made are to the contrary effect. | really seem as though the alcoholo-phobists of pure alcohol would produce identically the same effect. Now, it is simply impossible that this reasoning can be sound. To make it sound it would, be necessary to compare the effects of every kind of alcoholic beverage (including gin- ger-beer, which is an alcoholic drink, though a | very weak one) in a number of distinct cases, and under varying circumstances, with the effects | of exactly an equivalent quantity of pure alcohol. This alone could justify a sweeping general con- clusion such as I have quoted. But the results of such observations and experiments as have It would thought any argument good enough to throw at the head of alcohol. Take the following: “ Dr. Smith found that the amount of carbonic acid (eliminated under the influence of alcohol) was reduced in men, as I have found it in the lower animals, so that the fact of the general reduction may be considered as established beyond dispu- tation.”! If this be so, then I say many alcoholic beverages act differently from an equivalent quan- tity of alcohol, and Dr. Smith shall himself bear testimony to the fact. He found,? with regard to ardent spirits, that “some increase and others decrease the amount of carbonic acid expired.” In one case (with alcohol) there was an average increase of expired carbonic acid per minute 0.18 and 0.8 grain, on two occasions. In another case, average increase of carbonic acid expired 0.74 grain per minute. In a third case, with rum, there was an average increase 0.26 grain per minute. In a fourth case, with very fine old rum, maximum increase 0.1 and 1.5 in two persons. In other cases, with three ounces of sherry, he observed an average increase of 0.19 and 0.3 ; with half a pint of Dublin stout increase 0.85 and 0.81 grain ; with half a pint of fine old ale, increase 0.6 and 0.27 grain per minute. One is inclined to ask what is evidence worth when a man has it all his own way? What is evidence worth without cross-examination ? I need hardly say that those who know any- thing practically about wines (and the only way of knowing wines is by drinking them; a physi- ologist or a chemist who drinks water only can know very little about the different effects of different wines) are quite agreed that the effect of a natural wine may be very different from that of an equivalent quantity of alcohol. I have myself observed recently two remarkable in- stances which support this statement. Two gen- 1 Richardson: Cantor Lectures, p. 72. 2 Proceedings of Royal Society, 1859.

Page 42

: | / i ' } 42 tlemen, suffering at differéht periods from the same kind of local imflammatory affection, which every kind of alcoholic beverage aggravated, accidentally drank some very fine Chateau Mar- gaux that had been many years in bottle; in both instances not only was there no local irrita- tion produced by two or three large glasses of the wine, but the general refreshing influence it exercised on their condition of depressed health was most marked. In neither of these cases could half a glass of sherry be borne with com- fort. The original quality of a wine, its freedom from admixture with added alcohol or other sub- stances, and its maturity, are the conditions which determine its action on the human organ- ism, It is exceedingly likely that the purely ex- hilarating effect of certain fine old wines, when taken in moderate quantity, may be due to the circumstance that some of the natural constitu- ents of the wine, combined with the alcohol, determine the complete decomposition of the latter into simple elements or its rapid elimina- tion after its stimulating effects have passed away; so that no undecomposed alcohol and no secondary products of its decomposition, such as acetic acid or aldehyde, remain in the organism. Analogous instances certainly occur in the use of other narcotic substances. Opium taken by it- self has a very different and far more disagreeable effect than when combined with salts of ammonia or other substances which excite the action of the secreting organs. It is the same with the hydrate of chloral. Taken by itself it often pro- duces much headache and drowsiness after its soporific effects have passed away; but, when combined with an equal quantity of bromide of potassium, a medicine which acts as a stimulant to certain organs of secretion, the unpleasant consequences are generally wholly obviated. It must not be expected that cheap wines can be good wines. There are a great number of persons always ready to give good prices for good wines. Cheap wines are either fabricated wines, and therefore unwholesome, or they are poor, acid, flavorless, natural wines that will not keep. The latter may-not always be unwholesome, es- pecially if their excess of acidity be corrected by admixture with effervescing alkaline waters; but they possess none of the generous, exhilarating properties of good, sound wines. So recently as last year the respectable wine-merchants of Paris, Bordeaux, and other towns, petitioned the French Legislature to interfere and put a stop to the wholesale fabrication of red wines. They stated THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. | vert it into a brilliant red, salable article, ¢ ha } that it was becoming so common a branch of fp dustry to take a barrel of sour white wine, » by means of artificial coloring - matters, to ¢ the credit and reputation of the French wines _ were likely to be seriously affected by it. ‘2, The best and most wholesome wines for gene eral use as beverages are the good, sound, ma tured wines of Bordeaux and Burgundy, The finer and older the wine, the more perfect will be its tonic properties. As very light, refreshing 5 beverages, containing but a very small & of alcohol, there are some kinds of hock and still _ Moselle to be obtained at very moderate pricea The sparkling wines of Champagne are preém nent for their rapid stimulating effects. No ben erage proves of greater value, under certain ¢im cumstances, than a draught of champagne. Itis especially useful in conyalescence from some acute diseases, and I have known it prove most helpful under certain conditions of prolonged mental strain. Indeed, the genuine, light, sound” wine of Champagne can be easily distinguished by its effects from the spurious imitations. These” often produce depression, and never the peculiar ‘ buoyancy of true champagne. In the case of very delicate stomachs, it answers best when mixed with an equal quantity of soda-water. Of all the wines that are consumed in this country, port and sherry stand responsible for producing the greatest amount of mischief. An” incalculable amount of evil is wrought by sherry, and especially by the so-called dry sherries. Ever” since it has been the fashion to prefer dry she ries, dried sherries have been provided in abut — dance. Most sherries (and ports also) are made up wines, and contain, roughly speaking, abont twice as much alcohol as other wines ;_ but, of made-up wines, the made-up dry sherry is 4 most pernicious. Nor have they even the ill of being cheap, for many of them are sold for; i high prices. The dryness is given them by ah) trous ether—a horrible and bad imitation of they amontillado flavor — sulphate of lime, alum, and other atrocities. Now this fi tion would not be practicable if men who ask dry sherries (and the same remark applies many of the so-called dry champagnes) stood what is the real meaning of the word “dry applied to wines. It simply means a wine from added spirit or sugar, and in which the ural saccharine matter of the grape has gone a more or less complete fermentative @@ struction. It is a negative, not a positive quail Tt means the absence of sweetness, and not (#7 PREB BEBE EB eS

Page 43

FREREZRESCTRREG TAPER » Ba this for An fe ad Bates — ~ ON STIMULANTS. ‘ 43 addition of something which shall give the wine a positive quality of dryness. In every case, a good sherry is soft to the mouth, and when a sherry jeaves in the mouth a sense of dryness, and the tongue or palate rough, it is perfectly certain that you are not drinking a natural dry wine, no matter what price you have paid for it. Now, these astringent matters added to sherries are exceedingly unwholesome, for, besides the hurtful qualities of the original bad wine to which they are added, they tend to diminish the activity of the secreting organs, and so retain in the blood the pernicious compound of which they form part. The following remarks on dry sherries are taken from one of a series of letters on “ Spanish Vine- yards,” etc., published in the Pall Mall Gazette, in October and November, 1875 : “ Four different kinds of dry Jerez wines are shipped to England : natural wines, understood to contain no added spirit ; vintage wines, the prod- uce of individual vineyards, and occasionally of specific years ; solera wines, such as fine amontil- lado and olorosa; and, finally, blended wines. The natural wines of which I speak are not the wines commonly advertised in England at low rates under that designation. Jerez wines, perfectly free from spirit, cannot possibly be sold cheap in England, because they require to be at least five years old; whereas the wines offered as natural are generally young, unripe wines, whose fermentation has not yet terminated, and which come far more frequent- ly from Seville or La Mancha than from the Jerez district. Such wines are necessarily unwhole- some, for heat revives the fermentative action, which completes itself in that delicate organism —the human stomach.” The poor man’s ideal of wine is port. It is sweet, it is fiery, and it has a good, rich color! But, of all the hurtful mixtures that are sold to the poor man, public-house port is, perhaps, the worst. I need not enumerate the various sub- stances with which it is adulterated, but many of these are astringents, and check the action of the secreting organs. Good, sound port is useful in some forms of illness, but its palatableness makes the poor much too eager for it, A method of re- moving the attractiveness of port wine when given to the poor is amusingly described in those clever sketches of parsons’ wives, published under the title of “The Owlet of Owlstone Edge.” The particular parson’s wife in question has strong educational tendencies of rather a stern quality ; her husband is speaking to her about a poor in- valid in the parish; she replies: “I sent him a Pint of port, putting a lump of camphor in it by "ay of precaution.” “Precaution, my lamb?” exclaims the astonished parson. “ Yes; nobody will drink port wine for pleasure that has cam- phor in it. It is just beastly as a beverage, though extremely wholesome ! ” Beer contains less alcohol and less acid than wine; but it contains a variety of other sub- stances, such as sugar, cellulose, dextrine, albu- minous matters, etc., held in solution or suspen- sion, which render it especially prone to further fermentation and decomposing changes; and though the presence of these starchy, saccharine, and other matters, may make it a more sustaining beverage to the hard-working man, it renders it quite unfit for the use of delicate stomachs, espe- cially where there is any tendency to gouty mal- assimilation. Beer is essentially a fermented in- fusion of malt, and the addition of hops to beer was an after-thought, the credit of which is given to the German monks of the eleventh century, Hops were added for the purpose of giving it aroma and for preserving it from decomposition. For many centuries this German hop-containing beer was imported in large quantities into this country, to the extent of 800,000 barrels a year.' Before the introduction into England of tea and coffee, beer was much more largely consumed by the upper classes, and especially by ladies, than it now is, and the same remark probably applies to the consumption of animal food—two circumstances which may, to a, certain extent, account for the gouty inheritance which has been handed down to so many of us. Sound beer, in which the fermentation is thoroughly complete, is a useful beverage in moderate quantity for healthy persons who lead an active or laborious life in the open air. It is useful, too, in small quantities, for delicate, under-nourished children, and should be taken with their meals. It will often help them to grow fat more quickly than cod-liver oil. It is, however, a most frequent cause of trouble- some dyspepsia in persons of sedentary habits, and this is especially the case with the commoner kinds, which have probably not ceased to ferment, and which are sold, often in an adulterated form, to the 1 England is now the largest beer-producing and beer-consuming country in the world. Its annual prod- uce exceeds 886,000,000 gallons, and of this scarcely two per cent. is exported. Germany produces (1872) about 616,000,000 gallons, and of this it is calculated that Southern Germany consumes four times as much as Northern Germany. Austria produces 264,000,000. North America 242,000,000. France and Belgium about 154,000,000 each. Paris, it is calculated, consumes only from 4,400,000 to 6,600,000 gallons of beer annually, compared with 66,000,000 to 88,000,000 gallons of wine. —(Vide M. Radaun, ** La Science et la Fabrication le la Biére,” Revue des Deux Mondes, November 15, 1876.)

Page 44

or 5 44 THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. poor. It is important also to remember that beer in large quantities is certainly a depressant, and that no greater mistake can be made than to give it freely to laboring-men while at work with the view of strengthening them. Bearing on this point, Dr. Parkes gives a very interesting account of the use of a drink of thin boiled oatmeal dur- ing some extremely heavy work lately performed on the Great Western Railway during the change from the broad to the narrow gauge : “Tt was necessary to take up and relay the rails in the shortest possible time, and the same men were obliged to be kept at work for many hours (sometimes eighteen hours in the day). The sum- mer days were chosen, so that almost literally the men worked night and day, stopping only for meals and a little sleep. They took their ordinary meals, and beer with their meals if they pleased, but dur- ing the long periods of the work they were sup- plied with nothing but a drink of oatmeal boiled in water, and beer and spirits were prohibited. Each man had an allowance per diem of one pound of oatmeal and half a pound of sugar, and so im- portant was this deemed that a man was told off specially for every twenty men, and was solely em- | of this famous plant to the progress of truth— ployed in boiling and taking the oatmeal-drink to | the men. This liquid was drunk in large quan- | tities, and was most highly approved of. The character of the work and the temper of the men were much better, in the opinion of the engineers, than would have been the case if beer and spirits had been issued.” # In speaking of the use of alcoholic beverages Lhave frequently had to employ the word “ moder- ate,” and the question may well be asked, “‘ What does this word mean?” It has been calculated that the daily consumption of an ounce and a half of absolute alcohol is the limit of moderation for a strong, healthy man, and this will correspond pretty nearly with three ounces of brandy (i. e., rather less than the third of half a pint), rather less than half a pint of the stronger wines, such as port and sherry, rather less than a pint of the weaker wines, such us claret and hock, and a pint and a half of beer. The non-alcoholic class of stimulating bev- erages must now receive a brief consideration. There exists some doubt as to the precise date when the use of tea, coffee, and chocolate, became general in this country. In “ Pepys’s Diary” there is the following entry under September 25, 1661: “I sent for a cup of tea (a Chinese drink), of which I had never drunk before.” And Isaac Disraeli states that he had heard of Oliver Crom- 1 Parkes: “On the Issue of a Spirit Ration during the Ashantee Campaign.” | cottage, only by the slow and resistless efforts of , time and its own virtues.” well’s teapot in the possession of a collector, 1660 the price of tea is stated to have been shillings the pound, and it does not seem to been introduced into general use until the r ning of the eighteenth century. Its adoption ag a popular beverage was strenuously opposed many. “In Germany, Hahnemann considered te. dealers as immoral members of society, lying in wait for men’s purses and lives.” !: He was ly opposed to the use of coffee. “Hahnemann ge désolait de l'abus que ses compatriotes faisaient du café. Il lui reprochait d’avoir altéré le carac, tére national, détruit la solidité du jugement, ls fermeté de volonté chez le peuple allemand, pour ne lui laisser que de la loquacité, de la vacillation et de la mobilité fugitive!” ? In an articlegs Duncan Forbes in the Edinburgh Review, of 1816, the writer, alluding to the fact that Dunem Forbes had presented to the Government a scheme for punishing the use of tea, likens the progress “suspected at first, though very palatable to those who had courage to taste it; resisted as ite croached; abused as its popularity seemed to spread ; and establishing its triumph at last, in cheering the whole land, from the palace to the But it must be admitted that the abuse of tes and coffee may be attended by serious injuries} the human organism. The pernicious effect the active principle of coffee—caffeine, which i identical with theine, the active principle of tea —on certain animals is well shown in an elaborate paper by Dr. Leven, which I have already mex tioned. He found that one to ten centi of caffeine acted as a fatal poison when givent@ frogs, first quickening the action of the heart am the respiratory organs, and then inducing «t tanic state. To Guinea-pigs fifteen to twenty ce tigrammes proved fatal, first increasing the of the heart, which in one instance was 60 that the pulsation could not be counted, and @ followed by paralysis of that organ. The. results were obtained with rabbits. One given to a dog did not prove poisonous; creased the activity of the heart and the res tory and secretory organs, but after three or & hours the symptoms disappeared. an M. Leven, in short, established as the ream of his experiments that the active principle of 1 Disraeli’s “ Curiosities of Literature.” 2 Docteur M. Leven: “Action Physiolo Médicamenteuse de la Cafeine,” Archives de P gie, 1868. of

Page 45

coffee acts first on the heart, and quickens the circulation and respiration, and that in the sec- ond place it increases the tension of the blcod- yessels—an effect, it will be noticed, precisely the opposite of that of alcohol, which diminishes the tension of the vessels, It irritates the nervous centres, the brain and spinal cord, and also the nerves themselves. “It excites the nerve-cells,” says M. Leven, “not only by its stimulating effect on the circulation, but also by a special excitant action due to the caffeine itself.” The results of M. Leven’s physiological experiments correspond precisely with the symptoms which have been observed to occur in consequence of excessive indulgence in tea or coffee, Coffee con- tains seventeen per cent. of caffeine, and it is reckoned that in the quantity daily consumed by an ordinary Parisian there is enough to poison five Guinea-pigs! M. Leven quotes the case of a young medical man who suffered from coffee-in- toxication. For six months he had taken five or six cups of coffee daily. He experienced violent palpitations, tremblings in the arms, cramps in the legs, a convulsive cough, and permanent con- traction of the pupils. When he discontinued the use of coffee these symptoms disappeared. I have, again and again, had occasion to ob- serve the characteristic symptoms which the abuse of tea and coffee produces. The most common are distressing persistent palpitations, an irritable, excited state of the nervous system, a sense of dread of impending calamity, throbbings in the head and sometimes an approach to giddiness, inability to sleep, obstinate dyspepsia—only to be relieved by abstaining from its cause. I believe it is the experience of most hospital physicians that a very large proportion of the cases of dys- pepsia which crowd the out-patient rooms of the London hospitals are induced by the constant | large consumption of tea by the poor. The dis- turbing effect of abuse of tea on the action of the heart was not likely to escape the notice of so acute an observer as Dr. Stokes, of Dublin; and in his work on diseases of the heart he calls at- tention to the following, among other cases: A gentleman of great intellectual attainments had been in the habit of passing a great part of the night in literary and scientific labors ; during the evening and through the night he was in the habit of drinking laegaly of tea, without any thought of its doing him harm. At length he became subject to paroxysms of quick and vehement ac- tion of the heart, accompanied by intense dis- tress and oppression, with a painful sense of im- | pending death. He became greatly depressed in | ON STIMULANTS. 45 spirits, and believed he should die in one of these dreadful paroxysms. On examination after the paroxysm had passed off, his heart was fouud to be perfectly sound, But a very curious affection of the nervous system became permanent, He found the greatest difficulty in walking on level ground; he had an irresistible feeling that he should slip and fall; and on one occasion, wish- ing to visit a friend who lived near him, after many ineffectual attempts to walk on the level, he actually proceeded to his friend’s house on all- fours. I have already alluded to an antagonism which I believe to exist between the effects of tea and coffee on the one hand, and those of alcohol on the other. They both excite the heart to in- creased action, but the excitement produced by alcohol rapidly passes away and leaves a state of calm or (if the dose has been large) depression, and hence its tendency to promote sleep; tea and coffee also excite the heart, but the excitement produced by these beverages does, in many cases, leave behind it a state of irritability instead of calm, and hence their tendency to prevent sleep. Alcohol relaxes the blood-vessels, and so dimin- ishes vascular tensions; coffee and tea increase vascular tension. Alcohol, in its secondary effect, soothes the nervous system ; tea and coffee irri- tate the nervous system. It is a well-known fact that a cup of strong tea or coffée dispels the ef- fects of slight excess in wine; it is, perhaps, not so well known that a few teaspoonfuls of brandy or a glass or two of sherry will remove the ner- vous irritability produced by tea or coffee. I fear much of the “ sly drinking ” on the part of women is induced by states of nervous irritabili- ty originally excited by. over-indulgence in tea. The practical issue of all this is, that excessive indulgence in any stimulant, whether alcoholic or non-alcoholic, is most hurtful. Of the grateful, refreshing, and invigorating properties of tea and coffee taken in moderation, and occasionally rather than habitually, no one can be more sen- sible than I am; but I am convinced that if a stimulant is needed, as it often is by men of busi- ness under occasional pressure of work, the best results will be obtained by taking the bane and the antidote together—a small quantity of tea or coffee with a small quantity of an alcoholic bev- erage. When what I have termed tea-dyspepsia is produced, the only plan is to leave off drinking that beverage for three or four months, after which its use may often be resumed with im- punity. Chocolate is a very useful substitute for tea or coffee, but it does not possess the property

Page 46

46 of immediate stimulation to anything like the same degree. It will not be expected that I should speak in this place of the use of alcohol in the treatment of disease, but there is another most important branch of the subject, and one of most serious public interest, which I have not yet alluded to, except incidentally; I mean the influence of ex- cessive indulgence in alcoholic drinks as a cause of disease. What are the physical effects on the organism of the abuse of alcohol? In every large hospital in a great city like this many cases of serious and fatal disease are always to be found which owe their existence to intemperance. The general public are little aware of the enormous amounts of strong spirits which are consumed by some of the working-classes. Cabmen, Covent Garden and dock laborers, the inferior class of lawyers’ clerks, and compositors, are among the worst offenders. I will mention two instructive instances: A cabman applied as an out-patient to King’s College Hospital, suffering from a grave form of disease the result of spirit - drinking. “You drink hard?” said the doctor. “ Pretty fair,” said the cabman. ‘ What do you drink ?” “ Whiskey, mostly.” day?” “Can't say exactly, sometimes more, sometimes less.” ‘‘ But give us a rough average.” “ Well, I s’pose, one day with another, about a couple o’ quarts a day.” “ But,” exclaimed the doctor, “that would cost you eight shillings a day; how can you afford that?” “Oh!” an- swered cabby, “it ain’t a matter of affordin’ if a man gives his mind to it!” Now this quantity seemed so enormous that I mentioned the case to one of the inspectors of police at Great Marl- borough Street, and he assured me that from his experience of cabmen he did not think the esti- “How much whiskey a | THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. mate excessive, The second case was that dock-laborer, also suffering from serious, i diable disease caused by alcohol. The dialogy that ensued was to much the same effect: “Why do you drink?” “Mostly whiskey.” “igs much a day?” “ Well, I'm never the worse. : liquor.” “But howmuchaday?” “ Well, per. haps about a pint a day, more or less.” here was a dock-laborer spending at least t shillings a day, that is fourteen shillings a Week, on whiskey! and at middle age he becomes 4 charge on the charity of the public. Yet this man appeared when in the hospital to be an im telligent, well-disposed man. “ He had taken the whiskey in his heavy work, thinking it would strengthen him.” It is this ignorance that we should strive to remove. We shall never cure the laboring aan of his intemperate habits by trying to force te and coffee down his throat. Education, as Mr Lowe has said, may be expected to do mucho check intemperance; but it should be education in which a knowledge of the plain, simple lawsot physiology and health has a place. It must not be forgotten, in considering what is the true remedy for intemperance among the poor, that drunkenness is frequently the as well as the parent of misery. Want of tion, improvident marriages, dirty and un some dwellings, are all of them directly and rectly causes of intemperance; and if we wa diminish habits of drunkenness among the classes, we should trust rather to the rem influences such as these, than to the pi tion of exaggerated statements as to the ba effects of the moderate use of alcoholic b ages. —The Fortnightly Review. : A MODERN “SYMPOSIUM.” THE INFLUENCE UPON MORALITY OF A DECLINE IN RELIGIOUS : BELIEF. a: IR JAMES STEPHEN.—Many persons re- gard everything which tends to discredit theology with disapprobation, because they think 1 A certain number of gentlemen have consented to discuss from time to time, under this title, questions of interest and importance. Each writer will have eeen all that has been written before his own remarks, but (except the first writer) nothing that follows them. that all such speculations must endanger ity as well. Others assert that morality basis of its own in human nature, and that, The first writer, as proposer of the subject, the right of reply or summing-up at the end. present discussion will be continued and ¢o the May number of the Review.—Eprror 2 Century. .

Page 47

A MODERN “SYMPOSIUM.” if all theological belief were exploded, morality would remain unaffected. My own view is, that each party is to a con- siderable extent right, but that the true practical inference is often neglected. Understanding by the theology of an age or country the theory of the universe generally ac- cepted then and there, and by its morality the rules of life then and there commonly regarded as binding, it seems to me extravagant to say that the one does not influence the other. The difference between living in a country where the established theory is that existence is an evil, and annihilation the highest good, and living in a country where the established theory is that the earth is the Lord’s and the fullness thereof, the round world and they that dwell therein, has surely a good deal to do with the other differ- ences which distinguish Englishmen from Buddh- ists. Even if it be said that such differences are merely a way of expressing the result of a differ- ence of temperament and constitution otherwise caused, this does not diminish the effect of a be- lief in the truth of the theory. Kali, Bhowanee, and other malevolent deities worshiped in India, are probably phantoms engendered by fear work ing on a rank fancy ; but this does not make the belief in their real existence less influential in those who hold it. A man who cuts off the end of his tongue to propitiate Kali would let it alone if he ceased to believe in ber existence, though the temper of mind which created her might still remain, and show itself in other ways The belief that the course of the world is ordered by a good God, that right and wrong are in the nature of a divine law, that this world is a place of trial, and part only of a wider existence —in a word, the belief in God and a future state —may be accounted for in various ways. Now that in this country (to go no farther) the vast . majority of people believe these doctrines to be true, in fact, just as they believe it to be true, in fact, that ships and carriages can be driven by steam, and that their conduct is in innumerable instances as distinctly influenced by the one be- lief as by the other, appear to me to be propo- sitions too plain to be proved. On the other hand, it seems at least equally evident that morality has a basis of its own quite independent of all theology whatever. It is dif. ficult to imagine any doctrine about theology which has not prevailed at some time or place ; but no one ever heard of men living together Without some rules of life—that is, without some 47 sort of morality. Given human action and hu- man passion, and a,vast number of people all acting and feeling, moral rules of conduct of some sort are a necessary consequence. The destruction of religion would, I think, involve a moral revolution; but it would no more destroy morality than a political revolution destroys law. It would substitute one set of moral rules and sentiments for another, just as the establish- ment of Christianity and Mohammedanism did when they superseded various forms of pagan- ism. It would be scarcely worth while to write down these commonplaces, if it were not for the sake of the practical inference. It,is that the- ology and morality ought to stand to each other in precisely the same relation as facts and legis- lation. No one would propose to support by artificial means a law passed under a mistake, for fear it should have to be altered. To say that the truth ‘of a theological doc rine must not be questioned, lest the discovery of its falsehood should pro- duce a bad moral effect, is in principle precisely the same thing. It is at least as unlikely that false theology should produce good morals as that legislation based on a mistaken view of facts should work well in practice I will give two illustrations of this—any num- ber might be given: Suicide is commonly re- garded as wrong; and this moral doctrine is de- fended on theological grounds, which are summed up in the old saying that the soldier must not leave his post till he is relieved. I will not in- quire whether any other argument can be pro- duced forbidding suicide to a person laboring under a disease which converts his whole life into one long scene of excruciating agony, and which must kill him in the course of a few use- less months, during which he is a source of mis- ery, and perhaps danger, to his nearest and dear- est friends. I confine myself to saying that, if it could be shown that there is no reason to sup- pose that God has in fact forbidden such an act, its morality might be discussed and decided upon on different grounds from those on which it must be considered and decided upon on the opposite hypothesis. Take, again, the law of marriage. Suppose a man’s wife is hopelessly insane—ought he to be allowed to marry again? Ought divorce to be permitted in any case? These questions will be discussed in a very different spirit, though it is possible that they might be answered in the same way, by persons who do and by persons who do

Page 48

48 not believe in sacraments, and that marriage is a sacrament. Now, let us suppose for’the sake of argument that it could be shown that, if all theological considerations were set aside, it would be desira- ble that a person dying of cancer should be per- mitted to commit suicide, and that a man whose wife was incurably mad should be allowed to marry again; and that, on the other hand, if theological considerations were taken into ac- count, the opposite was desirable. Upon these suppositions the question wkether the theologi- cal beliefs which make the difference are bene- ficial or not will depend on the question whether they are true or not. Applied generally, this shows that the support which an existing creed gives to an existing system of morals is irrele- vant to its truth, and that the question whether a given system of morals is good or bad cannot be fully determined until after the determination of the question whether the theology on which it rests is true or false. The morality is good if it is founded on a true estimate of the consequences of human actions. But if it is founded on a false theology, it is founded on a false estimate of the consequences of human actions; and, so far as that is the case, it cannot be good; and the cir- cumstance that it is supported by the theology to which it refers is an argument against, and not in favor of, that theology. Lorp SELBORNE.—I begin by observing that (putting special cases aside, and looking at the question in a general way) morality has not flourished, among either civilized or uncivilized men, when religious belief has been generally lost, or utterly debased. Not to dwell upon the case of savage races, the modern. Hindoos and Chinese have long been civilized, but are cer- tainly not moral; nor can anything worse be conceived than the morality of the Greeks and Romans, at the height of their civilization. The morality of the Romans, in the oid republican times when they knew nothing of Greek philoso- phy, was praised by Polybius, who connected it, directly and emphatically, with the influence among them of religious belief. After their m- tellectual cultivation had taken its tone from the irreligious or agnostic materialism of Epicurus | (hardly distinguishable, I think, from that sort of | philosophy which some persons think destined to | supplant religious belief in the present day), their morality became what is described in the first chapter of the Epistle to the Romans and in the Satires of Juvenal; nor does it seem to have been worse than that of the other civilized THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. races on the shores of the Mediterranean, over whom, at the same time, religion had equally its influence. On the other hand, it seems to me certain, ag an historical fact, that the place which the prim” ciples of love and benevolence, humility and self.” abnegation, have assumed in the morality of Christian nations (with a wide-spreading influence” which har been advancing till the ‘present time” with the growth of civilization) is specifically” due to Christianity. To Christianity are specific” cally due—1. Our respect for human life, which © condemns suicide, infanticide, political assassing. tion, and I might almost say homicide generally, © in a way previously unknown, and still unknown © where Christianity does not prevail; 2. Our ree. ognition of such moral and spiritual relations between man and man as are inconsistent with | the degradation of women, and with the practice ” of slavery; 3. Our reverence for the bond of marriage ; and, 4. Our abhorrence of some par. ticular forms of vice. I do not mean to deny that traces of a state of opinion, more or less similar upon some of these points, are discover. — able in what we know of the manners of some non-Christian nations ; but it is historically true to say that the prevalence of each of these prin. ciples, as manifested among ourselves, is specifica” ly due to Christianity. Of Christianity I peck in a sense inclusive of all that it derives from the | antecedent Jewish system; of which it claims” to be the true continuation and development. If freedom of inguiry is not to be stopped, after the rejection of religious belief, it must | gradually extend itself to the whole circle of mo- rality, most, if not all, of which is as little capa ble of demonstrative proof through the evidence $ of the senses as any of the doctrines of religion, Those who reject religion will not voluntarily ~ submit to moral restraints founded upon the reli- gion which they reject, unless they can be placed” upon some other intellectual basis, sufficiently” cogent to themselves to resist the attractions of appetite or self-interest. That large part mankind who are always too much under government of their inclinations and p will be quicker in drawing moral eoro. from irreligious principles than the philosop by whom those principles are propounded ; and | the advanced posts of morality, in which he ; influence of religion culminates, and of which > the necessity may not be so evident on natura or social grounds, are not likely to be very streme uously defended by those philosophers thet selves.

Page 49

ra aR «= SSE", ss, iil ee a eS 5 2 r sn a Pre eels LLNS +b Tiel ah ole If the religious foundations and sanctions of morality are given up, what is to be substituted for them ? * First: will the modern notion of a duty to set so as may conduce to the greatest happiness of the greatest number of men be sufficient ? I think, certainly not. The idea of duty is not, to my mind, practical or intelligible without religious conceptions ; and this particular conception of duty depends entirely upon a test extrinsic, and not personal, to the individual—a test, too, which it is difficult (not to say impossible) for each in- dividual to verify for himself; though it may be verified, to their own satisfaction, by philosophi- ql students of casuistry or political economy. Those motives are of necessity strongest which directly concern the man himself: and a moral principle which attempts to counteract influences operating directly and immediately upon the will by others which are speculative and remote, with- out any higher sanctions realized by and reacting upon the individual, must necessarily be weak. But, secondly : will this idea be sufficient, if s0 modified as to present to the man the pursuit of his own happiness in this world as the rule of A MODERN “SYMPOSIUM.” life, but teach him to discover it by observing | and doing those things which most conduce to } the happiness of men in general? In this form it | is older and more plausible; but the difficulties | of making it practical are really very much the samé. This doctrine, as Aristotle observes, de- pends upon a general induction: it deals only with general truths and general conclusions, to which there are many apparent and (if there were no law of moral retribution and adjustment be- hind) many real exceptions. The foundations of &man’s moval character and habits must be laid in his youth : when (as Aristotle also says) he is inexperienced, naturally inclined to follow his passions, and not predisposed to accept the dis- quisitions of philosophers as proof that his own happiness will not be promoted by seeking it in bis own way. The temperament most likely to act consciously on such a rule of life is not the most generous ; it is rather that which is cold and calculating, and which values the reputation more than the reality of virtue. Upon such men, at the best, its influence is to establish a low stand- ard of virtue; perhaps only to check and impose limits on their tendencies to vice. Over others tt can have little or no power, except when oper- ating 'n combination with, and subordination to, higher principles. _ Not only did the ethical systems of the an- “ents which were based upon this principle fail 4 49 to make men moral, but we see its impotence constantly exemplified among those whom we call ‘‘ men of the world ”"—a class of persons who are by no means indifferent to their own hap- piness, or to the good opinion of the world, but by whom the influence of religious belief is not practically felt; exemplified, too, on points of morality of which the reasonableness seems most manifest. There are no virtues, I suppose, which can more readily be shown to be conducive to happiness, whether particular or general, than that which the Greeks called éyxparela, and that of benevolence. What can be more contrary, to both at once of these, than the irregular indul- gence of sensual appetite at the cost of the per- manent degradation, and almost certain misery, of human beings who are its instruments and vic- tims, and of innumerable physical as well as moral evils to individuals, families, and mankind at large ? Yet how very common is this sort of im- morality, even among cultivated men, living on good terms with society! How little is it re- proved, how seldom restrained, except by the authority, or through the influence, direct or in- direct, of religion! All readers of Horace remem- ber the sententia dia Catonis, and I doubt whether non-religious opinion among ourselves is much stricter on this subject, though it may be less freely expressed. If it is otherwise as to some of the more abnormal forms of axpacta, I have al- ready said that this is specifically due to Chris- tianity. The cultivated Greeks and Romans spoke and wrote lightly and familiarly of vioes of which we do not speak at all: they regarded them, indeed, as effeminate, but not as infamous, and certainly did not visit them with grave social penalties. So tainted was their moral atmos- phere, that even such really religious men among them as Socrates and Plato (to whom, however, a religion teaching morals with definiteness and authority was unknown) surprise us by their want of sensitiveness on these points, as mani- fested in some passages of the Socratic Dialogues. I will next inquire whether a sufficient rule of morality is to be found, when religion is set aside, in any law of our nature: first, regarding the constitution of our vature apart from, and, sec- ondly, taking into account, the existence in it of a moral instinct or sense. If any one calls the application of right reason to human conduct generally a law of our nature, from which such a rule is to be derived, without taking into account the moral sense—this, as it seems to me, would be only a different and more indefinite mode of expressing substantially the

Page 50

50 THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. same theories, which have been already dealt with. But it may, perhaps, be suggested that laws of our nature, from which such a rule may be de- rived, are to be found in the final causes and pur- poses of the several organs and powers which ex- ist in that nature; and that the use of any of those organs or powers in a manner aberrant from their proper causes and purposes is a breach of natural morality. I do not pause to inquire . whether the idea of “cause” and “ purpose,” which is involved in such a view, can be verified apart from religion, But such a rule would, at best, be far from coextensive with the whole field of morality; some most necessary parts of a moral code (such, e. g., a3 the regulation of the relations between the sexes) being incapable of being deduced, with any approach to certainty, from the mere constitution of our nature. As to some of our faculties, the determination, with sufficient accuracy, to furnish a rule of life, of their final causes and purposes, might involve difficult philosophical inquiries. As to others, though there might be no such difficulty, it is to be remembered that we have a complex nature, in which the forces which operate, either me- chanically or in a way resembling the mechani- cal, upon the will, are constantly in practical an- tagonism to the regulative faculty. The faculties of which the final causes are most obvious exist, not apart from, but in combination with, other elements of our nature which (either generally or often) result in tendencies to their use without any direct view to the fulfillment of their proper purposes. The gratification of some of those ten- dencies (such, e. g., as eating and drinking for the mere pleasure of taste, and not for nourishment) can hardly be condemned as immoral, on natural grounds, unless carried so far as to overpower reason, or impair strength or health. When it is carried to that excess (as in the case of intem- perance), it is still true that the origin of the vice has been in the natural constitution of men’s bodies, by which a sensible gratification has been found in its indulgence: which (as it seems to me) goes far to prove that this conception of a physical law cannot be relied upon, even in the cases to which it is most directly applicable, as a practical basis of morality—a view which is confirmed by the actual prevalence among men of that class of vices, even when, to all natural safeguards, is superadded the external influence of religion. When we proceed to take into account the moral instinct or sense, we come upon the bor- der-ground, if not into the proper territ, Religion. To a man who believes in a government of the universe, in the disti of the £yo, the real man, from his bodily orga, ization, and in the doctrines of moral bility and moral adjustment in a future notaing can be more real, nothing more intel gible, than this moral instinct or sense, with iy suggestions of right and wrong; of duty, gui and sin, and its judicial conscience. But, if a] these postulates are denied, what is then to by thought of this moral instinct or sense? Whyi it, on that hypothesis, less a mere accident of the nervous system, or of some other part of the bodily organization, than the religious insting, which is already supposed to be set aside, as resp ing upon no demonstrable ground? As aphe nomenon, and in some sense a fact, it exists, juss as the religious instinct does (if they be not really the same); but those principles of thought whid explain away the one, as having no properob jective cause, and as indicative of no objective truth, may as easily explain away the other also, The one is not more susceptible of sensible and experimental demonstration than the other, # man were merely a higher order of the organize tion of matter, homogeneous with, and produced by spontaneous development from, inorganic subs stances, plants, and inferior animals, and unde no responsibility to any moral intelligence greater than his own, what reality would there be ifi the conception of a moral law of obligation, inapph cable to all other known forms of matter, and applicable only to man ? These questions are practical. Experientj on the large scale, shows that men who disregard the religious, cannot generally be trusted toopay regard to the moral, sense. A moral sense, net believed in, can never supply a practical founds tion for morality. On the other hand, a mor sense, believed in, is (in reality) itself religion possibly inarticulate, but religion still. Such® belief cannot exist, without accepting the ete dence of the moral sense as equally trustworthy concerning those things of which it i us as the evidence of the bodily senses is those things of which they inform us. It is course, only from the impressions made upon¢ own minds that we can know anything about of the subjects, either of physical, or of im ual, or of moral sensation : their intrinsi¢ abstracted from those impressions, is to each case alike, an inaccessible mystery. 3 belief in the sense is belief in the truth of formation which the sense gives to us; @ SSEEPTEREIE $F ESSFSEE AREF eS seers

Page 51

A MODERN “SYMPOSIUM.” that this information, if rightly apprehended, is trastworthy, as far as it goes; that there are objective realities corresponding with it. The moral sense, believed in, is not merely a possible, but I suppose it to be the only possible, human * foundation of morality. the moral sense naturally takes the man beyond himself, to a higher source of his moral concep- tions, which it really presupposes ; and any truths correlative to it, which are either ascertainable by the processes of reason, or capable of being otherwise made known, will naturally, when they become known, be recognized, in their proper re- lation to it, and cannot be rejected without doing it violence. Any such correlative knowledge of the higher truths (to the existence of which the moral sense testifies, though it does not fully re- veal them) must enlighten, inform, and strength- enit. It is the office of such knowledge to an- swer authoritatively these questions, as to the real nature, the proper work, the true happiness, the true place in the universe, of man, which phi- losophy has always been asking, and has never, by itself, been able to solve. It harmonizes, ac- counts for, and enforces by authoritative sanc- tions, the concurrent testimonies of the moral sense, the religious instinct, Nature interpreted by reason, and reason enlightened by experience. On the other hand, the want, and still more the rejection, of such knowledge (supposing it to be attainable and true) must, in a corresponding de- gree, obscure, perplex, or discredit, the moral sense, I am well aware that some who seem to reject all dogmatic theology, and even the principles of natural religion, do nevertheless live up to a high moral standard ; just as there are too many oth- ers, professing (not always insincerely) to believe im religion, who do the reverse. The moral sense never has been, and never will be, extinguished among mankind; and in all ages and countries, of which we have any real historical knowledge, there have been conspicuous examples of men vho have made it their rule of life. Doubtless there have been many more who did so, of whom We know nothing; nor is it unreasonable to be- lieve that there may be many such even among very degraded races. But these facts do not invali- date general conclusions as to the general moral tendency of a decline of religious belief. Those etamples of exceptional goodness have not been sufficient to prevent or to arrest a progressive deterioration of general morality when the light ofreligion has been absent or obscured ; and the best ancient schemes of philosophy, which were An intelligent belief in |. 51 founded upon the moral sense, failed to compete practically with that of materialism, which did all that was possible to destroy it. ‘‘ Live while we mhy ”—“ let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die”—are natural corollaries from the doc- trine of Epicurus; whatever more refined con- ceptions that philosopher or any of his followers may have propounded. Such will ever be the ef- fect, in the world generally, of a popular disbe- lief in the doctrines of immortality and retribu- tion; not because the hope of rewards or the fear - of punishments is the foundation of religious mo- rality (which, to fulfill the requirements either of religion or of the moral sense, must ascend much higher), but because our nature is so constituted that the destiny of the individual, for good or evil, for happiness or the reverse, is inseparably bound up with the moral law of his being; and | because those aids and* defenses which result from the recognition of this truth are necessary | for the ascendency of the higher over the lower elements of our nature, and for the education of man to virtue. A boy, whose mainsprings of right action are conscience and love, will not en- deavor to fulfill the objects for which he is sent to school more selfishly, or from less worthy mo- tives, when he is informed of their relation to his future life, than if he were left in ignorance of it ; but the knowledge of that relation, by making him understand the importance of the future as | compared with the present, and the meaning and reasonableness of his present duties, may enable | him better to fulfill them. | All that has been said assumes, of course, | that there is such a thing as religious truth: nor is it possible to deny that, if this could really be disproved, the morality founded upon it would fail. But it cannot be without importance, when- ever the proper evidences of the truth of religion are considered, to take into account, as one of them, its relation to morality: the certainty that, if it were displaced, the system of morality now received among men would, to a great extent, fall with it; and the extreme intellectual difficulty of maintaining, in that event, the supremacy of the moral sense, or placing the morality of the future upon a new basis, likely to acquire general au- thority among mankind. If it should be suggest- ed that a sufficient moral code, for practical pur- poses, might be maintained by increasing the stringency of human laws in proportion to the failure of religious sanctions, I should reply that the power of human laws depends upon morality, and not morality upon human laws ; and that any legislation, greatly in advance of the moral senti-

Page 52

? 52 THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLMEENT. ment of the community, would certainly not be effectual, and could not long be maintained. It has been no part of my purpose to enter into an examination of any questions as to’ par- ticular doctrines of religion. I have throughout used the word “ religion” in a sense exclusive of all systems, usurping that name, which take no cognizance of morality, or which are repugnant, in their practical precepts, to the general moral sense of mankind; and I bave not dissembled my * belief that Christianity (regarded in its general aspect, with reference to the points of agreement rather than those of difference among Christians) does fulfill the conditions necessary for moral effi- cacy. Error, inconsistency, incompleteness, or admixture of foreign elements, in particular modes of apprehending or representing it, must, no doubt, as far as they prevail, and in propor- tion to their importance, detract from the author- ity, or deteriorate the quality, of its influence. So also must the mere fact of disagreement. But, notwithstanding all these drawbacks, Christianity is the great moral power of the world. It has often been supposed to be declining, but has, as often, renewed its strength; nor has any other power been found to take its place, where it has seemed to lose ground. As to other forms of religion it may, without difficulty, be admitted that such elements as they have in common with Christianity may be expected (except so far as they are neutralized or counteracted by other contrary elements) to tend, in their measure, toward the same standard of morality. It is proper (as I suppose) to Christianity, rightly un- derstood, to assert the identity of its own essen- tial principles with, those of natural religion, while teaching that the moral government of the world has been so conducted as not to leave man- kind dependent upon natural religion only; and it refers to a common origin with itself all the elements of religious belief, consistent with its own doctrines, which have been, at any time or place, accepted among the nations of the world. These propositions, and also that of the presence of the religious principle in any practical belief of the moral sense, appear to be in accordance with what is said by St. Paul in the nineteenth and twentieth verses of the first, and the four- teenth and fifteenth verses of the second, chap- ters of the Epistle to the Romans. Rev. Dr. MARTINEAU.—In order to esti- mate aright the moral influence of declining re- ligious belief, the relation between morals and religion must be accurately conceived. They may be regarded as independent, or as identical, or, again, either may be taken to be the founda tion of the other. serve as a sufficient ground for the opinion which I shall offer : A sense of duty is inherent in the constituti of our nature, and cannot be escaped till we can * escape from ourselves. It does not wait on ontological conditions, and incur the risk of nom existence should no assurance be gained with regard to a being and alife beyond us. Even though we came out of nothing, and returned to nothing, we should be subject to the claim of righteousness so long as we are what we are, Morals have their own base, and are second to nothing. Apart from this intrinsic consciousness of ethical distinctions, no ontological discoveries would avail to set up a law of duty, and give us the characteristics of moral beings. A Supreme Power might dictate an external rule, and break us in to obedience by hopes and fears of unlimit- ed extent. But by this sway of preponderant in- terests we are not carried beyond prudence; and in the absence of a law within, responding to the demands from without, we do not reach the con fines of moral obligation ; and, in case of failure, we incur the sense only of error, not of sia. Theology cannot supply a base for morals that have lost their own. Does it follow that, because morals are indige- nous, they are therefore self-sufficing? By no means. Though religion is not their foundation, it is assuredly their crown—related to them as Plato says dialectie is to the sciences, dome Oprykds Tois pabhuacw'—the coping that consum- mates them. Be the genesis of the conscience what it may, we learn from it at last that there is a better and a worse in the springs of action which contend for us, and that, while it is open to us as a possibility, it is closed against us a8& right, to follow the lower when the higher calls The authority which stamps the one as a tempt tion, and the other as a peremptory claim, is net, we are well aware, of our own making; for it masters us with compunction, and defies all re peal. Nor is it the mere expression of publie self-interest ; for it extends beyond the range of — social action, and covers the whole voluntary field. Speaking with a voice before which out whole personality bows, and which equally gives law to other men, it issues from a source tran = scending human life, and infusing into it a moral order from a more comprehensive sphere, J” postulates a superior will in communion with 1 Rep., vii., 584 E. 7 The following positions wil] - ours, chara Tc runs cours’ the et in tor nifica aspirs reaso prese: unive’ and | stitut' ultim: a pru linear they : ter, a peal fear, | they | The n portic there patio excel] would In I do lines Plays differ

Page 53

FeF s#anesErPots - PS Pen? Frese EBS - eer ee ee a r ea. es Pr Fee e rT Se Be | Ce — BRE ros Re Srito A MODERN “SYMPOSIUM.” ours, and admiuistering this world as a school of character. To this result our moral experience naturally runs up, and stops short of it only where its course is artificially arrested. Till it is reached, the ethical demands upon us seem to address us in tones too portentous for their immediate sig- nificance; remorse clings to us with a tenacity, aspiration returns upon us with a power, which | reason cannot adequately justify. But in the presence of an objective moral law pervading the universe, administered by a Mind wherein it per- fectly lives, and continued for man beyond his present term of years, the scale of the ethical passions, and the intensity of admiration and reverence for the good, fall into proportionate place, and escape the irony of being at once the ultimate nobleness and the supreme extravagance of our nature. Religion, on this side, is but the open blossom of the moral germs implanted with- in us—the explicit form, developed in thought, of faiths implicitly contained in the sense of responsibility and the forebodings of guilt. Its effect, therefore, is to suffuse with a divine light relations and duties which before were simply personal and social. A similar transfiguration befalls the pleasures and pains attending voluntary conduct, and con- | Treated as | stituting its natural “ sanctions.” ultimate facts, they can never acquire more than a prudential significance. Treated as symbolical lineaments of a world under moral government, they are invested with an expression of charac- ter, and look into us with living eyes. Their ap- peal alights no longer on self-regarding hope and fear, but on the springs of sympathy and shame: they pass from sensitive to ethical phenomena. The new and ideal meaning thus given to a large portion of actual human experience cannot pause there ; it completes itself in the congenial antici- pation of a further and invisible store of awards consummating the incipient justice of this world. The faith in a future life—where it is more than a belief at second hand—has its sheet-anchor in the moral affections. But for the felt interval between what we are and what we ought to be, for the indignation at wrong, for compassion toward innocent suffering, and reverence for high excellence, vaticinations of renewed existence would have no origin and no support. In assigning this method of growth to religion, I do not mean to deny that it may have other lines of formation. The Nature-worship which Plays 80 great a part in ancient civilization has a different history, and stands in much less inti- mate relations with the moral life of its votaries. We pay, I am disposed to think, too great a com- | pliment to the Greek mythology when we attrib- | ute tlie ethical decay of later Athens and Corinth | to the growing skepticism about its gods. The | public life was dead. The theatre of great pas- | sion and great action was closed. The calls for | sacrifice, the opportunities for national expansion, were gone, and the political school for the dis- cipline of character was no longer there. With | the loss of a progressive history, the springs of - | heroic emulation suffered atrophy, a sickly hue passed over literature, philosophy, and art; and | the subsidence of human loves and cares upon , low Epicurean levels was inevitable, though the | Olympian deities had never been dethroned. In the absence of any moral religion, no efficacious resistance could be set up, with or without a pan- theistic polytheism, against the canker of social degeneracy. In dealing with the present problem, how- ever, we confine our attention to the Christian type of religion, which has its hold upon our nature from the moral side. The question is, what practical effect might be expected from a decay of that religion. Under that change morality would lose, not its base, but its summit. The ground and prin- ciples of duty would remain; the means for de- ducing rules of action, estimating the worth of conflicting impulses, and measuring the grades of obligation, would in the main be unaffected ; so that the moral code which would emerge from the labors of a mere philosopher need not mate- rially differ from that recognized by a Christian. This is only an inverse method of saying that the Christian ethics are true to human life and the expression of right reason. I do not think, therefore, that the form and contents of a moral system would be essentially modified by the de- cline of religious belief. It may, no doubt, hap- pen that particular problems of conduct, as in the cases of suicide and of marriage, have be- come the subjects of ecclesiastical legislation, and so have passed into preoccupation of reli- gious feeling, and, on the disappearance of that feeling, may be flung back into an indeterminate condition. But to the real solution of such problems it would be difficult to show that reli- gion contributes any new elements, so as to turn into duty that which was not duty before, Its ministers and temporary interpreters can give an historical consecration to all sorts of ungrounded opinions, and these will in any case have to look out for an adequate base, whether or not the re-

Page 54

’ 54 THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. ligious view of life is still upheld. But it is quite possible that a rule of life, once thoughtfully constituted, should be acknowledged in common over the whole range of social duty by persons simply ethical and by those who are also reli- gious. But though the decay of religion may leave the institutes of morality intact, it drains off their inward power. The devout faith of men ex- presses and measures the intensity of their moral nature, and it cannot be lost without a remission of enthusiasm and, under this low pressure, the successful reéntrance of importunate desires and clamorous passions which had been driven back. To believe in an ever-living and perfect Mind, supreme over the universe, is to invest moral distinctions with immensity and eternity, and lift them from the provincial stage of human society to the imperishable theatre of all being. When planted thus in the very substance of things, they justify and support the ideal estimates of the conscience; they deepen every guilty shame; they guarantee every righteous hope; and they help the will with a divine casting-vote in every balance of temptation. The sanctity thus given to the claims of duty, and the interest that gathers around the play of character, appear to me more important elements in the power of re- ligion than its direct sanctions of hope and fear Yet to these also it is hardly possible to deny great weight, not only as extending the range of personal interests, but as the answer of reality to the retributory verdicts of the moral sense. Can- cel these beliefs, and morality will be left reason- able still, but paralyzed; possible to tempera- ments comparatively passionless, but with no grasp on vehement and poetic natures; and gravitating toward the simply prudential wher- ever it maintains its ground. Historical experience appears to confirm this estimate. In no race (notwithstanding conspicu- ous individual exceptions) have the excesses of sensual passion been so kept in check as among the Jews. There is no more striking feature in their literature during the moral declension of Greek and Roman society (e. g., in the Sibylline Oracles) than the horror which it expresses of the pervading dissoluteness of the pagan world. It certainly cannot be said that the problem was rendered easy by the coolness of the Jewish temperament. The phenomena of Christendom present a more complicated tissue. But a just analysis yields, I believe, the same result, and attests the force of religious conviction as the only successful antagonist, on any large scale, of the animal impulses. very presence of the Church, and even among its representatives, gross vices have at times pre. vailed. But these have been hollow times, ig which, with large classes of persons, the outer shell of religion sheltered no sincere life, and the private habits betrayed the inward disinte. gration which policy or indifference concealed, To test the power of religion, we must limit oun selves to cases where that power is not effete, In the Puritan families of the seventeenth cen tury, among the present Catholic peasantry of Ireland, throughout the Society of Friends, and in the Wesleyan classes, it can hardly be denied that the control of irregular desires has been at tained with an exceptional ease and complete: ness. One source of this distinctive power yet re mains to be indicated. A simply conscientious ” man may surrender himself unreservedly to the sense of moral obligation, and be so possessed by it as to feel it more than reasonable, and own a certain sacredness in its appeal. Duty, honor, self-forgetfulness in others’ good, may obtain the real command of such a one. But the persua sive force with which the right speaks to him is beyond all intellectual measure; it stirs him in depths he cannot reach; its heat is in excess of its light; it is something mystic which must have him? but of which he can render no account. Here, in truth, is religion pressing into life, only with form still indistinct, and its organism of thought not yet differentiated and articulate. Let it complete its development, and what change will ensue? Once rendered conscious of the Su: preme Source of his moral perceptions, the re sponsible agent no longer obeys a pressure out of the dark, but rather a drawing toward higher light; for an impersonal drift of Nature is sub stituted a profound personal veneration, and enthusiasm is turned from a blind nobleness into the clear allegiance of living affection. It is not without reason that this change has been treated as an emergence into new life. Its vast influence is attested by the whole literature of devotion, and especially by its most popular element, the hymns of every age from the Psalter to the “Christian Year.” Though in theory the contents of morality are not altered by acquiring divine obligation, the efficacy of religion is more immediately felt in some parts of the character than in others The scene to which it introduces the mind is one which throws it instantly into the attitude of looking up toward an Infinite Perfection, whose True it is that, in the — presen true c¢ felt eq God. induce a more are bu person Nature consci bilities tian te of am reality and it With 1 ing di: to joir “ Chris ancien again, tional thems proof cholog We views ity. I powerf yet I | be fou ther r on the pline, « ing a | withal a true It j before of its whatey affecte underr true, Th ligious given into de insuffic I entir Th

Page 55

os ————— a SY aS Iw wee eTlUcweel awmrmlUmeememr UU S.lUrerhlUrPRCUlU OO! USTlUrShUlUC SCS] — St. rT ean PFTOPEePaRBaeet EF soa e@ @ FT presence it never quits, and thus supplies the true conditions of humility, of aspiration, and of felt equality of moral trust for all men before God. These moods of thought are specifically induced by the contact of higher excellence and amore capacious rule of righteousness ; and they are but poorly simulated by the mere sense of personal insignificance amid the immensity of Nature, and the awe of the unknown, and the conscious partnership of us all in the human lia- bilities. The moral characteristics of the Chris- tian temper are nothing but the natural posture of a mind standing face to face with the invisible reality of the highest ideals of its conscience and its love. If that presence departs, they cannot survive. Mr. FREDERIC HARRISON.—And all this, to me, describes the moral characteristics, not of the Christian, but of the religious temper. With what has been so finely said in the preced- ing discourse we ought, I think, most cordially to join. Only for the words “theology” and “Christian? we must put the wider and more ancient terms “religion” and “‘ human;” and again, for the intrinsic consciousness and emo- tional intuitions, whereby these are said to prove themselves, we must substitute the reasonable proof of science, philosophy, and positive psy- chology. We have had before us three distinttive views as to the relations of religion and moral- ity. Each of the three has pressed on us a very powerful thought. The reconciliation is obscure, yetI hold on to the hope that it may one day | be found ; that we shall have to surrender nei- ther religion nor science, neither demonstration on the one hand, nor dogma, worship, and disci- pline, on the other ; that we shall end by accept- inga purely human base for our morality, and withal come to see our morality transfigured into a true religion. It is the purport of the first of the arguments before us to establish: that morality has a basis of its own quite independent of all theology whatever ; but that, since morality must be deeply affected by any theology, the morality will be undermined if based on a theology which is not true. We must all agree, I think, to that. The second argument insists that, if the re- ligious foundations and sanctions of morality be given up, human life runs the risk of sinking into depravity, since morality without religion is insufficient for general civilization. For my part, J entirely assent to that. The third argument rejoins, that theology A MODERN “SYMPOSIUM.” ° 55 cannot supply a base for morals that have lost their own; but that morals, though they have their own base, and are second to nothing, are not adequate to direct human life until they be transfused into that sense of resignation, adora- tion, and communion with an overruling Provi- dence, which is the true mark of religion. I assent entirely to that. We, who follow the teaching of Comte, humbly look forward to an ultimate solution of all such difficulties by the force of one common principle. That we acknowledge a religion, of which the creed shall be science ; of which the faith, hope charity, shall be real, not transcendental—earth- ly, not heavenly ; a religion, in a word, which is entirely human in its evidences, in its purposes, in its sanctions and appeals. Write the word “ religion ” where we find the word “ theology ;” write the word “ human ” where we find the word “Christian,” or the words “ theist,” “ Mussul- man,” or “ Buddhist,” and these discussions grow practical and easily reconciled; the aspirations and sanctions of religion burst open to us anew in greater intensity, without calling on us to surrender one claim of reality and humanity; the realm of faith and adoration becomes again conterminous with life, without disturbing—nay, while sanctifying—the invincible resolve of mod- ern men to live in this world, for this world, with their fellow-men. And this brings us to the source of all diffi- culties about the relations of morality and re- ligion. We place our morality—we are compelled by the conditions of all our positive knowledge to place it—in a strictly human world. But it is the mark of every theology (the name of theol- ogy assumes it) to place our religion in a non- human world. And thus our human system of morals may possibly be distorted—it cannot be supported—by a non-human religion. But, on the other ‘hand, it is dwarfed and atrophied for want of being duly expanded into a truly human religion. Our morality, witb its human realities, our theology, with its non-human hypotheses, will not amalgamate. Their methods are in con- flict. In their base, in their logic, in their aim, they are heterogeneous. They do not lie in pari materia. Give us a religion as truly human, as really scientific, as is our moral system, and all is harmony. Our morals, based as they must be on our knowledge of life and of society, are then ordered and inspired by a religion which belongs, just as truly as our moral science does, to the world of science and of man. And then religion will be no longer that quieksand of possibility which

Page 56

56 THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. two thousand years of debate have still left it to of a hundred creeds you may profess. And | when we shrink from the arrogance of the first our knowledge, the meaning of our science, the | and the looseness of the second position, we so many of us. It becomes, at last, the issue of soul of our morality, the ideal of our imagina- tion, the fulfillment of our aspirations, the law- giver, in short, of our whole lives. Can it ever be this while we still pursue religion into the bubble-world of the whence and the whither ? That morality is dependent on theology; that morality is independent of religion : each of these views presents insuperable difficulties, and brings us to an alternative from which we recoil. | To assert that there is no morality but what is based on theology, is to assert what experience, history, and philosophy, flatly contradict—nay, that which revolts the conscience of all manly purpose within us. History teaches us that some of the best types of morality, in men and in races, have been found apart from any thing that Christians can call theology at all. Morality has been advancing for centuries in modern Europe, while theology, at least in authority, has been visibly declining. The morality of Confucius and of Sakya Mouni, of Socrates and Marcus Aurelius, of Vauvenargues, Turgot, Condorcet, Hume, was entirely independent of any theology. The moral system of Aristotle was framed with- out any view to theology, as completely as that of Comte or of our recent moralists. We have experience of men with the loftiest ideal of life and of strict fidelity to their ideal, who expressly repudiate theology, and of many more whom the- ology never touched. Lastly, there is a spirit within us which will not believe that to know and to do the right we must wait until the mysteries of existence and the universe are resolved—its origin, its government, and its future. To make right conduct a corollary of a theological creed, is not only contrary to fact, but shocking to our self-respect. We know that the just spirit can find the right path, even while the judgment hangs bewildered amid the churches. To hold, as would seem to require of us the second argument, that, though theology is neces- ology will suffice—polytheist, Mussulman, or de- ist—so long as some imaginary being is postu- lated, this is, indeed, to reduce theology to a | no convergence about it. minimum ; since, in this case, it does not seem to | | ' ' have no alternative but to admit that our morality must have a human, and not a superhuman, base, It does not follow that morality can suffice for life without religion. Morality, if we mean by that the science of duty, after all can supply us only with a knowledge of what we should do. Of itself it can neither touch the imagination, nor satisfy the thirst of knowledge, nor order the emotions. It tells us of human duty, but noth- ing of the world without us; it prescribes to us our duties, but it does not kindle the feelings which are the impulse to duty. Morality has nothing to tell us of a paramount power outside of us, to struggle with which is confusion and annihilation, to work with which is happiness and strength; it has nothing to teach us of a com- munion with a great Goodness, nor does it touch the chords of veneration, sympathy, and love, within us. Morality does not profess to organize our knowledge and give symmetry to life. It does not deal with beauty, affection, adoration. If it order conduct, it does not correlate this con- duct with the sum of our knowledge, or with the ideals of our imagination, or with the deepest of our emotions. To do all this is the part of reli. gion, not of morality ; and inasmuch as the sphere of this function is both wider and higher, so does religion transcend morality. Morality has to do with conduct, religion with life. The first is the code of a part of human nature, the second gives its harmony to the whole of human nature. And morality can no more suffice for life, than a just character would suffice for any one of us without intellect, imagination, or affection, and the power of fusing all these into the unity of a man. The lesson, I think, is twofold. On the one hand, morality is independent of theology, is superior to it, is growing while theology is deelin- ing, is steadfast while theology is shifting, unites men while theology separates them, and does its | work when theology disappears. There is some- sary as a base for morality, yet almost any the- | thing like a civilized morality, a standard of mo- | rality, a convergence about morality. There is no civilized theology, no standard of theology, On the other hand, morality will never suffice for life; and every matter in which God you may believe. To say | attempt to base our existence on morality alone, | that morality is dependent on one particular the- | or to crown our existence with morality alone, — ology, is to deny that men are moral outside | must certainly fail: for this is to fling away the ‘ your peculiar orthodoxy ; to say that morality is | most powerful motives of human nature. To dependent merely on some form of theology, is to reach these is the privilege of religion alone ~ say that it matters little to practical virtue which | And those who trust that the future can ever be 7 as + wh wh tra

Page 57

Sreeae8 ae Sek eFeaaoF PreK eF eae BZCE FaPFP rasa fF Se && erFcae fFPuFrrerrek rt wes built upon science and civilization, without reli- gion, are attempting to build a pyramid of bricks without straw. The solution, we believe, is'a non-theological religion. There are some who amuse themselves by re- peating that this is a contradiction in terms, that religion implies theology. Yet no one refuses the name of religion to the systems of Confucius and Buddha, though neither has a trace of the- ology. But disputes about a name are idle. If they could debar us from the name of religion, no one could disinherit us of the thing. We mean by religion a scheme which shall explain to us the relations of the faculties of the human soul within, of man to his fellow-men beside him, to the world and its order around him; next, that which brings him face to face with a Power to A MODERN “ SYMPOSIUM.” 57 It seems to me, therefore, that till the ques- tion is presented in a concrete and historical form, nothing can be made of it. I do not un- derstand the two terms of the comparison. Be- fore | can attempt to answer it, I must know, at least approximately, what morality and what re- ligion. If by morality is meant the morality generally recognized in Europe on the points of truthful- ness, honesty, humanity, purity, self-devotion, kindness, justice, fellow-feeling—and not only recognized, but judged by a conscious superiority of reason and experience to be the right stand- ard, as compared with other moralities, such as those of the Puritans, the monks, the Romans, the Hebrews—then I observe that, as a matter of fact and history, which to me seems incontro- which he must bow, with a Providence which he | vertible, this morality has synchronized in its must love and serve, with a Being which he must , growth and progress with an historical religion, adore—that which, in fine, gives man a doctrine | viz., Christianity. We are come to the end of to believe, a discipline to live by, and an object | eighteen of the most eventful and fruitful cen- to worship. This is the ancient meaning of re- | turies of all, at least, that are known to us; and ligion, and the fact of religion all over the world | we are landed in what we accept as a purer mo- in every age. What is new in our scheme is merely that we avoid such terms as infinite, ab- solute, immaterial, and vague negatives alto- gether, resolutely confining ourselves to the sphere of what can be shown by experience, of what is relative and not absolute, and wholly and frankly human. Tae DEAN OF ST. PAUL'S. —It seems to me difficult to discuss this question till it is set- tled, at least generally, what morality is influ- enced, and what religious belief is declining. The morality generally acknowledged in Eu- rope differs in most important points from that of the Hebrews in the days of Moses, of the Greeks in the days of Socrates, of the Romans under the empire, of the monks of Egypt, of the Puritans of the seventeenth century. All of these had among them high types of character, higher, it may be, than any types among us; but who among us would accept their morality as a whole ? Our morality has come to be recognized as it is by a definite progress of which the steps may be traced. It is plain that one form of religious thought and religious faith might aid this prog- ress of morality by its decline, and another might, by its decline, impede or reverse it. On such a morality as we acknowledge, whencesoever derived, the decline of Buddhist belief or ancient Roman religious belief might act as a stimulus anda help. The decline of another kind of reli- gious belief might, on the other hand, act most Injuriously, rality than any which has been known in the world before, and one which admits itself not to be perfect, but contains in itself principles of im- provement and self-purification. With this prog- ress from the first—sometimes, I quite admit, wit gross and mischievous mistakes, but always with deliberate aim and intention of good—Christianity has been associated. And in proportion as Chris- tian religious belief has thrown off additions not properly belonging to it, and has aimed at its own purification and at a greater grasp of truth, the standard and ideas of morality have risen with it. The difficulty at this moment is to determine how much of our recognized morality, both directly and much more indirectly, has come from Chris- tianity, and could not conceivably have come at all, supposing Christianity absent. I do not here, in these few lines, assume that in Christianity and its long association with hu- man morality we have a vera causa of its improved and improving character. But with this immense fact of human experience before me, unique, it seems to me, in its kind, and in its broad outlines undeniable, no abstract reasonings can reassure me as to the probability that with the failing powers of what has hitherto been, directly or in- Girectly, the source of much, and the support and sanction of still more, of our morality, our mo- rality will fail too. It seems to me quite as easy to be skeptical about morality as it is about reli- gion. If the religion has been proved to be not true, then, of course, it is nouse talking about the

Page 58

58 T. HE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. matter. But if not, a declining belief in it may, with our present experience, be thought, at least by those who believe in it, to be attacking the roots of morality, if not in our own generation, at least in those which come after. It is matter of history that in what we now generally accept as true morality there are two factors: 1. On the one hand, human experience, human reasonableness, human good-feeling, hu- man self-restraint ; and, 2. On the other, the be- lief, the laws, the ideas, the power, of Christianity. It is difficult to conceive what reason there is to expect that if one factor is taken away the result will continue the same ; that the removal or weak- ening of such an important one as Christianity would not seriously affect such departments of morals as purity, the relations of the strong to the weak, respect for human life, slavery. Tae DUKE OF ARGYLL.—Considering that these papers are contributed by men belonging to very different schools of thought, and that they deal with a question very abstract and very ill- defined, it is surely very remarkuble that so much agreement should emerge on certain fundamen- tal points. Most remarkable of all, in this respect, is the paper emanating from one of those who “ follow the teaching of Comte.” In that paper I find the following proposi- tions: I. That morality is independent of theology ; but— II. That it is not independent of religion, in- asmuch as morality without religion cannot “ suf- fice for life.” III. That religion means a scheme which (among other things) ‘brings man face to face with a Power to which he must bow, with a Prov- idence which he must love and serve, with a Being which he must adore—that which, in fine, gives man a dectrine to believe, a discipline to live by, and an object to worship.” IV. That this scheme or conception of reli- gion is “ new,” and differs from mere theology in the following distinctive points : 1. That it avoids certain words or phrases, such as “ infinite,” ‘ absolute,” “ immaterial.” 2. That it avoids also all “ vague negatives.” 3. That it resolutely confines us to the sphere of what can be shown by experience—“ of what is relative and not absolute,” and “of what is wholly and frankly human.” I will examine these propositions in their order. Proposition I. clearly depends entirely on what is meant by theology, and on the distine- tion which is drawn in the propositions which follow between theology and religion. Two things, however, may be said of this proposition : First, that, as a matter of historical fact, men’s conceptions of moral obligation have been deeply influenced by their conceptions and beliefs about theology, or about the “ whence and whither.” Secondly, that, as all branches of truth are and must be closely related to each other, it cannot possibly be true that morality is independent of theology, except upon the assumption that there is no truth in any theology. But this is an as. sumption which cannot be taken for granted, be- ing very different indeed from the assumption (which may be reasonable) that no existing the- ology is unmixed with error. The absolute inde- pendence of morality as regards theology, assumes much more than this ; it assumes that there is no theology containing even any important element of truth. Proposition IT. is, I think, perfectly true. Proposition III. contains a definition of. reli- gion which might probably be accepted by any theological professor in any of our schools of divinity as good and true, if not in all respects adequate or complete. Proposition IV. defines the elements in all theologies which constitute their fundamental er- rors, and which distinguish them from religion as defined in Proposition III. In short, Proposition III. defines affirmatively what religion is; and Proposition IV. defines negatively what it is not. It adds also a few more affirmative touches to complete the picture of what it is. Looking now at the erroneous theological ele- ments which are to be thrown away, we find three words fixed upon as specimens of what is vicious. One of them is “the Absolute.” Most heartily do I wish it were abolished. More nonsense has been talked and written under cover of it than under cover of any other of the voluminous vo- cabulary of unintelligible metaphysics. It is ad- mitted that the Absolute is “ unthinkable,” and things which are unthinkable had better be con- sidered as also unspeakable, or at least be left unspoken. Next, “immaterial” is another word to be cast away. The worst of this demand is, that the words material and immaterial express a dis tinction of which we cannot get rid in thought. I do know that the pen with which I now write is made of that which to me is known as matter; but I do not know that the ideas which are eX pressed in this writing are made of any like sub- stance, nor even of any substance like the brain. 01 di sti ig on tui to reg cal is | tio inf an aw are lea the get as “ a ex: nef niti spl thi fin: thi con ran des abs talk

Page 59

_ SS eS F rw pase Som F - le On the contrary, it seems to me that these ideas cannot be so made, and that there is an absolute difference between thought and the externa! sub- stances which it thinks about. This may be my ignorance, but until that ignorance is removed I must accept those distinctions which are founded on the experience and observation of my own na- ture, and I must retain words which are necessary to express them. Then, as regards the word “infinite,” in like manner, I cannot dispense with it, for the simple reason that the idea of infinity is one of which I cannot get rid, and which all science teaches me is an idea inseparable from our highest concep- tions of the realities of Nature. Infinite time and infinite space, and the infinite duration of matter and of force, are conceptions which are part of my intellectual being, and I cannot “think them away.” Metaphysicians may tell me that they are “forms of thought.” But if so, they are at least all the more “ frankly human,” and I accept them as such. Next we are to avoid “‘ vague negatives alto- gether.” Well, but surely a definition of religion as distinguished from theology, which consists in “avoiding” certain terms such as we have now examined, is a definition consisting of “ vague negatives,” and of nothing else. But then we come next to an affirmative defi- nition: “confining ourselves resolutely to the sphere of what can be shown by experience.” To this I assent, provided experience be not con- fined to the sphere of sense, and provided every- thing which any man has ever felt, or known, or conceived, be accepted as in its own place and rank coming within the sphere which is thus described. Again, it is demanded of us that we confine ourselves resolutely within “ what is relative and hot absolute.” To this I assent. All knowledge is relative—relative both to the mind which knows, and relative also to all other things which remain to be known. Absolute goodness, and absolute power, and absolute knowledge, are all conceivable, but they are all relative; and to talk of any object of knowledge, or of any sub- ject of knowledge, as non-relative, is, or seems to me to be, simply nonsense. Lastly, it is demanded of us to confine our- selves to what is “wholly and frankly human.” If this means that we are not to think of any power or any being who is not related to our human faculties in a most definite and intelli- gible sense, I accept the limitation. But if it means that we are not to think of any such power A MODERN “SYMPOSIUM.” 59 or being except under all the imperfections, weaknesses, and vices of humanity, then the limitation is one which I cannot accept either as conceivable in itself, or as consistent with what I can see or understand of Nature. But ought we not to be agreed in this? If there is a Power to which man “ must bow,” “a Being which he must adore,” and a “ Providence which he must love and serve,” it is clearly im- possible that this Being, Power, or Providence can be “ wholly human,” in the sense of being no greater, no wiser, no better, than man him- self. The whole of this language is the language of theology and of nothing else—language, indeed, which may be held consistently with a vast vari- ety of theological creeds, but which is insepa- rable from those fundamental conceptions which all such creeds involve, which is borrowed from them, and without which it has to me no intelli- gible sense. With these explanations I accept the tenth paragraph of Paper No. IV., and that part of the last paragraph which has been already quoted, as expressing with admirable force and truth at least one aspect of the connection between mor- als and religion. Pror. CLIFFORD.—In the third of the pre- ceding discourses there is so much which I can fully and fervently accept, that, I should find it © far more grateful to rest in that feeling of admi- ° ration and sympathy, than to attend to points of difference which seem to me to be of altogether secondary import. But for the truth’s sake this must first be done, because it will then be more easy to point out some of the bearings of the position held in that discourse upon the question which is under discussion. That the sense of duty in a man is the prompt- ing of a self other than his own, is the very es- sence of it. Not only would morals not be self- sufficing if there were no such prompting of a wider self, but they could not exist; one might as well suppose a fire without heat. Not only is a sense of duty inherent in the constitution of our nature, but the prompting of a wider self than that of the individual is inherent in a sense of duty. It is no more possible to have the right without unselfishness, than to have man without a feeling for the right. We may explain or account for these facts in various ways, but we shall not thereby alter the facts. No theories about heat and light will ever make a cold fire. And no doubt or disproof of any existing theory can any more extinguish that

Page 60

60 self other than myself, which speaks to me in ' the voice of conscience, than doubt or disproof | as personified in any conscious being. of the wave-theory of light can put out the noon- day sun, One such theory is defended in the discourse here dealt with, and, if I may venture to say so, is not quite sufficiently distinguished from the facts which it is meant to explain. The theory is this: that the voice of conscience in my mind is the voice of a conscious being external to me and to all men, who has made us and all the world. When this theory is admitted, the observed dis- crepancy between our moral sense and the gov- ernment of the world, as a whole, makes it neces- sary to suppose another world and another life in it for men, whereby this discord shall be resolved in a final harmony. I fully admit that the theistic hypothesis, so grounded, and considered apart from objections otherwise arising, is a reasonable hypothesis and an explanation of the facts. The idea of an ex- ternal conscious being is unavoidably suggest- ed, as it seems to me, by the categorical impera- tive of the moral sense ; and, moreover, in a way quite independent, by the aspect of Nature, which seems to answer to our questionings with an intelligence akin to our own. It is more reason- able to assume one consciousness than two, if by that one assumption we can explain two dis- tinct facts; just as if we had been led to assume an ether to explain light and an ether to explain electricity, we might have run before experiment and guessed that these two ethers were but one. But since there is a discordance between Nature and conscience, the theory of their common ori- gin in a mind external to humanity has not met with such acceptance as that of the divine ori- gin af each. A large number of theists have rejected it, and taken refuge in Manicheism and the doctrine of the Demiurgus in various forms ; while others have endeavored, as aforesaid, to redress the balance of the old world by calling into existence a new one. It is, however, a very striking and significant fact, that the very great majority of mankind who have thought about these questions at all, while acknowledging the existence of divine be- ings and their influence in the government of the world, have sought for the spring and sanc- tion of duty in something above and beyond the gods. The religions of Brahmanism and of Buddh- ism, and the moral system of Confucius, have together ruled over more than two-thirds of the human race during the historic period; and in all of these the moral sense is regarded as aris- THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. ' ing indeed out of a universal principle, but not This vast body of dissent might well, it should seem, make us ask if there is anything unsatisfying in the theory which represents the voice of conscience | as the voice of a god. Although, as I have said, the idea of an ex. ternal conscious being is unavoidably suggested by the moral sense, yet, if this idea should be found untrue, it does not follow that Nature has been fooling us. The idea is not in the facts, but in our inference from the facts. A mirror unavoidably suggests the idea of a room behind it; but it is not our eyes that deceive us, it is only the inference we draw from their testimony, Further consideration may lead to a different in- ference of far greater practical value. Now, whether or no it be reasonable and satisfying to the conscience, it cannot be doubted that theistic belief is a comfort and a solace to those who hold it, and that the loss of it is a very painful loss. It cannot be doubted, at least by many of us in this generation, who either profess it now, or received it in our child- hood and have parted from it since with such searching trouble as only cradJe-faiths can cause, We have seen the spring sun shine out of an empty heaven, to light up a soulless earth ; we have felt with utter loneliness that the Great Com- panion is dead. Our children, it may be hoped, will know that sorrow only by the reflex light of a wondering compassion. But to say that the istic belief is a comfort and a solace, and to say that it is the crown or coping of morality, these are different things. For in what way shall belief in God strength- en my sense of duty? He is a great one working for the right. But I already know so many, and I know these so well. is righteousness is wn- JSathomable ; it transcends all ideals. But I have not yet fathomed the goodness of living men whom I know; still less of those who have lived, and whom I know. And the goodness of all these is a striving for something better; now it is not the goal, but the striving for it, that — matters to me. The essence of their goodness is the losing of the individual self in another and a wider self; but God cannot do this; his _ goodness must be something different. He fs infinitely great and powerful, and he lives forever. I do not understand this mensuration of good- ness by foot-pounds, and seconds, and cubic miles. — .A little field-mouse, which busies itself in the ; hedge, and does not mind my company, is more — to me than the longest ichthyosaurus that eve?

Page 61

A MODER lived, even if he lived a thousand years, When we look at a starry sky, the spectacle whose awfulness Kant compared with that of the moral sense, does it help out our poetic emotion to reflect that these specks are really very very big, and very very hot, and very very far away ? Their beat and their bigness oppress us; we should like them to be taken still farther away, the great blazing lumps. But when we think of the unseen planets that surround them, of the won- ders of life, of reason, of love, that may dwell therein, then indeed there is something sublime in thesight. Fitness and kinship: these are the truly great things for us, not force and massive- ness and length of days. Length of days, said the old rabbi, is meas- ured not by their number, but by the work that is done in them. We are all to be swept away in the final ruin of the earth. The thought of that ending is a sad thought; there is no use in trying to deny this. But it has nothing to do with right and wrong; it belongs to another subject. Like All-father Odin, we must ride out gayly to do battle with the wolf of doom, even if there be no Balder to come back and continue our work. At any rate the right will have been done; and the past is safer than all store- houses, The conclusion of the matter is, that belief in God and in a future life is a source of refined and elevated pleasure to those who can hold it. But the foregoing of a refined and elevated pleas- ure, because it appears that we have no right to indulge in it, is not in itself, and cannot produce as its consequence, a decline of morality. There is another theory of the facts of the moral sense set forth in the succeeding discourse, and this seems to me to be the true one. The voice of conscience is the voice of our father man who is within us; the accumulated instinct of the race is poured into each one of us, and overflows us, as if the ocean were poured into a eup.' Our evidence for this explanation is that the cause assigned is a vera causa it undoubtedly exists; there is no perhaps about that. And those who have tried tell us that it is sufficient; the explanation, like the fact, “covers the whole voluntary field.” The lightest and the gravest action may be consciously done in and for man. And the sympathetic aspect of Nature is ex- Plained to us in the same way. In so far as our conception of Nature is akin to our minds that *Schopenhauer. There is a most remarkable arti- cle on the “ Natural History of Morals” in the North British Review, December, 1867. “ SYMPOSIUM.” 61 conceive it, man made it; and man made us, with the necessity to conceive it in this way.' I do not, however, suppose that morality would practically gain much from the wide ac- ceptance of true views about its nature, except in a way which I shall presently suggest. I neither admit the moral influence of theism in the past, nor look forward to the moral influence of humanism in the future. Virtue is a habit, not a sentiment or an -ism. The doctrine of total depravity seems to have been succeeded by a doctrine of partial depravity, according to which there is hope for human affairs, but still men cannot go straight unless some tremendous, all-embracing theory has a finger in the pie. Theories are most important and excellent things when they help us to see the matter as it really is, and so to judge what is the right thing to do in regard to it. They are the guides of action, but not the springs of it. Now the spring of virtuous action is the social instinct, which is set to work by the practice of comradeship. The union of men in a common effort for a common object—band-work, if I may venture to translate coéperation into English—this is, and always has been, the true school of character. Except in times of severe struggle for national existence, the practice of virtue by masses of men has always been coincident with municipal freedom, and with the vigor of such unions as are not large enough to take from each man his conscious share in the work and in the direction of it. What really affects morality is not religious belief, but a practice which, in some times and places, is thought to be religious—namely, the practice of submitting human life to clerical con- trol. The apparently destructive tendency of modern times, which arouses fear and the fore- boding of evil in the minds of many of the best of men, seems to me to be not mainly an intel- lectual movement. It has its intellectual side, but that side is the least important, and touches comparatively few souls. The true core of it is a firm resolve of men to know the right at first hand, which has grown out of the strong impulse given to the moral sense by political freedom. Such a resolve is a necessary condition to the existence of a pure and noble theism like that of the third discourse, which learns what God is like by thinking of man’s love for man. Although that doctrine has been prefigured and led up to 1 For an admirable exposition of the doctrine of the social origin of our conceptions, see Prof. Croom Robertson's paper, “How we come by our Knowl- edge,”’ in the first number of this review.

Page 62

62 for many ages by the best teaching of English- men, and—what is far more important—by the best practice of Englishmen, yet it cannot be accepted on a large scale without what will seem to many a decline of religious belief. For as- suredly if men learn the nature of God from the moral sense of man, they cannot go on believing the doctrines of popular theology. Such change of belief is of small account in itself, for any consequences it can bring about; but it is of vast importance as a symptom of the increasing power and clearness of the sense of duty. On the other hand, there is one “decline of religious belief,” inseparable from a revolution in human conduct, which would indeed be a fright- ful disaster to mankind. A revival of any form of sacerdotal Christianity would be a matter of practice and not a matter of theory. The system which sapped the foundations of patriotism in THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. the old world; which wellnigh eradicated the sense of intellectual honesty, and seriously weak. ened the habit of truth-speaking ; which lowered men’s reverence for the marriage-bond by placing its sanctions in a realm outside of Nature instead of in the common life of men, and by the institu. tions of monasticism and a celibate clergy; which stunted the moral sense of the nations by putting a priest between every man and his con. science—this system, if it should ever return to power, must be expected to produce worse evils than those which it has worked in the past. The house which it once made desolate has been par. tially swept and garnished by the free play gained for the natural goodness of men. It would come back accompanied by social diseases perhaps worse than itself, and the wreck of civilized Eu. rope would be darker than the darkest of past ages.— Nineteenth Century. LIEBIG’S SCIENTIFIC ACHIEVEMENTS. By Pror. MAX VON PETTENKOFER, Proressor or Hyoieng 1x THE University or Monica, IEBIG was one of those happy but excep- tional individuals who feel their future course marked out for them by Nature from their earliest days. When at the gymnasium at Darm- stadt, he had so decided a predilection that, when asked by his professor how he employed himself out of school-hours and what he meant to be, he at once answered, “ A chemist.” Soon afterward, at the age of eighteen, we find him first at Bonn, and then at Erlangen, where he graduated, and in 1822 he published his first chemical work. It is interesting to observe a mind like Lie- big’s in its scientific-swaddling clothes. In Biich- ner’s Repertorium fiir die Pharmazie, vol. xii., may be found “Some Remarks on the Prepara- tion and Composition of Brugnatelli’s and How- ard’s Fulminating Silver,” by Mr. Liebig, chemi- cal student at Darmstadt. Prof. Kastner adds: “ These first proofs of the experimental diligence of a young chemist are commended to the read- er’s indulgence,” etc. Anything written by Lie- big no longer needs introduction nor indulgence, and he wrote even then as he wrote at last, and as aman must write if he wants to state facts without flourishes. He says, “I have prepared large quantities of fulminating silver according to this prescription during two years, and it has never once failed.” Then follows a concise and telling criticism of the older methods, and a de scription of his own, in which the acute observa- tion, the clearness and simplicity, by which Lie- big was afterward distinguished, are conspicuous, and compare favorably with the appendix by which Kastner thought to add weight to the trea- tise. A year later we find Liebig at Paris, first in the laboratory of Thenard, then with Gay-Lussac, While at Erlangen he saw that he must complete his studies at Paris, and received a traveling sti- pend from the Grand-duke of Darmstadt for the purpose, Thenard, a Frenchman, was the author of the best text and handbook of theoretical and practi- cal chemistry at that time. The most interesting and important researches were then being carried on in France by him and Gay-Lussac, especially in organic chemistry, in which direction young Lie big’s tastes lay. Gay-Lussac had the spirit of @ pioneer, and was equally familiar with chemistry and physics. It was he who first discovered the nature of prussic acid, recognized cyanogen as & radical composed of carbon and nitrogen, but which, in combination, plays the same part as the simple elements chlorine, bromine, or iodine; be

Page 63

SS FS lm SY. OO ORC SSS Oe ee ea @oewrFamerT F-§ &OO * @& LIEBIG’S SCIENTIFIC ACHIEVEMENTS. 63 had discovered that all gases unite chemically in simple proportions, one to two, one to one, or two to three, and so forth, and that the specific gravity of compound chemical combinations in a state of vapor supplies a check in analysis which became of the greatest importance to organic chemistry. Gay-Lussac had also invented the moist silver test, so called, which is now used in all mints as the only legal one. He had also materially im- proved and completed the elementary analysis of organic bodies begun by Lavoisier, and performed many other services to science. Liebig would probably have preferred to be- come the pupil of Gay-Lussac at once, but he did not at that time take any young men into his laboratory. Liebig, however, succeeded in gain- ing entrance to Thenard's, at the Ecole Polytech- nique, where he worked on at fulminating silver, a preparation which played a part in his destiny, for an unpleasant explosion in the house of his principal, an apothecary at Heppenheim, speedily diverted him from the pharmaceutical career on which he entered on leaving the gymnasium. The same preparation was the means of introducing him to the sitting of the French Academy of Sci- ences of 28th of July, 1823, which proved to be of the greatest importance to him. He gave a lecture on the analysis of Howard’s fulminating silver and quicksilver combinations. When the sitting was over, while packing up his prepara- tions, one of the members of the Academy accosted him, and most kindly inquired about his studies and plans. The stranger invited him to dine with him in the Palais Royal, but, either from shyness or inexperience, Liebig omitted to ask who he was, There, however, he made himself known ; it was Alexander von Hum- boldt, who had just returned to Paris after a long absence in Italy. He introduced his young countryman, to whom he at once took a great liking, to his friend Gay-Lussac, for he knew from experience the benefit of working with him. In 1804 he had published memoirs in conjunction with him on the analysis of the air, and had after- ward worked with him on the proportions in which gases combine chemically. The time spent with Gay-Lussac was the bright spot during Liebig’s student-years. How these two gifted men must have enjoyed each other's society may be imagined. The one was about forty-five, in the very prime of his powers, and had attained the highest position, a tree laden with precious fruit ; the other was scarcely twenty, in the bloom of youth, a sapling full of Promise, whose future might be even then antici- pated, and was anticipated, by himself. Liebig once related of Gay-Lussac that when they had made an interesting discovery, or completed a difficult analysis successfully, he had often taken hold of him and danced round the table with him in the laboratory. The kind of reports that Gay-Lussac must have given to his friend Humboldt of the young Darmstadt chemist may be imagined, and we shall not therefore be surprised that on Liebig’s leaving Paris, in 1824, Humboldt recommended him so highly to the Grand-duke Louis I. that, in the same year, without taking the vote of the university, he appointed him Professor Extraor- dinary of Chemistry at Giessen. Neither need we be surprised that he was regarded by his older colleagues as an upstart and proéfégé, and that he did not find much support in reforming the chemi- cal school and faculty. But Liebig overcame all difficulties. Two years later he was made Ordinary Professor of Chemistry. He made the best arrangements that he could for himself and his pupils, to a great extent at his own expense. His reputation in- creased rapidly, but it was not till it became so great that young chemists came to him from all parts of Europe that the Government resolved to build a larger chemical laboratory on the Selter- ser Berg, outside the gates of Giessen. To describe Liebig’s scientific labors from 1824 to 1851 at Giessen, and from 1852 to 1873 at Munich, would be a task beyond our limits. All that can be done is to seize on some salient features to give an idea of his method of working. His labors may be divided into two parts, both as to time and subject: the first, from 1824 to 1839, when ,they were mainly devoted to pure chemistry ; the second, from 1840, when his at- tention began to be directed to the application of chemistry to agriculture and physiology; there was, however, much preparation for this in the first period, and researches in pure chemistry oc- cur also in the second. There was scarcely a branch of chemistry to which Liebig did not devote attention, and which was not enriched by him. Except Berzelius, I know of no chemist who pursued so many inves- tigations. The Annals of Chemistry and Phar- macy, edited by him and others, contain more than two hundred treatises by Liebig on the most various branches of pure and practical chemistry. Far be it from me to estimate a sci- entific man by the number of his writings, but, considering the quality of Liebig’s, their number | is the more remarkable.

Page 64

64 Great as were his services in every depart- ment of chemistry, it is organic chemistry that is the most indebted to him—indeed, he is often called the father of it. If the foundations had been to some extent laid before, it cannot be dis- puted that Liebig did more than any other chem- ist toward building up the structure. Animal or vegetable substances, or organic matter, had often been the subjects of chemical researches when Liebig entered the arena of sci- ence, and it is known that all of them, unlimited as is their number, contain carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, and oxygen, in certain proportions ; but, as their origin in plants and animals was supposed to depend on other than chemical forces, their chemical relations to each other, and to inorganic mineral matter, were supposed to be different also. The vital forces under the influence of which all these organic matters origi- nated were held to impress on them a peculiar and mysterious stamp. The conviction arose very early in Liebig’s mind—it may almost be said to have been born with him—that, even if there were any generic difference between organic and inorganic matter, so far as the vital forces were subject to chemical laws, no chemical difference existed. He was convinced that there could be but one chemistry, and considered it to be his mission to bring or- ganic and inorganic chemistry into scientific har- mony. His experiments on fulminating oxide, which he and Gay-Lussac recognized as a com- bination of cyanogen and oxygen, led him to this path ; he then discovered the corresponding sul- phuric combination of the compound radical cy- anogen to be sulphur cyanide, and traced the products of decomposition in melon, cyanic oxide, melam, and other bodies. Graham had shown that among the minéral acids there are some bases—phosphoric acid, for instance—which are saturated by one, two, or three equivalent bases ; Liebig proved that it was the same with the organic acids having several bases. The nature of certain neutral organic matters —alcohol, ether, and many of the volatile oils, generally regarded as being of an almost mysteri- ous character—was the most obscure, and dif- fered most essentially from the mineral substances. Liebig sought to throw light on their nature and composition, particularly by trying the effect of simple organic matters on them, such as bromine and chlorine, and he frequently directed the at- tention of his pupils to it. In this way a number of remarkable substances were discovered, which THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. were afterward turned to all sorts of practical uses, although they had been discovered with no other idea than their scientific value. Thus chlo. ral was discovered by Liebig several decades be. fore Liebreich found out the narcotic properties for which it is now manufactured wholesale. The names given to these products by Liebig showed the exclusively scientific aims he had in view, Thus, by the word chloral he meant to indicate that it was produced by the action of chlorine gas on alcohol. He wished not only to think in chemical formulas, but, when possible, to express himself in them also. These researches appeared at first to the mul- titude like useless chemical child’s play, and to this his unusual nomenclature may have con. tributed. When, for instance, he had succeeded in producing what he considered a very impor. tant preparation, alcohol detached from hydrogen, he called it aldehyde, an abbreviation of alcohol dehydrogenisatus. This queer-sounding name called forth horror and ridicule among those who were accustomed to hear newly-discovered min- erals called after the places where they were dis- covered, the discoverers, or some celebrated per- sonage, as Scheele’s or Schweinfurt green, or Prussian blue. Had he called aldehyde Parisin, Gay-Lussacin, Giessenin, or Berzeliusin, nobody would have been scandalized. For Liebig, the only distinction between inor- ganic and organic chemistry was that the former was concerned with simple radicals, the latter with compound. An investigation in this dipec- tion, which he conducted with his friend W dhler, led the way for others. Wéohler had been a pupil of Gay-Lussac and Berzelius, and in these general scientific questions he was on an equality with Liebig. Liebig was doubly fortunate in having had a teacher like Gay-Lussac in his youth, and a friend like Wéhler for the whole of his life. They made experiments together on oil of bitter- almonds and benzoic acid, and discovered the first radical consisting of three elements, the basis of a series of combinations to which they gave the name of benzoyl (basis of the benzoic series) It was demonstrated that a certain group of atoms of carbon, hydrogen, and oxygen (14 C + 5 H + ° 2 O) contains benzoyl in a long series of combi- — nations. Benzoic acid was benzoyloxide; oil of bitter-almonds, hydrobenzoié acid; further, bet zoyl chloride, benzoyl bromide, benzoyl iodide, benzoyl cyanide, benzoyl sulphide, etc., were ¢X hibited, in which the simple radical benzoyl was — found as unchanged as arsenic, or any other sim- — ple element in arsenic oxide, arsenic hydride, —

Page 65

i i ae 7S - 2 2. 2 2 | aes hon. to r r %e oro 8&8 - & @ @& fF F OO ee - Fre Tr}? tFre- ri i eaereameae § Ff Ww Fe =~ LIEBIG’S SCIENTIFIC ACHIEVEMENTS. 65 arsenic sulphide, etc., and can be eliminated from it. Berzelius, who, even when treating of chemi- cal achievements in his annual reports, was wont to express himself in measured and stately phrase, was betrayed into unusual warmth by this discovery, and says in a letter (vol. xxvi. of Poggendorff’s Annals): “The facts demonstrated give rise to so many considerations that they may be called the dawn of anew day in vegetable chemistry. I therefore suggest that the first compound radical, consisting of more than two simple bodies in chemical com- bination, be called Proin, from spwi, dawn, day- break, or Orthrin, from 4p9pés, early twilight.” Berzelius had almost turned poet. If the theory of organic radicals seems to be, to a great extent, superseded by her blooming daughters, the older type, and the modern struct- ural chemistry, this does not invalidate Liebig’s services to organic chemistry, for the period when the radical theory prevailed was one of great progress ; it was in fact a mother, whose features are to a great extent reproduced in those of her daughters. Every thedry which leads to discovery and research has its value; thus the Phlogiston theory of Stahl in the last century gave an impe- tus to progress, although, before its close, it was forever exploded by Lavoisier. Even the present doctrine of the chemical structure of combinations and the arrangement of atoms is certainly not the last word in organic chemistry, and I doubt if it will prevail much longer than its predecessor the Type theory. I am not sufficiently versed in modern chemistry to form an opinion, but I should not be surprised if at last the various theories, which are all daughters of the radical theory, should, so to speak, return to their mother’s bosom, somewhat altered, perhaps, and tich in experience and achievements. When we consider the numerous researches in organic chemistry which Liebig made alone or with others, we cannot be surprised that he was looked upon as preéminent in this department, and can only wonder that he found strength and time for the gigantic labors it involved. — The strength was the gift of Nature, but the time was the result of his diligence and method. Liebig’s understanding was as acute as his imagi- hation was fertile, yet he was by no means vision- ary. Intellect and imagination were harmoniously — in his character, and had, perhaps, the . ~m in his success both in science and . u should have seen Liebig examine a Substance or watch a chemical process; he was 5 sharp-sighted in every sense of the word. I was once present when a crystalline, colorless body was brought to him, which had just been found in pyroligneous acid, and the composition of which had not been ascertained. It smelt like creosote, and, as the presence of that body in pyroligneous acid had not hitherto been detected, Liebig was interested in it. He laid it on a platina plate and held it over a flame; it melted, steamed a little, and when removed from the fire resumed a crys- talline form. Liebig said at once, “I think it is pyrogallic acid, for that melts and crystallizes as this does.” It was a bold conjecture, and one that an orthodox chemist would not have vent- ured on. For it was not known that pyrogallic acid occurred in pyroligneous acid, and it is with- out smell, or at any rate has not the least smell of creosote, while so many bodies melt and crys- tallize afterward that more than ordinary acute- ness is required to detect peculiarities which fur- nish hints for diagnosis, The substance was dis- solved in water and tested with the reagents for pyrogallic acid. All the reactions occurred ; there was no doubt that it was pyrogallic acid or something closely allied to it. All this occupied less than ten minutes, and further investigation confirmed Liebig’s opinion, for, though not pyro- gallic acid, it was catechuic acid, which is closely allied to it. It was only natural that one who so often found that he saw farther than others should not readily give up anything that he had taken into his head, even if experiment did not at once con- firm his views; no man is infallible, and Liebig was now and then mistaken. When he thought that a substance contained this or that, he often gave it to one of his trusted pupils to experiment upon. If he did not at once find what was ex- pected, Liebig was apt to doubt his pupil’s skill rather than his own conjectures. He would naively say, “ But you must find it.” If unable to do so, he sank still lower in his master’s esti- mation, but rose again as quickly if hé produced indisputable evidence against his opinion, or some other explanation. As was natural, the tenacity with which he held to his own opinion increased with years. Learned men in other departments, particularly men of book-knowledge, had much ado to stand their ground against the ideas on their special subjects which Liebig would throw out in conversation. Though they might argue the point with faultless language and logic, he was seldom convinced. He would say, “The man is much more learned than I am,” or, “ He knows a great deal more than I do;” but he still

Page 66

held to the opinions suggested by his own com- mon-sense. In addition to his mental powers and quick perceptions, Liebig’s methods greatly conduced to his rapid progress. He saved himself and others a vast deal of time by the invention of good methods in his experiments. Of those he applied, perfected, or invented, the elementary analysis of organic bodies takes, perhaps, the first place, particularly the determination of car- bon and hydrogen. Before the introduction of Liebig’s methods, an organic elementary analysis was one of the most difficult tasks of the analytic art, and was only attempted by the greatest mas- ters. Liebig had seen the process in the labo- ratories of Thenard and Gay-Lussac, and had followed their plans. He, of course, mastered the difficulties under their guidance, but he must have found them very troublesome, and still more so the time they consumed. When he be- gan his ardent labors at Giessen, and would fain have made experiments on the carbon, hydrogen, and nitrogen, in all organic bodies, he must have been much impeded by the time and apparatus required. He saw that he must make it a quick and easy process if progress was to be made in organic chemistry. This purely technical task occupied him for years, and he succeeded to a surprising extent. The apparatus was made by degrees so simple and unfailing, that dexterity in mineral analysis was far surpassed. Any chemist was now enabled, especially after the equally ex- peditious method of detefmining nitrogen had been introduced by Will and Varrentrapp, to make several combustions in a day. The simplification of elementary analysis has been of no less importance to organic chemistry than modern methods of transit to commerce. Questions as to the percentage of the component parts of organic bodies could now be readily an- swered, and were no longer a tedious hinderance to the experimentalist. The five-ball apparatus which Liebig, who was himself an expert glass- blower, learned to make out of a few glass tubes, in which the carbon in organic matters was ab- sorbed and weighed as carbonic acid, became the sign and symbol of the Giessen school; the students wore it on breast-pins and buttons, and it figured under likenesses of Liebig. It has contributed no less to researches into the com- position of organic bodies than good telescopes to viewing the heavens, or good microscopes to the investigation of the minutest atoms. Liebig’s career as a teacher does not come within the sphere of his scientific achievements, 66 THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. but his school is inseparable from his works ang irom the development of organic chemistry, Hg had felt the need of higher education, the shor} comings of the schools of his day. He found what he wanted at Paris, and he made accessible to aj in Germany what he had to thank his good fo, tune for through meeting with Alexander yop Humboldt. The establishment of the chemical laboratory at Giessen must be considered ap “ epoch-making” fact of modern times. thereby led chemistry by the shortest route from the professor’s chair into the sciences and prac. tical life. How great the activity which prevailed in those chemical halls on the Selterser Berg, how unceasing the labor going on there! The most important objects were pursued together with the most commonplace, the future practical chemist and the future professor worked side by side, and now and then some chemical bungler among them. All the dialects of Germany, all the tongues of Europe, were mingled together, that of England in one of the halls predominat ing; yet there was no confusion, every one felt that he had lofty ends in view, he was serving science, he was a pupil of Liebig’s. And how stimulating was this concourse of aspiring youths under such a master! For every one in a scientific or experimental difficulty—ia chemical distress—he had some good advice, some happy suggestion, to help him on his way and float his craft again. No one who had witnessed these labors, as earnest as they were cheerful, ia this chemical beehive on the Lahn, could won- der that at one time every one who aspired to higher education in chemistry thought it neces sary to make a pilgrimage to Giessen, and the reputation of Liebig’s school became so high that it was a recommendation merely to have beet there. Liebig also deserves admiration for having persisted in his methods of teaching. Like every one who is in advance of his age, he at first met with opposition. Some few professors of chem istry had seen before that the chemical students of the universities should practise in the labors tory; but they were not supported by public” opinion, and not strong enough to overcome it I well remember what my old teacher, Jonama Nepomuk von Fuchs, used to tell me of the when he was Professor of Chemistry at about 1820. He tried to keep up a small pr cal school on the most modest scale, but his leagues considered it useless waste of mat and wear and tear of the apparatus, and the# students who attended it were laughed at by ee Lkaaitet B' : f 3 sh¢

Page 67

LIEBI@’S SCIENTIFIC ACHIEVEMENTS. comrades for supposing that the professors would show them the right methods, and so turn them into professors too. Goethe makes Mephistophe- les say to Faust, “ You must not give the fellows the best of what you know.” Liebig reversed the dictum, saying, in effect, “ All that I myself can do the fellows, too, must learn.” When the Giessen school was at the height of its fame, many of the university professors were of opinion that Liebig was making a mis- take, and lowering the dignity of science. One distinguished chemist and professor seriously thought that he was simply ruining the prospects of some dozen young men every year by putting it into their heads to become chemists, for what was the use of so many of them? They would never be able to find anything to do, and would take to evil courses. But Liebig was not to be turned aside from his own path, and before long, numerous as were his pupils, he was unable to supply the demand for chemists from his school, and it became necessary to establish similar nur- sery-grounds, or forcing-houses, as they were called, elsewhere. Liebig from the first acted on the principle of making his pupils chemists in a general sense, without regard to special application—of putting them in possession of knowledge which they could apply themselves. But neither was this in accord with the ideas of the time. Just then technical schools were being established for teaching such departments of natural science as were applicable to particular trades. In a school make clay his study; the brewer, malt and hops ; the tanner, skins and bark; the dyer, dyes; the agriculturist, soils and manures, and so forth; but should not be troubled with things that he did not expect to turn to any practical use. _Lie- big was strongly opposed to this thoughtless util- itarianism. Only to learn just that of science which you expect to turn to account is as absurd as if you should learn just those words of a lan- guage which you expect to use. People engaged in technical undertakings on a large scale soon found out that Liebig was right. Many applications were made to him not only for teachers of chemistry, but for technical chemists—not merely for chemical works, alkali- works, ete., but for paper-mills, dyeing-works, breweries, etc. One of the largest firms of Eng- lish brewers wished to engage a chemist for spe- tial researches into the process of brewing and fermentation. Liebig thought it right to state that he had not just then any pupil who had paid 67 the least special attention to those subjects. The house wrote back that that was of no moment; if the young man was acquainted with chemistry in general, he could learn about brewing and fer- mentation best with them; and the young man, who had gone through a course of chemical study, but whose knowledge of brewing was probably confined to drinking beer at the cellar near the Giessen laboratory, became an eminent brewer. Liebig always regarded his career as an in- structor with great satisfaction, and could truly say, a few years before the close of his life : “*T entered the realm of Science at the time when organic chemistry was being developed, and had for thirty years the rare good fortune to see around me a large number of -clever and aspiring young chemists, many of whom are the ornaments of the chairs of chemistry in nearly every country of Europe. With their help, and, I must add, to- gether with my friend Wéhler, we succeeded in carrying on numerous researches, and in ascertain- ing a multitude of facts which must be considered the groundwork of the ozganic chemistry of the present.” Liebig’s literary labors do not come directly within my province, any more than his career as a teacher; yet my sketch would be incomplete without mention of the Annals of Chemistry and Pharmacy, and his “ Letters on Chemistry.” , When Liebig appeared there.was no paper in Germany specially devoted to chemistry. It was then for the most part an adjunct of pharmacy, | in which the results of chemical science were of of practical chemistry the future potter should immediate use. The apothecary used often to. play an important part, not only in little bour- geois epics, like “Hermann and Dorothea,” but in chemistry and natural science in general ; and Liebig’s first writings appeared mostly in the Magazine for Pharmacy. In 1832 Liebig and Geiger established the Annals of Pharmacy, which became Liebig’s organ. In 1840 it took the title of Annals of Chemistry and Pharmacy, in order, as Liebig said, to make it more in accord with the contents, and Wéhler became one of the editors. For forty-one years Liebig was the main support of these Annals, which were mostly called, and are still, “Liebig’s Annals,” and they form an inexhaustible and indispensable repertory of information for any one who wishes to make researches in any department of chemistry. The “ Letters on Chemistry” originated in a series of articles in the Augsburger Allgemeine Zeitung. They need but to be mentioned to recall to the mind of every educated man a matchless example of the art of popularizing

Page 68

68 pure science for the widest circle of readers. THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. But the success of the book in another re They are also indispensable to the expert, for the | spect was not so great—in its effect at first upon author constantly used them, as he himself stated, to illustrate his views on chemistry, agriculture, | and physiology. He expended great pains upon them. Not long before his death, he wrote to one of his pupils who had published a small pop- ular work : “The style of your book is excellent; it is really a masterpiece of simplicity and clearness. To most readers it may appear off-hand, as many have said of my chemical letters, but I am sure that you have expended much care and attention on the composition, as I did on mine; there is an art in simplicity and freshness of style which, however, must be kept out of sight.” Liebig thus gave the highest praise that he could bestow on a popular work, It was the comprehensive view which Liebig took of chemistry which naturally turned his at- tention to agriculture and animal physiology. Having devoted more attention than any other chemist to the materials of organic Nature, he wanted to observe them in the laboratories in which they were produced, to study the part they played in the economy of Nature. It is well known that he became a pioneer in these depart- ments and gave a great impetus to the study of them. I will confine myself to the mention of a few of the chief points. What is called Liebig’s agricultural chemistry may be divided into two periods—the first from 1840 to 1846 at Giessen, the second from 1856 to 1862 at Munich. His researches in vegetable and animal physiology were first made known in a work which appeared in 1840, called “ Chem- istry as applied to Agriculture and Physiology.” This step involved so many consequences that I must enter a little further upon the subject. In 1837, at the meeting of the British Asso- ciation held at Liverpool, Liebig was requested to draw up a report on the existing state of knowl- edge of organic chemistry. He consented, but proposed that the French chemist, Dumas, should join him in the work. Dumas, however, does not seem to have agreed, and in 1840 Liebig’s book appeared. It met with unusual success ; six editions were called for in six years, and it excited great attention, so great that in 1841 Dumas felt constrained to put forth something similar in French, and formally indorsed Liebig’s main principles, although some of them were much disputed. He said, “Elles appartiennent 4 notre école, dont esprit est venu s’exercer sur ce ter- rain nouveau.” | agriculture and physiology and their representa. tives. They almost all regarded Liebig, with his notions and theories, as an interloper, who must _ be driven back into his own territory; and a con- test began. Even some distinguished chemists did not approve of Liebig’s having, like an ambi- tious ruler, thus extended his domain., Berzeliyg from the first was doubtful, and a few years later was quite at enmity with Liebig about these theories of probability, as he called the applica. tion of chemistry to things of this sort. In his annual report of 1841, Berzelius said of Liebig’s book, that it was written with all the ability to be expected from so distinguished an author, but made no secret of his opinion that Liebig had erected a structure that was already tottering to its fall. The more critical, and even hostile, was the . attitude of the agriculturists, physiologists, and chemists, the louder was the applause of the public at large; but whether it was entirely satis- factory to Liebig I cannot say, for no one of the applauding multitude could bring Berzelius to another mind, invalidate the experiments of Bra- connot, or the objections of Boussingault, could convince the skeptical farmers, or put the polem- ical physiologists to silence. It appears to me that Liebig must have felt rather isolated at this period, for even his best friends saw that in the lofty flights to which his imagination had led him he had often asserted more than he had proved, and that the prosaic task of proof had yet to be entered upon. He had thus raised up a host of opponents who were by no means to be despised, and was left to his own resources in dealing with them. The way in which he sue- ceeded, in course of time, is worthy of all adm: ration. At the time when Liebig was called upon undertake the work which caused so much e& citement, his powers were in their prime. Wheat such a man as he was takes a general survey of things, his field of vision may be expected to extend beyond the usual range. What was the main thing that Liebig discovered ? He never claimed to be the first to make chemical experiments in agriculture. On the contrary, in the dedication of his book to Alex ander von Humboldt he says : “There is one part of the little book which T take the liberty of dedicating to you, of which I scarcely know whether it is really mine. I read your introduction to Ingenhouss’s work 08

Page 69

“ES Fseasrs SaRSer R27 BRET ET Re? SP he . od sa is- he to ra ld m- ne iis he ed ad ad up be in C- ni- LIEBI@’S SCIENTIFIC ACHIEVEMENTS. 69 ‘The Nourishment of Plants’ of forty-two years ago, it always appears to me as if I had but carried out and tried to prove the views, therein expressed, of the most eminent naturalist of this century.” What was it, then, which occasioned all this com- * motion ? In my opinion, it was not the facts adduced, which were mostly known before, but the idea by which Liebig’s mind was so possessed, that, of all life upon earth, vegetable life alene has any affinity with lifeless, inorganic Nature ; that vegetable life, by the aid of inorganic mineral matters, forms new and complex forms of organic Nature ; that animal life derives its life solely from vegetable life, and the animal, under the influence of the oxygen which it inhales, again resolves these combinations into the simple, inor- ganic mineral matters, carbonic acid, hydrogen, ammonia, ete., out of which vegetable life com- bined them by the separation of oxygen in the air. It was this simple rotation of matter in animated Nature which excited Liebig and others, and it soon found favorite popular illustration in the little aquariums which were called “ Liebig’s World in a Glass Case.” Liebig embraced this idea enthusiastically, and it raised him to a height from which prospects opened out before him as yet concealed from oth- ers,and it induced him to publish many things which, having been seen only afar off, wore a dif- ferent aspect when viewed more closely. He be- gan to bear down all obstacles in his path at the risk of being considered a ruthless destroyer. The method pursued by Liebig in his agricult- ural chemistry was slow and laborious ; it would have taken any one else three times as long. The first great task was the examination of as great a variety of plants as possible from various places, their component parts, and those of their ashes. He did not place much value on analysis of soils, which had been considered so important, espe- cially how much humus a soil contained ; what he wanted to know was the effect of every plant on the soil on which it grew. It was soon found that the ashes of all plants yield qualitatively the same mineral constituents, but that every species yields its own peculiar ashes, for different species growing side by side on the same soil absorb its mineral elements in very different proportions. Liebig sent out letters asking for analysis of ashes in all directions ; and, in order to facili- tate the task, his assistants, Will and Fresenius, worked out and published an excellent method of obtaining them. In a comparatively short time thousands of results were obtained. Liebig now put into practice the results of the discovery that every species of plant takes from the soil a certain quantity of mineral matter, in certain combinations, which is found in their ashes ; and his opinion that plants derive the rest of the material required for their growth from the atmosphere, in the form of carbonic acid, hydrogen, and ammonia, by the aid of their leaves and roots. He asserted that, in order to make a cornfield perpetually productive, you have only to restore to it the mineral matters withdrawn from it by the harvest; the atmos- phere and the conformation of the soil, regulated by the mechanical part of farming, will take care of the rest. A soda-manufacturer at Liverpool was com- missioned by Liebig to make arrangements for supplying the farmers with mineral manures for wheat, rye, oats, clover, potatoes, etc. They were prepared according to a method invented by Lie- big, the essential feature being that the nourish- ing salts, too readily soluble in water, were made less soluble by being mixed with carbonate of lime, that they might not be carried off by the rain out of reach of the sprouting seeds. Liebig was thoroughly convinced of the cor- rectness of his mineral theory, and as thoroughly of the efficacy of his mineral manures. It did not, however, turn out as he expected. His gen- ius was to be sharply put to the test. The English farmers found no result from the artificial manures, left off buying the useless stuff, returned to their old manures, and the works at Liverpool were given up. Indeed, Liebig was compelled to admit, from his own farming experi- ments at Giessen, that his mineral manures did not render a sterile soil essentially more fertile. One ray of hope appeared after years of non- success ; the crops obviously increased a long time after they had been manured. But this was only another puzzle. Meanwhile, all his opponents bestirred them- selves, not only to demonstrate the uselessness of mineral manures, but to upset the mineral theory altogether, and to show that, in order to obtain practical results in farming, you must go to work in an entirely different way. First and foremost was an English land-owner, Mr. Lawes, who, together with a chemist of the name of Gil- bert, made experiments with various manures which they manufactured. It was shown that the more soluble a manure is, the greater the effect produced, that the produce of a field of- ten increases enormously if only common salt be put upon it, especially superphosphate; but

Page 70

70 that, above all, in order to obtain large crops, ammonia, or ammoniacal salts, or, as at length it was briefly called, nitrogen, must be applied, and for a time the value of a manure was tested sole- ly by the amount of nitrogen it contained, while, according to Liebig’s theory, the atmosphere was the all-sufficient source of ammonia. His oppo- nents rallied under the banner of this party, who were called nitrogenists, and they thought that they had driven Liebig forever out of the field. But in spite of all, Liebig remained strong in faith in his theory, and would not yield to want of practical success. Now and again, he entered into vehement polemics, especially against the validity of Lawes’s experiments as opposed to his theories, but without success. Pusey, the President of the English Agricultural Society, took the part of the practical man, Lawes, all the more decidedly. The readers of “ Chemistry as applied to Agri- culture and Physiology” became fewer and fewer, and after 1846 no new edition appeared. But it must not therefore be supposed that Liebig’s doctrines were refuted, for by means of his numerous pupils they had made their way into almost all agricultural schools, partly even into practical farming. Many experiments were made at the agricultural chemical stations, the first of which was in Saxony, and they proved more and more the correctness of the scientific principles which led to the artificial manures, even though they had not proved useful, and Lie- big’s mineral theory would have held its ground, even if he had given up his researches in this direction or had departed this life. But it was reserved for him, with his own hand, to put the keystone to the structure he had raised, and it was at Munich that it was to be done. After 1845, Liebig had occupied kimself more and more at Giessen with the second part of the task he had set himself, the application of chem- istry to animal physiology; and at the close of 1851, when I was sent by King Maximilian II. to negotiate with Liebig about coming to Munich, he was in the midst of these labors. He had declined so many invitations that but little hope was en- tertained of gaining him for Munich. We suc- ceeded, however, and to his honor be it said, he did not embarrass the negotiation by exorbitant demands, but only stipulated that he should not have the conduct of so large a laboratory as at Giessen, that he might have more leisure for his own pursuits, He removed to Munich in 1852, at the age of forty-nine. After a time he resumed his agricultural ex- THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. periments, and directed them to discovering his mineral manures did not produce the desired effect. At length he succeeded. He proved t» demonstration that all cropping is robbery of the soil; that if every particle of mineral matter ig, not restored to it by some sort of manure after every crop, it is only a question of time when @ field will cease to be productive. At length it became clear to him that the clods crushed by the farmer, the particles of soil, play a much larger part in the nourishment of plants thaa had been supposed. The idea had been that besides the nourishment in the form of air, that only which was dissolved in the moisture contained in the soil, even if dissolved with diff. culty, contributed to the nutrition of the fruits of the earth. The good effect of allowing land to lie fallow was supposed ,to consist in the gradual de cay and solution of certain constituents, and it was thought that it was only to open the soil, as it was said, to make its elements soluble, so that they might be sucked up by the roots of plants, The growth of land-plants was supposed not to differ from that of water-plants. Liebig dis covered that with field-crops, and land-plants in general, it was just the reverse; that they live upon matters which were once dissolved in waten but again absorbed from the water by the soil and rendered insoluble. He ascertained the ab sorbent power, the point of saturation, of various soils for the mineral food of plants dissolved in water, and found the greatest differences, not only between various soils, but in the same soils for various substances. He discovered, for instance, that a certain quantity of ammonia, dissolved in water, penetrated to a depth of ten centimetres in passing through loam, an equal quantity of potash to eleven, and an equal weight of phosphate of lime, dissolved in water containing acid, penetrated to a depth of twenty-three centi- metres and a half, and saturated the soil. The part played by water in the soil is there fore twofold. It has not only to furnish plants — with their normal quantity of water, and to Tt store the loss by exhalation, but also to convey the nourishment to the soil from which it is a stracted by their roots. Just as the roots oe able to extract the insoluble mineral matters from — the soil, they also extract from it moisture hygr> — scopically combined with it, which is then, to $ certain extent, restored by the atmosphere, oven without rain. The absorbent quality of the soil for matters ‘ of this kind dissolved in water was not dise - by Liebig; Thomson and Way had long before

Page 71

eFESs PES Rese FPS Berle e?F? Seo Se LIEBI@S SCIENTIFIC ACHIEVEMENTS. 71 observed this property of the soil and other po- rous bodies; but neither they nor Liebig had hitherto turned it to account in agriculture; it must have been deemed injurious rather than beneficial, because it had been held that what was ” wanted was to make the nourishment in the soil not insoluble but soluble. It was to Liebig that the principle first occurred that the soil, like water, only just in the reverse way, could be saturated with matters to a certain extent without chemically combining with them ; that as, for in- stance, common salt in water becomes fluid, and mixes with it without altering its nature, or chemi- cally combining with it, so the nourishing mineral matters dissolved in water again become solid in contact with earth, and go into the earth without change in their chemical composition. Liebig perceived now that land-plants extract the mat- ters by means of their roots from the soil which the soil has abstracted from water and rendered insoluble. He now saturated unfruitful peat-earth with mineral matters containing nourishment for plants. Water filtered through such earth ab- stracted nothing from it whatever, but grain, peas, beans, etc., flourished luxuriantly, and bore over one hundred-fold. Their delicate roots could abstract what water could not. Liebig knew now why his mineral manures produced little or no effect. With great chem- ical shrewdness he had rendered certain sub- stances, particularly potash and the phosphates, almost insoluble in water, and prevented them from passing into the absorbent soil. When he perceived his mistake, it was as if scales had fallen from his eyes: he saw clearly before him the end at which he had so long been aiming. In 1862 his great work, in two volumes, ap- peared: “The Chemical Process of the Nourish- ment of Plants and the Natural Laws of Agri- culture.” By this Liebig completed and crowned his science of agriculture ; his doctrines are now everywhere acknowledged, and no thoughtful farmer supposes that he has only to lay on super- phosphate, nitrogen, or guano, to make his fields fruitful forever. The object is now to apply Lie- hie’s theories by the best methods. The Ger- man land-owners gratefully acknowledged this a few years ago by founding the Liebig Institute. - How deep was the impression made upon Liebig’s mind by these discoveries is clearly shown by his own words. He says in his intro- duction to his work of 1862: “ Tt was a real and perpetual grief to me that I could not discover why the effect of my manures was so tardy; I saw everywherg, in thousands of cases, that every one of their component parts produced its effect alone, yet when combined, as in my manures, they produced none. “ At last, three years ago, after submitting all the facts, step by step, to fresh and careful experi- ment, I discovered the reason. I had sinned against the wisdom of the Creator and suffered just punishment. I thought to improve upon his work, and fancied, in my blindness, that in the wondrous chain of laws by which life is ever maintained and renewed on the surface of the earth, one link was wanting which I, a weak and helpless worm, was to supply. It had, however, been provided for; but in so wonderful a manner that the existence of such a law had hitherto been unsuspected by man’s intelligence, numerous as were the facts that indicated it ; but facts, though they speak truth, are dumb, or one hears not what they say, when error drowns their voice. So it was with me. The alkalies, I thought to my- self, must be made insoluble, or the rain will carry them off! I did not then know that the soil holds them fast, so soon as solutions of them come into contact with it, for the law to which my experiments in agriculture have led is as fol- lows: Organic life is developed on the crust of the earth under the influence of the sun, and the great Architect gave to the ruins of this crust the property of attracting and holding fast all those elements which serve for the nourishment of plants, and thereby of animals also, as the mag- net attracts and holds fast iron filings, so that no particle is lost. The Creator included in this an- other law, whereby the earth, bearing plants, is a vast cleansing apparatus for water, from which by this property it removes all those matters which would be injurious to man and beast, the products of the decay of generations of plants and ani- mals.” In glancing at Liebig’s influence on animal physiology, I shall be more concise, as his meth- od of procedure did not differ from that with agricultural chemistry. In this department also his studies were based upon exact organic chem- istry. What first attracted him was the reception of organic nourishment and the reversed meta- morphosis of matter under the influence of oxy- gen from the highly complex to the simple, to the inorganic, from albumen and fat to uric acid and urea, carbonic acid, water, ammonia, and ashes, just as he had pursued the reverse method with plants. The researches into the changes in uric acid under the influence of oxidation may be re- garded as thoroughly typical of his work; like the researches into benzoin, it was undertaken in conjunction with his friend Wéhler, who ten years before had succeeded in making a synthesis of

Page 72

72 urea from its elements, the first instance of an artificial exhibition of an organic body out of in- organic elements. The work on uric acid is a classic model to this day. Liebig’s labors in animal physiology may be divided into two parts: 1. The discovery by chemical analysis of the component parts of va- rious organs, and excreta; 2. The endeavor to explain the chemistry of physiological processes. To the first part much has been contributed by others besides Liebig and his school. Much as these researches have extended our knowledge, they would never have received the attention accorded to the second part; this Liebig re- served to himself, namely, to explain his ideas of the significance of all these matters in the liv- ing body. Physiology falls mainly into an anatomic- physical and an organic-chemical division. With the first Liebig scarcely troubled himself at all, and in the second he was interested purely as a chemist, but he taught the physiologists from his laboratory how to observe chemical processes in the organism, without ever having made a physi- ological experiment. This was at once a strong and a weak point with him. No physiologist will deny that, in spite of this weakness, he exer- cised an influence on the progress of physiological science, The case was much the same as with agricultural chemistry: he constructed a theory from a purely chemical standpoint, and then ap pealed to practice; but his essays in the physio- logical sphere were much more audacious, for he had not command of the weapons—physiological experiment ; at least I am not aware that he ever himself made an experiment on a living being. The progress of every science depends upon the discovery of facts, which may be called scien- tific practice, and upon the conclusions deduced from them—that is, on theory and practice. They may be compared to the army and diplo- macy in statecraft. Diplomacy wages no actual warfare, but is not seldom the cause of it, and the soldiers have to make experiment after ex- periment, to marshal facts against facts, until it appears which side is the stronger. In the realm of pure chemistry Liebig was both soldier and diplomatist, indeed one of the greatest generals. In the physiological sphere he was only a diplomatist, but he was the cause of many movements and conflicts, which have cleared up various points in physiology, although, when peace was concluded, some things were not settled in accordance with the original demands. _The decision of Liebig’s character induced him THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. at once to state what he thought to be the case without troubling himself about other claimg, Thus, for instance, it had been stated by La voisier that animal heat was derived from pro. cesses of oxidation, from a sort of combustion of the substances in the body containing carbon and hydrogen. Dulong and Despretz proved by ex periment that this was nine-tenths true, that ig, capable of demonstration. Liebig tried to prove by purely theoretical methods that’ all animal heat was derived from chemical processes, and did not, like many others, infer, from the experi- ments of Dulong and Despretz, that the other tenth was otherwise produced, for example, by nervous influences ; did not even take the trouble to investigate the remaining tenth at all, but simply gave in his evidence to the opposite party, that the heat of an animal kept in a box sur. rounded with ice during experiment did not be come diminished by one-tenth. And proof to the contrary has never yet been offered. As is well known, Liebig interested himself no less in the nutrition of animals than in that of plants. Notwithstanding that the food of dif- ferent animals and man is so various, they are chemically alike in their corporeal substance, There is no essential difference between the flesh of birds, oxen, or man; cow’s milk can be sub- stituted for mother’s milk; and, physiologically speaking, there is nothing impossible in the myth that the founders of Rome were suckled by a wolf. The transmutation of matter in an her- bivorous animal, when fasting, differs in no re spect from that of a carnivorous animal, for 80 long as he does not eat he must consume his own flesh. What is, then, the common principle im the thousand kinds of food, this unity in mult plicity? The mind of man has occupied itself with these questions for ages. Just before Lie ~ big’s time, the experiments made by Magendie and others on the subject of nutrition had pro” duced results which only seemed to render the” question more obscure; but six years ago Voit said : mS “This obscurity was to be brilliantly illumF ; nated by one who is still among us. No one will” accuse me of flattery if I mention the —— u one living and present, for they are so univ agknowledged that they belong to history.” It was Liebig who first expressed the decided” opinion that the animal must be provided by his ~ food with the chief elements in the blood, and therewith of the body built up and nourished by 7 it, and that its original and essential constituent® are to be found only in vegetation, for the exist f

Page 73

a ht: e 8, a 0. of a i 8, ve al id i. er ry le ut yy 1 \e- to elf at if. re oe, sh ib- lly he by er re 80 wn in ti. elf je- ¥ die ro- +4 he ot nie a f ‘LIEBI@S SCIENTIFIC ACHIEVEMENTS. 73 ence of the carnivora implies that of the her- pivora, and the herbivora that of vegetation. Liebig said : ss “The nutriment of men and animals consists of two substances, differing entirely in their com- position. The one class, consisting of nitrogenous, albuminous matter, serves to make blood, and to form the solid structure of the body—these are called plastic elements of nutriment. The others, which are non-nitrogenous, fats and hydrocarbons, are like ordinary fuel, and serve only for the pro- duction of heat—they are called breathing material. Sugar, starch, and gums, may be regarded as fibres of wood transformed, and can be produced from wood. Fat stands next to coal in the quantity of carbon it contains. We heat our bodies as well as our stoves with fuel containing the same elements as wood and coal, but essentially distinguished from them by their solubility into the juices of the body.”’ . It is upon this that Liebig’s division of all nutri- tive elements into blood-making or plastic, and combustible or respiratory, material, is based, and from its simplicity and clearness it has been retained almost without exception to the present day, although the definition more recently given by Voit, from a physiological rather than a chemical standpoint, is also very simple. Voit classifies articles of diet, not according to their possible effects, but according to their material importance for the body, and states the question thus: What must the food contain to prevent the diminution of albumen, fats, salts, water, and oxygen, in the transmutation of matter, and what share has each article of dict in it? Both men and animals live exclusively upon the above- named materials, and consume them in the inter- vals, between meals and when fasting In order that food may be really convertible by and ac- ceptable to the organism, it must, as Voit justly observes, contain also articles of luxury, that is, materials which work upon certain nerves and affect the activity of the digestive apparatus. This definition embraces not only the solid, but also the fluid and air-forming constituents of food ; it is more complete and precise than Lie- big’s, but not so intelligible to every layman, so that Liebig’s will long maintain the field with the public at large. It has, however, been proved, by experiment, that even under the greatest exertion no more blood-forming or strength- producing elements are consumed than during absolute rest, while a great deal more of the other class, the heat-producing elements, are consumed, though the heat of a healthy body is rather diminished than increased. Another great service of Liebig’s, on the sub- ject of nutrition, is that he established the prin- ciple that it depends not only on partaking of blood-forming and heat-producing materials, but that they should be taken in certain proportions varying with circumstances. He also endeavored to settle the equivalents of different articles, as, for instance, how much hydrocarbon would pro- duce the same effect as a certain weight of fat. He did this in his usual fashion, from a purely chemical standpoint, without even, as it were, putting a question to the living body. When, therefore, experiments were tried in accordance with these theories, many things turned out other- wise than he expected, just as the fields did not yield the results he looked for, on his experiments with mineral manures; but in spite of all this, it is surprising how much has been confirmed, and no one will dispute the services rendered in this sphere by him as a pioneer. Liebig was much engrossed at one time with the formation of fat in the body. I cannot state the subject better than Voit has done in his lecture on theories of nutrition: “It had long been agreed that the albuminous and nitrogenous elements in the body are solely produced by al- bumen in the food; but great difference of opin- ion prevailed as to what produced fat, and yet it is very important to ascertain it. It was thought at first, and the view was entertained by two distinguished French chemists, Dumas and and Boussingault, that fat was formed solely from the fat intoduced into the body. But Liebig soon perceived that this could not be, and proved to a certainty that the fat in the food, especially in the case of the herbivora, could not produce all the fat in the body, and that the hydrocarbons had the greatest influence on the production of fat.” From these facts Liebig drew the conclusion that fat is formed chiefly from the non-nitrogen- ous elements in food, starch, sugar, and the hy- drocarbons generally. A lively controversy sprang up between Giessen and Paris, and there was much sharp-shooting on both sides. Liebig came off victorious, inasmuch as he was correct in maintaining that the fat in the food could not, in most cases, account for the amount of fat in the body, and that the hydrocarbons were cer- tainly concerned in its production. It was not until experiments were undertaken with the respiratory apparatus in the Physiologi- cal Institute at Munich that other views came to be entertained. This ‘apparatus enabled us to ascertain the exact amount of receipts and ex- penditure in the body during twenty-four hours,

Page 74

74 in the form of gas, which had only been possible before with the fluids and solids; and when an exact balance had been struck, it appeared that, at any rate among the carnivora and man, fat is never produced by the hydrocarbons, not even when taken in the greatest quantity, but that it must be produced by the fat in the food and by being eliminated from albumen. Voit, by his experiments on a milch-cow, has rendered the production of fat by hydrocarbons in the herbiv- ora very doubtful; and we are thus compelled to conclude that all fat not contained in the food, which is produced in the body, has its origin in the decomposition of albumen, and that the hy- drocarbons, previously looked upon as fat-form- ers, only serve to prevent the fat originating in albumen from combining with oxygen, from fur- ther decomposition into carbonic acid and water, from so-called combustion. No single experi- ment since made has contradicted this theory; indeed, time has only confirmed it. Liebig never could reconcile himself to it; he even disputed it in his last work on fermentation and muscular force ; but this does not detract from his great services on the question of alimentation, for even the modern view is but the result of the impetus which he gave to it. Closely connected with food are Liebig’s ex- periments on meat, which first gave us a precise idea of the chemical composition of muscle, by far the largest and most solid part of our bodily elements. One fruit of these studies is the ex- tract of meat, which has been so much discussed, and as much overrated as underrated. Without granting that one ounce of the extract is equal to a pound of meat, or that you may turn bread into meat with it, it was a valuable gift to mankind ; it has been found a welcome cordial to the travel- er in the desert, the voyager to the north-pole, and our soldiers in war, and it finds a place more and more in the kitchens of the middle class. Among the luxuries which are necessary additions to our food, none is more grateful than soup, and we have the essential basis of it, only in another form, in extract of meat. Liebig occupied him- self much with the physiological value of this protégé of his, which has become so large an article of trade. On the whole, Liebig initiated and rendered possible a science of nutrition. It is a curious fact that his ideas have been much more tardy in making their way into the laboratories of ani- THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. mal and vegetable physiology than into the ex perimental agricultural stations which he also in. stituted, and which have proved so useful. Though their chief aim is practical, they sometimes con tribute to the advancement of science. Farmers now go deeply and successfully into the question of the best means of feeding and fattening ous races of animals. It might be no less to advantage of the human race if experiments wen’ tried as to the best diet for the various classes of our population. I am well aware that I have by no means ex hausted the subject of Liebig’s achievements ig science, but have simply indicated them; what] have said suffices to show how great they were, even though all that he did, wrote, and said, was not free from human error and weakness, We will not desecrate his memory by flattery or ser. vile adulation— ‘* Es irrt der Mensch so lang er strebt.” If in some things Liebig did not entirely sue ceed, if he did not finish everything that he under. took, he only shared the fate of the greatest men in history, and other benefactors of mankind, but he none the less influences the present and the future. Let us rejoice in the inheritance he has left us. It is distinguished from all earthly pos- sessions by this peculiarity, that every one may take of it as much as he will without lessening the store for the rest; nay, the more every one makes it his own, the more will it increase and multiply, It is an old and familiar metaphor, derived from the most ancient department of practical chemistry, the production of metals, advance im which divides one great epoch of civilization from another, that every man may be looked upon as an alloy of base and precious metals, that he must be tried and purified in the fires of life and of death, and that the more he has aspired after” noble ends in life the more precious will be the residuum that he leaves. Every man who has honestly pursued noble ends, leaves behind, a8 the flame of life expires, a grain, smaller or larger, of precious metal; few only are utterly consumed — as dross in the fiery furnace of this life, but the weight of the residue greatly varies. Liebig now — lies, as it were, before us on the burning, refining hearth of a ceaselessly active and noble life—®— mighty deposit of silver which coming generations may yet gaze on with admiration. — 7he Contempo — rary Review.

Page 75

SSeS ioe s8FSFSP ESS BESGF ERE FTES § eb s esESRig FesRr a Fas Se EEL Le meee ONE PER CENT. ONE PER CENT. By Pror. BONAMY PRICE. NE per cent. has now reigned supreme in the market for discount for the space of a whole year. The Bank of England, indeed, has thought it to be inconsistent with its dignity or its policy to accept so mean a return for its favors in lending, and has consequently laid down two per cent. as its minimum rate for discounting. By such a proclamation, it virtually announced its intention of withdrawing from the ordinary banking market, and the competition it involves with private banks, so long as the present condi- tion of the financial world continues: and it has probably found compensation in applying its funds to investments of a more permanent char- acter. In the regular money-market one per cent. has been only an average for the twelve months. Fora considerable time the rate for lending sank to one-half per cent.; and even on such infinitesimal terms the bankers have at times found it hard to reap any profit from their deposits. Every one remembers the agitations associ- ated with seven per cent.—the trepidation of merchants, the apprehension of losses in business through oppressive charges for interest, the anxieties for what the future might still have in store, the general uneasiness through the com- mercial and banking communities. If only a moderate rate could be reckoned on as steady, how happy would every one have been! what visions of good and stable profits would have gladdened the mind of every trader! how deep would have been the conviction that the country was eminently prospering! The thought of a continuous one per cent. would have been felt too presumptuous to be indulged ; the contrast with the feelings under seven was too violent. Yet wkat are the facts and feelings of to-day? Is every merchant, every manufacturer, rejoicing in the pleasant terms on which he obtains the accommodation so necessary for his business ? Are the reports from every great centre of indus- try and trade full of exultation over the bright days and cheerful sensations which gladden com- mercial life? Are our harbors thronged with ships waiting to relieve the loaded warehouses of their stores, and our railways distributing swollen dividends, gathered from endless trains distributing the countless products which an energetic and thriving industry is everywhere creating? Are laborers asked for on every side and every employer eager for some services which will raise him to fortune? And is the Chancel- lor of the Exchequer panting to enjoy the envi- able pleasure of developing a brilliant budget to a delighted House of Commons? Alas! no such sounds or sights meet our ears and eyes on any side. The fond thoughts associated with an easy money-market are found to be coupled with re- alities of a very differeut order under the suprem- acy of one per cent. In what quarter is there rejoicing? What commercial town or manufact- uring centre speaks of abundant orders, satis- factory prices, busy workmen, and large profits ? What bank is multiplying its clerks to wait on the wants of thronging borrowers? Commercial depression is the universal cry—a depression probably unprecedented in duration in the annals of trade, except under the disturbing action of prolonged war. The associations of a low rate of interest are contradicted by the stern, real facts of the actual world. This is a subject of which .it is difficult to exaggerate the importance. The diminution of trade, the slackness of production, the low range of prices, the consequent loss and suffering, are facts only too certain: it becomes of the highest moment to investigate their causes, and to dis- cover a remedy if attainable. In any case, les- sons of the highest value may be learned by studying the path by which the commercial world has reached this state: errors may be discovered, very fatal in their effects, but yet admitting, when distinctly known and understood, of being largely if not wholly avoided. To suffer without reflecting, only to relapse into the same courses under similar temptations, cannot be described as wisdom. Discount at one per cent., continuous for a long period, of itself invites the sharpest notice. The money-market is the focus of many powerful influences which tell heavily on the course which production and consumption follow. If merchants and manufacturers can miscalculate under the eagerness of speculative desires, 80 also may bankers and their borrowers: both groups are capable of inflicting much disorder on the country. It is most desirable to ascertain the true character of the actual situation.

Page 76

76 In 1873 a commercial depression set in which has been growing in extent and intensity ever since. It has attacked both quantities and prices. The export and the import trade have both suf- fered severely. Nor is it by any means clear that the evil has reached its lowest limit. If we take the trade and navigation returns for last Febru- ary, as analyzed in the city article of the Z’imes, we shall meet with figures, most of which must be characterized as melancholy. There is a de- crease in the value of exports of about twelve per cent., in that of imports of eight, as against February of 1876. Trade is thus contracting still—the long downward course is not yet ar- rested. Less wheat, to the extent of 2,500,000 ewts., was imported; the price of wheat, how- ever, has not risen, and the inference may be ac- cepted so far that England is becoming worse off for food. In the export figures, the writer still fails to see any cheering signs of the long-looked- for revival of trade. Both quantities and values continue to shrink in all save a few cases. Coal and coke, iron and steel, copper, cotton goods, linen goods, wool and woolen goods, all indicate that the bottom prices have not as yet been reached. “This fact, coupled with the still more important decline in quantities, compels the con- clusion that the dragging trade of the last two years and a half has not as yet become more ani- mated.” This decline shows that buyers abroad of English goods are fewer and weaker. This is a fact of supreme significance for a nation whose population, and wealth, and commercial strength, are absolutely dependent, to an unexampled ex- tent, on the exchange of her manufactured prod- ucts for food, necessaries, and enjoyments of every kind. If England were cut off from all foreign trade, a large portion of her people must surely perish, as surely as did more than a mill- ion of Irish when the potato-disease left them foodless on the land. This unwelcome symptom calls for notice, wherever it tends to appear, how- ever faintly, most of all if the suspicion occurs that foreign competitors are endeavoring to over- come us in, and to exclude us from, what are called third markets. England must sell abroad, and on a large scale too, if she is to continue to be what she is now. Ample evidence abounds on all sides, besides the returns of the Board of Trade, to show the extent and severity of the commercial depression in England. In the foremost place stands the iron-trade, one of the great staples of the nation. After a period of overflowing prosperity, adver- sity has stepped in with unprecedented severity. THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. Prices were run up to extravagant heights ; coals were easily sold at rates unheard of before ; ney coal-mines were opened ; so also were iron mines; immense industrial activity spread over large populations ; laborers were eagerly sought after; unions found a splendid field for their action; strikes urged on masters—already panting to hire workmen, so abundant were the orders coming in—to concede unwarrantable wages ; profit stil] held on successfully ; and it was hard to say how wide would be the conquests of Britishiron. But where has the iron-trade been during the past three years? Let Cleveland answer, with her shut-up mines, her unemployed population, her depressed wages, her in many cases extinguished profits. Finished iron, steamers, rails, and other departments of iron production, are all faint with slackness. In Wales, some of the greatest iron. works of the kingdom were brought to a stand. still. The export of British iron to America has become so slack as to seem on the point of ex tinction altogether. The heart of business-men has become sick with disappointment over an nounced but never realized revivals. Both the prosperity and the depression of the coal and iron trades have a very significant bear. ing on the cause and on the remedy, if any, of depressions such as that which now weighs down upon England ; the one needs as much attention as the other, as will presently be shown. Throughout the whole kingdom the blow has fallen heavily on wages. In vain have unions combined with extreme combativeness to resist the fall; natural forces were too mighty for them. Wages which were not earned by the value of the products created could not last without the ruin of the employers. The prod- ucts had ceased to be demanded in the same quantities; to submit to half-time or lengthened hours, which would cheapen the goods manufact ured, was inevitable under the alternative of @ total cessation of work. None knew better the strength and range of the depression than the wage-receiving workmen in British factories Even members of Parliament, selected to pre tect the wages of the working-classes, have come forward to press on their constituents and sym pathizers the stern necessity of submitting # laws which could not be extinguished by veh ment clamor and artificial doctrines. But now let us widen our horizon, and direct our eyes to foreign lands. In these latter days the steamboat, the railway, and the electri¢ telegraph, have created an intercommunion of” nations, a binding of them up together into one”

Page 77

EFZEFERTE ¢ BREE s8eF B =e 25 FRESE SESE = cs BPESREE aa ¥ Bs ONE PER CENT. nT commercial whole, which very intimately con- nects their financial fortunes with one another. What occurs in one of these organically-associ- ated states—for they are nothing less—produces direct and very extensive effects in every other. If one member suffers or rejoices, the others are generally, though not always absolutely, affected in the same manner. Trade knows of no nation- alities, if only governments will suffer it to pur- sue its own course undisturbed. Have other countries bowed their heads in suffering under the commercial depression? Let America be the first to speak. In 1873 she experienced a crisis of a most formidable kind; she has not recovered from the shock at this very hour. Her people have been out of work in large num- bers ; immigrants have left her borders to return to the old countries. Her commercial centres, her banks, and her financiers, have poured forth loud lamentations over the bankruptcies which have assailed them and the losses they have en- gendered. Business has dwindled down in dis- tricts once alive with energy and hope. Collier- ies have been reduced to short time; so have iron-works, and some have been stopped alto- gether. Her railways, and still more those of Canada, speak of diminished traffic and curtailed earnings; in not a few dividends have been swept away altogether from their shareholders. If railway earnings have slain their thousands in England they have slain ten thousands in Amer- ica. Her imports from foreign lands have fallen * away wonderfully, .without creating more em- ployment for her protected people; there was less ability to buy any commodities of foreign origin because they bought more largely of those manufactured in their own country. This fact, that the Americans were not dimin- ishing their purchases of English goods merely because they bought more largely of those manu- factured within their own country, bears decisive testimony that they were under the depression, that the pressure of the commercial atmosphere which weighed on England embraced America also within its sweep. It will give material help in discovering the causes of the disorder which had attacked both countries. We still find America acting mischievously on England, as England did on America; they were two prov- inces of one single commercial country. Let us now return back to Europe across the ocean and visit Germany—Germany the conquer- or in a great war, and the exacter of an unheard- of indemnity. What do we find in that coun- than in any other. Nowhere are louder com- plaints uttered of the stagnation of trade. Her manufacturing industry is spoken of as paralyzed. The sharpness as well as the unexpectedness of the suffering has been humorously described in the German press under the guise of the aston- ishing discovery made of the commercial effects of the great indemnity. It is the gold which Ger- many received in such profusion which has ru- ined her trade and made her poor. France paid the millions, and moves with lighter step than any other nation in Europe. Let us have another war, cries the jealous writer; let us be beaten and be sentenced to pay an enormous indemnity ; every finger will then point to Germany as the prosperous people. France, with her store of gold, will be in commercial despair. For a long time past Germany’s impoverished traders have been raising schemes in her Parliament for the improvement of their condition. The agitation is said to have made even the imperial chancel- lor uneasy ; if this is so, it would be impossible to have a stronger sign of how violent has been and continues to be the shock to German indus- try. The commotion must indeed be great when we hear that the feeling for protection is ad- vancing with rapid strides. There are clear thinkers in Germany within. and without the Governments who know perfectly what protec- tion means; yet in spite of their intelligence and their efforts the tide of protection is on the rise in public feeling. Yet what is it that they seek to accomplish? Nothing less than to raise a charity-tax on the whole German people for the benefit of those employed in a few particular trades. Protection, under the plausible disguises of not throwing poor people out of work, and not allowing them to be trampled upon by for- eign rivals, sends round a begging-cap to all buyers of goods to make charitable contributions to particular individuals. Free-traders are called hard-hearted, but what sort of a feeling is it which inflicts impositions by force of law on every consumer for the advantage of some of his neighbors? However, even in intelligent Germany, in the presence of the sufferings under- gone by distressed manufacturers, the sense of justice and of the public good is giving way, and the movements of the iron-workers are troubling the Government and the Legislature. What can paint more forcibly the severity of the commer- cial depression ? Austria and Hungary repeat the cry, but in a somewhat lower tone; and so we come round to try? Worse commercial weather at this hour | France, the people whose well-being has been

Page 78

78 visited with the most violent assaults, and which has met them with the greatest of economical virtues. Her losses and sufferings have surpassed those endured by any other nation, yet the deep, heavy pressure of the commercial paralysis has weighed upon her the least oppressively of all. War has desolated her broad fields and over- thrown her industries over great areas of her territory. Her taxation has been suddenly raised by the gigantic sum of thirty millions of English pounds a year—a burden ever recurring, ever oppressing her resources and devouring the fruits of her painful and persevering toil. Her share of the commercial trial has been the severest and largest of all; yet at this hour she exhibits, not the melancholy languor of business-men in other countries, but the active movements of quickened recovery, heavily clogged though they be by the failure of the silkworm and the beet-root. She will point for us presently an economical moral of the very highest value. Her recent commer- cial history repels the objection that the wave of financial suffering broke with less violence on her shore: the facts of her commercial situation were only too plain and too cruel. But they will en- able her to teach to all nations the priceless les- son how to contend against and to overcome the calamities which reckless folly or moral visita- tions inflict on populations. The greatness of her disasters, and the vigor and even joyousness of her recovery, will furnish instruction incom- parably more vivid and more easily gathered than the technical phrases of economical writers. In one of its most important departments France may be justly called the heroine of Political Econ- omy. The range of the depression receives a re- markable illustration from the report of Mr. Gif- fen, the head of the Statistical Department of the Board of Trade, on emigration in the year 1876. In no preceding year have fewer emigrants from England, or so many immigrants into England, been registered. The balance of emigration from the United Kingdom was only 46,575 against | 225,000 in 1872. To the United States the sur- plus of emigrants reached only 3,473—12,060 having returned from that country back to the United Kingdom. A similar decline is shown in the emigration to Canada; while only 30,612 emigrated to Australia compared with 33,417. The significance of these figures consists in the large numbers who come back from the new lands, as affording them no better prospects than the old ones. Evidence abounds to show how little and how unremunerative employment could THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. P: be found in regions which were wont to open their arms to the dense populations of E and to reward them with prospects of comfort and prosperity. A situation radically changed had come over the Old. World. Such a depression, spread over so many coup. tries, inflicting such continuous distress, and last ing for so long a period of time, the history of trade has probably never before exhibited. Ibis not the desolation of wide regions under the ravages of savage invaders, nor the disappear ance of populations and of wealth under the long-continued and destructive violence of ¢ Thirty Years’ War. It is, with the exception of the Franco-German War, a purely economical phenomenon, the result of conduct whose nature and consequences it is the office of Political Economy to study and explain. The causes of the suffering are forces which are ever at work on the wealth of nations; the warnings and the remedy, if any, must be derived from the same source. One feature of the situation, in this very relation to economical action, comes forth with transparent prominence. Its severity, its losses, the injury it inflicts on the material welfare and happiness of mankind, are incomparably sharper and more disastrous than any ever inflicted by any so-called crisis in the money-market of any country. All the world knows what are the agonies of a Black Friday in the city. The pict ure has been often painted with its black and heart-rending colors. The terror of the banks, the sickening fear of immediate ruin convulsing . the great firms, the wild alarm of a frightened imagination converting the possibility of insolven cy into certainty, the impassioned cry for help poured out upon the deaf ears of callous bankers by companies gazing on the abyss yawning before them, the agitation of wellnigh every trader ia the nation—then the stoppages, the bankrupteies, the impoverishment of unexpecting multitudes= have indelibly impressed themselves on the mem ory of every man of business. Struck by the powers of such terrible events, the public press for years afterward refers all uncomfortable features of trade to the agency of the monetary” crisis. Its effects are traced down a long period — of subsequent time. Such agonies are actual realities, and fearful indeed are the pangs they create; nevertheless this description, so far asi seeks to set forth the true nature of what is hap pening, is substantially untrue. A crisis, how” ever intense, in the city, is the agony of a day@ settlement. Who is to lose? is the thought | fills every commercial mind with terror. Is

Page 79

Beease ase si 5¢aa5 PULLS Get te ONE PER CENT. 79 great house to be brought to suspension, which, with real but for the moment unrealizable assets, fails to receive the accommodation it always reckoned on? Or is the mighty bank, with its hosts of depositors, to break, because they are rushing in mad fright to claim the return of their balances in gold, or because it has unwarily trusted speculative companies, which cannot re- pay the advances they received ? No one knows how far he is safe, how far the foundation on which his business has all along proceeded may not now be giving way. But there are two most essential points to grasp in the understanding of these sufferings. These events are effects of causes which have preceded them, and in those causes, and not in those effects, lies their signifi- cance for the national wealth; and, secondly, they are occurrences in the region of ownership and financial machinery, and not in the region of the wealth itself. They are settlements of losses, determinations of future commercial positions, discoveries of what firms are to disappear, and what other mercantile houses are to succeed them in the future. But the real question for the country is, What has happened, or is happening, to its wealth, its industry, its power of producing ? It is easy to conceive in imagination commotions as agitating as those of a Black Friday, and yet which would have little effect on the prosperity ofthe country. A multitude of land-owners might gamble with their estates as stakes with a ma- chinery which would not disclose their position tilla deferred period. On the day of settlement the agony might be intense, the terror of many great, boundless ruin overwhelming others, and winners established in colossal fortunes; yet the national wealth would be undisturbed; owners of property would be changed, and that would be all. Quite other would be the result if the gambling had led to selling the seed-corn abroad, to buying costly wines, or to the exporting of the cart-horses for luxuries, or to the neglect to re- pair tools necessary for winning the next harvest, or to other similar acts. In such cases the wealth of the country, and the well-being of its inhabi- tants, would be attacked at the core; the public loss would be most real, and its reparation long deferred. Of the latter character is the commercial de- Pression of which we write. A so-called mone- tary crisis, of itself alone, tells us nothing as to the range of its disorders, and their action on the national prosperity. If they are the conse- quences of pure gambling, what one man or firm loses another wins. In other respects there is no change. But it is true that these crises do presuppose some destruction of wealth: and so far they are of national importance : but it is this destruction, and not the city disturbances, which is the power at work. And here it is that the present depression indicates an amount of dis- aster, paralysis, and injury to the public wealth, with which no city convulsion can compare. If three banks out of four in the city, or as many mercantile houses, were to fail, the injury would be slight by the side of the effects of these years of suffering, so far as these failures were not the direct consequences of wealth distinctly destroyed and unreproduced. The urgent need, the extreme importance, of investigating to the bottom the character and causes of the disorder from which so many nations have been now suffering for so long a period, becomes abundantly clear. We are thus brought to the root of the ques- tion. What, then, is that cause? Why is it that, for some three years or more, so many coun- tries are suffering under stagnation of trade, are complaining of reduction in business, are buying less and selling less, have only diminished profits to reckon up, are abounding with laborers out of employment, have steadily distributed ever scantier wages to their people, are reducing their comforts and enjoyments, are sending back emi- grant laborers to their old homes from lack of employment, even amid new lands and fertile, uncultivated fields? The explanation will cer- tainly not be found in gold or in its movements from one vault to another, nor in pieces of paper, by whatever name they may be called, por in any form of currency whatever. One per cent. has nothing to do with gold, nor has any one said anything so ridiculous. Nations are not made poor, nor their business stagnant, nor their mines and their factories shut up, nor their people thrown out of employment, because the tools of buying and selling are in one place rather than in another. Such bright ideas may crowd in upon the minds of a frightened city when seven per cent. threatens to become ten; but all talk about the reserve, and the circulation, and bank-notes, has sunk under one. Such a rate throws them at once upon the realities of commercial life, upon the state of industry, upon the substances to be bought and sold, not upon the machinery of exchanging. The cause lies elsewhere, it is not to be found in exceptional circumstances of an uncommon kind. No series of bad harvests has destroyed the population. No innovations in legislation, no change in our laws or in tariffs, had disturbed the habits and the confidence of

Page 80

80 traders. No Napoleon had poured forth Berlin Decrees, or pounced on the goods of a great commercial people wherever he could find them, or cut off from large populations their supplies of articles of the highest importance, or isolated mankind into untrading groups. The cause is simpler and deeper than any of these. That cause is one, and one only: over-spend- ing, over-consuming, destroying more wealth than is reproduced, and its necessary conse- quence, poverty. This is the real fons mali, the root of all the disorder and the suffering, the creator of the inevitable sequence of cause and effect. Men have acted as a man who farmed his own land, and had consumed not only the portion of the crops which were his true income, and were a surplus remaining over after he had fully provided for all the agricultural operations of the next year, but had, himself and his de- pendents, devoured a portion of the seed-corn and of the breeding-stock, had exchanged a por- tion of the produce which was required for wages in the coming year for foreign luxuries, or had consumed these necessary reserves on an excess of drainage, however valuable in itself and ultimately enriching. Every one perceives the necessary consequences of such conduct in individual life; but when the general condition of a whole people is spoken of, the complications are so many and so great, the simple, universal process is so sunk under a multitude of intrica- cies, that few retain their hold on the ultimate | elements which underlie all conduct, whether of a single individual or of a complex population. But a nation is only an aggregate of individuals. Whether cloth is made by a weaver or by the | agency of a machinery which fills large factories, and employs the most diverse and the most nu- merous agents, the methods always remain the same in principle. If we bear this governing truth in mind, that analysis will always resolve the action of the sin- gle man, and the combined codperation of a host of workmen under employers, mandgers, clerks, foremen, merchants, and others, into the same constituent parts, we shall be able to arrive ata clear understanding of one per cent. The first offender against the law that to consume more than one makes must land man or nation in diffi- culties and impoverishment, was America. She constructed an enormous length of railways, which she carried out into the wilderness. In no country, ever before or since, has such a rush into railway-making been ever witnessed. Nor did the passion fall on railways only; docks and | THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. a elevators and warehouses, wharves ang gigantic stores, were impelled forward by the same whirlwind. Under these impulses she cor. | sumed a vast quantity of food and clothing for | laborers. She destroyed coals and machinery ig making iron. She fed and rewarded with the contents of her shops and stores a large army of promoters, engineers, managers, book-keeperg brokers, bankers, and other functionaries of every kind. What had she at the end of the operation? Long lines of iron carried over 4 vast extent of country, holes made in the ground and called tunnels, embankments, and buildings, What all these laborers and functionaries had eaten, drunken, worn, or used up as materials was gone forever: the rails that replaced thig consumption could bring no means of living till after they were in operation for a long period The nation was plunged into poverty to the ex tent of what the railways had devoured in com structing. In the wilderness there was no traffic; and even if the lines had been*made in a popu lous district, many years must have elapsed be fore the shops, warehouses, and factories, could contain the same identical wealth as the rails had destroyed. But railways enrich: quite true, but so does | drainage. If a man spent all his income ii | draining, what would become of him and his | family? They must starve, unless supported by the loans or charity of others. So with the rai- ways. If what had been consumed in construct | ing them had been applied to restore the food, | clothing, and other things used up by their mak | ers, no one would have been poorer, no one would have had to betake himself to short com- America acted as the landlord who spent | mons, more than he could afford in draining; there was a far smaller quantity of other wealth in the Aerwntete to support life and to carry on business; | there were long lines of rails, and poverty. But railways are constantly made without inflicting any injury on trade cr on the public wealth : where, then, is the limit where their com struction becomes mischievous, and brings dowm suffering on a people? This is the very kerné of the question. The explanation is very simple and very obvious; but it is most difficult to be remembered as a practical truth to govern COR duct. Up to the extent of the savings of the” nation, expenditure on railways can do NO eco — nomical or financial harm ; and these invaluable developers of wealth may on such a basis be rationally acquired for the public good. ie outlay made out of savings, be it what it man

Page 81

See §ae52 Fa § co 2 SSR EERES 3° F & £& e in | his d by RES cERAGEE 2ETES SESS E gers Can eens z a Biv 5 wild > ONE PER CENT. innocent of mischief; it may do no good, but it does not impoverish. But what are savings ? The surplus of wealth made over wealth con- sumed. If it is turned into capital and applied to increased production, the nation becomes rich- er; if it is expended on any luxury or any folly, the nation is where it was. But if the outlay, however wise and ultimately profitable, once passes the limits of saving, harm instantly begins. There arises a loss of wealth which is taken from capital ; the means of producing are diminished ; fewer goods are made, There is less for mer- chants, with their ships and their railway-wagons, to exchange ; there is less to divide among the people, poverty has actually set in, and it may easily advance to stagnation and distress. A rich man with £50,000 a year may spend £10,000 on fox-hounds, or game-keepers, or race-horses, or on servants, without lessening the national wealth ; but, if he applies £100,000 to the im- provement of his estate, with the certainty of great benefit to the whole neighborhood later, if he cannot borrow, he inevitably falls into trouble and real poverty. What such a man might do, America has done. with railway-making ; and she has not recovered from the consequent prostra- tion to this hour. The departing emigrants, the depressed wages, the lowered profits, the smaller trains, all proclaim that there is less wealth in the country, less to divide among its inhabitants. That particular kind of over-consumption of wealth which consists in excessive investments in fixed capital generates effects which greatly ag- gravate the commercial disorder and the subse- quent distress. The construction of railways or docks beyond what the savings of the country can afford creates consequences of an infinitely wider range and deeper mischief than would re- sult from a loan to a foreign country of the same amount as the cost of these works. A nation living beyond its means, even when a useful end, and not mere enjoyment, is the object, exhibits many of the qualities of the spendthrift. It bub- bles up with excitement. The large number of orders given for coals and iron raises prices, sends up wages, and enlarges profits. Imagina- tive estimates are spread of the expanding pros- perity of these trades, as well as of the many others which are associated with them. Iron- mines are Opened at heavier expense than what the actual demand for coal and iron justifies, thus increasing the destruction of capital. The retail, the shipping, and other trades, feel the stimulus ; buildings are raised, steamers and shops are constructed, costly establishments are 6 81 formed, each in its turn setting other business in motion. Every one prospers, and every one makes arrangements, at further expense of cap- ital, for still greater prosperity. Thus, new rail- ways, costing ten millions, generate an excite- ment which may easily raise the outlay to twenty. So stimulating are high prices and high profits, so creative of more factories and workshops to swell them further. The collapse becomes all the severer—with the special disaster that this increase of outlay is a pure waste, a child of wild hopes. Nor does the mischief stop even here. Along with these cheery feelings and high prices, per- sonal consumption rapidly expands. Employers and workmen alike indulge in more expensive. living, and this impulse, acting on numbers, swells the waste to a still more formidable amount. ' What occurred in America occurred where. We now pass on to Germany. else- Here ‘we find the circumstances different, but the sub- stance of the facts the same. Germany became engaged in a gigantic war with France. In these modern days, the cost of armies and of their armaments is enormous, far exceeding that of preceding ages. Immense numbers of troops took the field, and their maintenance alone cre- ated a vast consumption of wealth, without any return for it in the shape of fresh wealth. Men were carried from their labor in the fields and factories in huge hosts, paralyzing domestic in- dustry, and devouring the existing stock of the national wealth. No more rapidly impoverish- ing process can be conceived than such a war. That commercial distress should follow such de- struction can create no surprise. Suffering and impoverishment are the natural offspring of war. But did not the indemnity make all right for Germany? Two hundred and twenty millions of English pounds might seem enough to lift any people to the summit of prosperity. But it is not sums of money which enrich and bestow wel- fare and happiness, but what is done with them. A large portion of this money was applied to the making of fortifications and to other military works. No improvement of their condition, no relief to their distress, was got out of that by the nation. On the contrary, such an applica- tion of the French gold made matters distinctly worse for Germany. German labor, and German food and clothing, were taken away from that production of wealth which would have brought better times, and were applied to the piling up of military stores in a very unproductive way.

Page 82

82 But gold is riches, and riches supply every kind of necessaries and of comforts. Gold, we an- swer, is not riches till it is made use of by being parted with ; that is all the good which can be obtained from it, unless it is applied in the arts to gold ornaments. Gold exchanges commodities —enables a manufacturer to procure coals in re- turn for his cloth. But the gold itself, and by itself, confers no other benefit whatever than its services as a tool. Germany would have been most truly and permanently the richer for the French gold had she given it away to foreign countries in the purchase of their wealth; it would have brought what her people wanted into the country. But Germany could get no gain by obtaining gold solely to move German things about. Then it is believed that a considerable por- tion of this French gold has been hoarded as a reserve against future war. That gold does noth- ing to clear away the commercial depression; it sets no mills to work, gives employment to no laborers, imports no supplies of corn, meat, cof- fee, and clothing for the people, or raw materials for their industry; it is idle, and absolutely no better than if it were non-existent. But there is another portion of this French gold, of which there is yet worse to tell. Its ac- tion is full of instruction, especially for the city, if the city were only willing to gather it up. The German Governments were embarrassed with the excess of this metallic stock, and lent much of it to traders and speculators. To what better pur- pose could they have applied it ? it will be asked. To none, but upon one condition—that it should be sent ont of Germany. Its export would have placed in Germany useful things, in the plave of useless tools for exchanging, of which there were already enough. But, by being retained in Ger- many, and lent to borrowers, it not only was un- productive of all good, but was really engender- ing mischief peculiarly its own. The borrowers took to buying German goods ; prices rose in the shops and warehouses all over the country ; prof- its were realized, and wages gained advances; and then the evil consequences soon appeared upon the Scene. An increase of spending broke out all round; there was money in hand ; it was applied to buying things pleasant and enjoyable. A higher style of living was adopted ; in other ~words, a larger and more rapid consumption of ~wealth prevailed. And what was obtained in ex- ‘change? The gold, which did not restore the wealth consumed, but only transferred existing things from one set of hands to another. Did

THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. not the humorist stand on the ground of solid sense when he exclaimed, “ Let*us have anothep war, and let the Germans have to pay the ig demnity?” Had he not the acuteness to pep ceive that, if much harm is to be averted, thg sooner an excess of gold is sent out of the coum try the better? Let those who bewail export of gold, and record its imports with delight, pom der over his words and the facts that —<— them. If, now, we turn our eyes to France, how dif ferent and how startling is the picture which pre sents itself to our gaze! Here we were bound to expect the sight of acute suffering, financial de pression, stagnation of trade, poverty, and mig ery. The war had been infinitely more oppres sive to France than to Germany, for it had bee waged within her territory. She had lost two valu able provinces and their resources at its terming tion. A fine of unheard-of magnitude had been imposed and paid. Thirty additional millions of taxation had been added to a budget already se vere. Much of the fixed capital of the nation, of its factories and machinery, had been destroyed or injured by the war. Where could ruin and depression be more naturally looked for? Yet what a spectacle does France offer to the ob server! The piled-up load of taxation is borm with ease. Her industry is in full play. No sense of poverty weighs down the people. Het army is undergoing a thorough and successfil transformation ; guns and military stores—what they cost in these days is known to all—an swiftly being accumulated. Great has been the astonishment at Berlin. Eighteen months agos violent scare sprang up in that town; the com queror fell into vehement fear of the conquered Germany awoke from her dream of security. The great military chiefs loudly called for a second war to break up an énemy whom neither defeat nor chastisement could crush. To what was thié most unlooked-for and most astounding sight due? To the practice of one of the very great est of economical virtues. She had saved. Het eight millions of peasant-proprietors had lifted their country out of the depths of adversity by invigorated energy and reduced consumption. te more had to be paid to the tax-gatherer, the pea ant gave up meat or other indulgences rathet than diminish his means of maintaining his are or his vineyard at its former level of efficie No doubt France obtained very valuable aid from the inveterate hoarding of her people. Then ® was that stores of gold could do vital 7 They had lain buried in hidden stockings, 1

Page 83

ONE PER CENT. and unproductive; but the German asked for gold, and here was gold ready to be given to him without any injury to the paying nation. The peasant lent his gold to his government, who passed it on to Germany ; he was compensated with an annuity derived from an augmented na- tional debt; and that interest, that annuity, he helped his country to pay by the sacrifice of more time and labor on his work, and the giving up of many of his small comforts. These are the reali- ties of political economy—and what fruit do they not bear ? If, now, we cross over to England, we still find that the same general causes have been at work, producing similar results, but their mode of ac- tion has been somewhat different. Englanc has not, in the period we speak of, broken out into an excessive construction of railways, nor has she experienced a war, much less had to pay a great indemnity. The depression she now suffers succeeded a period of exceptional and excited prosperity. The Americans had bought largely her iron for their railways; the Franco-German War stopped much of the manufacturing trade of both countries ; England filled up the gap, and supplied materials which previously had drawn many of their resources from the now warring states. Business flourished with unpre- cedented success, prices rose to a great height, large profits were earned, and then the time for mischief set in. New works were constructed, new coal-mines opened, factories reared their heads on every side ; Cleveland was busy in sink- ing shafts—in other words, an undue quantity of wealth was consumed in carrying on works which were to repay their cost in a distant future. Sav-, ings were exceeded ; impoverishment was the in- evitable result. The high profits and the raised wages led to more expensive living ; unproductive competition was enlarged; men thought that a new era had dawned for a vast increase of the coal and iron industries of the nation, and all rejoiced together in augmented consumption of the stock of wealth. Presently, the exceptional causes of the excitement ceased; the action of peace drew back the unusual orders for English goods; prices fell, and the half-finished works only attested the waste they had created. The point to grasp is not that England had had a good ume of selling, while competitors were idle, and other nations were spending, not their income or savings, but their capital, in the purchase of her gods; and then the irregular prosperity had ceased. The commercial depression, so long, so Monotonous, so heavy, and so dull, came from 83 the excessive consumption cf English capital in unwarranted constructions beyond savings, and unwarranted expenditure in liying by all classes, which destroyed wealth without repairing it with new productions. English saving, unlike the French, has not yet replaced the loss. The whole of the capital of a nation might easily be eaten up and consumed in pleasant things even in three years ; how long would be the depression that would follow? If a tarmer spent the whole of his crops in buying fresh horses and agricultural machines, in raising new barns and putting in fresh drains, where would he and his people be in the succeeding year? A mere return to ordi- nary prices and profits from the cessation of ex- ceptional activity would not generate a depression of any importance ; it is what is done during the prosperity that breeds the evil to come and to last. The influx of unusual orders for the products of English industry developed a cause of impover- ishment which grew to formidable proportions. Ideas founded on a profound ignorance of the nature of all trade and industry had long fer- mented in the minds of large numbers of the working-classes, and they took advantage of the unwonted and urgent demand for labor to enforce demands which have ultimately led to very heavy disaster. That when trade is abnormally brisk, and much work is going on at high!y-remunera- tive prices, the laborers should ask for and obtain an important increase of wages, is not only rea- sonable and fitting, but, by raising their condi- tion, is a real gain for the whole community ; and if even they stand out for and secure more than their fair share of the products of labor, the harm is of small moment ; they are sellers in an open market, and the turn went in their favor. But the situation becomes radically changed when, on the return to ordinary sales and prices, the labor- ers refuse to adapt themselves to altered circum- stances, and insist, bymost mischievous methods, that the exceptional wages shall be permanent. Tkey then shut their eyes to the fact that their real position is that of sellers of a commodity in a market, and that, if its value is substantially and permanently altered, the law of supply and demand will assert its supremacy ultimately, whatever be their efforts to repel its rule. If they persevere to the bitter end, production must cease, and their labor with its reward must dis- appear. Meanwhile the process of resistance en- tails sufferings on the whole people which may be incalculable. Our point here is, not the harm which perverse and ignorant action may bring on the laborers themselves—we speak from the point

Page 84

84 THE POPULAR SCIENCE of view of the wealth and the welfare of the whole nation. Strikes convert the workmen into wasteful consumers of wealth : the food and cloth- ing they destroy becomes a dead loss, without compensation ; the closed works deteriorate in condition; it may take months and an immense outlay to restore them to an efficient state—again an unmitigated destruction of wealth. The calam- ity spreads on to auxiliary trades, to the makers of machinery and materials—again consumption without production, a clear diminution of the public wealth. Thus the impoverishing process does its fatal work: it eats up capital, it lessens the power of making and of employing makers ; the means of buying dwindle down, for to buy is only to exchange wealth for wealth, and with less wealth there must be less buying, less business, stagnation and depression in every direction; and if the strikes are wanton, against permanently lower prices, as experience has amply demon- strated for many months past, are we not in pres- ence of one cause of the commercial depression ? But there is worse yet to tell. Strikes are instruments of war: and, the battle over, the loss may be soon effaced by the energies of peace. But the novel principles on which trades-unions construct the regulation of labor are a very dif- ferent matter indeed. They generate conduct which inflicts injury of the widest range, and, still more, creates influences whose misleading power is very enduring. The unions lay down rules which attack the quantity and the quality of the article they have to sell. They thus attack the efficiency of labor, the worth of wages, to the injury of every man in the country. To limit, by arbitrary regulations which take no heed of the position of trade and industry, the quantity of labor sold for a given wage, to undermine its quality by demanding the same reward for the man who works badly as for the man who works well, to give no play to the differences of physi- cal and mental ability with which Nature has en- dowed human beings, to suppress the energy of character and of hope by the abolition of piece- work and of the strongest motives for exertion, to demand of a purchaser a fixed and elevated price without the slightest regard for the quality of the article sold, to encourage laziness, unman- liness, the absence of the respect for the man’s self as well as for his employer, and to place the relation of seller and purchaser on the basis cf inherent and abiding hostility, 1s to violate the laws of human nature, as it finds itself in this world, and to trample under foot the fundament- al principle of every form of industry, that work MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. should be as productive as possible, and the wealth thereby produced should reach the highest range of abundance and cheapness. It is not to know the vital truth that the laborers and the capita} ists receive their satisfactions out of one commog fund, the wealth created, and that what render it needlessly and artificially smaller is to injur both the parties who contribute to its creation, and along with them the whole people. : The unions have failed in their vehement re. sistance against the law of supply and demand which governs every market, that of labor as well as any other They had to choose between re fusing to give the article; that is, between no wages or a lower price for labor; but great wag the harm they did to the public wealth during the struggle. Prices were kept up for a long time above their true level, fewer goods were pro duced and fewer sold. Foreign countries, espe. cially after their excessive creation of machinery for producing had ceased, had become extremely bad customers of England. Still worse—they um dersold the dear goods of England in distant markets. In many instances they actually im vaded England herself: Belgian and American goods were freely sold in the heart of the very workshop of the whole world. England was do ing less business and becoming poorer. , There is one fact more of great significance, which must not be omitted in this review of ou late commercial history. Men of the mood of” mind of the unionist workmen are emphatically not savers. When wages are large, they do not, like the French peasant, turn a portion of them into saving, and thereby increase capital, and the production of wealth in the country. What they extort from employers they consume unprodue tively ; they destroy it in indulgences, and only too often in drink. This engenders a very marked distinction between éxceptional wages and eX ceptional profits The marked tendency of em ployers is to make themselves rich, to build wp fortunes ; but, really, fortune means a machine for the constant production of wealth. That i@ its very essence. To buy an estate—the comme ambition of the prosperous English trader—4s ® acquire a rent-yielding instrument: and rent if the result of the cultivation of the land. A heavy holding in railway-stocks is the ownership of Leal instrument which enriches not the shareholdet only but the whole country, which calls into D& bor. The mighty towns of England, the ¢¢ less factories of her manufacturing regions, 4 all savings out of profits: how feeble are the pry B y ing a vast power of employing and rewarding 4 sh cole this self pro Onis of Is nec the lost, addi enla her, Eng inter mitt quir gene exch nills hous capit The and | N

Page 85

Zeziis SE58ESGE 322 rEssas 48 we -anCe, f our od of © ically 0 not, them id the t they rodue- ] ONE PER CENT. 85 ductive instruments to which wages can point as , time, if the loans have ranged beyond the amount the fruit of the laborers’ thrift! It cannot be doubted that an enormous amount of waste of wealth, of unproductive consumption, often of the worst kind, has been the result of the aug- mented wages of the working-classes. High wages, if justified by the value of the work given for them, are what every man in the country should rejoice over, and wages so earned are an excellent basis to establish a tendency to apply a portion of them to capital and saving. But high wages, exacted by strife, and accompanied by little and inferior work, evoke a spirit most hos- tile not only to saving, but also to a rise of the laborers in civilization, in an improved moral anf social condition. They gravitate to gross, wasteful, impoverishing consumption. There remains, lastly, to notice one more pow- erful begetter of impoverishment—loans granted to foreign countries. For a period now extend- ing beyond ten years they have been given away with a profusion truly astonishing. The terrible disasters of the crisis of 1825, and the lessons which it taught, had been forgotten. The desire to lend to the multitudinous states of South America had revived, and had swollen almost into a passion. Peru and Venezuela, Honduras and Guatemala, Turkey and Egypt, had swallowed up many millions’ worth of English wealth; and what has been the return? The generous opera- tion has been constantly repeated to the British colonies, to Australia and New Zealand ; but with this difference, however, in comparison with the self-civilized countries just enumerated. The proceeds of these loans were invested by the col- onists in railways, in developing the emigration of laborers, in the providing of clothing and other necessaries for their maintenance—in a word, in the production of wealth or capital. England lost, for the time, what she lent ; but she gained additional fields, more numerous flocks, greatly- enlarged supplies of wool, all as directly enriching her as if the colonies had been so many additional English counties. Thus she obtains not only the interest on these loans, which is always duly re- mitted, but also a mass of goods which she re- quires for her factories, or her food. Trade is generated as if between two English provinces ; exchanges of wealth proceed expansively. The mills of England are more active, and her ware- houses more full, precisely because her loans are capital at work to produce wealth for her service. The difference between such loans, and iron-clads and palace-money lent to Turkey, is vast indeed. Nevertheless, the depressing force for the of England’s saving, produces its inevitable ef- fects. The same tale has ever to be repeated: it is the squire of £50,000 a year spending £100,000 in draining. The creation of fixed capital, the construction of machinery for producing wealth, which repay their cost only after Jong years, is as sure a creator of poverty for the time, if not made out of savings, as if they had been raised up for amusement and then thrown into the sea, And it is very desirable, in this connection, to understand the process of granting loans. They are levied in the city apparently in money ; they are described in pounds; they are never spoken - of but as money; yet money is wholly absent from them. Loans are not, and cannot be, lent in money by England—for the very simple but very decisive reason that she does not grow gold and silver in her fields or factories. If some trifling portion of such grants crosses the water in coin or ingots, those ingots have been pur- chased with English goods. And it is those goods which eventually are the only things which England can send away. And, in actual fact, most loans are directly and at once remitted in goods. The Australian colonist who commands the credit granted in London by the loan he has obtained, at once purchases supplies of clothing, machinery, iron, and other products of an old country, and transports them dcross the ocean. It is absolutely certain, in ultimate analysis, that no country can lend anything else but what she has. Australia and California can lend gold; it is the natural produce of their lands, as iron- ore is of England’s; but the city would be under an entire delusion if it imagined that the gigantic receipts which swell the account at the bank of the lucky borrowers were money about to cross the water in ingots. The city possesses ma- chinery of exchange — notes, checks, clearing- houses, bills, paper of all kinds; but the realities are not in them, they are to be found only in the goods which the machinery moves. A full understanding of this fact will enable us to perceive clearly how loans directly attack English wealth, English goods, and diminish them. When they take their departure there is less left at home to use and enjoy, less merchan- dise to do business in, lighter weights for rail- ways to carry, and—which is the important matter—less wealth to buy with, less to give to the shops and warehouses to procure the articles which they contain. We now reach the question, What has the rate of discount in the city to do with this state

Page 86

’ 86 THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. of affairs in the nation? what is the connection between one per cerit. and the commercial de- pression ? The impoverishment we have described would seem at the first blush to lead us to expect a high and not a low rate of interest on loans. A diminution of the capital of a country, by con- sumption carried out beyond income and savings, would naturally, one would think, create a loud demand for capital. Capital has been destroyed, and capital is the one vital instrument for the production, in this case for the recovery, of wealth. A rush for the loan of capital might have been looked for. The bankers and mer- chants of the city are fond of speaking of loan- able capital, as being actually in their hands: how comes it to pass that their doors are not thronged with applicants for advances? Why do they find it so difficult to employ the means at their disposal with a profit to themselves? In the colonies and other new countries, the very opposite phenomenon presents itself to the eye. There capital is scarce, and so are laborers ; and there is pressing demand for them: and the rate of interest is very high, and workmen earn im- mense wages; and the cry is ever for the loan of more capital, to be paid for handsomely, and with perfect ease to the borrowers. Why is it not so in England at this hour, when so many of the circumstances seem to be the same? Be- cause, in a colony, the capital and the laborers are applied to the uncultivated fields, and raise new crops of corn and multiplied fleeces of wool, which yield brilliant profits and wages, from the largeness of the return compared with the ex- penses of the tillage. The machinery for pro- ducing is deficient: if it is supplied, the land forthwith raises up wealth, which enriches all. The depression of trade, on the contrary, in England, means not a deficiency but an excess of the machinery of production: and that con- stitutes the essential difference between the two states. The vocation of English industry is to produce articles needed over the whole globe: she manufactures them in order to be exchanged for the products of other countries; she makes them in order to be sold. But buyers have fallen off in number and ability to purchase. Her goods are in fecbler demand, but her pro- ducing power, her fixed capital, her machinery, remain unchanged. Here is the very pinch of the matter. She is compelled to shut up many of her factories, to dismiss or put on half-time immense numbers of her working-pcople, because there are fewer buyers of the articles they manu- | facture. Americans, Germans, the colonies, Tw. key, Egypt, South Americans, have reduced means for buying: their orders are scarcer jp the English markets: stocks of iron and othe goods accumulate: but there are no buyers “There is, therefore, nothing for it,” we reag from Middlesborough as we write, “ but to redugg the make of iron.” In a colony the desire ist make more corn and more wool—hence capital is in demand, additional capital to be imported from another country. Applied to the fields, produces wealth which is needed, and the rate of interest accordingly is seven per cent. or mor, In Cleveland less iron is demanded, and the fap naces are in excess: some must go out of blast Thus there is seven per cent. in New Zealand, and one per cent. in London. Ne bills upon ito sold are crowding up for discount to the city; m merchants are seeking advances upon steamets laden with rails for America, Russia, and Au tralia, A second important distinction must be drawn between the borrowing of capital bys colony and by application for discount to the banking community of England. It merits ab tention, as revealing the nature of banking de posits. What a colony seeks and cbtains isa actual importation of positive wealth and sub stances into its territory. Its loans, as has bee already explained, are taken out in goods. There is a clear accession of additional wealth to the colony. Not so in the money-market of Eng land. No new capital is obtained for the nation by discounting at a bank. Loanable capital does not exist in any bank, or in any monep market: it is not to be found there. It maybe reached through the agency of a bank ; but the bank has not got it in its own possession. Th resources of banks .are debts due to them holders of property: nothing else. To discout a bill is virtually to order a debt to be paid? and the effect of that order is to transfer prop erty—capital—from the hands of the preview debtor to the hands of a new one. That is real nature, the true fact, of discount. No ditional help of capital is given to England Oy banks: it is only placed in different hands. The question, then, under the present commer cial distress, becomes, Are there traders desire to tempt a banker, by the offer higher rate of interest, to withdraw capital f his debtors and to transfer it over to & The answer now is, that there are few or D0 68, traders. Businesses are not competing for ad capital possessed by banking debtors: and Om eae seFrPrea en eanh@ @& -_e @& #2 as

Page 87

GIOTTOS GOSPEL OF LABOR: per cent. is all that the poor banker can ob- tain. : And now the question will assuredly be asked, How much longer is one per cent. to last ? Probably for some time longer. At this present moment there is a flutter upward, but it seems to arise from an accidental and temporary cause. The Government is a borrower, and so large a customer has a certain effect fora time. But this is not a permanent force: as the revenue flows in, the borrowing will cease, and the sub- stantial rate of the nation will assert its suprem- acy. Poverty is mended only by saving; and saving, except under very exceptional circum- stances, is a slow process. A nation like Eng- land, whose customers cover the whole world, is bound up with the fortunes of countries of the most diverse commercial conditions. That the construction of railways will be revived, and 87 will be pushed on with the wonted vigor, is in- dubitable; it is a necessity of civilization; but when will the work recommence? That no one is scarcely able to predict. And if the United States renews her railway-labors, will she buy her iron of herself or of England? That is a question which experience alone will be able to answer. So also of other commodities, and of other countries. Will they draw their supplies from England or from elsewhere? For our part, we believe in England, in her manly intel- ligence, her indomitable industry, ber resolution and courage under difficulties, her long experi- ence, her vast resources of capital, and, not least, in her perfect faith in free-trade. But she and her customers have lived beyond their means: and they must submit to the discomforts of convalescence. —The Contemporary Review. GIOTTO’S GOSPEL OF LABOR.’ By SIDNEY COLVIN. AM going to ask you to study with me a series of old sculptures in Florence.’ The I series consists of twenty-six subjects carved in relief round the base of the great bell-tower of the city. They were begun almost four hundred and fifty years ago, and their workmanship is very simple ; at first sight, perhaps, you will think it very rough. But I hope to show you what power and purpose there is in that simplicity, and how completely, in these few manful strokes of the old Tuscan chisel, the genius of a great people is expressed. When I say that these sculptures express the whole genius of a people, I only say what is true, in a greater or less degree, of every work of art. Every work of art contains the record, if we know how to read it, not only of the skil! and fancy of the workman who produced it, but of * The two lectures of which the substance is here abridged were illustrated for a popular audience, by help of the oxy-hydrogen light, with slides reduced from & set of photographs taken at the instance of Mr. Ruskin in 1874, and published by Mr. Goodban. of Florence. To Mr. Ruskin I feel that I owe not only thanks for the materials I have thus been enabled to Use, but also apologies for attempting to work out a subject upon portions of which his genius has already set its mark.—s, C, the thoughts and the civilization of those among whom he lived. It is because of this concen- trated human and historical significance which belongs to them that the study of the works of art is so especially fruitful. You are all familiar with the division of educational studies into two great classes, the class of real or Nature studies, which make up what is called a scientific educa- tion, and the class of literary or humane studies, which make up what is called a classical educa- tion. Between the partisans of science and the partisans of literature there has at times been hot debate, each claiming preéminent if not ex- clusive excellence for their own range of studies. The study of the works of fine art has found, by comparison, little place in our discussion of edu- cational systems. Nevertheless, it constitutes, in a manner, a third order of studies lying half-way between the other two and combining some of the characteristic excellences of both. For the study of the works of fine art is akin to the physical sciences on the one hand, in that it is a study not of words but of objects, and investi- gates the properties of things that can be seen and handled; and it is akin to literature and the classics on the other hand, in that, in objects, the properties it discriminates are properties

Page 88

88 which have been impressed by the agency not of Nature but of man. It is a study of the utter- ance, in things which can be seen and handled, of the thoughts, the imagination, and the senti- ments of our fellow-creatures. Just as a geolo- gist will take up a mineral, and read in its sub- stance and structure the history of a thousand cosmic forces—histories of frost, of fire, of drifting down the channel of some vanished glacier, or rolling.in the waves of some ocean that has ceased to flow—so we may take up the first fragment of carving or painting, and read in its lineaments a record more moving yet, for the forces that have moulded or tinted it are the forces of the unsearchable spirit—the furnace at which it has been forged is the furnace of the heart of man. And as I suppose the fairest agate is not always that about which geology finds most to tell, so it is not always the most finished work of the mature periods of art that | THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. fervent and renovated Christian devotion, This Catholic revival, this religious revolution, wag completed befcre the middle of the century, The political and social revolution in Italy ef fected itself afterward, between 1250 and 1809, It consisted in the emancipation of the cities from feudal government, the assertion of their republican independence, and the organization of their civic authority in the hands of the trad. ing and industrial classes. In both these great movements Florence was foremost. Florence was the most pious of Italian cities ; Florence was the most free and democratic. She won her liberties, and settled—so far as she ever really settled—her government after many struggles, ” and at the cost of much bloodshed and much anarchy. But no bloodshed and no anarchy availed to abate the love of every Florentine for Florence, the pride of every citizen in his city. The sense of great destinies was upon the peo contains the most of imaginative, of human, of | ple; there was a greatness—so, with a grave con- civic interest. Among the beautiful and accom- sciousness, says a chronicler of the time—in plished products of mature Italian art in the: their thoughts, their enterprises, their words, sixteenth century, I know of none which ex- | their bearing. presses the collective mind and history of a com- munity as pregnantly as these simple carvings, | at the beginning of the fourteenth, expressed the | mind and history of Florence. I. Tue previous century, the thirteenth, had witnessed two great revolutions in Italy. The first of these was a spiritual and religious revo- lution, the second a social and political revolu- tion. By the spiritual revolution, all the labor- ing and suffering populations in Europe, and most of all in Italy, had been brought into hearty and Joyal allegiance to the Church at a moment when they had seemed most to threaten disaffection. Schism and heresy had been rife in every town and in many remote districts of the country, when the influence of two men went suddenly abroad, and recalled to the fold the flocks that were about to wander. These two great and efficacious missionaries were St. Dominic and St. Francis of Assisi. In Italy it was above all the passionate, practical humanity of St. Francis that won the hearts of the people, and filled all men with a new enthusiasm for the faith of which he was the inspired preacher. Hence it came about that the life of the Italian people, in the age fol- lowing the ministrations of St. Francis, was a life of convinced and solemn piety in all private thoughts and public acts—that it was an age of Of all enterprises into which an Italian peo- ple could throw its heart, the raising of great public monuments to the honor at once of their city and their God was the enterprise into which they threw it with most unanimity. It was at the close of the thirteenth century that the peo ple of Florence determined to make the church of Sta. Reparata, the mother-church of their city, worthy of their new greatness. The work | was begun by Arnolfo, in the style of building which is peculiar to Tuscany in this age. Two centuries before there had been a great outbreak of building activity in Tuscany. The builders worked in that style which is called Romanesque, having been developed, in the early middle age from the Roman style proper. acteristics are a love of clear, well-lighted inter nal spaces without complication or mystery, the use of the round of arch, of roofs nearly flat, and the horizontal division of height by strong bands and cornices. For external enrichment, this style employed one of two different systems, OF sometimes a mixture of the two, viz., the sy® tem of inlay or incrustation, with white, black, and colored marbles, and the system of arcading with horizontal tiers, one above another, of lite tle columns and arches in projection. This mode of building prevailed in Italy for a long while ; after the Gothic, the pointed style, had spread ‘ from France to all the countries north of the” Alps. Presently, the taste for the pointed style Its main char — of | like of ¢

Page 89

ig SEREGRERG a EEE ee . his work. GIOTTOS GOSPEL OF LABOR. was brought across the Alps to Italy, chiefly, it seems, by the influence of the Dominican and Franciscan brothers. But the Italians never real- ly adopted the principles of the Northern archi- tecture. They did but adapt the Gothic patterns and Gothic piercings to the decoration of build- ings raised according to their traditional princi- ples. In this mixed manner they produced, for a period of about a hundred and fifty years, mon- uments of surpassing beauty, richness, and deli- eacy. In this manner Arnolfo designed the great church of Florence, called no longer in popular speech the church of Sta. Reparata, but the church of the Virgin of Florence, our Lady of the Flower, or of the Lily. Some time after the death of Arnolfo, in 1334, the famous painter Giotto was summoned to continue and complete At this time Giotto was nearly sixty years old. He had spent his life traveling from one city of Italy to another, and wherever he went had won fame and friendship. He was a painter far greater than any that had gone be- fore, and greater than any who came after him for many years. But we do not hear of his hav- ing been employed, till now, on sculpture or archi- tecture. However, he must have thrown all his energy and all his genius into the work. He died within two years of his appointment; but in the mean time he had designed not only a rich, new front for the cathedral, but a new bell-tower, down, as we are told, to the last detail of its dee- orations, which was to stand at the southwest angle of the church. This bell-tower is the fa- mous Campanile, the most beautiful of all build- ings in the inlaid and incrusted Tuscan-Gothic, and one of the most beautiful, certainly, in the world. It is interesting to notice, in some of Giotto’s | early paintings, the designs of architecture which | he puts into his backgrounds. He was engaged, almost as a boy, in helping to paint a great se- ties of frescoes, in which the miracles of St. Francis are commemorated in his native town of Assisi. In these he had occasion to paint plenty of tabernacles and pavilions designed in the new Tuscan-Gothic manner, And now in his old age the occasion comes for him to raise in actual mar- ble a building fairer than any of those dreams of his boyhood. We all dream dreams, I suppose, and make up in our imaginations things we should like to do in reality. But it is only the very lucky who ever live to see their dreams come true. Generally our imagination is but the safety-valve of our discontent, the means by which we make "wp to ourselves for the disappointments of fact. 89 The weakness of our powers, or the constraint of our life, or the spirit of the age, one thing or another, shuts out our energies from their de- sired scope ; every one seems to be tending dif- ferent ways and following different aims ; our ex- perience is all failure and distraction, and we try to console ourselves by fancying the sympathy and the achievement which we know in our hearts will never be ours. But there are ages of the world, ages when the efforts of many tend in one direction, and when a man may dream never such great things, and his dreams, or something better than his dreams, shall come true; for his imagination, at its wildest, only bodies forth something which a thousand willing hands are ready to make real, and at its hottest is only on fire with the unuttered needs of a myriad kindred hearts. The thirteenth century was such an age in Italy, for some at least of her children. With all its dissensions, with all its banishments, with all its spite of bitterness, it was an age not of prose but of poetry, not of failure but of achieve- ment. At the dawn of the age St. Francis lay and dreamed his dream of nameless enterprise, high and holy, and knew not yet what call was upon him. But within a score of years he had | found out his quest, and dared it, and won; through him the poor and needy had learned the meaning of the words of Christ; through him, for good or ill, the hearts of men were attuned, for three hundred fruitful years, to the authority of the heirs of Peter. He had gone forth in re- proach and nakedness, and had chanted alone, in his mother-tongue, upon his mother- hills, his hymn in praise of the Lord his God for his brother the sun and his sister the moon, and for the wind, and for fair weather, and all weathers; a few years more, and a thousand passionate tongues had caught up his accents, and all Italy pealed with canticles that taught the people to see in their God the most gracious of cottage children, and in his mother, blessed among women, the sweetest and most patient of peasant mothers, And at the close of this age, Giotto, helping as a boy among older hands to set forth the miracles of St. Francis in that “ visible speaking,” as Dante calls it, which was a new thing among the people —Giotto, too, as a boy, had dreams beyond his present performance. Arnolfo and other famous architects were building churches and cemeteries and ecouncil-halls in the new manner which had come in with the congregations of the preaching and begging friars. And the young Giotto, inthe | backgrounds of his paintings, had to invent the stateliest pavilions and canopies and churches in

Page 90

90 that manner that he could, before ever he had had the chance of building one in real marble. Then at last, after those busy years in which, with color spread over many a chapel and chamber wall, he had given an expression the most just, grave, and simple to the great thoughts of which the time was full, he was called back with honor to his na- tive city, and appointed over a work in which he could realize, and more than realize, all those building-dreams of his youth. He enters upon the inheritance of Arnolfo; he takes up Arnolfo’s art of rich surface incrustation or inlay, and per- fects it with a hundred new and lovelier delicacies of design ; he builds this mighty tower at whose summoning clang the people shall flock for ever- more to worship and to festival ; he builds it four- square, plumb from plinth to cornice, and flanked at the four angles with four aery piers ; he divides it into bands of subtilest proportion; he pierces each division with exquisite variety of tracery ; he panels the snow-white marble with fair geometries of color and dark; he incrusts this tower of his building with living stars and flowers and diamonds of stone ; he outdoes all dreaming, for the hearts of a mighty people are in his heart, and in his hands are the strength and cunning of all theirs together. Of this tower, it is a particular part of: the sculptured decorations which we are now to ex- amine in detail. That the stamp of Giotto’s in- vention is upon the scheme there is no doubt, but whether he himself turned sculptor in his old age, and actually wrought upon the marble, we cannot tell. The time between his appointment to the cathedral works and his death was only two years, and must have been too multifariously filled, one would say, to leave him time for such exertion. Tradition is uncertain on the point. Vasari says, in one place: “If that is true which Lorenzo Ghiberti left written—and I for one hold it to be most true—Giotto not only made the design for this bell-tower, but also sculptured part of those stories in marble in which are represented the be- ginnings of all the arts.” In another place, the same Vasari says of Andrea Pisano: “ What is more, he made, after the design of Giotto, those little figures of marble which stand for a finish to the doorway of the campanile of Santa Maria del Fiore; and round about the said campanile, in certain lozenges, the seven planets, the seven vir- tues, the seven works of mercy” (and six, Vasari should have added, out of the seven sacraments) —“ small figures in half-relief, which were great- ly praised in their day.” The probability is that Giotto before his death gave the general plan of THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. these decorations, and that Andrea Pisano wag” the sculptor charged to superintend their execu. tion. Andrea da Pontedera, called Andrea Pi was the greatest and most complete master of the earlier school of Tuscan sculpture. That schoo) has its rise in the middle of the thirteenth cen. tury with Nicholas of Pisa, who, from a study of the sculptures on ancient sarcophagi, and perhaps from other sources of discipline of which we can not recover the history, revived much of the teeh. nical excellence of the old Roman school. Only he did not revive the old classic gift of grouping the figures of a composition so that they should fill the given space agreeably, and stand in clear, distinct, natural: relations with one another. The figures in his reliefs, taken singly, are often well proportioned and skillfully wrought, but crowded and jumbled together with rude awkwardness and confusion. John of Pisa, the son of Nicholag, was a still greater sculptor than his father, and great especially in his power of dramatic expres sion, and in the thoughtful invention of allegori- cal symbols and personifications. The same ex pressive power and hold upon the facts of life, the same justness and force of imagination, also formed part of the greatness of the painter Giotto, who was younger than John of Pisa by some thirty years. But Giotto had another greatness of hig own; in his paintings he revived perfectly that ancient art of clear and noble distribution, of placing his figures at right intervals and in right and expressive relations with one another. And this art he seems to have imparted to his com temporary Andrea, called Andrea the Pisan be cause he was at first the pupil of John of Pisa, Andrea the Pisan is the first Tuscan sculptor who reaches central excellence in his art. To more than the technical skill of Nicholas he unites all . the dramatic and all the imaginative power of John, and all Giotto’s noble arrangement and simple directness in telling a story. The most famous work of Andrea, and that which cost him most labor, was the bronze gate which he wrought for the Baptistery of Florence; on it were repre sented allegorical figures, and scenes from the life of St. John the Baptist. This is the earliest” of the three celebrated bronze gates of the Bape tistery. The other two, done by Ghiberti a hun- dred years later, have been far more praised, but — the truth is that Ghiberti tried to go beyond the — necessary limitations of sculpture, and that, i@ — spite of the extreme grace and scoomplshmentl his work, that of Andrea is the better conceived, — the purer and more really classical, of the tw When people talk of classical art, they are 0?

Page 91

FEgsbFecse¢eFesa ys ® Ras = GIOTTOS GOSPEL OF LABOR. 91 apt to think only of the consummate accomplish- ment of the Greek artists, of their profound sense of the beauty of the human body, and their unex- ampled power of representing all the aspects of that beauty in bronze or marble. That, indeed, | is one of the great distinctions of Greek art; but ' an equally essential distinction of the Greek art- ist lies in simplicity, in manly justness and direct- | ness. of imagination, in his habit of expressing, without a shadow either of affectation or super- fluity, exactly that which he desires to express And in all these qualities the early | and no more. | school of Tuscan sculpture in the fourteenth cen- tury is much nearer the Greek than the more ac- | complished school of a century later. Andrea | Pisano had as stanch a sense of fact and as high a sense of dignity as any artist in the whole his- tory of: art. Andrea Pisano knew a great deal, too, about limbs and draperies. He could design and place them, we shall see, as well as any one, though he certainly could not render the subtilty and richness of their living surfaces as well as either the Greeks before or the Renaissance sculp- tors after him. And what accomplishment he ! has, in this or any other part of his craft, he does | not force upon our notice. He leaves his back- | grounds coarsely roughened with the chisel, his | accessories sometimes blocked out barely enough | which especially concern us. “Those stories in marble in which are represented the beginnings of all the arts”—here we must remember that it was a new thing in those days for an artist to | range at large among subjects of his own choice. It is hard for us to realize how firmly, in the | middle age, art was bound to the service of the Church alone, and to a fixed range of stock repre- sentations. John of Pisa was the first sculptor of the revival who invented free symbols and allegories of his own, or who, in works like the public fountain of Perugia, associated with figures of saints and apostles subjects of secular and practical life. In the decorations of the Floren- tine bell-tower this spirit of freedom has advanced a great stride farther. Florence was an industrial, a commercial, a manufacturing community, and the Florentine sculptor will adorn the lowest course of the great tower, the symbol of Floren- tine pride and unity, with a plain and practical history of the sources of his city’s prosperity. IL. Tue chronicle begins, like all medieval chron- icles, with the beginning of the world. Through- out the middle age, the creation and the fall of man formed the indispensable first scenes in ev- for recognition; and even in the main subject he | | ery record of general or of local history, whether does not push his work very far, but is content as | figured i in color upon the pages of written books, soon as ever he has got the spirit and essence of ; or in sculpture within the enriched recesses of his subject well expressed. And in the expression | cathedral-fronts. Neither the sentiment of piety of that essence he shows—or he and Giotto show | nor the desire of completeness could be satisfied together—a justness and dignity of thought, a | without thus going back in every case to the grave and sure imaginative penetration, which | sacred origin of things as revealed in the book SZPPRTCESRESeS TR TEES raise the work to the level of the highest which | has been done by man. I call the series Giotto’s “Gospel of Labor ” because it is conceived in the spirit of a citizen | who, in an industrial community, deliberately ap- | plies himself to commemorate the growth of industries. With the sculptured decorations of | the upper courses of the tower, as they are men- | tioned in Vasari, and may be seen to this day, we | have nothing to do. Those symbolical figures of | the planets and the virtues, with the other figures | of the apostles in niches (many of them executed | by later hands), would be a study of the utmost | interest; but they are too high up to be clearly | seen, and to photograph them would be a con- | siderable undertaking. Let us only take note of them as a part of the general scheme, and go on | to the examination of those panels in relief—each | being of hexagonal shape, and inclosed within a moulded border—which are well within sight, and | of Genesis. Accordingly the first two of our | Florentine series, beginning at the west side of the tower, are the familiar subjects of the birth of Adam and the birth of Eve. Paradise is sug- gested by a tree or two roughly carved in the background ; the draped and dignified figure of | God the Father stands, in the first scene, over the first-born man, and, in the second, helps into existence the first-born woman, who springs from the side of the man while he lies collapsed in sleep. Thus far there is no departure from tra- ditional treatment, only a dignity, a simple grace and expressiveness in the grouping, which assert the new-born genius of Italian art. Beautiful as these two groups are, however, it happens that we can see the same subjects carved, more beau- | tifully and more expressively still, by another Italian hand at nearly the same time. On the front of the famous cathedral of Orvieto, the spaces on either side of the three great doors are

Page 92

92 THE POPULAR SCIEN CE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. richly wrought with carvings in relief, said to be | of Adah comes the son of Zillah, Tubal-cain, the the work of John of Pisa and his scholars—into | the question who really did them I cannot enter. They are among the most masterly inventions in the whole range of sculpture, some of them very | grim and terrible; but, besides the terror and | grimness, those lovely subjects of the creation | of Adam and Eve, each birth being represented in two separate scenes, appeal to us with all the | purer charm. | | instructor of every artificer in brass and iron; and in him we have a somewhat less noble coun. tenance, not quite so grand a flow of hair and To return to the Campanile, it is in the third | subject that our sculptor begins to assert his | originality and his special purpose. In ordinary course, we should now expect the sequence of | the temptation—the fall and the expulsion. We find, instead, Adam and Eve at labor after the fall, and their labor conceived not as a curse, but _ beard, but rendered with the same rough unerring strokes, the same long drapery, with its folds, and its expression of the body beneath, not a whit less rightly understood than in the most accom plished later art. This third patriarch sits at his forge, his stool a little tilted in the intentness of his work, and holds the iron upon the anvil with the pincers in his left hand; the right, which managed the hammer, being lost. The bellows are in their place behind him; tools upon the ground in front; and a spade and axe-head nailed up indicate the wares of his fashioning. The invention of wine comes in the seventh rather as the type and source of all necessary and | place, and is symbolized in the usual way, with beneficent industries. It is a charming natural picture of the days when Adam delved and Eve span—the man working patiently with his spade, | broken. the woman standing beside him w th her loaded | distaff, both clad in suits of skins. Next, we go | on to the origin of pastoral industry. In this, and in two or three more subjects of the series, the artist has continued to think of the book of Genesis and to seek his types among the patri- archs of the Old Testament. The quaint aged figure sitting cross-legged at the entrance of his tent is Jabal, the father of such as dwell in tents and of such as have cattle. With a few simple strokes, not without humor, the sculptor has ex- pressed the whole root and essence of the matter. The form of the tent fits conveniently into the top of the hexagon; the cross-legged patriarch lifts the tent-flap to look out upon his wealth in flocks and herds, which is symbolized by three grazing sheep and a shepherd-pup too young for responsible service—the squatted, blunt-muzzled puppy whom Mr. Ruskin has made famous, and in whose lineaments all the pertness of his kind seems concentrated. After the first shepherd follows the first musician—after Jabal his brother Jubal, the father of all such as handle the harp and organ. This patriarch’s tent, again fitted naturally into the two upper and two perpendicular sides of the hexagon, is looped up so as to be almost quite open; we see him seated in profile at his work- table, the end of which is fitted with a tool-rack, and carved with mouldings in the taste of the Tuscan-Gothic of the time. He leans forward in the eagerness of invention, his long hair falling back upon his shoulders, and blows hard through the first formless instrument, a great uncouth tube, which he has fashioned. Next to the sons the subject of the drunkenness of Noah. After this the chain of Old Testament subjects is Man has learned to toil and spin, to keep flocks and herds, to labor at the forge, to solace himself with music and with wine; it is. one of his speculative and not his practical inge. nuities that comes next. The eighth sculpture, the first on the south face of the tower, and, per haps, the noblest of them all, shows us a holy seer seated with upturned countenance at a table, carved more delicately than the table of Jubal, upon which stands the figure of an armillary sphere; with his left hand he directs a primitive quadrant working on an upright pivot set likewise on the table. Some of the signs of the zodiac are indicated in low-relief on a belt across the background; over his head the sculptor has turned the are of a great circle in strong projection, to indicate the. pole of heaven, and has filled the narrow strip above this with a quire of little human or angels’ heads roughly carved, to indicate the quires of the stars. This is astronomy; but the subject seems scarcely in the place and order among the rest where we should expect to find it. Astron- omy or astrology, according to the conception ” of those times, was one of a fixed group of seven arts or studies called liberal. The middle age loved to number everything by groups or families | of seven—the seven virtues, the seven sing, thé” seven planets, the seven sacraments, and the Vike, So there were also seven arts or sciences eup posed to include the whole circle of liberal cult” ure. These seven were in their turn composed — 3 of a group of three, called the trivium, and @ group of four, called the quadrivium. Grammay, logic, and rhetoric, made up the trivium ;

Page 93

-- FREERS EF a FE G55 2 ASE Ses s&s ess = E389 ind aie , of i be 1 an Some Ml o = al s GIOTTOS GOSPEL OF LABOR. 93 metic, astronomy, geometry, and music, the qua- drivium. From the thirteenth down to the six teenth century, symbolical figures of these seven liberal studies are among the most frequent repre- sentations of art. Sometimes each study is typi- fied by the personage of a particular master fa- mous for having excelled in it, as grammar by Priscian or Donatus, geometry by Euclid. This is the mode of representation used in the main by our sculptor of the Campanile; but not in any strict traditional way. Rather, though in a figure like this searcher of the stars he has no doubt had in his mind some ancient astronomer of renown, Thales or Meton or Ptolemy or Hip- parchus, yet it is not the person but the idea, the soul and essence of star-searching and star-wor- shiping, which he has been really bent on think- ing out and exhibiting. Nor could that idea be possibly shadowed forth in loftier or more speak- ing lineaments. Sometimes we find the seven studies treated in a different way from this, and each personified in the figure of a woman, whose guise and attributes tell us what she stands for. Of this treatment much the most beautiful exam- ple is in a famous set of Florentine engravings of the fifteenth century, the playing-cards of Man- tegna, as they used in error to be called. As- tronomy is there represented, not by an old man seated, but by the standing figure of a lovely and inspired woman, who gazes into a globe set with stars. Sometimes the two kinds of type are com- bined ; the chief instance of this is in a fresco by one of the followers of Giotto, where the sages of the several sciences sit in the lowest tier of the composition, and women-figures representing the sciences themselves are enthroned above them.! But, however represented, we are accustomed to find these liberal arts in a group by themselves; and, in a scheme like the present, we should ex- pect them to follow and form the climax of the series of the manual and practical arts. Where- as we have already had one type of music in the person of Jubal, presently we shall find two others of the same art; and now we have as- tronomy coming immediately after the drunken- ness of Noah. The reason for this irregular or- der most likely is that the series, though it may have been systematically conceived at the outset, was put up by those who carried on Giotto’s work after his death, not systematically, but at hap- oe fresco in the Spanish Chapel of the Church of Santa Maria Novella has been minately described = Ruskin in the fifth of his “ Mornings in Flor- hazard, according as each subject chanced to come finished from the studio. The next sculpture shows us the operations of building. Course after course is being added to a great square tower, and from within the tower the figure of the master-builder half emerges at the top, his assistants on either hand laying stone upon stone at his bidding. This is perhaps the rudest of the whole series; at least it is the only instance here in which, as in primitive Italian painting, the figures are drawn of disproportion- ate dimensions, the master-builder being much bigger than his companions. For the rest, the scaffold and ladders are of perfectly practical construction, and the essential facts of the art in question, as in all the subjects of the series, are expressed with absolute and simple pertinence. Here, again, the artist had probably in his mind some builder out of the Bible—how Enoch builded him a city, or else the presumptuous builders of the Tower of Babel. This last is what the sub- ject looks most like; and we shall presently see another case in which the artist has certainly made his choice for warning and not for example, and has represented the enterprise of man pushed to overweening pitch. Next to building comes pottery; and this is treated as the business of womankind. A superintendent, or mistress of the works, sits on a raised seat at one end, test- ing, apparently, each vessel as it is brought her, and ranging on a shelf those that are truly wrought; before her stand other women carrying cakes of clay strung ready to be fashioned. In this group, unfortunately, the marble is in parts much bruised and blackened, and especially in the faces of the women, so that we can hardly realize its original aspect. At the point we have now reached, the artist seems to have had the idea of alternating with the industries of woman, in furnishing and plenish- ing the house within, the industries of man in subduing the world without to his service. Next after the first potters comes the first adventurer on horseback; and assuredly, out of the Elgin marbles, there does not exist a figure in which the freedom and eagerness of riding are more nobly expressed. The gallop of the horse isa little stiff and misunderstood, the two hind legs being set to the ground and the two fore legs lifted together, as usual in early art; yet even in the horse there is more life than we are accus. tomed to find in the design of horses until we come to quite modern times. And nothing can be truer than the grip of the youthful horseman with his thighs as he rides bare-backed, nothing

Page 94

94 more expressive of movement and the delight in movement than the backward drift of his hair aud short cloak, and the urging gesture of his raised right arm. The twelfth sculpture takes us within-doors again, and shows us two women at the loom, one seated and the other standing- Here is the type of an industry which meant more to Florentines than to any other people. The weaving of fine cloths was one of the earliest and chief sources of the prosperity of the city. Not only the flocks of Tuscany and the Apennines sent their fleeces to be made up in the looms of Florence, but woolen fabrics were sent thither from all parts of Europe to have the last finish put upon them, and to be either reéxported or retailed by Florentine traders. Of the seven trade guilds or arts, which were called the seven greater in the city, two, and those among the wealthiest and most powerful, were concerned in this industry. One of these was the guild called Calimala, otherwise the guild of mercatanti (mer- chants), the word merchant being used for dealers in cloth from France and Flanders. The second weaving guild was called specifically the guild della Lana, of wool; and it was to the piety of this body that Florence owed the existence of her Campanile herself. The guild had come forward at a time when the cathedral works had lan- guished for some years, and had offered to defray the costs of its completion; and it was in pur, suance of that offer that Giotto had been ap- pointed to the task. Next after the type of this great Florentine industry comes a subject not quite so plainly to be interpreted. An enthroned figure sits aloft in the midst ; beneath his throne, on his left side, kneel two bareheaded patriarchs or elders, to whom he delivers what look like tables of the law ; on the other side two more elders, wearing caps upon their heads, gaze up at him from within two several compartments of a kind of tabernacle; over these he holds up his right hand in benediction. In this noble group it is not hard to appreciate the expressive dignity of the personages, and the grace es well as power of the sculptor in the draperies that fall, with a per- fect natural flow, over the knees of the enthroned and about the ankles of the front kneeling figure. But it is harder to recognize the precise signifi- cation of the subject. It is evidently some type of divine law and law-giving; the enthroned fig- ure within the almond-shaped canopy is evidently God the Father; and we may suppose that with his left hand it is the tables of the ten command- ments that he is delivering. The Mosaic law be- THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. ing symbolized on this side, the robed and flat, capped personages within the canopies on bis other hand would be doctors standing for the two branches, civil and canonical, of Chri law. This great twofold division of civil ang church law is constantly brought before us by medieval art; for instance, in the scheme of the great fresco which we have already mentioned each branch is separately symbolized in the fig: ure of a woman, and for the historical representy tive of canon law stands Pope Clement VL., for that of civil law Justinian. The hero of the next subject is again the usual patriarchal type of the human race, but disguised this time in a strange vesture, and bent upon a hazardous enterprise. He wears a close fitting suit of feathers, and has fitted to his shouk ders an immense pair of wings, which he manage by means of straps on the inside of each wing through which he passes his hands—in this prag tical, this working way is everything thought out He gazes, with his head thrown back, confidently skyward as he leans forward to begin his flight; under his feet we see an adze and other discarded tools of his labor. Here, it seems, the designer has gone to pagan legend to find for the buildem of Babel a companion in presumption. The rash artisan can be no other than Dedalus. This suk ject is the last on the south face of the building First on the east face follows an enterprise ouly one degree less daring. The first navigators put to sea in the first boat ; and what a sense of peril and awe, what solemn tempting of the unknowa and the mysterious, the sculptor has expressed the looks and action of these mariners—two @ them rowing, or rather pushing; for, as te carved ripple indicates, they face toward the boat’s bow, and keep an anxious lookout abeadj while the third and eldest steers in the stern willl a great oar for rudder. Next, now that man ha learned to search the stars and to obey la weave and ride, to tempt the elements of or water, he turns to a pursuit which we have looked for long before—and in Flo J all places—the pursuit of war. Perhaps, how ever, there may be a reason in the present position, and war may be purposely made: sequel of commerce, emigration, and colonizat Here, at any rate, lies a murdered man back, his limbs stiff with death, his right clutching the soil, his head, with its hair abroad, fallen back in a hollow of the g Beside him stands his murderer, lifting looks askance like one who would defy the morse within him. One hand is set stub’ > & oe & 2 oa ee OCU eee | 6k sci

Page 95

bictlaisais i ikuai 32% qa cilee: . s GIOTTOS GOSPEL OF LABOR. 95 on his hip; with the cther he holds his club to the ground, and about his shoulders he wears a lion’s hide, The club and lion’s hide are attributes proper to Hercules ; otherwise these looks are the looks of Cain ; and, naturally, Cain and Abel are the types of slayer and slain that we should expect in a series like this. But here, again, we shall understand the sculptor best if we think of his work not as setting forth the history of any single strife, but rather an abstract and central type of human strife in general. We now return to peaceful industries, to till- ing and transport. The first ploughman has in- vented the first plough, and drives it, holding the ox in very primitive fashion by the tail, through a deep and broken soil. This is one of the no- blest in expression and most spirited in move- ment of the whole series. Tamer, but distin- guished by the usual practical sense of the con- ditions of primitive construction, is the subject of the first wagoner or charioteer. The horse is yoked to a square car of roughly-bolted planks set on wheels, in the fore part of which stands the driver. At this point the series is interrupted by a gable surmounting the entrance-door of the tow- er; so that on this, the third and east side, the number of subjects is five only, instead of seven, as on the west, south, and north. After the break between the door and the corner comes one of the sciences of the quadrivium — the science of geometry, represented by. an aged philosopher, seated at a desk with a pair of com- passes. The work is. somewhat rude and ugly, and this philosopher of a less reverend counte- nance than his companions. Turning the corner, we begin the series on the north side of the Campanile, the side which is next to the cathedral, with only a narrow space between the two. The first sculpture in this place shows us another bearded father, the father of painting. The guide-books call him Apelles, but he might at least as fairly be associated with Christian instead of pagan tradition, and named St. Luke. Like some of the earlier artificers of the series, he, too, sits intently stooping at his work, his stool tilted under him ; he is painting away devoutly at an altar-piece, and some of his finished work of the same kind—a large and a smaller triptych, destined for the adornment of church-altars—are indicated in low-relief as be- Ing fastened to the wall of his studio. Next to him comes a companion workman, a father of sculpture (called in the guide-books Phidias), bending forward with mallet and chisel over his half-hewn images of marble. These two subjects have a special interest, because in them, so far as I know, we have the first historical recognition of the place and dignity of painting and sculpt- ure among the other arts. When we look back —when posterity looks back—upon medizval Italy and upon Florence, it is of painting and sculpture that we think first; these are the arts in which Italy is, for us, preéminent, and by which, for us, her memory is chiefly ennobled. But the people of those days did not think as we do of their own painters and sculptors. Paint- ing and sculpture grew but gradually into repute and eminence; in the origin they were but sub- ordinate branches of industries themselves sub- ordinate. They did not find a place among that family of the liberal seven into which the intel- lectual discipline of man was theoretically di- vided. Neither did they find a place in that other family of seven into which the practical industries of men were, in the administration of this particu- lar city, as a matter of fact organized. We look in vain among the seven great guilds of Florence for a guild of painters or a guild of sculptors, Lower down among the five lesser guilds only, we find one of masons and carpenters, or masters in stone and wood ; and it is under this modest title that all painters and all sculptors were incorpo- rated; being content to follow, in the order of trade precedence, after the tanners, after the re- tail clothiers, after the butchers, after the boot- | makers. So slight being the practical inclination, on the part of those who have made for pos- terity the glory of Florence, to assert their own dignity in their own day, it gratifies our sense of justice to see these arts introduced here with due distinction among the rest. With these figures of the fathers of painting and sculpture ends the sequence of the works done by the pupils of Giotto, and in days soon following Giotto’s own. The remainder of the series have been carved by other hands a full century later. We have no record why the work was thus inter- rupted ; perhaps only because this north side of the tower next the cathedral is a place of com- parative concealment, where it would matter less than on the other three sides whether the orna- ments were finished or not. At any rate, the last five subjects belong to the Florentine school of the first half of the fifteenth, not of the four- teenth, century. The difference is manifest in a © moment to an eye at all accustomed to these things, not only in the character and conception of the figures, but in the details of furniture and ornament, which are no longer Tuscan-Gothic,

Page 96

96 THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. but early Tuscan Renaissance. Tradition assigns | propriate to the latter. Whichever of the two os these concluding subjects to the hand of Luca | encés we decide for here, the other we have t della Robbia. Of, the actual hand we cannot really make sure; but the conclusion is as good, in its manner, as the beginning. Only it is a different manner. We lose the sense of the primeval, the patriarchal, the broadly permanent, and ideal; we gain a sense of vig- orous animation and contemporary reality. The liberal science of grammar is the first of the new series ; and in it we are invited to think neither of Donatus nor Priscian, nor yet of any ideal fa- ther of grammar, but simply of any schoolmaster teaching little boys their elements in any Floren- tine grammar-school. Into the upper angle of the hexagon is fitted the top of a bookcase which serves as furniture in the background; on the left sits a stern-visaged, shaven pedagogue at his desk, in close cap and long, heavy gown; on the seat opposite him are two boys attentively learn- ing, in the Florentine costume of the day. It is an admirable piece, but of a character essentially realistic, and makes us think instinctively of Vil- lani’s educational statistics—how in such and such a year of the fourteenth century there were in the primary schools of the city from 8,000 to 10,000 little boys and girls learning to read, and | in six secondary schools about 1,200 learning arithmetic and algebra, and in four upper schools from 550 to 600 learning grammar and logic. In regard as for some reason omitted from th scheme, For concerning the three remaining subjects there is no doubt. In the first of thes (and it is one of the least happy of the series) Orpheus, having a bruised and somewhat ignoble visage, sits against a tree in the midst of a wood and plays upon his lute ; on one side a congregs tion of birds, and on the other of beasts of the forest, come drawn by the magic of his note, Next—and the meaning of the subject is equally unmistakable—two Oriental sages in turbans and embroidered skirts stand facing one another in discussion ; one holds up two fingers of his hand the ordmary gesture of counting; the other is working with the abacus, the ordinary instrument of numerical calculation. This is arithmetic; and as the sciences of number were supposed to come from the east, so these turbaned figures stand, no doubt, for sages of Babylon or Chaldea, The next sculpture is the last of all, and commeme rates once more the art of music. At first sight we may be puzzled by this ungainly, bearded fig ure who sits facing us, listening with his head on one side, and tapping with two hammers of dif ferent sizes, one in either hand, on a small anvil The anvil and hammers are not unlike those we find in representations of the goldsmith’s trade; and for a father of goldsmiths we might perhapp this case, again, it is very interesting to compare | have taken this personage were it not for a park the parallel subject in the great fresco at Sta. | lel figure which gives us the right clew in th Maria Novella, where a grammarian sits poring | fresco of the Spanish Chapel. Under the personk over a book, and over his head the allegorical | fication of Music, in that composition, sits an old. representative of his science bears what seems a | man bearded like this one, only without the cap, rod in one hand and a fruit in the other, and has | and striking on a similar anvil with two similar a group of three kneeling children beside her. | hammers. Tradition calls that figure, with very In the next compartment a young man is pas- | doubtful authority, Tubal-cain. In the presemt sionately disputing with his teacher; both are in | series, however, as wé have already had an eat flowing robes, and the sculpture is admirably | lier Tubal-cain, tradition, again doubtfully, calls spirited and accomplished. The pupil holds an | this concluding figure the monk-musician open text-book, and points eagerly with his finger | of Arezzo. Without asserting names, the am to some passage in support of his argument; the | ogy of the Spanish Chapel, and the at J teacher, having both bands raised with a still | gesture of the head, make it certain that this st more eager gesture, confutes him, it seems, out figure is a symbol of musical invention, and of his own superior knowledge. This may rep- | the striker with the two hammers is listening @ resent a lesson either in logic or rhetoric; the | the difference of the two notes he strikes. eagerness of the contention is perhaps more ap- —Maemillan's Magazin Fi & me big

Page 97

MONTENEGRO. MONTENEGRO. By ALFRED TENNYSON. HEY rose to where their sovran eagle sails, They kept their faith, their freedom, on the height, Chaste, frugal, savage, armed by day and night Against the Turk; whose inroad nowhere scales Their headlong passes, but his footstep fails, And red with blood the Crescent reels from fight Before their dauntless hundreds, in prone flight By thousands down the crags and through the vales. O smallest among peoples! rough rock-throne Of Freedom! warriors beating back the swarm Of Turkish Islam for five hundred years, Great Tsernagora! never since thine own Black ridges drew the cloud and brake the storm Has breathed a race of mightier mountaineers. -

<< MONTENEGRO—A SKETCH. By WILLIAM E. GLADSTONE, 1. “Le Monténégro Contemporain.” Par G. Frilley, Officier de la Légion d’Honneur, et Jovan Wlahoviti, Capitaine an Service de la Serbie. Paris, 1870. 2. “Montenegro und die Montenegriner geschildert von Spiridion Goptchevitch.” Leipzig, 1877. T is sometimes said, in relation to individuals, that the world does not know its greatest men. It might, at least, as safely be averred, in speaking of large numbers, that Christendom does not know its most extraordinary people. The name of Montenegro, until within the last two years, was perhaps less familiar to the Euro- pean public than that of Monaco, and little more than that of San Marino. And yet it would, long ere this, have risen to world-wide and immortal fame, had there been a Scott to learn and tell the marvels of its history, or a Byron to spend and be spent on its behalf. For want of the vates sacer, it has remained in the mute, inglorious con- dition of Agamemnon's predecessors.! I hope that an interpreter between Montenegro and the world has at length been found in the person of my friend Mr. Tennyson, and I gladly accept the honor of having been invited to supply a com- mentary to his text. In attempting it I am sen- sible of this disadvantage—that it is impossible to Set out the plain facts of the history of Montene- gro (or Tsernagora in its own Slavonic tongue) Without begetting, in the mind of any reader 1 Hor., “Od.,” 1v., ix., 25.

strange, and nearly all are strange, to the subject, a resistless suspicion of exaggeration or of fable. The vast cyclone of Ottoman conquest, the most formidable that the world has ever seen, having crossed the narrow sea from Asia in the fourteenth century, made rapid advances west- ward, and blasted, by its successive acquisitions, the fortunes of countries the chief part of which were then among the most civilized, Italy alone being excepted, of all Europe. I shall not here deal with the Hellenic lands. It is enough to say that Bulgaria, Servia (as now known), Bosnia, Herzegovina, Albania, gradually gave way. Before telling the strange tale of those who, like some strong oak that the lightning fails to rive, breasted all the wrath of the tempest, and never could be slaves, let me render a tribute to the fallen. For the most part they did not suc- cumb without gallant resistance. The Servian sovereigns of the fifteenth century were great and brave men, ruling a stout and brave people. They reached their zenith when, in 1347, Stephen Dushan entitled himself Emperor of Serbs, Greeks, and Bulgarians. In an evil hour, and to its own ruin, the Greek Empire invoked against him the

Page 98

93 aid of the Ottoman Turks. In 1356 he closed a prosperous career by a sudden death. On the fatal field of Kossovo, in 1389, treachery allied itself with Ottoman prowess to bring about the defeat of the Servian army; and again it was by treacherous advances that a qualified subjection was converted into an absolute servitude. The West, with all its chivalry, can cite no grander examples of martial heroism than those of Marko Kraljevitch, so fondly cherished in the Servian lands, and of George Castriotes or Scanderbeg, known far and wide, and still commemorated by the name of a vicolo of Rome. The indifference, or even contempt, with which we are apt to regard this field of history, ought to be displaced by a more rational, as well as more honorable, sentiment of gratitude. It was these races, principally Slavonian, who had to encounter in its unbroken strength, and to reduce, the mighty wave, of which only the residue, pass- ing the Danube and the Save, all but overwhelmed not Hungary alone, but Austria and Poland. It was with a Slavonian population that the Austrian emperor fortified the north bank of the Save, in the formation of the famous Military Frontier. It was Slav resistance, unaided by the West, which abated the impetus of the Ottoman attack just to such a point, that its reserve force became capa- ble of being checked by European combinations. Among the Servian lands was the flourishing principality of Zeta, It took its name from the stream which flows southward from the mountain citadel toward the lake of Scutari. It comprised the territory now known as Montenegro or Tser- nagora, together with the seaward frontier, of which a niggardly and unworthy jealousy had not then deprived it, and with the rich and fair plains encircling the irregular outline of the inhospitable mountain. Land after land had given way; but Zeta ever stood firm under the Balchid family. At last, in 1478, Scutari was taken on the south, and in 1483 the ancestors of the still brave popu- lation of Herzegovina on the north submitted to the Ottomans. Ivan Tchernoievitch, the Monte- negrin hero of the day, hard pressed on all sides, applied to the Venetians for the aid he had often given, and was refused. Thereupon he, and his people with him, quitted, in 1484, the sunny tracts in which they had basked for some seven hundred years, and sought, on the rocks and amidst the precipices, surety for the two gifts, by far the most precious to mankind, their faith and their free- dom. To them, as to the Pomaks of Bulgaria, and the Bosnian Begs, it was open to purchase by conformity a debasing peace. Before them, THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. as before others, lay the trinoda necessitag, alternatives of death, slavery, or the Koran, They were not to die, for they had a work to do, To the Koran or to slavery they preferred a life of cold, want, hardship, and perpetual peril Such is their Magna Charta; and, without m proach to others, it is, as far as I know, the no | blest in the world. j To become a centre for his mountain-home Ivan had built a monastery at Cettinjé, and de elared the place to be the metropolis of Zeta What is most of all remarkable in the who transaction is, that he carried with him into the hills a printing-press.'. This was in 1484, ing petty principality; they were men worsted ig war, and flying for their lives. Again, it wag only seven years after the earliest volume had been printed by Caxton in the rich and populoug metropolis of England, and when there was printing-press in Oxford, or in Cambridge, or ig Edinburgh. It was only sixteen years after first printing-press had been established (ad in Rome, the capital of Christendom ; only twem ty-eight years after the appearance (1456) of the earliest printed book, the first-born of the great discovery. Then and there— “They few, they happy few, they band of brothera”# A voted unanimously their fundamental law, that in time of war against the Turk, no son of Tsen nagora could quit the field without the order of his chief; that a runaway should be forever dis graced, and banished from his people; that it should be dressed in woman’s clothes, and pre sented with a distaff; and that the women, strike ing him with their distaffs, should hunt the com ard away from the sanctuary of freedom. % And, now for four centuries wanting a seven years, they have maintained in full the covenant of that awful day, through an wi broken series of trials, of dangers, and of ploits, to which it is hard to find a parallel in tht” annals of Europe, perhaps even of mankind, It was not to be expected that the whole of any race or people should have the almost terhuman energy which their lot required. » along, from time to time, the weaker bre have fallen away; and there were those who to Ivan, as the Israelites said to Moses, “ W fore have ye made us to come up out of E to bring us unto this evil place?” * The gre Ivan died in 1490, and was succeeded by his dest son, George, who in 1499 was persuaded 1 Frilley and Wlahoviti. p. 18. 7 2 Shakespeare, “ Henry V.” 3 Numbers xx.5.

Page 99

MONTENEGRO. his Venetian wife to go back into the habitable | niences of life, and so well weighted with respon- world; not of Islam, however, but at Venice. | sibility and care, that in the free air of these moun- Worse than this, his younger -brother Stephen had gone with a band of companions to Constan- tinople, and proposed to Bajazet II. the betrayal of his country. He, and those whom he took with him, were required to turn Mohammedans, | and they did it. None could be so fit, as traitors, to be renegades. toman force for the work of conquest. were met by George, and utterly defeated. But these victors, the men of the printing-press as | well as of the sword, were no savages by nature, only afterward when the Turks in time made them | so. They took back their renegade fellow-coun- trymen into Montenegro, and allowed them the | free exercise of their religion.! On the retirement of George, which seems only to have become final in 1516,? the departing prince made over the sov- ereign power to the metropolitan. popes in its origin and purer in its exercise, as well as in some respects not less remarkable. The epithet I have last used may raise a smile. But the greatness of human action, and that of human character, do not principally depend on the dimensions of the stage where they are | exhibited. In the fifth century, and before the temporal power arose, there was a Leo as truly | great as any of the famous medieval pontiffs. The traveler may stand upon the rock of Corinth, and look, across and along the gulf, to the Acrop- | olis of Athens, and may remember, with advan- tage no less than with wonder, that these little | states, of parochial extension, were they that | shook the world of their own day, and that have instructed all posterity. But the Basileus, whom Greece had to keep at arm’s-length, had his seat afar; and, even for those within his habitual reach, was no grinding tyrant. Montenegro fought with a valor that rivaled, if it did not surpass, that of Thermopylae and Marathon; with numbers and resources far inferior, against a foe braver and far more terrible. A long séries of about twenty prelates, like Moses, or Joshua, or | Barak, or the son of Jesse, taught in the sanct- | wary, presided in the council, and fought in the front of the battle. many who were admirable statesmen. These were especially of the Niegush family, which came in the year 1687 to the permanent possession of power: a power so little begirt with the conve- *F. and W., p. 19. 2 Goptchevitch, p 6. They then set out with an Ot- | They | And now be- , gan, and lasted for three hundred and thirty-six | years, an ecclesiastical government in miniature | over laymen, far more noble than that of the | There were among them | tains it was never coveted, and never abused. Under the fourteen Vladikas, who had ruled | for one hundred and seventy years before this | epoch, the people of Montenegro not only lived sword in hand, for this they have since done and still do, but nourished in their bosom an enemy more deadly, say the historians,! than the pashas and their armies. Not only were they ever liable to the defection of such as had not the redun- dant manhood required in order to bear the | strain of their hard and ever-threatened exist- ence, but the renegades on the banks of the | Rieka, whom they had generously taken back, maintained disloyally relations with the Porte, _ and were ever ready to bring its war-galleys by the river into the interior of the country. At last the measure of patience was exhausted. Danilo, the first Vladika of the Nicgush dynasty, had been invited, under an oath of safe-conduct from the Pasha of Scutari, to descend into the plain of Zeta, among the homes of his ancestors, for the purpose of consecrating a church. While | engaged on this work, he was seized, imprisoned, and cruelly tortured.? At last he was released | on a ransom of 3,000 ducats, a sum which the hillsmen were only enabled to make up by bor- rowing in Herzegovina. It was felt that the time had arrived for a decisive issue; and we come now to a deed of blood which shows that | for those human beings with whom the Turk ' forced himself into contact, and who refused to betray their faith, there were no alternatives but two: if not savages they must be slaves, if not slaves they must come near to being savages. It was determined to slay by night every one of the renegades, except such as were willing to return to the faith of their fathers. The year was 1702, and the night chosen was that which | divided Christmas-eve from Christmasday. The ' scale was not large, but the operation was terri- | ble; and the narrative, contained in an old Volks. | lied, shows that it was done under that high re- | ligious exaltation which recalls the fiery gloom | of the “ Agamemnon,” and the sanguinary epi- sodes of the Old-Testament : i | The hallowed eve drawsonward. The broth- | ers Martinovitch kindle their consecrated torches. | They pray fervently to the new-born God, Each | drains a cup of wine, and seizing the sacred torches, | they rush forth into the darkness. Wherever there was a Turk, there came the five avengers. ' They that would not be baptized were hewed down 1 F. and W., p. 21. 2 F. and W., p. 22. G.p.&

Page 100

’ 100 THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. every one. They that embraced the cross were | the liberality of the czar now reigning, to s¢ taken as brothers before the Viadika. Gathered in Cettinjé, the people hailed with songs of joy the reddening dawn of the Christmas-morning ; all Tsernagora now was free !”?! The war had been a standing rather than an intermittent war, and each party to it was alter- nately aggressor and defender. The Turk sought to establish his supremacy by exacting the pay- ment of the haradsch, the poll or military ser- vice tax, paid in kind, which sometimes, in the more open parts, as we may suppose, of the ter- ritory, he succeeded in obtaining. Once the col- lector complained that the measure used was too small. The tax-payer smashed his skull with it, and said, “ That is Tsernagora measure.”? But the Montenegrins were aggressive as well as the Turks. Of the fair plains they had been com- pelled to deliver to the barbarian, they still held themselves the rightful owners ; and in carrying on against him a predatory warfare, they did no more than take back, as they deemed, a portion of their own. This predatory warfare, which had a far better justification than any of the Highland or border raids that we have learned to judge so leniently, has been effectually checked by the efforts of the admirable Vladikas and princes of the last hundred years; for, as long as it sub- sisted, the people could not discharge effectually the taint of savagery. It even tended to gener- ate habits of rapine. But the claim to the lands is another matter; there is no lapse of title by user here; the bloody suit has been prosecuted many times in the course of each of twelve gen- erations of men. That claim to the lands they have never given up, and never will. From 1710 onward, at intervals, the sover- eigns of Russia and Austria have used the Mon- tenegrins for their own convenience when at war with Turkey, and during the war of the French Revolution the English did the like, and, by their coéperation and that of the inhabitants, effected the conquest of the Bocche di Cattaro. To Eng- land they owe no gratitude; to Austria, on the whole, less than none, for, to satisfy her, the dis- trict she did not win was handed over to her with our concurrence, She has rigidly excluded the little state from access to the sea, and has at times even prevented it from receiving any sup- plies of arms. Russia, however, from the time of Peter the Great, though using them for her own purposes, has not always forgotten their in- terests, and has commonly aided the Vladikas with a small annual subvention, raised, through 1G., p. 9 2 Ibid. £3,000 a year,' the salary of one of our rail commissioners. Nor should it be forgotten Louis Napoleon, seemingly under a generous ig pulse, took an interest in their fortunes, made a further addition to the revenues of th prince, which raised them in all to an am such as would equip a well-to-do English co gentleman, provided that he did not bet, orag pire to a deer-forest, or purchase Sévres or oa Chelsea porcelain. The most romantic and stirring passages of other histories may be said to grow pale, if by the side of the ordinary life of Tsernagora, ' least when brought into comparison with that at the critical emergencies, which were of very constant recurrence. What was the num strength of the bishop-led community, which fast its oasis of Christianity and freedom the dry and boundless desert of Ottoman nation? The fullest details I have seen on thi subject are those given by Frilley and Who The present form of the territory exhibits figure which would be produced if two roughly: drawn equilateral triangles, with their slightly truncated, had these apices brought te gether, so that the two principal masses should. be severed by a narrow neck or waste of terri tory. The extreme length of the princi from the border above Cattaro on the west @ Mount Kom, the farthest point eastward of Berda, is about seventy miles ; the greatest breadth from north to south is a good deal less ; but the line at the narrow point from Spuz on the south @ Niksich on the north, both of them on ground still Turkish, does not exceed twenty miles. The reader will now easily understand the y with which a controversy seemingly coal - been carried on at Constantinople roa the delegates of Prince Nicholas and the P. with andirivieni almost as many as marked the abortive conference of December and January or the gestation of the recent protocol, At = points, the plain makes dangerous incisions the group of mountains;* and from them t the Turk has been wont to operate. The pop of his empire is 40,000,000; and I believe claims for military service extend over the 4 except the 5,000,000 (in round numbers) of free people who inhabit the Servian and Roumanial principalities. Let us now see what were material means of resistance on the other About a. p. 1600 there are said to have 1 Stated by Goptchevitch as high as £4,000 a yean 7 2 F. and W., pp. 89-91.

Page 101

MONTENEGRO. 3,500 houses and 8,000 fighting-men in Monte- negro. The military age is from twelve to fifty; and these numbers indicate a population not much, if at all, over 30,000. This population was liable to be thinned by renegadism and constant war; but, since the early siftings, the operation of the baser cause appears to have been slight. On the other hand, freedom attracts the free, and tribes, or handfuls, of Turkish sub- jects near Montenegro have had a tendency to join it. Until a few years back it never had a defined frontier; it is only in recent times that its eastern triangle, that of Berda, has been add- | ed to Tsernagora proper. About 1800 the popu- lation had risen to 55,000; in 1825, to 75,000. In 1835 the official calendar of Cettinjé placed it at 100,000, and in 1865 at 196,000. This in- cluded the districts of Grabovo, Rudine, and Joupa, conquered under Prince Danilo. For the mere handful of mountaineers has been strong enough, on the whole, not only to hold, but to increase, its land. Yet, on the establishment of free Servia, a tendency to emigrate from the sterile rocks into that well-condiioned country was naturally exhibited ; and two battalions, composed of the children of Montenegrins, helped to make up that small portion of the army of General Tchernaieff, on which alone, in the opera- tions of the recent war, he could confidently rely. While the gross population of Montenegro in men, women, and children, was slowly growing through three centuries from 30,000 to 50,000, we must inquire with curiosity what amount of Turkish force has been deemed by the Porte equal to the enterprise of attacking the moun- tain, And here, strange as it may seem, history proves it to have been the general rule not to attack Montenegro except with armies equaling or exceeding, sometimes doubling or more, in numbers, all the men, women, and children, that it contained. In 1712, under the Vladika Danilo, 50,000 men crossed the Zeta between Podgoritza and Spuz. Some accounts raise this force be- yond 100,000.' Danilo assailed their camp be- fore dawn on the 29th of July, with an army, in three divisions, which could hardly have reached 12,000 men. With a loss of 318 men he slew, at the lowest estimate, 20,000, And in these alone, so far as I know, of all modern wars, it seems not uncommon to find the slain among the Turks exceeding the gross number of the high- land heroes arrayed against them. Great is the glory of the Swiss in their Burgundian wars for freedom ; but can it be matched with the exploits 1 F. and W., p. 23. G., p. 10. 101 of the bishops of Montenegro and their martial flocks? Once more the heart of the little nation relieves itself in song: “The seraskier wrote to Danilo: ‘Send me your paltry tribute, and three of your best war- riors for hostages. Refuse, and I will lay waste the land from the Morea to the salt-sea! with fire and sword, and will seize you alive,? and put you to death by torture.’ As he read this letter the Vladika wept bitterly. He summoned the heads of corimunities to Cettinjé. Some said, ‘Give them the tax;’ but others, ‘Give them our stones.’ . . +. They determined that they would fight to the last man. They swore with one accord that | all they would give the Turk shoud be the bullet- rain of their muskets.” And thus continues the tale. Three Monte- negrins went down to the Turkish encampment by night, and traversed the slumbering masses ; just as, in the tenth Iliad, Odysseus and Diomed moved amid the sleeping allies of Troy. Vuko, one of the three, said to his comrades: “Go you back; I abide here to serve the cause.” They returned to Cettinjé, and said: “So many are the Turks, that, had we three all been pounded into salt, we should not be enough to salt a supper for them.” How this recalls the oldest census in the world, the census of Homer, who says:* “Were the Achaians divided into parties of ten, and every Trojan employed in serving them with wine, one for each party, many a ten would lack a wine-server.” But, not to terrify their friends, they added that this vast host was but a host of cripples. So the people heard mass, received the benediction of their Vladika, and then set out upon the errand of victory or death. Vuko had induced the enemy to rest by the Viadinia, on the plea that they would not find water between that stream and Cettinjé. Here, before dawn, came down on them the bullet-rain. They were slaughtered through three days of fight; and the bard con- cludes: ‘‘O my Servian brothers, and all ye in whose breast beats the heart of liberty, be glad; for never will the ancient freedom perish, so long as we still hold our little Tsernagora!” The very next year, the Turks assembled 120,000 of their best troops for the purpose of crushing the motntaineers, whose numbers fell within the satirical description applied by Ti- granes to the Romans: “Too many for an em- 1G., p. 10. The Morea was not then Turkish. Does the “salt-sea” mean the White Sea? 2 As opposed to the ordinary practice in these wars, of death on the field without quarter. 3 Hom.,, “II ,” ii, 128,

Page 102

? 102 bassy, too few for an army.” But even this was not enough of precaution, Thirty-seven head- men of Montenegro, who had proceeded to the Turkish camp to negotiate with the commander, were basely seized and put to death. The Turks now ventured to assail a force one-tenth of its own numbers and deprived of its leaders, They burned the monastery, they carried thousands | of women and children into slavery, and then, without attempting to hold the country, they marched off to the Morea, while the men’ of Tsernagora descended from their rocky fastness- es and rebuilt their villages.! They powertully befriended Austria and Venice ip the war they were then waging, and, as was too commonly the case, were left in the lurch by their allies at the Peace of Passarowitz in 1719. The Turks ac- cordingly made bold to attack them in 1722 with 20,000 men under Hussein Pasha. One thou- sand Montenegrins took this general prisoner, and utterly discomfited his army.? In 1727 an- other Turkish invasion was similarly defeated. In 1732 Topal Osman Pasha marched against the Piperi, who had joined them, with 30,000 men, but had to fly, with the loss of his camp and baggage. In 1735 the heroic Danilo passed into his rest, after half a century of toil and glory. These may be taken as specimens of the military history of Montenegro. Time does not permit me to dwell on what is perhaps the most curious case of personation in all history, that of Stiepan Mali, who for many years together passed himself off upon the mountaineers as be- ing Peter III. of Russia, the unfortunate hus- band of Catherine, and, in that character, par- tially obtained their obedience. But the pres- ence of a prince reputed to be Russian natu- rally stimulated the Porte. Again Montenegro was invaded in 1768 by an army variously es- timated at 67,000, 100,000, and even 180,000 men. Their force of 10,000 to 12,000 was, as ever, ready for the fight; but the Venetians, timorously obeying the Porte, probibited the entry of munitions of war. Utter ruin seemed now at length to overhang them. A cartridge was worth a ducat, such was their necessity ; when 500 of their men attacked a Turkish divis- ion, and had for their invaluable reward a prize of powder, And now all fear had vanished. They assailed before dawn the united forces of the Pashas of Roumelia from the south and Bos- nia from the north. Again they effected the scarcely credible slaughter of 20,000 Turks with 1G., p. 12. 2G.,p.13. F. and W., p. 25. THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT.

3,000 horses, and won an incredible booty of colors, arms, munitions, and baggage. So it wag that the flood of war gathered round this for. tress of faith and freedom, and so it was that flood was beaten back. <Aflavit Dominus, a¢ dissipantur. In 1782 came Peter’ to the throne, justly re. | corded, by the fond’ veneration of his country. men, as Peter the Saint. Marmont, all whose in- ducements and threats he alike repelled, has given this striking description of him: “Ce Vladika, homme superbe, de cinquante ans environ, d’up esprit remarquable, avait beaucoup de noblesse et de dignité dans ses maniéres. Son autorité positive et légale dans son pays était peu de chose, mais son influence était sans bornes,”* As bishop, statesman, legislator, and warrior, he brought his country safely through eight-and. forty years of scarcely intermitted struggle, Down to, and perhaps after, his time, the govern. ment was carried on as in the Greece of the he roic age. The sovereign was priest, judge, and general; and was likewise the head of the As sembly, not representative, but composed of the body of the people, in which were taken the de cisions that were to bind the people as laws. This was called the Sbor; it was held in the opea air; and, when it became unruly, the method of restoring order was to ring the bell of the neigh boring church. Here was promulgated, for the first time, in the year 1796, by his authority, code of laws for Montenegré, which had hitherto | been governed, like the Homeric communities, by oral authority and tradition, In 1798 he ap pointed a body of judges, and in 1803 he added to the code a supplement. With the nineteenth century, in round numbers, commenced the he manizing process, which could not but be needed among a race whose existence, for ten genet tions of men, had been a constant struggle of life and death with the ferocious Turk. From this time the haradsch was no more heard off Here is the touching and simple account of the calm evening that closed his stormy day:

“On the 18th of October, 1830, Peter I., who was then in his eighty-first year, was sitting, after, | the manner of his country, by the fireside of bit” | great kitchen, and was giving to his chiefs, 4 | bled round him, instructions for the settlement ' | some local‘ differences which had arisen. 1 F. and W., pp. 35-59. 2 I quote from F, and W., p. 495. 3G., p. 21 n. 4 Among the Plemenas, which may be called pari: | subdivisions of the eight Nahias, say hundreds. All | tenegro is but a moderate county. Rei vic 3 ' te

zie ited of t they if St. ] For goti: and good of tl drov he s peaci lived bless T Did t to be I tweer and 0 most men t Peter comp: histor mous, tomoy upon the s¢ twenty consec that h and th the rif auts to put a of Tur for he TP. s 2 “7, (ed. 1867

Page 103

2 ae en: ee ae ae Te eee ee oe Oe ae > ee eS we ON RESET. Fs VERS RTEEV SK S a) Bie eee MONTENEGRO. 103 aged Vladika, feeling himself weak, announced | Porte, which would have sealed him as a vassal. that his last hour was come, and prayed them to | The pasha’s advanced-guard of several thousand conduct him to the humble cell which, without | men! was defeated by a body of 800 Montene. tire, he inhabited as a hermit would. Arriving | grins, at the head of whom the Pope Radoviti there, he stretched himself on his bed, urged upon fell bravely fighting; and no more was heard of his chiefs to execute with fidelity the provisions in taeiiiie - B hy Chaditen, Gtteneent set forth in the will he had that day dictated to his | : . es a ee ae secretary, and then, in conversation and in prayer, Peter's work, set his face sternly against all such rendered up his soul to God. So died this illustri- | !awless habits as remained in the country. In ous man, Whom a Slavonic writer has not scrupled | his modes of repression there are curious traits to call the Louis XIV. of Tsernagora, but who, in | of manners. The man-slayer was shot,® but the a number of respects was also its St. Louis,” ! thief was ignominiously hanged. In the matter of shooting there was a great difficulty, for the terrible usage of the vendelta—which had by no means been extirpated from the Ionian Islands twenty years ago—bound the kin or descendants of a man to avenge his death on the person who slew him. The expedient adopted was to shoot “There are still with us men who lived under | py a large platoon, so that the killer could not St. Peter’s rule, heard his words, and saw his life. : : ae cts oo For fifty vears he governed us, and fought and ne- gl ° se ying gotiated for us, and walked before us in pureness aaieiiatitin all Cieaall tak : bl and uprightness from day to day. He gave us ee es See ~— ape — Ny, good laws, and put an end to the disorderly stute than were ever lost in the bloodiest battle with of the country. He enlarged our frontier, and | the Turk. Internal reform, which partook of a drove away our enemies. Even on his death-bed | martial character, was the great task of this reign. he spoke words to our elders which have kept | But not exclusively, Under him was performed peace among us since he has gone. While he yet | one of the feats incredible except in Montenegro. lived, we swore by his name. We felt his smile a/ Ten men in 1835 seized by a coup-de-main the blessing, and his anger a curse. We do so still.”* | 914 castle of Zabliak, once the capital of Zeta, The voice of his people declared him a saint. | held it for four days against 3,000 Turks, and Did the Vatican ever issue an award more likely | then surrendered it only by order of the Vladika, Thirty-five years after his death Miss Macken- zie and Miss Irby, in their remarkable tour, vis- ited the country. They found still living some of those who had lived under St. Peter; and thus they give the report of him which they received: to be ratified above ? who was anxious to avoid a war. Nearly all his I have already indicated resemblances be- | battles were victories. tween the characteristic features of Montenegro | This giant had received at St. Petersburg a and of Homeric or Achaian Greece. One of the | high education, and was a cultivated man, A most remarkable among them is the growth of | friend of mine has seen and admired him at men truly great in small theatres of action. Not | Venice. He goes by the title of “the hero, Peter I. only, but his successors, will bear some | Statesman, poet Vladika;" and his verse has comparison with those whom the great Greek | given him a high place in Slav literature. He is historians of the classic period have made so fa- | thus described : 4 mous. To Peter I. sueceeded his nephew Rada- “One while he was to be seen as a captain, tomovo, aged seventeen years. He was there- | sword in hand, giving an example of every mili- upon invested with the ecclesiastical habit and | tary virtue at the head of his troops; another, as the sovereignty, and in 1833, when aged only | # priest and preacher, carrying the cross alone, é * and subduing his wild compatriots into gentle- : . mene : ness; again, as an inexorable judge, ordering the consecration. § or V s | a ; ar as . om, Sir Conder WEltasen Infrems op | execution of culprits in his presence, or asa prince that he was nearly six feet eight inches in height, incorruptible, and refusing all the favors by which and thoroughly well-proportioned. His skill with it was sought to fetter his independence.” the rifle was such that, when one of his attend. | auts tossed a lemon into the air, he would readily | Down to his time, there had been a civil gov- put a bullet through it. At nineteen the cloud | ernor who acted under the metropolitan as sov- of Turkish war broke upon him from Scutari; | ereign; but the holder of the office was deposed for he had refused to accept a berat from the | for intriguing with Austria, and when the Vla- dika died at thirty-nine, ro successor had been 1 F. and W., p. 30. G., p. 23. 3G., p. 22. 3 G., p. 39. 4 F. and W., p. 62. twenty, he received at St. Petersburg episcopal | 'F.and W.., p. 58. *“Travels” of Miss Mackenzie and Miss Irby, p. 628 (0d. 1867), Also see Goptcheviteh, p. 21. |

Page 104

104 appointed, the change, which was effected on the death of Peter the Poet in 1851. But a share in it was due to that subtile influence, the love of woman, which has so many times operated at great crises upon human affairs, The young Danilo, the nephew of the deceased Vladika, designated for the succession, was attached toa beautiful girl in Trieste, and the hope of union with her could only be maintained in the event of his avoiding episcopal consecration, which entailed the obli- gation of celibacy. The Senate almost unani- mously supported him in his determination ; and thus was effected a change which perhaps was required by the spirit of the times. The old system, among other points, entailed a great difficulty with respect to regulating the succes- sion, which, among a people less simple and loy- | al, would have been intolerable. So, then, ended | tbat line of the Vladikas of Montenegro, who had done a work tor freedom, as well as for religion, never surpassed in any country of the g.obe. Of the trappings and enjoyments of power, they had known nothing. To them, it was endeared as well as sanctified only by bur- dens and by perils. Their dauntless deeds, their simple, self-denying lives, have earned for them a place of high honor in the annals of mankind, and have laid for their people the solid ground- work on which the future, and a near future as it seems, will build. Danilo did no dishonor, during his short reign, to the traditions of his episcopal prede- cessors. He consummated the great work of in- ternal order, and published in 1855 the statute- book in force until 1876. In the war with Omar Pasha (1852-'53), the military fame of the coun- try was thoroughly maintained, under admirable leaders, though as usual with inferior arms and numbers, During the Crimean struggle, he maintained the formal neutrality of his country, | though it cost him a civil war, and nearly caused the severance of Berda from the ancient Monte- negro.! In May, 1858, his brother Mirko revived and rivaled at Grabovo all the old military glo- ries of Tsernagora. Having no artillery, and very inferior arms, the Montenegrins swept down from the bill upon the gunners of the Turks, and destroyed them. In this battle the Ottoman force, inclosed in a basin or corrie, without pow- er of retreat, displayed a desperate valor, for which on most other occasions they have not THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. This, perhaps, tended to accelerate | commonly had been. been by any means so remarkable. Nor was their numerical superiority so manifold as it 1 F. and W., pp. 6570. G., p. 35. | They were defeated with — the loss of several thousand lives, fourteen guns, colors, baggage, and munitions. From the bod, ies of many dead were taken English as well ag French medals, obviously granted for the Crim. ean War, which were seen by Miss Mackenzie and Miss Irby among the collection of trophies at Cettinjé.!. The victory of Grabovo produced a great excitement among the rayahs of Turkey, _ But the great powers of Europe came to the help of the Porte and its huge empire against the Liliputian state, that is scarcely a speck upon its map. It had to abide a diplomatic ver. dict. A commission, sitting at Constantinople, accorded to it the advantage of establishing ig principle the delimitation of its frontiers, and in 1859 admitted its envoy, notwithstanding the protest of Ali Pasha, to take part in its delibera. tions. But the powers had in 1857 determined lat Paris that, in return for some small acere tion, and for access to the sea, Montenegro should definitively acknowledge the suzerainty of the Porte.? Her refusal was positive, despite the wishes of the prince. It was to French? not British, advocacy that she seems to have owed a declaration of May, 1858,4* which ae knowledged the independence of the Black Mountain. , In August, 1860, Prince Danilo was shot on the quay of Cattaro. The assassin was prompt ed by a motive of private revenge, for which dif ferent grounds are assigned. Like his prede cessors, he lived and died a hero. In what esti mation he was held, let Miss Mackenzie and Miss Irby testify. On his death his body had beem carried up the mountain, and deposited ins church. For many weeks afterward, as they tell us, this church was filled, morning, noon, and all night through, by his people, men, women, and children ; and stalwart warriors were, as of old, dissolved in tears. ap Danilo was succeeded by his nephew Nikitay the present Prince of Montenegro. He had . at his accession completed his nineteenth yeah It is characteristic of the principality that own father, Mirko, the victor of Grabovo, come” tentedly gave way to him. Goptchevitch, th @ brother of his aunt, Princess Darinka, acquaint} us that he set out with two fixed ideas: 1. 167 prosecute the civilizing work among his people; 2. To liberate the sister Servian lands still in 1 Mackenzie and Irby, p. 610. 2 F. and W., p. 3 It is fair to say that there is, so far as 1 know, English account of the affair. ; 4 F. and W., p. 73. 7

Page 105

ee ae ee re a a oe. ee + . ee we “ewe oe = lUcOlUOlCO hc thlC TC CTU OCU! rr ® * Se rit : This writer appears disposed, in regard vitude.! to the present sovereign, rather to play the part of critic than of eulogist, but ascribes to him great merit in his political conduct, and in the prosecution of social reforms. Soon after his accession, Montenegro was worsted, after a long resistance, in a war with Turkey. She had been driven to her crags, when diplomatic mediation brought about a settlement. It was then proved that an empire of 35,000,000 could gain the ad- vantage against a tribe under 200,000. Only, however, when she could concentrate against it all, or nearly all, her forces; when she had a general, not a Turk, of the ability of Omar Pasha; when she had reformed her whole arma- ment by means of European loans; and when Montenegro had but her old muskets and old ways. Since then a great change has taken place. The army has been organized in thirty battalions, 800 strong; and now for the first time we hear of an endeavor to establish a cer- tain strength of cavalry. The fighting-men are reckoned at 35,000; but the military age begins at twelve. The obligation for offensive service runs only from seventeen ; but it appears that the zeal of patriotism carries the people while yet boys into the ranks. The force available for general operations, between seventeen and fifty, amounts to 24,000. The arms have been greatly improved, two-thirds having breech-loaders, all (as is stated) revolvers, and most of them carry- ing the handschar. During the war from July to October, 1876, we heard much of the Turkish vietories over a Servian army composed princi- pally of peasants put suddenly into the ranks, with a salting of real soldiers; but very little, in comparison, of their failures and defeats in the conflict with Montenegro. Goptchevitch has sup- plied? a detailed account of the operations. I shall refer only to the most remarkable. On the 28th of July the men of Tsernagora encountered Muktar Pasha, and for once with superior force. Four thousand Turks were killed, but only sev- eaty men of Montenegro. Osman Pasha was taken ; Selim was among the slain. At Medun, om the 14th of August, 20,000 Turks were de- feated by 5,000 of these heroic warriors, and 4,700 slain. On the 6th of September five bat- talions of Montenegro defeated Dervisch Pasha in his movement upon Piperi, and slew 3,000 of hismen. On the 7th of October Muktar Pasha, with 18,000 men, drove three Montenegrin bat- MONTENEGRO. 105 strength of 6,000 men. Thus reénforced, they swept down upon Muktar, and, after an action of sixteen hours, drove him back to Kloluk, leav- ing 1,500 dead behind him. On the 10th of Oc- tober Dervisch Pasha effected an advance from the south, until he found himself attacked simultane. ously at various points, and had to retreat with a loss of 2,000 men. On the 20th of October Medun was taken, and the Ottoman general fled to Scutari, leaving garrisons in Spuz and Podgo- ritza. The armistice arrested this course of dis- asters, when the southern army (Dervisch) had been reduced from 45,000 to 22,000, and the northern (Muktar) from 35,000 to 18,000. So much for that “‘ indomitable pluck” of the Turks, which has since moved the enthusiastic admiration of a British ninister. Goptchevitch reckons the slain on the Turkish side at 26,000 ; on theside of Montenegro, at 1,000. And there is no wonder if we find the Montene- grins now aspire to breech-loaders and to caval- ry; they captured from their enemies (with much besides) 12,000 breech-loaders and 1,500 horses. Montenegro brought into action in all 25,000 men: 17,000 of her own, 2,000 allies, aud 6,000 insurgents from the Turkish provinces—a fact, this last, highly indigestible for those who con- tend that rebellions in Turkey are not sustained by natives, but by foreigners. The entire Turk- ish force directed against Tsernagora is stated at the enormous total of 130,000. It was, of course, chiefly Asiatic. It will be observed that the whole of these fig- ures are taken from a work on the Slavonic side. The author has had the best means of informa- tion, and the statements are written not for our information, but for that of the sober and studi- ous Germans, They are such as might at first sight well provoke a smile of incredulity. Yet, strange to say, they are in pretty close conform- ity with the general, the nearly unbroken, tenor of a series of wars reaching over four centuries. This is the race which, when asked for tribute, offered stones ; whose privations were such that, on one occasion, having taken some hundreds of Turkish prisoners, they gladly accepted in ex- change the same number of pigs ; who clothe the coward in the garb of woman, but whose women freely grasp the rifle in the hour of need; yet whose men of war weep like women for the dead prince they love ; and whose fathers in 1484 car- ried the printing-press with them to the moun- talions back upon Mirotinsko Dolove. Here they vere raised, by a junction with Vukotitch, to a 1G., p. 40. 2 Pp, 188-193, tains. What became of that printing-press? Prob- ably when, not long after the removal to the hills,

Page 106

106 a vast army of Ottomans penetrated to Cettinjé and burned the monastery, it perished in the flames. The act of carrying it there demonstrat- ed the habits, and implied the hopes, of a true civilization. But those habits and those hopes could not survive the cruel, inexorable incidents of the position. Barbarous himself in origin, and rendered far more barbarous by the: habitual tyranny incident of necessity to his peculiar po- sition in these provinces, the Turk bas barbar- ized every tribe about him, except those whom he unmanned. The race of Tsernagora, with their lives ever in their hand, have inhabited not a ter- ritory, but a camp; and camp-life, bad at the best, is terrible in its operation when it becomes continuous for twelve generations of men. It was only a fraction of the brutality and cruelty of Turks that in course of time was learned by the mountaineers. But even that fraction was enough to stir a thrill of horror. Of the expos- ure of the heads of the slain I cannot speak so strongly as some, who appear to forget that we did the same thing in the middle of the last cen- tury which Montenegro carried on into this one ; and that a Jacobite, fighting for his ancient line of kings, may fairly bear comparison with a race which had claimed a commission not only to con- quer all the earth, but to blast and blight all they conquered. On both sides this was a coarse, harsh practice, and it was nothing more. The game cannot be said of the mutilation of prison- ers. There was an undoubted case of this kind during the late war, when a batch of Turks had their noses or upper lips, or both, cut away. This is certainly very far less bad than burning, flaying, impaling, and the deeds worse even than these in Bulgaria, for which rewards and decora- tions have been given by the Porte. But it was a vile act; and we have to regret that no meas- ures have been taken by the British agency which published it to trace it home, so that we might know the particulars of time, place, and circum- stance, and learn whether it was done by Mon- tenegrins or by their allies, who have not under- gone the civilizing influence of the last four reigns in Tsernagora. The unnaturally severe condi- tions which have been normal in Montenegrin existence will be best of all understood by the ideas und usages which have prevailed among themselves toward one another: 1. We are told that death in battle came to be regarded as natu- ural death, death in bed as something apart from Nature; 2. Agriculture, and, still more, all trad- ing industry, fell into disrepute among these in- veterate warriors, and the first was left to the | THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. women, while they depended upon foreign Jandy to supply the handicrafts; 3. When a comradg was wounded in battle so as to be helpless, the first duty was to remove him; but, if this werg impossible from the presence of the enemy, thea to cut off his head, so as to save hiro from the shame or torture which he was certain to incurif taken alive by the Turks, Not only was this an ae of friendship, but a special act of special friendship, There grew up among the mountaineers a custom of establishing a conventional relationship, which they called bond-brotherhood ; and it was a pan ticular duty of the bond-brother to perform this fearful office for his mate. In fact, the idea of it became for the Montenegrin simple and ee mentary, as we may learn from an anecdote, with a comic turn, given by Sir Gardner Wilkinson, When the Austrians and Montenegrins were fighting against the Turks, allies of the Freneh, on a certain occasion a handful of men had t fly for their lives. Two Austrians were among them, of whom one had the misfortune to be what is called stout. When the party had rum some way, he showed signs of extreme distress, and said he would throw himself on the ground, and take his chance. “Very well,” said a fet low-fugitive, “‘make haste, say your prayers, make the sign of the cross, and I will then eat off your head for you.” As might be expected, this was not at all the view of the Austrian if his proposal, and the friendly offer had such am effect upon him, that he resumed the race, and reached a place of safety. Under the steady re forming influences which have now been at work for nearly a hundred years, few vestiges of this state of things probably remain. But I will dedicate the chief part of myT® maining space to the application of that crite rion which is of all others the sharpest and surest test of the condition of a country—namely, the idea it has embraced of woman, and the posta it assigns to her. This is both the weak, the very weak, a also the strong point of Montenegro. The wom en till the fields, and may almost be said to them ; for Lady Strangford testifies that she various patches of ground in cultivation W were less than three feet square, and it that handfuls of soil are put together even a single root will grow. More than this, over great ladder-road between Cettinjé and Catt the women carry such parcels, bound toge as, being over ten pounds in weight, are heavy for the post; and Goptchevitch rect the seemingly easy performance of her task by ’ their only | One « band know gener the H Tl ungai ures, Miss a yea crime are, ¥ almos tion a found try pt which Every en en. every perfec the F debte throu, admit: isfied du re et d’a en wa

Page 107

Sr?raeaberaAtFTPRF ian Sra Pe S547 SPTSSeereBPaanscs sere MONTENEGRO. woman who was the bearer of his large and long portmanteau.’ Consequently, though the race is beautiful, and this beauty may be seen in very young girls, as women they become short in stat- ure, with harsh and repulsive features. Nor is ‘their social equality recognized, since they not only labor but perform menial offices for the men, One of our authorities? informs us that the hus- band often beats his wife. This, however, to my knowledge, was a practice which did not excite general repugnance, one generation back, among the Hellenic inhabitants of Cephalonia. The portrait thus set before us is sufficiently ungainly: let us turn to its more winning feat- ures, Crime of all kinds is rare in Montenegro: Miss Mackenzie and Miss Irby inform us that in a year the jail had but two prisoners, But the crimes, or sins, which have reference to woman, are, whether in their viler or their milder forms, almost unknown. Not violation only, but seduc- tion and prostitution, says Goptchevitch, are not found in Montenegro.’ The old law of the coun- try punished all unchastity with death—a law of which there seem to be traces also in Bulgaria. Everywhere the purity and modesty of the maid- en enjoy an absolute respect; and a woman, in every defile, every hamlet of Tsernagora, is a perfect escort for the traveler. Moreover, even the French writer to whom I am so much in- debted, and who seems to view this matter through a pair of Parisian spectacles, candidly admits that the Montenegrin woman is quite sat- isfied with her state. “La Monténégrine semble du reste se complaire dans ce réle d’infériorité et d'abjection.”* If the condition of the wom- en was not Parisian, neither, it may be truly said, was that of the men. The women have the same passionate attach- ment with the men to family and country, and display much of the same valor. Goptchevitch supplies two most remarkable examples. A sis- ter and four brothers, the four of course all armed, are making a pilgrimage or excursion to achurch. The state of war with the Turk being normal, we need not wonder when we learn that they are attacked unawares on their way, in a pass where they proceed in single file, by seven armed Turks—who announce themselves by shooting dead the first of the brothers, and dan- gerously wounding the second. The odds are fearful, but the fight proceeds, The wounded man leans against the rock, and, though he re- celves another and fatal shot, kills two of the ?G., p. 81. 2 F. and W., p. 153. *G., pp. 76, 77, 4 F. and W., p. 150. 107 Turks before he dies, The sister presses for- ward, and grasps his rifle and his dagger. At last all are killed on both sides, excepting her- self and a single Turk, She asks for mercy; and he promises it, but names her maidenly hon- or as the price. Indignant, and perceiving that now he is off his guard, she stabs him with the dagger. He tears it from her hand, they close, and she dashes the wretch over the precipice into the yawning depth below.! The second anecdote is not less singular. Tidings reach a Montenegrin wife that her hus- band has just been slain by a party under the command of a certain aga. Knowing the road by which they are traveling, she seizes a rifle, chooses her position, and shoots the aga dead. The rest of the party take to flight. The wife of the dead aga sends her an epistle. “ Thou hast robbed me of both my eyes. Thou art a genu ine daughter of Tsernagora. Come to-morrow alone to the border-line, and we will prove by trial which of us was the better wife.” The Tsernagorine appeared, equipped with the arms of the dead aga, and alone as she was invited. But the Turkish woman had thought prudence the better part of valor, and brought an armed champion with her, who charges her on horse- back. She shot him dead as he advanced, and, seizing her faithless antagonist, bound her and took her home, kept her as a vursemaid for fourteen years, and then let her go back to her place and people.? Such, in the rudest outline, is the Montenegro of history, and of fact. Such it was. Such it is. But what will it be? On some points we may speak with boldness; on others it must be with reserve. However unskillful may be the hand which has inseribed these pages, it can hardly have expelled so completely from the wonderful picture both its color and its form as not to have left in it vestiges at least and sugges- tions of a character greatly transcending the range of common experience, and calculated to awaken an extraordinary interest. Montenegro, which has carried down through four centuries, in the midst of a constant surge of perils, a charmed life, we may say with confidence will not die. No Russian, no Austrian eagle will build its nest in the Black Mountain.? The men of Tsernagora, who have never allowed the very shadow of a Turkish title to grow up by silent prescription, will claim their portion‘ of an air 1G, p. 79. 2 Ibid., p. 78. F. and W., p. 159. - 2 In the arms of Montenegro appears a “ sovran eagle” crowned. 4F. and W., p. 500.

Page 108

108 and soil genial to man, and of free passage to | and fro over the land and sea which God has | given us. It is another question whether their brethren of the Servian lands will amalgamate with them politically on an extended scale, and revive, either by a federal or an incorporating | union, the substance, if not tke form, of the old Servian state. Such an arrangement would prob- ably be good for Europe, and would go some | way to guarantee freedom and self-government | to the other European provinces of Turkey, whether under Ottoman suzerainty or otherwise. There is another question deeper and more vital. Rudeness and ferocity are rapidly vanishing; | when their last trace disappears, will the sim- plicity, the truth, the purity, the high-strung de- votion, the indomitable heroism, lose by degrees their native tone, and their clear, sharp outline, and will a vision on the whole so glorious for them, so salutary and corrective for us, “,... Dieaway, And fude into the light of common day?” ! To the student of human nature, forty years ago, Pitcairn’s Island offered a picture of singu- lar interest, no less remote morally than locally | from common life—a paradise, not, indeed, of high intellect and culture, but of innocence and | virtue. It became necessary to find for the grow- | ing numbers a larger site, and they were carried to Norfolk Island, when it had been purged of its population of convicts double-dyed. The spot | was lovely, and the conditions favorable ; but the organism would not bear transplanting, and the Pitcairners fast declined into the common mass of men. Is this to be the fate of the men of Mon- tenegro when they substitute ease, and plenty, and power, and the pleasures and luxuries of life, for that stern but chivalrous wooing of adversity, the “ relentless power,” in which they have been reared to a maturity of such incomparable hardi- hood? I dare not say; they have a firmer fibre, a closer tissue, than ever was woven in the soft air and habitudes of Pitcairn; may they prove too strong for the world, and remain what in sub- stance they are—a select, a noble, an imperial race ! In another point of view, they offer a subject of great interest to the inquiries of the naturalist. Physically, they are men of exceptional power and stature. Three causes may perhaps be sug- gested. The habits of their life have been in an extraordinary degree hardy, healthy, simple ; if 1 Wordsworth, “ Ode on Recollections of Childhood.” THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. they have felt the pressure of want at times, they. have never known the standing curse of pleth, ora: “. ... Nec nova febrium Terris incubuit cohors.”’ Next, may not the severe physical conditions of the Black Mountain have acted as a test, shut out from the adult community all who not attain to a high standard of masculine vigor? Among other notable features, they are a people | of great longevity. Sir G. Wilkinson (shade Of Lewis, hear it not!) found among them, living together as a family, seven successive gener tions ; the patriarch had attained the age of on hundred and seventeen, with a son of one hum dred. A youth of seventeen or eighteen very commonly marries a girl of thirteen or fourteen! But, thirdly, I conceive that moral causes may have coéperated powerfully with outward Natur in this matter. Fortes creantur fortibus et bonit, The men who went up with Ivan were men @ great souls; and this greatness, transmitted with blood and fortified by habit, may have assisted in supplying us with what seems to be a remark | able case of both natural and providential selete tion. For the materials of this sketch I have bee principally indebted to the two works named # its head. They are, I believe, the best on the subject; one is large and elaborate, the a also full, coming down almost to this day. is as yet no comprehensive book on Montenegtd in our language. We have recently had art on it in the Church Quarterly Review and in Mae millan, the latter guaranteed by the high name of Mr. Freeman. Sir Gardner Wilkinson led the way thirty years ago with some chapters on Mountain in his Dalmatian work. Dr. Neale hat” supplied some very brief but interesting notices Lady Strangford’s sketch is slight and thin, bat with ample power of observation. Miss Mack zie and Miss Irby were able to bestow far B of time and care on a subject well worthy 3 them, and have probably made by much tht most valuable contribution extant in our Tai guage, under this as under other heads, to knowledge of those South Slavonic provi whose future will, we may humbly trust, the miseries of their past. ‘ Whereas thou been forsaken and hated, so that no man Wi through thee, I will make thee an eternal cellency, a joy of many generations.” *—™ teenth Century . 1G. p. 1% 2 Isaiah Ix. 15.

Page 109

F Dns FRSeaRr SSG SP ADE TERS a PRR R SSS tse st Sas SPONTANEOUS GENERATION. 109 THE GERM-THEORY AND SPONTANEOUS GENERATION. PASTEUR—TYNDALL—BASTIAN. N almost all subjects it is pleasant to know QO that, in spite of occasional fluctuations, our acquaintance with Nature advances with a steady pace. Science makes good her ground as she marches forward from age to age. The con- troversies of one epoch become the certainties of the next. The errors of early investigators are slain never to revive. The doubts and mists of a tentative philosophy crystallize by degrees into true principles of science, which evolve fresh doubts and mists destined to be transformed in their turn by the finer alchemy of a more in- structed future. The most bigoted opponents of modern inquiry give at this day a ready assent to doctrines which were once denounced as dia- bolical heresies. Even the pope would shrink from cursing the memory of Galileo, and is forced to yield a reluctant or unconscious homage to the triumphant career of scientific truth. There is one seeming exception to this law of continuous advance—one controversy which has maintained itself in full vigor from the earliest dawn of thought to its latest develop- ment, and is at least as animated now as it has been at any stage of the world’s history. Thou- sands of years ago men speculated with more or | less agreement on the mystery of the origin of life, and though modern work has multiplied the materials for speculation, it seems to have left us as far as ever from agreement. No one, indeed, doubts now that all the higher types of life with which the earth teems have been developed by the patient process of evolution from lower or- ganisms, and in logical consistency we are bound to trace back the series to the simplest forms of protoplasm which the microscope reveals to us as living units. But all this is but the outcome of life from life, and leaves us without an ap- proach to a solution of the mighty question of the origin of life. There was a time when the earth was a red-hot melted @obe on which no life could exist. In course of ages its surface cooled ; but, to quote the words of one of our Greatest savanis, “ when it first became fit for life there was no living thing upon it.” How, then, ‘re we to conceive the origination of organized creatures? Did moulds and confervoid growths, f some yet simpler primordial germs, spring once for all into existence by a fiat of creative power to become the fruitful parents of all vege- tal and animal life, or is the same law which brought out of the dust of the earth the earliest of its organic inhabitants still in operation, and are we to imagine that the lowest organisms, con- stantly being drafted into higher grades as the work of evolution goes on, have their ranks as constantly replenished by a fresh development of life from the so-called dead materials of the parent earth? These are questions to which @ priori dreams can give no answer, According to his temperament a man may feel, he knows not why, impelled to prefer the one or the other hypothesis. To one mind it seems easier to fancy a single discontinuous effort of life-creating power, while another rests more naturally in the faith that the law of continuity which dominates all other phases of Nature wili ultimately come to be accepted as indicating the unceasing operation of the same agency which once, at any rate, must have bridged over the gulf between living and non-living matter. Thus scientific belief has come to be divided, and, indeed, has almost always been divided, be- tween two hypotheses: one—let us call it the germ-theory—which declares that no life has ever been evolved (except in the remotest periods of the earth’s history), otherwise than from a living parent or a living germ; the other, familiarly though not very accurately styled the spontane- ous generation theory, which declares that, now as of old, life does also spring de novo from mo- lecular rearrangements of the atoms of dead or- ganic materials. The attitude of the one school has never been more truly pictured than in the eloquent words of Prof. Huxley, when, many years ago, he laid before the British Association the tenets of what he called, not his belief, but his philosophic faith upon this matter: “If it were given to me to look beyond the abyss of geologically recorded time to the still more remote period when the earth was passing through physical and chemical conditions which it can no more see again than a man can recall his infancy, I should expect to be a witness of the evolution of living protoplasm from not-living matter.” The attitude of the opposite school has often expressed itself in some such shape as this: “I have no warrant

Page 110

110 for supposing that the physical or chemical con- ditions of the earth were more favorable to life- evolution in the past than in the present. I recoil from a gratuitous assumption of discon- tinuity in Nature, and, if I were permitted to discern the movements of ultimate molecules, I should expect to behold primordial forms of life incessantly springing up from the same so-called dead but potentially living matter which, on any hypothesis, must at one time have developed them.” Analogical reasons, which are supposed to recommend these rival hypotheses, have been accumulated by their partisans with wonderful assiduity. On the one side, it is urged that all the more developed beasts and birds, fishes and plants, are multiplied by offshoots from a living parent, and that it is a relief to the mind to thrust back into a remote antiquity a process which obliterates the exaltation of living creat- ures over dead material. On the other, it is ob- served that the constant conversion of dead food into living protoplasm is the very condition of vital existence; that the earliest living products must have arisen by a similar process, without the stimulus afforded by contact with living cells ; and that no reason can be assigned why the forces of Nature should be powerless now to do what unquestionably they did in the so-called infancy of the world. And arguments from analogy have unfortunately been reénforced by arguments from authority, and this almost as freely by the one school as by the other. For fashion may be traced in the world of science no less than in the world of society, and fashion has more than once changed sides with singular caprice in her esti- mate of the vital controversy. One of the first modern propounders of the maxim Omne vivum ex vivo was denounced as a wicked contravener of Scripture, which in his day was supposed to favor the theory of spontaneous generation. The later expositors of this once orthodox doctrine have been impartially condemned as materialistic enemies of natural religion. But all such carping passes by the truly scientific mind as idle wind. No authority, except the authority of experi- mental work, can weigh a feather in the balance. No a priori reasoning can give the victory to either creed. The deep mystery of the subject defies all shallow treatment ; but not the less is it true, as Sir William Thomson has said with respect to this very question, that “ Science is bound by the everlasting law of honor to face fearlessly every problem which can fairly be pre- THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. sented to her,” and we may add that she is | bound to face this problem cased in the % panoply of candor and armed with the same weapons of inductive investigation with which she has conquered all the domain which she now holds. Nor is there anything in the enterprigg to justify despair. Once be sure that you ea isolate a portion of dead matter, and the riddig is solved. If, after repeated and patiently varied trials, life uniformly fails to appear, the hp pothesis of a single act, or at any rate a singlg epoch, of life-evolution becomes almost irresisti. ble. If, on the other hand, life shows itself ing sufficient number of instances to exclude the probability of accidental error, the theory of what is called spontaneous generation must bé accepted as a scientific truth. “8 That the controversy resolved itself into thig purely experimental question has been frankly recognized ever since the time when experieng® was acknowledged to be the only basis of natural science. For many generations an almost wm broken succession of inquirers have striven perform the crucial experiment which we have indicated, and, though sometimes ‘one and some times the other party has for a time claimed vie tory all along the line, the struggle still maintaing itself as fiercely as ever. Redi’s inferences, ak verse upon the whole to spontaneous generation; stood their ground for a century, till they we displaced by Needham’s experiments. Needham in his turn, was discredited by Spallanzani; andy in our own day, the battle has been continued by Pasteur and Pouchet in France ; by Bastian) Lister, Sanderson, and Tyndall, in England; bf Huitzinga, Cohn, Klebs, and Billroth, in Holland Austria, and Germany ; by Mantegazza, Cantomly and Oehl, in Italy ; by Wyman, in America; aa by other inquirers, too numerous to mention, it | all parts of the civilized world. The multituds of experiments which have been tried to date this single point is almost countless, and yet no generally accepted conclusion has | reached. It is such a simple matter to state conditions of the requisite investigation that is tempted at first sight to marvel at the per ency of the contest. There is absolutely ne to be done but tg take dead matter, isolate from all contact with life, place it under fave conditions for development, and watch the and yet this task has seemed to defy the of as keen a body of inquirers as ever att any problem of Nature. If we look a litde¢ into the matter, we shall perhaps cease to at the discordant conclusions which rival ' have deduced. We are too apt to forget that) e % 3 9 e a a exper easy t involv how n isolati condit tion 0 close why s have | verdic’ elusior trolled cedure fied, th seem, on eit we ma final w though terestit accum' . caution In tending to fam which { vey of | ment w telligen trovers: matter certaint face of us that Most ey bile vit germina upon, in with eq What w of mierc of ordin guess, experim scribed s is the f this subj itis not

Page 111

RRA ERERRRAER PETS SAR SSE 6 ESS LEE ee DD Oman SPONTANEOUS GENERATION. experiment may be as hard to perform as it is easy to enunciate. If we consider how much is involved in the direction to take dead matter, how much again in the requirement of absolute jsolation, and how much more in the selection of conditions for life-evolution and the determina- tion of the presence or absence of life at the close of the process, we shall begin to understand why so long a time and so much honest labcr have been consumed without arriving at a final verdict. But everything points to a speedy con- clusion. By a long course of patient work, con- trolled by eager criticism, the methods of pro- cedure have been gradually perfected and simpli- fied, the opposing ranks have closed, as it would seem, for their decisive struggle, the champions on either side have pressed to the front, and we may reasonably hope before long to see the final upshot of a controversy as old as scientific thought. Atsuch an epoch it may not be unin- teresting to glance at the salient points of the accumulated evidence, perhaps even to hazard a . cautious forecast of the impending result. In order to comprehend the positions of con- tending forces, it is always essential thoroughly to familiarize ourselves with the battle-ground which they occupy; and a somewhat closer sur- vey of what we have termed the crucial experi- ment will be found not less essential to any in- telligent appreciation of the position of this con- troversy. And first, what do we mean by dead matter? How is it possible to predicate with certainty the absence of life from anything on the face of the earth? The microscope has taught us that life in some shape or other abounds in al- most everything about us. Either in active mo- bile vitality, o. in the suspended animation of germinal existence, life teems in the soil we tread upon, in the water we drink, and, as some say, with equal abundance in the air we breathe What worlds may exist as far beyond the range of microscopic vision as this surpasses the sphere of ordinary eyesight, no one can do more than guess. How, then, is the first requirement of our experiment to be satisfied? How is the pre- scribed specimen of dead matter to be got? This is the primary difficulty which investigators of this subject have had to grapple with. Happily tis not insurmountable. It is as certain as any fact in the whole range of science, that all living things and all living germs may be destroyed by the agency of heat. How much heat is needed to fect the destruction of life is still in question, but no one doubts that matter may be made ab- wlutely dead by subjecting it to the influence of 111 ! a sufficiently high temperature. The next condi- tion — perfect isolation from surrounding life, whether active or germinal—has given more trouble, but can now be readily satisfied. All are agreed that no living germ can pass through a sound plate of glass; and a certain—perhaps in practice the only quite certain—method of isolation is to inclose the heated dead matter within a glass vessel hermetically sealed. Other less perfect means have been tried with various degrees of success, Many experimenters have found that the simple expedient of stuffing the narrow neck of a glass vessel with a plug of cot- ton-wool generally suffices to exclude the passage of living germs. Another method sometimes adopted is, to use for the experiment a flask with a long neck, so arranged that a portion of it can be kept at a high temperature, so as to burn out from the passing air every particle of living mat- ter which it may contain. A third expedient, simpler than either of these, is to bend the open neck of the experimental flask alternately upward and downward, so as to form in each bend a re- ceptacle into which the dust, dead or living, of the air will fall; andit has been said that this method may be relied on as surely protecting the interior of the flask from the approach of living germs, provided the subsidence is not interfered with by currents of air of too great vigor. Yet an- other method is to seal the open orifice of the flask by cementing over it a plate of earthenware, | porous enough to admit air where that is desired, | but of a texture so close as to bar the passage of the minutest germ. All of these methods have been proved again | and again to be more or less efficacious, but the only one the success of which can be predicated with absolute certainty is that which we first mentioned, though the last no doubt deserves to be trusted when practised with adequate care. When a glass vessel is hermetically closed we are able to say that its contents are isolated from everything outside which cannot pass through a film of glass. This barrier, it is known, suffices to stop the minute molecules of gas or vapor; and it is beyond doubt that it must exclude all grosser particles, including any living germs which may be supposed to be floating in the air. It was by adopting this process that Spallanzani in the last century turned the tide of opinion against Need- ham, whose results in support of spontaneous generation had been obtained by using a much clumsier method of excluding contamination ; and it is not a little remarkable that after the superi- ority of this treatment had been so signally estab-

Page 112

112 lished any subsequent investigators should have abandoned it in favor of a less exact mode of ex- perimentation. No maintainer of the theory of spontaneous generation would deserve a hearing if he refused _ to subject his experiments to the conclusive test afforded by a method which, with ordinary care, is known to be infallible; and germ - theorists would be fairly justified in rejecting all adverse experiments performed with no better safeguards than bent tubes or plugs of cotton-wool. The strange thing is that the severe condition of her- metically sealing has been self-imposed by Bastian and most other supporters of the de novo origin of life, while Pasteur, the great champion of the germ-theory, and many of his disciples (Tyndall among the rest), have generally been content to use less stringent methods. The consequences which have flowed from the extraordinary indul- gence thus extended by these savanis to their adversaries will be seen when we review a few of the most important series of experiments relied on upon either side. But for the present it is enough to note that neither of the first two funda- mental conditions of the crucial experiment is be- yond the resources of science. By applying suf- ficient heat dead matter may be obtained. By hermetically sealing the glass vessel which con- tains it the condition of perfect isolation may be secured. The remaining steps in the investigation are comparatively free from difficulty. If the experi- ment is performed on suitable materials we know empirically under what conditions of temperature, concentration, and the like, life is most wont to appear, though absolute uniformity of result can- not always be predicted. Under some conditions it is found that life is invariably developed. Un- der other conditions it will frequently show itself. With yet other conditions its manifestation is ex- tremely rare; while in others, again, its non-ap- pearance may be almost certainly predicted. For the purpose of fully investigating the laws of life- evolution such limited knowledge as this would be far short of what is needed. But in order to solve the simpler question, whether life can, under any circumstances, arise without the presence of previously-living germs, it is amply sufficient, The last step of all in the inquiry was once supposed to present difficulties of the most serious kind. When one observer declared that he had found living things in a fluid which he had examined, it was quite a matter of course for his critics to suggest that what he had seen consisted of noth- ing but dead matter. It was not always easy to THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. dead particles may simulate to some extent the movements of life. . It is true that no observer of any experience could fail to discriminate bet these Brownian movements, as they are and the active, darting motions of lively bacteria or monads; but still the doubt was so easy for an outside caviler to suggest, and it was so hand for a solitary worker to prove that he had not misinterpreted what he saw, that a haze of unce tainty was apt to rest on experiments dependent on such observations. Fortunately, this sour of skepticism has been dried up. A much better test of life than motion is now almost always on—the power of multiplication. In all the expe ments made with a view to try the truth of the cival theories we are considering, the particule form of life which is developed is that which ag companies ordinary putrefaction or fermentation, and it is now quite established that where putre faction or fermentation is going on, life, in the shape of swarms of rapidly-multiplying bacteria, _ torule, or analogous organisms, may be assumed to be present. The question, in fact, has passed out of the range of the microscope. If a trane lucent organic fluid is seen to gradually grow tu» bid and putrefy, there is no need of a mic to prove that the opalescent or turbid clo composed of a teeming mass of microscopic orga isms. In doubtful cases of scarcely perceptible turbidity the microscope is often appealed to with success, and may always be used for confirmation But in the great majority of cases the unassiste) senses suffice to determine the presence or ale sence of life. Enough has been said to demonstrate tle feasibility of experiments decisive of the great issue raised in the cause of Spontaneous Generte tion vs, Germ Theory. It remains to consider how the balance of evidence inclines at Within the compass allotted to an article in pages it would be impossible to discuss or refer to a tithe of the experiments which haw been performed with a view to elucidate the eae ject under consideration. A rather severelyte stricted selection becomes a necessity, and it very important that the selection should be erned by some fair and just principle. first consideration clearly ought to be given @ the experiments which, from the conditions which they were performed, are entitled tot greatest weight. The great bulk of scientific is almost of necessity conducted in solitude oF, the presence only of subordinate assistant answer such objections, for the ordinary test of life is motion, and in the field of the microscope a

Page 113

Bb ray nee REBAR Terese eB FT CRAP SEF PCR SEF RRSRFS RAKES ES Si Dada SPONTANEOUS GENERATION. the all-prevailing rule is to accept as facts the announcements—not necessarily the inferences— of a scientific inquirer until his conclusions have been displaced by other investigators who have repeated his experiments with scrupulous accu- racy, and have arrived at discordant results But though the work of an isolated individual must be prima facie accepted as trustworthy, it proper- ly commands a far larger measure of confidence after it has been confirmed by others, and acquires the highest title to respect when it has been chal- lenged and successfully repeated in the presence of an able opponent. In making our choice, therefore, of investigations to be specially de- scribed, we propose, whenever practicable, to put in the front rank those almost judicial experiments which have stood fire face to face with an adver- sary, and next in order to class those which have been successfully repeated by independent work- ers; resorting to what we may call solitary in- vestigations in those cases only where no con- firmed experiments exist, and paying but slight regard to mere general statement of results when the experimental details have not been furnished. Dealing in this way with the evidence on both sides, it may be practicable without exceeding due limits to present a fairly representative array of the most valuable materials for forming a rational estimate of the position of the controversy. It makes no great difference whether the work on one side or the other is brought first under re- view, but as the supporters of spontaneous gen- eration maintain the assertion that, after com- plete destruction and exclusion of germs, life will sometimes display itself, while the case of the germ-theorists amounts to a simple denial of this proposition, the more convenient arrange- ment seems to be, first to weigh the evidence in | support of the positive view, and then to set against it the negative testimony of its opponents. First, then, let us call Dr. Bastian into court, and, pursuing the course already indicated, the reader’s attention shall be first directed to a remarkable series of experiments which he performed in con- cert with Dr. Burdon-Sanderson, then a resolute Opponent, and then and now one of the very ablest investigators of this branch of biology. But before quoting the details of the Bastian- Sanderson series of experiments, which we shall do from Dr. Sanderson’s narrative published in Nature, on the 8th of July, 1873, a few words are heeded to explain the circumstances out of which this special investigation grew. Dr. Bastian had Published an account of a vast amount of work 8 113 which he had done upon this subject during a continuous investigation of several years. The general nature of his experiments, so far as they related to the possibility of the de novo origination of life, was this: He took a small glass retort- shaped flask, partly filled with some infusion of organic matter, and drew out the tube of it to an almost capillary orifice. He then boiled the in- fusion for five minutes or more with sufficient activity to spurt out some of the contents at in- tervals, so as to wash the whole interior surface | of the flask with the boiling liquid. Then, while | | | | the ebullition was still going on, he sealed the tube hermetically in a blowpipe-flame. The vacuum in the tube was tested as a safeguard against errors of manipulation, the flask was kept in a warm temperature, and the appearance or non-appearance of putrefaction and bacterial life was noted. These experiments were multiplied with a great number of different substances and with results by no means uniform. Some few in- fusions were found, as a rule, to remain clear and sterile aftera long period of incubation. With other materials putrefaction occurred only in a moderate percentage of the specimens. Another class of infusions would always give a very large proportion of fertile examples together with a few that remained permanently sterile, while there | Were some specially favorable substances which never, or scarcely ever, failed to develop bacterial putrefaction within at most a few days. Some- times, of two flasks of the same infusion treated, so far as could be ascertained, in precisely the same manner one would putrefy while the other remained pure, but in the course of his long series of investigations Dr. Bastian succeeded in dis- covering many of the conditions most favorable to the development of life. Although all the in- fusions employed, when once inoculated with the smallest drop of fluid containing bacteria, or in general when exposed to ordinary air, were cer- tain in a brief period to become turbid, from their rapid multiplication, they were by no means equally prone to putrefy when boiled and pro- tected in the sealed retorts. Urine, for example, though presumably as apt to engender life as any organic fluid that could be suggested, was for a long time thought by Bastian, as by his predeces- sors in the inquiry, to be absolutely proof against corruption if boiled and protected. Some meat- infusions offered less resistance to vital transfor- mation, but still gave varying and sometimes small percentages of positive results. Others, again, such as hay and turnip infusions, yielded | readily, though not invariably, to the putrefactive

Page 114

114 change even when kept in moderate incubating temperatures; while there was one preparation, viz., a strong infusion of turnip with a little cheese-dust added, which was almost certain to develop life. Not only did different substances behave thus differently, but fur some inscrutable reason the very same infusion would often give negative results if diluted, when it seldom failed, if concentrated, to undergo putrefactive change with its regular accompaniment of bacterial life. By degrees, too, Dr. Bastian found out that infusions which re- mained sterile at such low incubating tempera- tures as 70° or 80° Fahr. would often yield to the more genial influence of greater warmth, and that even the most intractable would in some instances succumb to a temperature from 115° to 122°. The importance of this last element in the pro- cess was not as fully ascertained as it is now till after Dr. Sanderson’s investigation, but recent ex- periments have shown that specimens of even so resistant a fluid as urine, when not too decidedly acid, are sometimes capable of producing life if kept, after boiling and sealing, in a bath at a temperature of 122°. No general rule can yet be laid down by which the behavior of any particu- lar fluid may be certainly predicted from its con- stitution without actual trial, but Bastian’s re- sults agreed in the main with many older obser- vations to the effect that neutral or very ‘faintly alkaline fluids would putrefy after boiling and sealing more frequently and readily than acid in- fusions. Bastian has also made the further dis- covery that fertility might be prevented as much by excess of alkali as by excess of acid, and that some infusions were almost always sterile unless exact neutralization was secured. Notwithstand- ing this approach to a generalization, he obtained positive results in many instances from acid, from neutral, and from alkaline fluids. We may add that he found (as Spallanzani and other observers on both sides of the question had long before done) that with most fluids a great increase in the duration of the boiling was adverse to the subsequent evolution of life, sometimes retarding its appearance for*many days, and sometimes preventing it altogether; though at the same time he ascertained that the action of other infusions was less easily interfered with, and that some would putrefy notwithstanding exposure to a boil- ing heat for one or more hours. Increase of tem- perature, and, according to some observers, even a small increase beyond the boiling-point, has also been proved to check life-development, al- though instances are recorded of putrefaction THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. x after exposure to such considerable temperatupgg as 110°, 125°, and even 150° C. a The discussion of the inferences to be drawg from cases of excessive or prolonged heating will be better deferred until we come to consider the whole mass of evidence on the question of the amount of heat required to destroy life in bacte. ria or their germs, if germs they have. At this stage we shall confine ourselves to cases whem the temperature was that obtained by boiling maintained for a few minutes only. ied When these experiments were published 1871 and 1872, the scientific world naturally hesitated to accept them finally without com | firmation, the more especially as they were of¢ | kind that called for very careful manipulation, and pointed to a conclusion opposed to what was | then the prevalent opinion on the subject. Among | those who had expressed their doubts as to the accuracy of Bastian’s work was Dr. Burdon-Sam derson. To set the matter at rest a series of fif teen flasks were operated upon in his presence according to Bastian’s method. 14 Of these one was rejected in consequence of having become cracked, and of the remaining | fourteen ten putrefied and produced bacteria and other forms of life, while four remained for several days, and perhaps, if not then broken, for observation, would have remained permanently pure. Of the ten infusions which produced life two were infusions of hay, one a strong infusion of turnip in its naturally acid state, two similar infusions of turnip neutralized with potash, tye ' turnip with cheese, and three the same neutrak ized. ut All the vigilance of an observer as acute and experienced as Dr. Sanderson failed to detect the slightest flaw in these experiments ; and he franke ly and publicly declared that he had been mis taken in his previous doubts, and that it wa established to his satisfaction that infusions.ca= be prepared which are not deprived, by an ebul lition of from five to ten minutes, of the faculty of undergoing those chemical changes which ae characterized by the presence of swarms of bag teria, and that the development of these ongale isms can proceed with the greatest activityia hermetically-sealed glass vessels from which a most the whole of the air has been expelled by boiling. sae While this important test was being ap to Bastian’s work, Profs. Huitzinga, of the Uae versity of Groningen, and Cohn, of Breslau, other well-known savanis, had been occup themselves with similar investigations, and

Page 115

. m ll ue ve e- is re J in ly a 4 n, as ug he D- if. ce of og ia or or uy fe on lar wo al ad be me is. ras an ub Ity ae call Lal ab by A 7 FS Se = SPONTANEOUS GENERATION. diately after the publication of Dr. Sanderson’s notice Huitzinga ' repeated the turnip and cheese experiments with the same result. After thus verifying Dr. Bastian’s conclusions, Huitzinga made a fresh series of trials, in which the method was slightly varied. Instead of a turnip-infusion, he used a mixture of grape-sugar and soluble salts, and at the same time he substituted for the insoluble cheese-dust a small quantity of soluble peptone. He also employed different means for excluding the possibility of atmospheric contami- nation, and closed his flasks by cementing on them small disks of earthenware, instead of seal- ing them by heat. These alterations in the pro- cess made no difference in the result. Bacteria regularly appeared when the ingredients were used in ceftain definite proportions, which Huit- singa specified. But he added the very impor- tant observation that he could, by altering the proportions of the solutions, keep his fluids ster- ile, although in other respects treated exactly as before, and he justly relied on this differential process as proving that by his method any pre- viously-existing germs in the liquid were de- stroyed and perfect isolation obtained; for the altered fluids were found as capable as ever of developing swarms of bacteria if once inoculated, though they remained barren when boiled and protected. More recently Prof. Cohn, of Breslau, whose name commands the highest confidence on this class of subjects not less in England than in his own country, has directed his attention minutely to this specific investigation, and he found* that hay-infusions, when acid, became fertile after boiling from periods ranging from fifteen to ninety minutes, while some similar in- fusions in the neutral state were not rendered tterile by boiling for two hours, although he in- dined to account for the result on the hypothesis that the death-point had not been reached at the boiling temperature, a matter which will be dis- cussed further on. Such an accumulation of evidence as this would, of course, be overwhelming unless met by something like equivalent evidence on the other side; and before touching on any of the other facts or theories involved in the dispute, it Will be well to see what the germ-theorists have say on the single specific question whether it 's possible, under any circumstances, for an or- ganic infusion, with or without particles of solid matter in suspension, to putrefy after having been boiled and protected from contact with any See Nature, March 20, 1873. 1 *“Beitriige zur Biologie der Pflanzen,” 1876, p. 259. 115 germs or dust which may be contained in the air. They are not quite agreed as to the answer to be given. None of them deny, and most of them have expressly or implicitly admitted, that a tur- nip and cheese infusion will often produce bac- teria under the specified conditions. Some of them still maintain that life never appears in any infusion so treated from which solid particles are excluded, while others limit their denial to acid infusions, and acknowledge that some neutral or slightly alkaline fluids will putrefy, notwithstand- ing previous boiling and adequate protection. How these various conclusions are interpreted by the different sections of the germ-theory school we shall consider further on. For the present we confine our attention to the simple question of fact. In marshaling the proofs on this side, we must give the first place to Pasteur, not only as due to his distinguished position, but because in order of time he preceded almost all of the mod- ern inquirers, not excepting Bastian. Pasteur operated for the most part upon a rather limited selection of fluids. His favorite medium was yeast-water sweetened in a certain definite way, which he used so frequently that it acquired the specific designation of “ Pasteur’s fluid.” Nearly all his other experjments were made with milk, with urine, or with Pasteur’s fluid, rendered neutral or faintly alkaline by the addition of carbonate of lime, the fluid in its original state béing of an acid character. Urine, also, was of course acid, and milk somewhat al- kaline. Pasteur’s method of excluding contami- nation was, in general, by allowing the approach of air only through heated tubes, the more’ per- fect plan of hermetically sealing having been re- jected by him apparently from considerations of convenience. In some cases, also, he used plugs of cotton-wool or bent tubes for the same pur- pose of excluding air-dust, and he seems to have placed a reliance on these methods to which, in other hands, they have scarcely shown themselves entitled. He boiled his fluids from two to five minutes only, and used an incubating tempera- ture of from 25° to 30° C. (77° to 86° Fahr.). The details of his principal investigation are given in the “ Annales de Chimie,” third series, volume lxiv., published in the year 1862. The results obtained were that Pasteur’s fluid and urine always remained sterile, while milk and the neutralized Pasteur’s fluid always putrefied. He reversed these last results by superheating the alkaline fluids up to temperatures of from 100° to 110° C. (105° being the heat ordinarily em- ployed), a circumstance which will deserve much

Page 116

THE POPULAR SCIENCE 116 consideration when we come to the discussion of the bacterial death-point. There exists no very definite account of any confirmation of these ex- periments, but to a certain extent they were veri- fied by Bastian and others as regards the tem- perature of 100° C., and they derive great weight from the acknowledged experimental skill of M. Pasteur. The only other experiments to which we need refer, on the point now under consideration, are the very elaborate series conducted by Prof. Tyn- dall since the Bastian-Sanderson report. These, like Pasteur’s, have not been precisely repeated, but Prof. Tyndall’s position is such as to render a careful discussion, even of his isolated work, extremely interesting. It is, perhaps, to be in- ferred, from the emphasis with which Prof. Tyn- dall restricts his statements to purely liquid in- fusions, that he has gone over and confirmed Bastian’s turnip and cheese experiments, but he did at one time (whatever he does now) maintain that no purely liquid infusion, whether acid or alkaline, could putrefy if boiled and protected from the contact of atmospheric dust. His ex- periments were conducted in two series, one de- scribed in a lecture at the Royal Institution early in 1876, published in a more mature form in the “Transactions of the Royal Society” for that year, and the other in a lecture delivered at the Royal Institution on the 19th of January in the present year, a report of which appeared in the British Medical Journal of January 27th. The general method employed was to cement a large number of test-tubes through the bottom of a box with their lower ends protruding, so as to admit of the application of heat. The box was closed and made air-tight, and a pipette provided for filling the tubes with such organic fluids as might be desired. The air within the box was, as the professor considered, absolutely purified from germs by subsidence, the interior of the box being coated with glycerine, to imprison whatever dust might fall upon it, and the com- pletion of this process was determined by the use of the electric beam. A connection with the outer air was established through bent tubes and plugs of cotton-wool, which were thought to af- ford adequate protection against the intrusion of germinal matter. Why this roundabout and un- certain method of procedure was preferred to much simpler well-known means it is difficult to say; but in the first series of experiments it led to no catastrophe. Various infusions were in- serted in the test-tubes by means of the pipette, which was carefully guarded against the passage MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. of air otherwise than through wool. an oil-bath, and left in the laboratory to evoly life if they could. The temperature of incubatiog was not taken, but Prof. Tyndall stated afterward that a temperature of 90° Fahr. was “gen attainable” in the laboratory, and that on mild days and in favorable positions the temperature to which the infusions were subjected reached over 100°. All of them remained barren, im cluding any neutral solutions among them, which, according to Pasteur, ought to have putrefied In the present year the same experiment was Te peated, at the Royal Institution, with the oppo site result. Most of the infusions became putrid in some instances more rapidly than what wer intended to be precisely similar infusions exposed to the outside air, The experiment was repeated with an improved arrangement of the pipetie which had fallen under suspicion from the com duct of the infusions, but still with the same m sult. Then the incoming air was cleansed not only by the wool-filter, but by calcining it by means of red-hot platinum, but still with no change in the result. Another box was then & perimented on at Kew, and this time the inf sions remained pure with one exception, after having been kept for a time—not, we think, spe cified—in a temperature varying from 80° to8 little over 90°, a degree of incubating heat ne} the most favorable, but which has very ofte been found sufficient to develop life. The com flicting results of these experiments were inge® ure at Kew being ascribed to a pin-hole, @ those at the Royal Institution to the insufficiency of bent tubes, cotton-plugs, and red-hot p 7 to keep out or kill living germs at Al Street, though they are still relied on as in a purer atmosphere, and were found so ia year in the Royal Institution itself. The sped theory resorted to to explain the contrast be tween the experiments at the Royal Institution in the two successive years is that in 1877 t= atmosphere was charged with bacterial germs i such excess as to be proof against subsidem burning,‘and plugging, and that this excess :' due to the fact that in one of the rooms of @ institution some old hay was to be found. & ; far this deserves consideration as a working h ; pothesis is a question which admits of dif of opinion ; but Prof. Tyndall would scarcely us to accept it without proof as the real nation. Why bacterial germs in excess make their way through a sieve ordinarily The tubes were heated for a few minutes by immersion j_” iously accounted for by Prof. Tyndall—the faik is it wou fail sive den dere it w

Page 117

7 BPSREPP RAS PAFTRSETEAPFSRRISS SRS RE REESE SST SPONTANEOUS GENERATION. enough to exclude them, is not apparent. Neither is it quite obvious why the red-hot platinum, which would burn up all the germs in ordinary air, should fail to do so when the contamination was exces- sive. And we are not quite sure that the subsi- dence of small particles from the air is at all hin- dered by increasing their number ; and if it were, jt would not be a very serious matter to an ob- server furnished, as Prof. Tyndall is, with an op- tical method of testing the purity of air so deli- eate as to determine the instant when the last particle of germinal or other matter has deposited itself, Even when these difficulties are got over, there is no warrant that we know of for assuming that old dry hay will fill the air with swarms of bacterium-germs. On the contrary, everything at present rather points to the hypothesis that desiccation would be fatal to bacteria and their germs, if they have any. No doubt it is true, as the professor pointed out, that hard, dry seeds will stand an amount of heat which would utterly destroy them when they were once soaked through. Many persons would probably be able to confirm his experience, that a very dry pea may be boiled | | ought to have attributed the same carelessness for hours before the moisture penetrates its hard coating; and it is common knowledge now that a considerable amount of dry heat will not de- stroy the power of germination in seeds, which would yield at once to a moist temperature much below the boiling-point. Boiling a pea, therefore, seems a scarcely conclusive proof that bacterial germs, if there are any, can survive desiccation and induration, that they are freely given off in this protected state from old hay, and that when they get into the air they have a special power, not possessed by their moister brethren, of re- sisting subsidence, penetrating cotton-wool, and enduring the contact of air calcined by red-hot platinum. All this may be worked out some day, but it will need something more than boiled peas ordried seeds to establish it. The true inference to be drawn from the two series of experiments seems to be that the discrepancy has arisen from some cause which neither the public nor the.pro- fessor himself have as yet any trustworthy means of so much as guessing at. The wise course would be to abandon for the future the unsatisfactory and complicated machinery employed in Prof. Tyndall's mode of experimentation, and to resort to simpler means of excluding atmospheric dust ; and as to the conflicting experiments of 1876 to 1877, to let them drop quietly out of the argu- ment until explained, the more especially as, in the case of neutral or slightly alkaline fluids, many of them contradict the orthodox germ-the- 117 orist, Pasteur, quite as emphatically as they do such heretics as Bastian and Huitzinga, to say nothing of the mysterious Dr. Sanderson, whom we dare not class either among the orthodox or the unbelievers, but who, whatever his theories may be, has borne manly testimony to the facts which he has observed. A very much more important statement is con- tained in the paper in the “ Philosophical Trans- actions of 1876,” into which Prof. Tyndall ex- panded his lecture of that year. There it is dis- tinctly, though briefly, alleged that Prof. Tyndall has repeated the Bastian-Sanderson process, and that with purely liquid infusions he found in mul- tiplied experiments that they remained uniformly barren. His own explanation last year was that Dr. Bastian had allowed the gravest errors to in- vade his experimental work ; that the life to which Dr. Sanderson testified, in the case of the purely liquid infusions, arose from errors of manipula- tion; and this year he adds that even the cele- brated Prof. Cohn appears to have no adequate notion of the care necessary to be taken in ex- periments of this kind. To be consistent he to Pasteur when he obtained life in boiled neu- tralized fluids, a feat which Prof. Tyndall declares impossible when due precautions are used; and perhaps in some degree even to himself, for over- looking the possible malignant influence of old hay. The worst of this kind of reasoning is not merely that it may be resorted to on one side as well as on the other, but that it tends to restore the habit of thought which once kept science dead for many centuries—the habit of appealing to authority in place of facts. Prof. Tyndall may or may not ultimately prove to be on the right side, but we crave some other reason for it than the mere assertion that his undoubtedly high au- thority as an experimentalist (backed by Pasteur as to part of his experiments and contradicted by him as to the rest) entitles him to treat with contempt the counter-authority of Bastian, San- derson, Huitzinga, and Cohn. At present the case stands thus: The same experiment has been performed by many compe- tent and well-known men, and, strangely enough, with discordant results. Would not the natural solution to such a difficulty be for them to work, as Dr. Sanderson and Dr. Bastian did, together, and let the world know the result, rather than to hold aloof in barren self-assertion? This simple course would reveal at once the as yet undetected variations in manipulation which must lie at the root of discrepant results, and one necessary step

Page 118

118 THE POPULAR SCIENCE would be taken toward the settlement of the greatest problem which now divides the scientific world. The evidence on the point which has hitherto been examined may be thus summed up: 1. It is established beyond dispute that a turnip- infusion, with cheese-dust added, will produce life after having been boiled and protected from con- tact with the atmosphere or anything it may con- 2. The like fact has been ascertained by Huit- zinga when soluble peptone was substituted for cheese-dust, and no counter-experiments on this point have ever been made public. 8. The like fact with reference to other purely liquid infusions has been alleged by Bastian, ac- knowledged after jealous scrutiny by Sanderson, confirmed by Huitzinga and Cohn, and (when the | solution is not acid) by Pasteur, the chief of the germ-theory school. But Bastian’s conclusions and Pasteur’s conclusions are equally denied by Prof. Tyndall, mainly on the strength of his own unconfirmed experiments. A theory was once started to the effect that | the fertility of the turnip and cheese. mixture might be due to the hypothetical fact that minute fragments of cheese-dust would protect any germs within them from attaining the temperature of boiling water during a period of five or ten minutes. To any one who ever boiled an egg this notion will seem too childish to need an answer; and, if there were anything in it, it would avail nothing for the germ-theorists until they had displaced Huitzinga’s conclusion that soluble peptone will serve the purpose as well as cheese. On the balance of evidence as it now stands there seems little to justify a doubt that organic substances, after being raised to 212° Fahr., will often produce life, though protected from all ac- cess of germs from without. But this proposition is very far from establishing the theory of spon- taneous generation. To do so it is needful also to prove the further proposition that a moist tem- perature of 212° Fahr. is sufficient to destroy life, not only in bacteria but in any germs which they may throw off; and this is beyond question the most difficult part of the inquiry. At the outset there is this puzzle: We know that bacteria ordinarily multiply by fission. We do not know whether they may not also multiply by germs. If they do, these germs are ultra- microscopic objects, though possibly discernible, en masse, by the aid of Tyndall’s electric beam. It would seem to follow, therefore, that except from analogy we can know nothing about the MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. qualities of such hypothetical germs, and are utterly unable to predicate what their powers of resisting heat may be. But science is not quite so helpless as this. When bacteria are clouding a fluid with their rapid increase, it may not wm warrantably be supposed that there are present the parents and their germs in every stage. If, therefore, we can find the temperature which will’ destroy the reproductive power of such a fluid, we may reasonably infer that we have discovered the heat which will kill or (what is absolutely the ” | same thing for the purposes of our investigation) | render inert any germs which they may be capa ble of engendering. But when this difficulty. ig | surmounted there is yet another: What test cam we apply to determine whether such death hag been produced? If we place them in a suitable nutritive fluid, and the bacterial colony is found | to increase and multiply, how are we to know whether the population is the offspring of germs undestroyed by the heat applied or the de now product of the matrix fluid itself? Once assume as a starting-point the germ-theory, and the ascertainment of the death-point of bacterium germs is the simplest thing in the world. If life appears in the fluid inoculated with them, say at once that it is due to the germs, and that the heat was not enough to kill them. If, on the other hand, the fluid remains barren after the germs have been introduced, it follows that the heat was fatal. For the purpose of testing the validityof the germ-theory, it is obvious that no such petilio principii can be for a moment admitted ; and yet oddly enough, it was only by this deliciously naive reasoning that Pasteur supported his view of the vital resistance of bacterial germs. He found that one or two acid fluids with which he worked would not putrefy after being heated te the boiling-point, and he inferred (so far legitix mately enough) that no germ could (in such® fluid) sustain the temperature of 100° C. Hie also found that one or two neutral or faintlyak kaline fluids would putrefy after boiling, though they failed to do so if heated to 110°, or even 105°. He thereupon straightway assumed that putrefaction could not come without germs, and therefore declared that germs heated in thest non-acid fluids could survive a temperature of, 100°, though they succumbed to a slightly greater heat. Of course this inference was idle j the germ-theory itself was in question, and some independent method of fixing the dea’ 4 remained to be discovered, if ever it was tobe fixed at all. gi If it were only possible to find a

Page 119

SPONTANEOUS GENERATION. which never engendered life unless previously jnoculated with breeding bacteria, and never failed to do so when it was so inoculated, the problem would be solved. We should then pos- sess a reagent. by which to test the existence of bacterial life, germinal or otherwise, as readily as arsenic or oxalic acid can be detected by the ap- propriate chemical tests. Fortunately there is no difficulty in finding fluids of this quality. There are solutions of chemical salts in which a drop of putrefying fluid will produce rapid and visible multiplication of bacteria, although the test-fluid, if left to itself and protected from contamination, will never engender them. Similar test-fluids may be produced by suitable treatment of some organic infusions, among them rather weak solu- tions of turnip and hay. Here, then, the test is furnished, and nothing is simpler than to ascer- tain the temperature which will destroy bacterial life. Take a mass of putrefying liquid in which bacteria are rapidly multiplying. Inoculate the test-fluid with 2 drop of the mixture—bacteria, germs and all—heat it to the required tempera- ture, and see whether multiplication follows. If it becomes cloudy in a day or two, you are sure that the inoculating drop contained living bacte- ria or their germs, and that the heat applied was short of the death-point in the particular fluid used, If the test-fluid remains clear, it is equally certain that the heat has sufficed to kill all life, or, at any rate, all reproductive life, within it. The investigation was pursued in this way by Dr. Bastian.! The results are very remarkable. They show that when the fluid employed, whether asaline solution, an acid turnip, or neutral hay infusion, was heated above 158° Fahr., the bac- teria and germs within it absolutely lost the power of multiplication; while, if heated only to 130°, they always retained vitality. The precise heat which produced sterility in different fluids varied between these limits, but 158° was found to be the maximum temperature which a growing and multiplying swarm of bacteria, with their families and their germs, could in any of these cases survive, These experiments have never, so far as we know, been repeated. They cannot, therefore, rank with confirmed investigations; but of course no germ-theorist who has not gone over the same ground with inconsistent results can be heard to dispute their accuracy. Outside inquirers may legitimately reserve their unqualified acceptance util the work has been repeated, and the conclu- sions confirmed by independent investigators ; but * “Evolution and the Origin of Life,” pp. 79-129. 119 in the mean time it must be acknowledged, at least as a prima-facie truth, that in certain turnip and hay infusions, no less than in solutions of mineral salts, a temperature of 54° short of the boiling-point is sufficient to destroy the life of bacteria and any germs of bacteria. Coupling this conclusion with the results be- fore discussed of the experiments on boiled and protected fluids, the spontaneous-generation the- ory would follow as a mere matter of logic. If all reproductive life in a putrefying hay or tur- nip infusion is killed by a temperature of 158°, and yet another infusion of the same substances (differing only in strength and in some particulars of treatment) can produce life after being boiled and protected from contamination, that life must have come from something other than germs, or, in other words, must have arisen de novo. Still it is prudent to bear in mind that observations which have remained for a year or two unques- tioned may be disputed and possibly displaced ; and, however irresistible the ad- hominem argu- ments may be against opponents who have not ventured to grapple with these death-point ex- periments, the final verdict of Science will not be given, and ought not to be given, without further confirmation, or until full time has been allowed for some champion of the germ-theory to enter the lists and combat experimental conclusions which, while they stand, are fatal to his creed. As has been already indicated, some approach to such a struggle has been recently made. It has taken the form, not indeed of a direct impeach- ment of the specific results last referred to, but still of a definite issue which involves to a certain extent the same question. The challenger in this instance is Pasteur himself, the Achilles of his host. His opponent we need scarcely say is Bas- tian, the acknowledged chief of the opposing fac- tion, And the precise dispute is this: It had long been recognized on both sides that heating, and especially prolonged heating, beyond the boiling - point, had a strong tendency to check subsequent putrefaction; and the germ-theorists very fairly made a great point of this. It was an obviously natural inference that if an infusion would vivify after exposure to a temperature of 100°, and failed to do so if the previous heating were carried up to 105°, 110°, 120°, or 150°, as was found to be the case in various fluids, the positive results obtained with the lower tempera- ture were due to the survival of germs, while the negative results, often brought about by severer heating, showed that in those cases the death- point had been reached. The explanation offered

Page 120

129 at first sight much less attractive. They said that the modifying effect of superheating had nothing to do with the destruction of germs, which were dead long before the boiling-point was reached, and that it ought to be ascribed to disintegrating changes, set up by the high tem- perature, of such a character as to indispose the fluid for vital transformation. If Bastian’s death- point experiments should be finally established, this last view must be accepted as the only doc- trine which is compatible with them; but the germ -theorists, though they have not yet at- tempted to displace the results of that investiga- tion (as for the sake of settling a knotty scien- tific question it is to be hoped they will soon muster courage to do), have held firmly to their old notion, and Pasteur especially has reiterated of late the formula which he propounded in 1862, that germs are killed in acid fluids at 100° C., while neutral or faintly alkaline fluids exercise a protective influence during the heating which enables any germs within them to endure a tem- perature of a few degrees more, Even in these fluids he maintained, and still maintains, that all germs are certainly deprived of life or of fecun- dity—the only practicable test of life—by a tem- perature of 110°. An example of an undoubted fact pointing in this direction is afforded by the behavior of urine, which is, in its normal state, an acid fluid. If boiled in its natural condition for a very few minutes and then protected, it sel- dom (until quite recently it was thought never) evolves bacterial life. If it has first been ren- dered neutral, or about neutral, by the addition of an alkali before boiling, it is now known often to prove fertile. Pasteur’s theory would ascribe this to his assumed fact that germs can bear a higher temperature in neutral than in acid fluids. All that was needed in this case to test the truth of Pasteur’s doctrine about the protective power of neutral fluids was to boil the urine in its acid state, which, according to Pasteur him- self, would kill all previously-existing germs, and then add the alkali afterward, and see if it would not be equally efficacious in promoting the evolu- tion of life. If it proved so, there would be an end of Pasteur’s plausible theory on the point. Accordingly, Bastian devised a very pretty ar- rangement for testing the question. He placed in one of his retorts a measured quantity of urine of ascertained acidity ; he then prepared a small tube, into which he poured a quantity of liquor potasse, somewhat less than enough to neutralize THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. by the supporters of spontaneous generation was | the urine. The proportion which he found to give | broken, as a control-experiment. the best results was about three-fourths of the neutralizing dose, Having done this, he sealed the small tube in the blowpipe, drawing out the end sufficiently to cause it to break readily with: a smart tap. The potash-tube thus prepared was heated for a long time, varying from fifteen, minutes to two hours, in water which. was kept) boiling with the object of destroying any life, if, life there could be, in the liquor potasse and the, air within the tube. After this the tube wag, dropped with its thinned end downward, gently, into the retort, which was then boiled and hem metically sealed in the usual way. After cooling, the retort was briskly shaken, so as to break they point of the small tube and allow the contained, fluid to mix with and neutralize the urine. Aj number of retorts thus prepared were placed in- a bath kept at a high incubating temperature, about 122°, together with one (or sometimes, more) in which the potash -tube was left um, After a day or two, or even less, the contents of the retorts; which had been neutralized almost invariably putrefied just as it was known they would have, done if the alkali had been added before the boiling, while the still acid urine in the controk. flask remained permanently barren. It followed, that the vivifying influence of the alkali was dug, to some chemical or other molecular action, andy not to its supposed power of warding off heat; and the experiment, coupled with the universally- accepted fact that all germs perish in urine boiledy in its natural state, left apparently no alternative, but to accept the conclusion that life had apy peared de novo in the neutralized fluid. We mag, mention that the reduction above mentioned imy the quantity of the liquor potasse below they neutralizing proportion was at first adopted ¢Mp: pirically, and it was supposed to be needed only, to compensate for the loss of part of the cote! tents of the retorts during the process of boiky ny Another and probably more potent reason s, that the urine may undergo changes whieh * rot its acidity not only while exposed to boi heat, but at a slower rate during the whole ti that it remains in the more moderate tempe of the incubating bath. There seems, howe no present reason to doubt that exact neut tion is the state in which putrefaction most ily occurs, and, to insure that, it is safer to the supply of liquor potassee below than abore the mark, because in the former case the aci@iy_ would gradually come down to the neutral poll 3 while anything like an excess of alkali has } .f found ducti Tl to th held rushe tian’s But h of the him, left. wi kept peated princi in plac no life dose sponde countr variati either minute Rendus that h way of ash-tub twenty same re teur a | assertin bya s is, we though experim done ne perimen fifteen y fluids, w requires odd that have apy heutraliz before t] when on already little blit Academy nission and Bou condoles

Page 121

a s % -™ 4 i a ae, Se Sa Aa Se i a e i. Lo a " a - rp 3 y e) e. l.. d. ie. d- be jou di, ie pris iy mn 1 | : hs mi SPONTANEOUS GENERATION. found as fatal as an excess of acid to the pro- duction of life. This experiment was no sooner communicated to the French Academy than Pasteur, who had held aloof from the controversy for many years, rushed again into the fray. He repeated Bas- tian’s experiment, and confirmed his observation. But he did not yet give up his theory. Instead of that, he tendered the only explanation open to him, and said that the life proceeded from germs left unkilled in the liquor-potasse tube, though kept at a boiling heat for a long time. He re- peated the experiment with some alterations, the principal one being the use of pure solid potash in place of liquor potassee. This time he obtained no life, which Bastian attributed to an excessive dose of alkali. Ultimately, after a lively corre- spondence, the French savant challenged our countryman to repeat his experiment with this variation, that the potash-tube should be heated either for twenty minutes to 110° C., or for five minutes to 130°. The next issue of the “‘ Comptes Rendus” contained a letter from Bastian stating that he had done what Pasteur required in the way of heating, and more, having kept his pot- ash-tubes at 110° C. for twenty hours instead of twenty minutes, and that he obtained just the same results as before. This brought from Pas- teur a letter in English to the Lancet, vehemently asserting that such results were impossible; and by a strange oversight, for which the translator is, we hope, solely responsible, declaring that though Bastian can undoubtedly succeed in his experiment with a temperature of 100°, he has done nothing but repeat Pasteur’s own old ex- periment, and confirm his theory, announced fifteen years ago, that the sterilization of organic fluids, when they are neutral or slightly alkaline, requires a temperature higher than 100° C. It is odd that the writer or the translator should not have appreciated the crucial distinction between neutralizing the fluid for protection of live germs before the boiling and neutralizing it afterward, when on the common hypothesis the germs were already dead. But angry men sometimes are a little blind, In conclusion, he announces that the Academy have at his request appointed a com- mission composed of MM. Dumas, Milne-Edwards, ind Boussingault, to investigate the matter, and condoles with his opponent on his approaching condemnation. 121 stantly accepted the challenge, and offered to re- peat his experiments in the presence of the com- mission, provided that a satisfactory programme should be arranged beforehand to insure him a fair opportunity of presenting and proving his case, Those who remember the history of a for- mer French commission on the very same subject, on which two of the present commissioners served, may be excused for doubting whether the guaran- tees for a fair and open investigation which were refused to MM. Pouchet, Joly, and Musset, will be conceded to an Englishman who presumes to ques- tion the infallibility of Pasteur. The three French savants who then disputed Pasteur’s views were placed under such restrictions by the course of procedure laid down for them by the commis- sioners that they considered it due to their dig- nity to retire. The abortive commission ended, as it is likely this will end, in an ez-parte hearing. It is possible, indeed, that MM. Dumas and Milne- Edwards may think that more generosity is due to a foreigner who ventures to appear before a tribunal from which every one who inclines to his side of the controversy has been eliminated. If they are disposed to allow of a fair preliminary programme, and to concede the guarantee of pub- licity, it is conceivable that an interesting inves- tigation may result; but if it is really desired to obtain a verdict which will carry weight elsewhere than in Paris, it would be well to add to the dis- tinguished savants already nominated some who are less committed to Pasteur’s views and less dazzled by the glamour of his great reputation. We doubt much whether Pasteur would, even with the strongest guarantees, consent to appear before three English believers in spontaneous generation. It is much to be regretted that these vexed questions of fact have not long before this been submitted to an impartial English tribunal. There are competent men enough for the purpose on each side, and, what is still better, there are to be found able scientific men, versed in this kind of investigation, who have committed themselves to neither view, and have maintained an attitude of philosophical reserve. With such materic!s at hand, backed by our English love of fair play, it would be very hard if we could not produce at home a better and fairer tribunal than that which M. Pasteur has proposed. Is not the comity of Science capable of bringing about some such ar- rangement ? With abundant chivalry our countryman in- —Contemporary Review.

Page 122

122 THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. NARROWING THE EXPERIMENTAL ISSUE.’ VERY one interested in the subject of spon- | the air from the first the calycine monad occurred taneous generation will remember that in every drop taken from every vessel, and th Prof. Tyndall made, last year, a series of ingen- | springing monad in two-thirds of the drops exam ious experiments in which he adopted the meth- | ined. In the vessels which had not been expos od of subsidence for purifying the air to which | until the air had settled for twenty-four houm his putrescible infusions were exposed—that is to | the calycine form was wholly absent in three vee say, he placed the infusion in chambers washed | sels out of four, and in the others occurred omy on the inside with glycerine, and, before com- mencing the experiment, allowed the air to settle until a beam from the electric lamp revealed no motes in it. By these means all putrefactive germs falling on the bottom and sides of the chamber were caught by the glycerine, and infu- sions of various sorts—animal and vegetable— could be kept in the chamber for any length of time without showing the slightest tendency to | putrefy. A similar set of experiments has recent- ly been made by the Rev. W. H. Dallinger, who, operating with the germs of known organisms; in four drops out of thirty, while the springigg form flourished in every vessel. # The reason of these facts is very curious am very interesting. The calycine monad is a gigi of its kind, being about g}5 inch in length, while the springing monad is not longer than yAyq iid The germs of these naturally bear some propom tion to the size of their parents, and, consequént ly, the minute particles of protoplasm which em | stitute the spores of the calycine monad were some | ten times as heavy as those of the other, and tial | nearly all fallen and impregnated the fluid inte has been able to show the rate at which these liv- | open basins before the covered vessels were ing motes fall through the air, and the time after posed. Mr. Dallinger put the matter to a furthe the expiration of which putrescible fivids, in a test. There is one monad, the “ uninflagellate? still atmosphere, are out of danger from their | form, upon which many of his observations ‘tal contact. | been made; this in its adult state is about 7p When a maceration fluid—such as an infusion | or z2yz inch in length, and its spores are sosttilll of fish in water—is allowed to dry up, it forms a | as actually to be invisible with the highest powe “light, hard, porous, papier-maché-like mass,” | of the microscope. Dust from a dried cake et in which are contained, in incalculable millions, the germs of those organisms to which the putre- faction of the fluid was due. A cake of this sort was taken, derived from a fluid known to contain the germs of two forms of monad, the life-history of which Mr. Dallinger had worked out, name- ly, the “calycine monad” ‘and the “ springing monad.” A small quantity of the powder from this cake was dried at 150° Fahr., a temperature 15° above that required to kill the adult form, and was then diffused through the air of a Tyn- dall’s chamber. In this chamber were placed vessels containing a putrescible fluid, some open, some covered with lids which could, by a simple mechanical contrivance, be removed without dis- turbing anything else. Twenty-four hours after the exposure of the open basins to the mote-laden atmosphere, the covers of the others were re- moved, and everything was left for a certain time, after which first the open and subsequently the remaining basins were examined. It was then found that in those which had been exposed to 1 From “ Recent Science” in the Nineteenth Century, revised by Prof. Huxley. taining these spores was mixed with some ¢it taining the comparatively gigantic calycine form, and the former experiment repeated. It Wi found that nearly all the “ calycine” germs hal fallen in twenty-four hours, all in forty-two hoa for vessels exposed after the lapse of the last. named time contained not a single calycine while every drop taken from them swarmed will the little uninflagellate form. ad Mr. Dallinger has thus shown most conclusive ly that whenever a putrid infusion dries up thet will be found a powdery mass containing which every breath of air will diffuse far and will and that some of these spores are so minute require two days to fall a few inches in a ly still atmosphere, so that the distance to they could be carried, and to which they’ spread contagion, is practically unlimited.” bearing of this on the germ-theory is enough. Some months since, the spontaneous tion controversy arrived at an important ¢ | Results of the most conflicting character had

Page 123

PSRRS SO RRES REACT AES ELTA CERRRG REESE 2SAR REEL. Wd. NARROWING THE EXPERIMENTAL ISSUE. 123 obtained by different observers, and a settlement have developed bacteria without the addition of of the question seemed further off than ever. | the potash ; and, secondly, the potash was heat- But, about the middle of last year, Dr. Bastian | ed only to the temperature of boiling water, a earned the gratitude of biologists by narrowing | temperature which, though amply sufficient to the point at issue, and giving, for a time at least, kill adult bacteria, has been proved, in many a definite direction to future experiments. He | cases, to leave their germs unslain, It became announced, at the meeting of the Royal Society | essential, then, to repeat the experiments, allow- on the 15th of June,! that he had discovered the | ing the fluids to stand sufficiently long, before precise conditions under which living organisms | adding potash, to make it tolerably certain that were infallibly produced in certain putrescible but | no organisms would be developed without the ad- sterilized organic fluids. If this supposed discov- | dition of the alkali, and to heat the potash to a ery were a real one, its importance could hardly | temperature considerably above the boiling-point be over-estimated ; for if once the conditions re- | of water, so as to insure the complete destruc- quisite for development of life de novo in an or- | tion of the most enduring microphyte-germs. ganic fluid were ascertained, it would be but one Experiments with these necessary precautions step further to imitate those conditions in a manu- | have lately been made by Prof. Tyndall, and Dr. factured fluid of known composition, and thus to lw. Roberts, of Manchester, and their results gain some conception of the way in which the | seem to demonstrate, conclusively enough, the first germs of life may have originated on the | fallacy of Dr. Bastian’s conclusions, arth, The theory of evolution would thus be Dr. Roberts’s experiments! were conducted complete at one end of the scale of being, and | in the same manner as Dr. Bastian’s, with one or would receive a confirmation of its truth which | two important modifications. In the first place, “none of our enemies would be able to gainsay the tube containing the proper quantity of potash or to resist.” | for neutralization of the fluid was heated, in an The needful conditions for the spontaneous de- | oil-bath, to a temperature of 280° Fahr., 68° velopment of life in boiled organic fluids are, ac- | | above the boiling-point of water ; secondly, after cording to Dr. Bastian, the neutrality or slight | the flask containing the boiled fluid with its con- alkalinity of the fluid, or its maintenance at a tol- | tained potash-tube had been hermetically sealed erably high temperature (115°-120° Fahr.). He | —of course during ebullition—it was allowed to placed his putrescible fluid (urine) in glass re- | stand in a warm place for a fortnight, and thus torts, into the necks of which he introduced a | prove its complete sterility, The potash-tube small sealed glass tube drawn out to a fine point | was then broken, and the flask exposed to a tem- and containing enough potash solution to neu- | perature of 115°, and afterward to one of 122°; tralize the fluid, the potash having been previous- | that is, the fluid was exposed to the very condi- ly heated to the temperature of boiling water. | tions which, according to Dr. Bastian, are most After the introduction of the potash-tube the re- | potent in inducing spontaneous generation. Nev- tort and its contents were subjected for some | ertheless, every one of the flasks was found to ninutes to the boiling temperature ; the neck of | be absolutely sterile. It must be observed that the vessel was sealed during ebullition, and, after | not one of the essential conditions was altered— cooling, the potash was liberated by a shake sufli- | potash is no more affected by the temperature ciently violent to break the capillary tube. | of 280° than by that of 212°; the putrescible Under these circumstances Dr. Bastian found | fluid was only boiled, under the ordinary atmos- - that in every case the fluid swarmed with bacteria | pheric pressure, for five minutes, so that its com- after a longer or shorter time; while no organ- | position could have been in no ) way altered, and isms were developed if it remained acid, or if an | yet the results obtained were, without exception, excess of alkali had been added. Even under , negative. these latter circumstances, however, a copious In Prof. Tyndall’s* experiments the same development of bacteria was insured by keeping | course was adopted, except for the fact that the the fluid at a temperature of 122°, potash was heated only to 220° Fahr. instead of This is Dr, Bastian’s case. But it will be ob- | 280°. Again the results were negative. Prof. served that he failed to “mak sicker” in two | Tyndall, as usual, brings forward a “cloud of important points: in the first place, there was | witnesses ” to prove his position, and says, “ The a — that the fluids in question would not | experiments have already extended to one hun- *“ Proceedings of the Royal Society,” 1876, vol. xxv., | oa Proceedings of the Royal Society, vol. xxv., No. 176. No. 172, i 2% Loe, eit., p. 457.

Page 124

’ THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. dred and five instances, not one of which shows ; the least countenance to the doctrine of sponta- | neous generation.” Similar results have been obtained in France by M. Pasteur, and once more there seemed to be some promise of a settlement of the difficulty, | when Dr. Bastian communicated to the French Academy the results of further experiments, in which he had heated his potash to a temperature above that prescribed by his opponents and for a longer time, and, under these circumstances, he | always obtained a copious development of bac- teria. Thus, then, the matter now stands with re- gard to this particular experiment, and the ques- tion seems to have become one of experimental ability between the upholders of the two opposing views. There are, however, certain facts recent- ly brought forward by Prof. Tyndall, which throw a very important light upon the possible cause of such extraordinary discrepancies. It is a well-known fact that dried peas resist the action of boiling water for a much longer time than green peas—that, in fact, the latter are reduced to a pulp in a space of time hardly sufficient to soften the former. Prof. Tyndall! found that an infusion of old hay was much more | difficult to sterilize than one of fresh hay, and | ; oppose a long and obstinate resistance to the all tion of heat. # Assuming, then, as it seems one is bound te | do, that germs may and do undergo this exces | sive induration, one is able to form some concep. tion of the difficulty of sterilizing a fluid in which, | as is certainly the case in very many instances, | such veteran germs occur, and to appreciate the ingenuity with which Prof. Tyndall has overcome the difficulty. He finds! that frequent applies” tions of a low degree of heat, applied at inter. vals, have a far greater sterilizing effect than & single application of a very high temperature, A given fluid may contain germs of ail ages If this fluid is boiled for a considerable periodall those of recent formation will be killed at while those of considerable age will only be sufficiently softened to enable them to germinats subsequently. If, on the other hand, the fluid first heated for a short time—and a fraction of second is often sufficient—the recent germs will be killed, and those a degree older so softened, | that, after a period of latency, they are ready to | germinate. Heat now applied for a short time will kill these, and fit a third set for growth; and the same course may be adopted for succe® sive crops, until even the hardest and driest It was found that a fluid which is killed. that, while a few minutes’ boiling sufficed to kill | not rendered barren by boiling for an hour was all germs in the latter, those contained in hay | completely sterilized by this process, although a year or two old resisted the action of heat for | never heated up to the boiling-point, and ab avery long time. He naturally concluded from this that the almost infinitely minute germs of microphytes may, in just the same manner as peas, become dried and hardened, and so able to though the whole time of heating did not amount | to five minutes; and even the infusions which | had given Prof. Tyndall most trouble were, with out exception, rendered permanently barren,» A MODERN “SYMPOSIUM.” THE INFLUENCE UPON MORALITY OF A DECLINE IN RELIGIOUS BELIEF. € | term “ religious belief” as including csi | belief in a personal God and in personal ; R. WARD.—I agree with the Dean of St. Paul’s, that the wording of our question is unfortunately ambiguous ; and I think that this fact has made the discussion in several respects less pointed and less otherwise interesting than it might have been. For my present purpose, I understand the 1“ Preliminary Note on the Development of Organ- isms in Organic Infusions."—Proceedings of the Royal Society, vol. xxv., No. 177. tality. Less than this is not worthy the name religions belief; and, on the other hand, I not refer to any other religious truths than I am to inquire, therefore, what would be the f fluence on morality of a decline in these two” _ liefs, , 1“On Heat as a Germicide when discontinue | plied.” Read before the Royal Society in February.

Page 125

PSRESSCEC RP USSR See sSkFeP on tPF SEAPGCES FF. A MODERN “SYMPOSIUM.” But next, what is meant by “ morality?” I will explain, as clearly as brevity may permit, what I should myself understand by the term ; though I am, of course, well aware that this is by no means the sense in which Sir J, Fitzjames Stephen, or Mr. Harrison, or Prof. Clifford, un- derstands it. I consider that there is a certain authoritative rule of life,! necessarily not contingently existing, which may be regarded under a twofold aspect. It declares that certain acts (exterior or interior) are intrinsically and necessarily evil ; it declares, again, that some certain act (exterior or interior), even where not actually evil, is by intrinsic neces- sity, under the circumstances of some given mo- ment, less morally excellent than some certain other act. - Any given man, therefore, more ef- fectively practises “ morality,” in proportion as he more energetically, predominantly, and suc- cessfully aims at adjusting his whole conduct, interior and exterior, by this authoritative rule. Accordingly, when I am asked what is the bear- ing of some particular influence on morality, I understand myself to be asked how far such in- fluence affects for good or evil the prevalence of that practical habit which I have just described ; how far such influence disposes men (or the con- trary) to adjust their conduct by this authorita- tive rule. These explanations having been premised, my answer to the proposed question is this: The absence of religious belief—of a belief in a per- sonal God and personal immortality—does not simply injure morality, but, if the disbelievers carry their view out consistently, utterly destroys it I affirm—which, of course, requires proof, though I have no space here to give it—that no one except a theist can, in consistency, recognize the necessarily existing authoritative rule of vhich I have spoken. But for practical purposes there is no need of this affirmation, because in what follows I shall refer to no other opponents of religion, except that antitheistic body—con- sisting of agnostics, positivists, and the like— Which in England just now heads the speculative ireligious movement. Now, it is manifest on the very surface of philosophical literature that, as a matter of fact, these men deny in theory the ex- istence of any such necessary authoritative rule ts that on which I have dwelt. A large propor- tion of theists accept it, and call it “ the Natural ‘To prevent misapprehension I may explain that, in my view, thuse various necessary truths which collective- ysonstitute this rule are, like all other necessary truths, on the essence of God: they are what they are he is what he is. 125 Law ;”? an agnostic or positivist denies its ex- istence. It is very clear that he who denies that there is such a thing as a necessarily existing authoritative rule of life cannot consistently aim at adjusting any, even the smallest, part of his conduct by the intimations of that rule; or, in other words, cannot consistently do so much as one act which (on the theory which I follow) can be called morally good. Here, however, a most important explanation | must be made. It continually happens that some given philosopher holds some given doctrine speculatively and theoretically, while he holds the precisely contradictory doctrine implicitly and unconsciously ; insomuch that it is the lat- ter, and not the former, which he applies to his estimate of events as they successively arise. Now the existence of the Natural Law—so I would most confidently maintain—is a truth so firmly rooted by God himself in the conviction of every reasonable creature, that practically to leaven the human mind with belief of its contradictory is, even under the circumstances most favorable to that purpose, a slow and up-hill process. In the early stages, therefore, of antitheistic persua- sion, there is a vast gulf between the antitheist’s speculative theory and his practical realization of that theory. Mr. Mallock has set forth this fact, I think, with admirable force, in an article | contributed by him to the Contemporary of last January. When antitheists say—such is his ar- gument—that the pursuit of truth is a “ sacred,” | “ heroic,” “ noble ” exercise—when they call one way of living mean, and base, and hateful, and another way of living great, and blessed, and ad- | mirable *—they are guilty of most flagrant incon- sistency. They therein use language and con- | ceive thoughts which are utterly at variance with their own speculative theory. If it be admitted (1) that the idea expressed by the term “ moral goodness ” is a simple idea, an idea incapable of analysis; and (2) that to this idea there corre- sponds a necessary objective reality in rerum natura—if these two propositions be admitted, the existence of the Natural Law is a truth which irresistibly results from the admission. On the other hand, if these two propositions be not postulated, then to talk of one human act being 1The Natural Law more strictly includes only God's prohibition of acts intrinsically evil, and his preception of acts which cannot be omitted without doing what is in- trinsically evil. But we may with obvious propriety so extend the term as to include under it God's counseling of those acts which, as clothed in their full circumstances, are by intrinsic necessity the more morally excellent. | 2 Pp.17T, 173.

Page 126

126 “higher” or “nobler” than another is as sim- ply unmeaning as to talk of a bed being nobler than a chair, or a plough than a harrow. Whether it be the bed, or the plough, or the human act, it may be more useful than the other article with which it is brought into comparison; but to speak in either case of “ nobleness” is as the sound of a tinkling cymbal. Or rather, which is my present point, the fact of antitheists using such language shows that their practical belief is so far essentially opposed and (as I, of course, should say) immeasurably superior to their spec- ulative theory. To my mind there is hardly any truth which needs more to be insisted on than this, in the present crisis of philosophical thought : when antitheism successfully conceals its hideous deformity from its own votaries, by dressing it- self up in the very garments of that rival creed which it derides as imbecile and obsolete. I heartily wish I had space for setting forth in full and clear light the argument on which I would here insist. I may refer, however, to Mr. Mal- lock’s article, for an excellent exposition of it from his own point of view; and, in particular, I cannot express too strongly my concurrence with the following remarks : * All the moral feelings ”’ (he says) ‘* at present afloat in the world depend, as I have already shown, on the primary doctrines of religion ; but that the former would owtlive the latter is nothing more than we should naturally expect: just as water may go on boiling after it is taken off the fire, as flowers keep their scent and color after we have plucked them, or as a tree whose roots have been eut may yet put out green leaves for one spring more. But a time must come when all this will be over, and when the true effects of what has been done will begin to show themselves. Nor can there be any reason brought forward to show why, if the creed of unbelief was once fully assented to by the world, all morality—a thing always attended by some pain and struggle — would not gradually wither away, and give place to a more or less suc- cessful seeking after pleasure, no matter of what kind.” T would also recall to Sir J. Fitzjames Ste- phen’s remembrance an admirable statement of his, which occurred in the work on “ Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity.” “ We cannot judge of the effects of atheism,” he says, “‘ from the conduct of persons who have been educated as believers in God, and in the midst of a nation which believes in God. If we should ever see a generation of men, especially a generation of Englishmen, to whom the word ‘God’ has no THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. meaning at all, we should get a light on the sub ject which might be lurid enough.” ! | So far I have used the word “ morality” that sense which I account the true one. Buta different acceptation of the word is very com: and it will be better perhaps briefly to consi our proposed question in the sense which acceptation would give it. Morality, then, is ten spoken of as consisting in a man’s sacrifice of his personal desires for the public goodgay that each man more faithfully practises “ momh ity” in proportion as he more effectively pom pones private interests to public ones. I have always been extremely surprised that any can use this terminology; though I am aware, of course, that many do so. To ment no other of its defects, it excludes from sphere of morality precisely what a theist consider the most noble and elevating branh thereof, viz., men’s duties to their Creator, Com stant remembrance of God’s presence, prayer to him for moral strength, purging the heart ftom any such worldly attachment as may in with his sovereignty over the affection and a hundred others, which are man’s moral actions, are excluded by this strange’te® minology from being moral actions at all. in one respect there is great agreement an the two “moralities” in question, for unde either of them morality very largely consiste i self-denial and self-sacrifice. eo Now, if it be asked in what way moralityyal so understood, would be affected by the abseiite of religious belief, I think the true reply isont which has so often been drawn out that I do no more than indicate it. Firstly, apart theistic motives there is no sufficient morale erage ; men would not have the moral strength required for sustained self-denial and self. fice. Secondly and more importantly, if sanctions were away, no theory could be out explaining why it should be reasonable man sacrifice his personal interest to that fellows. On this matter I am glad that I have t portunity of drawing attention to a very finepa sage of Mr. Goldwin Smith’s, published nf 8 Macmillan of last January: ed “Materialism has, in fact, already begut show its effects on human conduct and on 80€ They may perhaps be more visible in comm where social conduct depends greatly on ind! conviction and motive than in communities are more ruled by tradition and bound ‘te 1 Second edition, p. 826.

Page 127

fa ER STSPREee LET ES S832 ch Be aea8 782 A MODERN “SYMPOSIUM.” by strong class organizations ; though the decay of morality will perhaps be more complete and disastrous in the latter than in the former. God and future retribution being out of the question, it is difficult to see what can restrain the selfishness of an ordinary man, and induce him, in the ab- sence of actual coercion, to sacrifice- his personal desires to the public good, The service of hu- manity is the sentiment of a refined mind conver- sant with history; within no calculable time is it likely to overrule the passions and direct the con- duct of the mass. And after all, without God or spirit, what is ‘humanity?’ One school of sci- ence reckons a hundred and fifty different species of man. What is the bond of unity between all these species, and wherein consists the obligation to mutual love and help? A zealous servant of science told Agassiz that the age of real civiliza- tion would have begun when you could go out and shoot a man for scientific purposes; and in the controversy respecting the Jamaica massacre we had proof enough that the ascendency of science and a strong sense of human brotherhood might be very different things. ‘ Apparent dire facies.’ We begin to perceive, looming through the mist, the lineaments of an epoch of selfishness com- pressed by a government of force.” In fact, even in the present early stage of the English antitheistic philosophy, if its adherents are directly asked what is man’s reasonable rule of life, I know of no other answer they will theo- retically give except one. They will say that any given person’s one reasonable pursuit on earth is to aim at his own earthly happiness—to ob- tain for himself out of life the greatest amount he can of gratification. No doubt they will make confident statements on the indissoluble connec- tion between happiness-and “virtue.” Still, ac- cording to their speculative theory, the only reasonable ground for practising “ virtue” is its tonduciveness to the agent’s happiness. Now, let us suppose a generation to grow up, profoundly imbued with this principle, carrying itconsistently into detail, emancipated from the meonscious influence of (what I must be allowed ‘ocall)a more respectable creed. What would be the result? Evidently a man so trained, in taleulating for himself the balance of pleasure aud pain, will give no credit on the former side © such gratifications as might arise from con- siousness of conquest over his lower nature, or from the pursuit of lofty and generous aims. I say, will have no place in his list of Pleasures: because he will have duly learned his lesson, that there is no “lower” or “ higher” tattre; that no one aim can be “loftier” than ‘My other ; that there is nothing more admirable 127 in generosity than in selfishness, On the other hand, neither will he include, under his catalogue of pains, any feeling of remorse for evil com- mitted, or any dread of possible punishment in some future life; for-he will look with simple contempt on those doctrines, which are required as the foundation for such pains. His common- sense course will be to make this world as com- fortable a place as he can, by bringing every possible prudential calculation to bear on his purpose. Before all things, he will keep his digestion in good order. He will keep at arm’s- length (indeed at many arms’-lengths) every dis- quieting consideration, such, e. g., as might arise from a remembrance of other men’s misery, or from a thought of that repulsive spectre which the superstitious call moral obligation. It is plain that duly to pursue the subject thus opened would carry me indefinitely beyond my limits ;! and I will only, therefore, make one concluding observation. If the term “virtue” be retained by those of whom I am speaking, it will be used, I suppose, to express any habitual practice which solidly conduces to the agent’s balance of earthly enjoyment. I am confident that—should this be the recognized terminology, and should the new school be permitted to arrive at its legitimate development—there is one habit which would be very prominent among its cata- logue of “virtues.” The habit to which I refer is indulgence in licentiousness — licentiousness practised, no doubt, prudently, discreetly, calcula- tingly, but at the same time habitually, persever- ingly, and with keen zest. Pror. HUXLEY.—We are led to do this thing, and to avoid that, partly by instinct and partly by conscious motives; and our conduct is said to be moral or the reverse, partly on the ground of its effects upon other beings, partly upon that of its operation upon ourselves. Social morality relates to that course of ac- tion which tends to increase the happiness or diminish the misery of other beings; personal morality relates to that which has the like effect upon ourselves, If this be so, the foundation of morality must needs lie in the constitution of Nature, and must depend on the mental construction of our- selves and of other sentient beings. The constitution of man remaining what it is, his capacity for the pleasures and pains afforded by sense, by sympathy, or by the contemplation 1T have treated it at somewhat greater length in an article which I contributed to the Dublin Review of last January, pp. 15-21.

Page 128

128 THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. of moral beauty and ugliness, is obviously in no way affected by the abbreviation or the prolonga- tion of his conscious life; nor by the mere exist- ence or non-existence of anything not included in Nature; nor, so long as he believes that ac- tions have consequences, does it matter to him what connection there may be between these actions and other phenomena of Nature. The assertion that morality is in any way de- pendent upon the views respecting certain philo- sophical problems a person may chance to hold, produces the same effect upon my mind as if one should say that a man’s vision depends on his theory of light; or that he has no business to be sure that ginger is hot in the mouth unless he has formed definite views, in the first place, as to the nature of ginger, and, secondly, as to whether he has or has not a sensitive soul. Social morality belongs to the realm of in- ductive and deductive investigation. Given a society of human beings under certain circum- stances: and the question whether a particular action on the part of one of the members of that society will tend to the increase of the general happiness or not is a question of natural knowl- edge, and, as such, is a perfectly legitimate sub- ject of scientific inquiry, And the morality or immorality of the action will depend upon the answer which the question receives. If it can be shown, by observation or experi- ment, that theft, murder, and adultery, do not tend to diminish the happiness of society, then, in the absence of any but natural knowledge, they are not social immoralities. It does not follow, however, that they might not be personal immoralities. Without commit- ting myself to any theory of the origin of the moral sense, or even as to the existence of any such special sense, I may suggest that it is quite conceivable that discords and harmonies may affect the congeries of feelings to which we give the name, as they do others. I see no reason for doubting that the beauty of holiness and the ugliness of sin are, to a great many minds, no mere metaphors, but feelings as real and as intense as those with which the beauty or ugliness of form or color fills the ar- tist-mind, and that they are as independent of intellectual beliefs, and even of education, as are all the true esthetic powers and impulses. On the other hand, I do not doubt the existence of persons, like the hero of the “Fatal Boots,” devoid of any sense of moral beauty or ugliness, and for them personal morality has no existence. They may offend, but they cannot sin; they may be sorry for having stolen or murdered, because society punishes them for their social immorgh ties, but they are incapable of repentance, Before going further, I think it may be neg. ful to discriminate between religion and th I object to the very general use of the terms religion and theology, as if they were s mous, or indeed had anything whatever to do with one another. Religion is the affair of the affeg tions, theology of the intellect. The religions man loves an. ideal perfection, which may he natural or non-natural; the theologian expounds the attributes of what he terms “ supernatural” Being as so many scientific truths, the conse quences of which work into the general ; of Nature, and are there discernible by o: methods of investigation. What the theologian affirms may be put in this way: that beyond the nalura naturata, mirrored or made by the natuml operations of the human mind, there is a natupg naturans, sufficient knowledge of which is attaie able only through the channel of revelation, / Now, I think it cannot be doubted that both religion and theology, as thus defined, have exe cised, and must exercise, a profound influence a morality. For it may be that the object off man’s religion—the ideal which he worships=i an ideal of sensual enjoyment, or of domination, © or of the development of all his faculties toward perfection, or of self-annihilation, or of benew lence; and his personal morality will, in part, contribute largely to the formation of his ideal and will, in part, be swayed and bent until harmonizes with that ideal. ¥ Moreover, it is clear that a man’s theology may give him suéh views of the action of tt natura naturans as will profoundly modify@ even reverse his social morality. af He may see ground for believing that conduct of evil effect upon society, which is part of i natura naturata, is in harmony with the la action of the natura naturans ; and that, este rewards and punishments of men are but slight and temporary, while those inflicted by the grea er power behind the natura naturata are griev@ and endless, common prudence may dictate Ot dience to the stronger. And history proves there is no social crime that man can comm which has not been dictated by theology a committed on theological grounds. On the hand, the belief that the divine comm identical with the laws of social morality has le infinite strength to the latter in all ages. In like manner it seems to me impossl over-estimate the influence of speculative pe > . ¥ 4 BS EBEBRPEE&B®EZSRS

Page 129

eEPESEGE FE BEEREE 62 bGie £3 3 Rozea EE aa5t A MODERN aa to the nature of the Deity, apart from all idea of rewards and punishments, upon personal mo- rality. The lover of mcral beauty, struggling through a world full of sorrow and sin, is surely as much the stronger for believing that sooner or later a vision of perfect peace and goodness will burst upon him, as the toiler up a mountain for the belief that beyond crag and snow lie home and rest, For the other side of the picture, who shall exaggerate the deadly influence on personal morality of those theologies which have repre- sented the Deity as vainglorious, irritable, and revengeful—as a sort of pedantic drill-sergeant of mankind, to whom no valor, no long-tried loyalty, could atone for the misplacement of a button of the uniform, or the misunderstanding of a paragraph of the “regulations and instruc- tions ?” While no one can dare history, or even look about him, without admitting the enormous influ- ence of theology on morality, it would perhaps be hard to say whether it has been greater or less than the influence of morality on theology. But the latter topic is not at present under dis- cussion; and the only further remark I would venture to add is this—that the intensity and reality of the action of theological beliefs upon morality are precisely measured by the convic- tion of those who hold them that they are true. That such and such a doctrine conduces to moral- ity, and disbelief in it to immorality, may be de- monstrated by an endless array of convincing syllogisms ; but, unless the doctrine is true, the practical result of this expenditure of logic is not apparent. I have not the slightest doubt that if mankind could be got to believe that every socially immoral act would be instantly followed by three months’ severe toothache, such acts would soon cease to be perpetrated. It would be a faith charged with most beneficent works, but unfortunately this faith can so easily be shown to be disaccordant with fact that it is not worth while to become its prophet. For my part I do not for one moment admit that morality is not strong enough to hold its own, But if it is demonstrated to me that I am Wrong, and that without this or that theological dogma the human race will lapse into bipedal tattle, more brutal than the beasts by the meas- we of their greater cleverness, my next question 8 to ask for the proof of the truth of the dogma. If this proof is forthcoming, it is my convic- fon that no drowning sailor ever clutched a hen- ‘0p more tenaciously than mankind will hold by sich dogma, whatever it may be. But if not, “ SYMPOSIUM.” 129 then I verily believe that the human race will go its evil way; and my only consolation lies in the reflection that, however bad our posterity may become, so long as they hold by the plain rule of not pretending to believe what they have no reason to believe because it may be to their ad- vantage so to pretend, they will not have reached the lowest depths of immorality. Mr. R. H. HUTTON.—That has happened to us which happened to the disputants in that Attic Symposium from which, I suppose, the name for our discussion was taken. We have been inter- rupted by a “great knocking at the door” and the entrance of an unbidden guest, who, however, shows no sign either of Alcibiades’s intoxication, or of that generous disposition to crown the most deserving with garlands which may perhaps have had some connection with the excesses of the brilliant Athenian’s potations. The Saturday Reviewer, who, without dropping his mask, has thrust upon us his own criticism on our dis- cussion,' has certainly not conferred the most meagre of wreaths on any one, unless indeed it may be said that he grudgingly crowns the Dean of St. Paul’s and the Duke of Argyll with a with- ered sprig or two of parsley, for pointing out that our subject is much too vague, and fur try- ing to narrow a discussion so “abstract and ill- defined.” His general criticism -is contained in the harsh remark that “all the fine talk of the chosen dluminati is a mass of words with very | little meaning,” and that the deliberations of the | Symposium bear a very strong resemblance to | those of the diplomatists who have been lately concocting protocols; that is, they consist of empty phrases to which all the parties can agree | because they do not touch any of the points on which the co-signataries would be likely to dif- fer.’ That is a much crueler interruption than any caused by Alcibiades to the guests assembled at the Symposium of Plato, nor do I think it is quite just, though there is enough justice in it to make me try to bring out what seem to me the clearly-understood issues between us a little more distinctly, in the few words I have to say. To limit the subject as much as possible, I will speak of nothing but the effect likely to be produced on morality by any decline in the belief in a righteous God independent of, and external to, the human race—in one, that is, whose leading purpose in relation to us is believed to be to mould our motives and characters into the like. ness of his own. Now it seems to me that all 1 See Saturday Review for March Sist, article “A Modern Symposium.”

Page 130

130 the previous speakers except two, Mr. Frederic Harrison and Prof. Clifford, believe, for different reasons, and in different degrees, that such a decline in such a belief in God would probably result in a parallel decline in human morality ; though some insist most, like Sir James Stephen and Prof. Huxley, on the point that any attempt to bolster up the belief artificially for the sake of its moral consequences, by discountenancing free discussion, would result in a worse decline of morality, and others insist most, like Dr. Mar- tineau, Lord Selborne, and Dean Church, on the point that the same causes which result in a de- cline in this belief (especially as it is represented in Christianity) are likely to result also in a de- cline in the force of the ethical principles so closely associated with it. But I do not under- stand any one to differ with Prof. Huxley, that if the belief can be shown to be false, be the moral consequence what it may, it ought to go. On the other hand, I understand both Mr. Harrison and Prof. Clifford to assert that the causes which, as they think, have undermined and are undermin- ing the belief in a righteous God, external to the human race, have no tendency to undermine the binding power of the highest human ethics, but, on the contrary, have a direct tendency to elevate and refine them, though Prof. Clifford regards this tendency as, on the whole, slight, and con- fined chiefly to the blow which such a change in belief will haye in diminishing the control of the clergy, while Mr. Harrison expects very much indeed from it, if only through its tendency to concentrate on the desirable aims of a real world, an enthusiasm now so much dissipated in his opinion, by lavishing it on imaginary objects. Now, while I heartily admit with Prof. Hux- ley the conceivability that a gross delusion—like the belief that “ every socially immoral act would instantly be followed by three months’ severe toothache ”—if it could be palmed off successfully upon our race, would have some very beneficial consequences—(some also by no means beneficial) —and should not a bit the less regard a conspir- acy, even if one were practicable, to impose such a delusion on our race, as a great sin, I cannot the more on that account see how to disentangle the question whether there be a righteous God external to men from the question whether there would be a great moral loss to human nature in the dissipation of the belief in such a God. It is quite conceivable—nay, it has often hap- pened—that a sincere delusion has produced the best results. The belief in an imaginary danger of death, for instance, has often made a man THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. take life more seriously; and the belief in gy imaginary danger of invasion has probably oft bound a divided nation together and given iti, greater nervous strength and manliness, By though it is easy to conceive a belief, in som respects beneficial, which is wholly false, it seem to me, in the case before us, that the veryelp ment in the belief we are discussing; which make it beneficial, is also a clear note of its truth What makes the belief in such a God as I hay spoken of beneficial is that this belief, and’thig only, gives to the attitude of man’s mind, in rele tion to right motive and right action, that mist ure of courage and cheerful irresponsibility fq the result characteristic of a faith. Luther great saying, “ We say to our Lord God thatdf he will have his Church, he must uphold it, fe we cannot uphold it, and, even if we couldae should become the proudest asses under heaven"! would be of course simply untranslatable imp any humanist or positivist dialect at all. I@ not indeed quite know what Mr. Harrison means when he talks of a “frankly human” religion which shall provide us with a “ Providence? whom we are “to love and serve;” but I ep pose he must mean that we are to love that law of the universe which produces a certain amount of correspondence between our nature andi “environment,” and that we are to codperate with that law. At least this is the only meaning I am able to attach to “loving and serving”# Providence without believing in God. Now for myself I am incapable of loving a mere law@ any kind, whether it be a law of gravitations law of assimilation between my organism andité environment, or any other; and as for « serving? it, I like to judge for myself, and, insteadof allowing myself always to be assimilated tom “environment,” I sometimes prefer what is called, in the language of the same philosophy, “a ferentiating” myself from it. But I think em 3 H trust like Luther’s, toward a “Being” of we are supposed to know nothing except t has given rise to the earth we live on, and most likely, in a few thousand years, also You cannot trust a being’ J Mr. Harrison would hardly justify language’ : ¥% final end to it. whose purposes, or capacity for having pu you know nothing, because trust implies ing those purposes and believing them to be ; companied by a far higher range of kno and foresight than your own. Yet has not benefit of trust in God arisen from that h 1 “Tischreden,” edition Férstemann, Leipsi, vol. ii., p. 830. bas

Page 131

FeGedivrie +e ‘Atbcelsrcive A MODERN “SYMPOSIUM.” and courage, that self-abandonment to a higher will, that sense of complete irresponsibility for the result when the right thing is once done, which constitute moral heroism? Could such moral heroism survive the belief in a divine will which is shaping all right action to a perfect end ? Suppose we believed in unknown causes which produce indeed such moral phenomena as those of human life for a moment in the long ages of evolution—which bring them like a ripple to the surface, but quench them, like that ripple, for evermore, and which are as certain so to quench them as the sun is one day to be burned out—is it possible we could cast ourselves on such un- known causes with the sort of faith in God that has “moved mountains,” and that will move mountains again, that will say, for instance, to this huge dead weight of secularism and positiv- ism, “Be thou cast into the sea,” and it will obey ? Nor can I see any better help in Prof. Clif- ford’s substitute for God—namely, the higher self represented by “ the voice of our Father Man who is within us,” i. e., by “ the accumulated in- stinct of the race poured into each one of us” and overflowing us, “‘ as if the ocean were poured intoa cup.” The “ accumulated instinct of our race” includes a great deal of evil as well as good, and is often unaccompanied by any accu- mulation of instinct for the suppressing of the evil by the good. I quite agree with those who have urged that it was the “accumulated instinct” of the Athenian people which taught them the necessity of putting down Socrates as one who was undermining the social order to which he be- longed. I do not doubt that Socrates shared that ‘ccumulated instinct not less—nay, probably, much more—than the rest of his countrymen. Probably it overflowed him “as an ocean might oerflow a cup.” Nevertheless the solitary voice vithin him, which he attributed to his “ damon,” though it could not drown the voice of this “ ac- cumulated instinct,” was heard above it, and pre- wailed over the pleas of comradeship, and over what Prof. Clifford deems the only “ spring of vir- tous action,” the impulse which invites men to take individual sacrifices to promote the greater tliciency of the social bond. “Some one may wonder (says Socrates, in . ’s‘ Apology’) why I go about in private giving tdvice and busying myself with the concerns of tthers, but do not venture to come forward in pub- ind advise the state. I will tell you the reason P . this, You have often heard me speak of an | faintly-uttered principles of a new kind of social cle or sign which comes to me, and is the di- | 131 | vinity which Meletus ridicules in the indictment. | This sign I have had ever since I was a child. | The sign is a voice which comes to me and always | forbids me to do something which I am going to do, but never commands me to do anything, and this is what stands in the way of my being a poli- | tician. And rightly, as I think. For I am certain, O men of Athens, that if I had engaged in politics | I should have perished long ago, and done no good | either to you or to myself. And don’t be afraid | of my telling you the truth, for the truth is that | no man who goes to war with you or any other multitude, honestly struggling against the com- | mission of unrighteousness and wrong in the | state, will save his life; he who will really fight | for the right, if he would live even for a little | while, must have a private station and not a public | one,’?? | This is unsocial doctrine enough, and, of | course, Prof. Clifford will say that, though fatal | to the existing Athenian state, it had its source | in instincts essential to a higher political virtue | and to the cohesion of a nobler kind of state. | Grant it for a moment. Yet how can we expect moral heroism of the same type as that which is convinced that invisible Power is on its side, and trusts to the vindication of the future, | if instead of ascribing the origin of its impulses | to a divine Power which is the same yesterday, | to-day, and forever—a Power above it and be- yond it—he who has to evince this moral heroism | believes that there is no inspiring mind higher than his own, and holds, therefore, that he must rely on himself, and on himself alone, for the | fine faculty to discriminate between the inchoate | order of a new society and the worn-out guaran- | tees of an order which is passing away? How is } one who is fully aware that he is dissolving the | ancient bonds of a venerable society and polity, | but who only hopes that he is creating the germs | of something better, to set his face against the | brotherhood among whom he lives, and to defy | the wrath of the fellow-citizens whom he sees, | and all without the whisper of approval from any | spiritual being behind the veil? Surely the hesi- | tating inspiration of that long-buried ancestor, | “our Father Man”—to admit, for a moment, | Prof. Clifford's assumption—when it spells out | dubious and unaccustomed lessons which the | voices of our brother-men join, in loud chorus, to | decry, would not be very likely to triumph over | fears and scruples which “our Father Man” also authenticates, and authenticates much more pos- itively than he ever can authenticate the first 1 Prof. Jowett's “ Plato,” vol. 1., p. 846, first edition.

Page 132

‘ 132 union against the old. What was it, as I asked be- fore, which stimulated Luther to his gigantic en- terprise? Not the doubtful guess that buried generations had transmitted to him the glimpse of a reform which would transfigure society, but the belief that he could honestly use the language of that psalm that he so much delighted to ap- propriate to himself: “‘ They came about me like bees, and are extinct even as the fire among the | thorns, for in the name of the Lord I will destroy them.” Whether the belief in “our Father Man” and in a tentative Providence which does not foresee, but only accommodates the individual to his “ environment,” as the only guides of our moral life, be wild or sober, this, I think, is clear, that it does not provide the martyr or the re- former with the stimulating power of a faith ; that it can give no confidence like that in an in- spiration of far wider grasp and far deeper pur- pose than any which the reformer himself com- mands ; that it leaves him a mere pioneer amid dangers and difficulties to which it may turn out that both he and his race are quite unequal, in- stead of a humble follower obeying the beckon- ing of one who holds both past and future in his hand. And now as to my second point—that the very element which gives so beneficial a charac- ter to the belief that conscience is the inspiration of God—the very element which makes it a use- ful and practically stimulating belief, and not, as Prof. Clifford calls it, a mere source of “ re- fined and elevated pleasure ”—is also a note of its truth. I hold this to be so because the very experience which produces the trust is an experi- ence of life, and of life morally higher than one’s self. Surely, if we are competent, as we are, to say when our friends and ‘our favorite books tempt us, and when they raise us above tempta- tion, we are also competent to say when thoughts that strike with a living power upon the heart come from a higher and when they come from a lower source than that of our own habitual prin- ciples of action—when they come with promise and command, and when they come with dis- cordant sneers,-discouragement, and enervation. When we grasp dimly at a great moral princi- ple which is full, to use Prof. Tyndall’s language, of “the promise and potency” of all forms of life—when the more we consider it, the less we see where it is leading us, and yet only feel the more confidence in it on that account—when we recognize a clew and a guide without recognizing where that clew and that guide are pointing to— when we know that it is our duty to defy the THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. ‘ world in the name of a principle of whichgg cannot gauge the full meaning, or measure oygg the immediate effects (and this is, as I maintain, the true phenomenon visible in all great moral, as in all great intellectual, origination)—then does seem to me to be a sober and wholesom conviction that that which we do not know, them is one who puts the clew into our hands, who does know ; that what we cannot foresee, thee is one who does foresee; that we are the hand of a Power which knows the way befom as well as behind; that we are following:the glimmer of a ray which will lead us on to thedap spring from which it descended. I cannot ba believe that we have as secure a faculty tod criminate the superiority of the life in which’ moral impression originates as we have to dis. criminate its rightness itself—that it is one and the same act of discrimination which says, “This is obligatory,” and which says, “ This is instinet with divine life and promise.” To suppose that a dead ancestry are flashing through us thes commands which at once repudiate their prim ciples and nerve us against the wrath of their descendants, seems to me, I confess, a degrading superstition. If “ we boast to be better thanour fathers,” it must be some one better than oar fathers who is giving us our watchword. This why I hold that to lose the faith in God wouldbe to lose a great inheritance of moral order ‘and moral progress, and also to lose at the sameme ment a truth in comparison with which all other truths are as dim and isolated sparks besides pillar of fire that can guide us through a wilder ness that we have never even explored. Sir JAMES STEPHEN.—The paper which began this discussion was entitled “The I» fluence upon Morality of a Decline in Religious Belief.” The Dean of St. Paul’s remarks: “It seems to me difficult to discuss this question till it is settled, at least generally, what morality influenced, and what religious belief is declining” The Duke of Argyll observes that these pape “deal with a question very abstract and! i defined.” Dr. Ward says that “ the wording of our question is unfortunately ambiguous, and think that this fact has made the discussiond® several respects less pointed and less otherwise interesting than it might have been.” ‘3 To these criticisms I reply that the title of my paper contains no question at all, and-wi not intended to do so. It is simply-an indicat in the most general terms, of the subject to ¥ the paper of which it is the title relates. one who will take the trouble to read the

Page 133

RICHARD WAGNER. 133 will see that its principal object was to assert the | As to the Duke of Argyll’s statement that proposition with which it concludes, which is in | “the question is very abstract’ and ill-defined,” these words : I should admit its justice if the title of the paper were taken as the statement of a question. But “ This [i. e., the whole of the preceding argu- | this is not the case. The proposition which I ment] shows that the support which an existing put forward, in the hope that it would be dis- creed gives to an existing system of morals is cussed, is no doubt general in its terms, but it irrelevant to its truth, and that the question | y : whether a given system of morals is good or bad | ae ee — definite anowgh to cannot be fully determined until after the deter- be discuss s to the “ambiguity” of which mination of the question whether the theology on | Dr. Ward complains, I cannot see how my propo- which it rests is true or false. The morality is [I | sition can have more meanings than one, should have said ** may be”’] good if it is founded The papers which have been written subse- ona true estimate of the consequences of human | quently to my paper raise a great variety of actions. But if it is founded ona false theology | points which I feel much tempted to discuss, but it is founded on a false estimate of the conse - | I hardly feel at liberty to do so, as they do not quences of human actions; and, so far as that is in any way qualify anything said by me. Each ihe a = cannst be geod; and the pigs paper, indeed, is an illustration of the truth of that it is supported by the theology to which it | a : refers is an argument against, and not in favor of, | — pass of wad prop osition or of the acsertens that theology.” | by which it is introduced; for each shows in | various ways how very close is the connection The only “question” which my paper was | in the writer's mind between the theological sys- intended to raise is the question whether that | tem which he believes to be true and the moral proposition is true or not? I do not see how its | system which he considers to be good; and this, trath can depend (as the Dean of St. Paul’s sug- | again, shows that the question of truth must pre- gests) upon further particulars as to “what | cede the question of goodness, and cannot be morality is influenced,” or “what theology is | determined by any answer which may be given declining.” I said nothing about the decline of | to the latter question. I cannot help thinking that any particular theological belief, or its influence | if this were understood generally it would affect m any particular system of morals. My prop- | very deeply the character of a great proportion ciition would apply to all creeds and all forms | of current theological speculation.—ineteenth of morality. Century. RICHARD WAGNER. By H. R. HAWEIS. which an art ceases to grow and stands full-blown I. like a flower. AGNER is the most powerful personality Most people admit that in music, as in other that has appeared in the world of music | arts, that point has been reached. What, then, ‘ince Beethoven, But indeed he seems to me, in | remained? is, according to Richard Wagner: his wide range as poet, dramatist, musician, and | to concentrate into one dazzling focus all the arts, philosopher, almost alone in the history of Art. | and, havivg sounded and developed the expres- Beethoven was a musician only. His glory is | sional depth, and determined the peculiar function tohave carried the art of music to its extreme | of each, to combine them at length into one per- limits of development: no one has yet gone be- | fect and indivisible whole. Yond him. Words seem childishlv inadequate to render Wagner says, “I have invented nothing.” | all at once such a conception as this, Slowly we You cannot invent metre after the Greeks, or the | may master some of its details and allow them to modern drama after Shakespeare, or coloring and | orb into a perfect whole. If you stand at the Perspective after the Italians—there is a point at | foot of one of the Alps, you can see but a little

Page 134

134 portion of it—a hamlet, a sloping patch of vine- yard, and a pine-copse beyond: but as you as- cend the winding path the prospect opens to right and left; cascades leap by to lose them- selves in the torrent below—you plunge into the gloom of a forest and emerge on to the higher meadows and pleasant scenes of pastoral life— yonder the soil grows rocky, and tumbled bowl- ders lie around you—the cloud lifts, and a vista THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. ways prodigious in his ability. Like those a fast trotters that flash along the highways of Eng. ‘ land and America, he has been in the habit of passing every one on the road, and passing them easily. But the consciousness of power bred ig him a singular willfulness. At school he could learn anything, but he would learn only as he chose and what he chose. When his time came he mastered, with incredible rapidity and accuraey, of mountains and valleys is suddenly opened up, | Greek, Latin, mythology, and ancient history, and pressing forward you leave far below the | As for his music-master, he soon sent him to the murmurs of one world, and raise your enraptured | right about, telling him he would learn music hig eyes to the black eagle, as he wheels aloft in the | own way. Indeed, the variety of influences, and golden air beyond the stainless and eternal snows. | the rapidity with which he absorbed them, one So when we are brought face to face with such | after the other, quite unfitted him for going inte a varied, complex, and immense intelligence as | harness early in any one direction. that of Richard Wagner, we are apt to dwell on a part—a peculiarity of the music—a turn of the drama—a melody, a situation, an eccentricity. But the secret lies, afterall, in the unity of effect. Close your eyes after a day in the Alps, and, as the visions pass before you, all will grow clear to your inner consciousness, and the varied scenes you have realized only in succession will at last arrange themselves into one great and majestic whole. Il. “Pernarps he has some talent for music,” said the sick man as he heard little Richard, then only seven years old, strumming a tune from “Der Freischiitz” on the piano. It was Louis Geyer, his step-father, painter, author, and actor, now on his death-bed, thinking of the future, planning as dying men plan, and hitting the mark as they often hit it, quite at random. The child's vivid temperament and eager, sensitive mind had always made him a favorite with the actor and the poet, and he thought of making a painter of Richard, but the boy seemed to have no turn for it. His mother, a woman full of life and imagi- nation, was less anxious and more wise. She let him grow, and happily he was left to her, “ with no education,” as he says, “ but life, art, and my- self.” Indeed, any attempt to hasten Wagner's de- | divine life. He, too, must flash into self-consciouh velopment, or to fix his career, would doubtless | ness, and breathe in form, until all that slept — have failed. From the first, the consciousness of his own force has been one of his strangest and strongest peculiarities. At times it seems to have almost intoxicated him—at others it sus- tained and cheered him in utter loneliness ; it has dominated all who have come in personal contact with him, and bent the minds and wills of the re- bellious like reeds before the wind. | And the reason is evident.. Wagner was al- , At the age of seventeen he had dipped into most literatures, ancient and modern—glanced at science, learned English in order to read Shake speare, weighed several schools of philosophy, studied and dismissed the contending theologies, absorbed Schiller and worshiped Goethe (then eighty-four years old), turned away from the com ventional stage of Kotzebue and Iffland, tasted politics, and been deeply stirred by the music of Beethoven. » There was doubtless a great indistinctnes about his aims at this time. To live, to grow, te feel, to be filled with new emotions, and to sound his enormous capacities for receiving impressions and acquiring facts — this had hitherto beea enough ; but the vexed question was inevitable: to what end ? The artistic temperament could give but one answer to that—‘* Expression!” Creation itself —man—the world, the universe—is nothing but that. There is ever this imperious divine neces sity for outward expression. This is the lesson of the ages and of the universe—of which we see — but a little speck realized upon our tiny and over crowded planet. But this burning thought turns” the mind of man itself into a divine microcosm { he, too, begins to obey in his higher activities what he perceives to be the supreme law of the in the silence of his heart comes forth swift and — radiant with the wind and fire of emotion, and stands at last like an angel, full of wreathed meh — odies and crowned with stars. oh Such to the artist-soul is the beloved parabile— of earth. The life within must become outward; : all that we are is dying to be born, is craving @ ” realize itself, to know, to possess, to adore! man social? His being passes by an organi¢ co 2

Page 135

REGTRSF LE FRE sa s S826 F888 DA TRIBES, £ € RICHARD WAGNER. 135 into the expression of family life. Is he politi- | art. A barrel organ or a daub may serve to set cal? He creates the state. Is he thoughtful and | agoing imagination and memory, but art has to imaginative? He evolves literature, science, and do with expression, and is defective gud art just the arts. Is he spiritual? His soul passes into | where it begins to make these demands upon the religions of the world. imagination and memory. It is quite obvious that life is here seized, not Those who have traced Wagner’s career from from the intellectual, but from the emotional side. | boyhood know how patiently he has questioned The intellect is used to fathom, to formulate, to | every art how passionately he has surrendered economize, and represent, in their most impres- | himself to it, for a time; how willing he would sive forms, the feelings which would otherwise be | have been to rest, how inexorably experience and wasted and misspent; but the intellect, which | feeling have urged him on until, like the hardy has played so important a part in Wagner's sys- | navigators of old, he broke at last into a new and tem, is always the second, never the first factor, and its function has been to analyze the various expressional media of the past and present, and to create some form or combination more exhaus- tive and powerful than all the rest. Wagner was willing to be led. But he could not help feeling that an artist now is the heir of all the ages, that now for the first time he can stand and gauge the creations of the past in poe- try, painting, drama, and music, and ask himself how far, through these, has the inner world of the mind found utterance. Wagner had the un- conscious but inflexible hardihood to take up each art in turn, weigh it, and find it wanting. Bach fell short of the whole reality in some re- spect. Painting leaves out motion and solidarity, sculpture possesses solidarity without motion, and usually without color. Poetry without drama ap- peals to the senses chiefly through the imagina- tion; in itself it has neither sound, color, nor solidarity. The spoken drama lacks the inten- | sity which it is the unique function of musical sound to give; while mere pantomime, whether of dance or drama, lacks the indefinite power of sound as well as the definite suggestion of words ; | and, lastly, musical sound alone provokes the | éernal “why?” which can only be answered | by associating the emotion raised with thought, | for music alone is without solidarity, color, or | thought, while possessing motion and sound in | the highest perfection. | undiscovered ocean. At the age of eleven he had read Shakespeare. Surely dramatic expression of thought and feel- ' ing could go no further. But he would test it as , a form of art by experiment, and see how it | worked. He immediately constructed a drama, | horrible and thorough—a cross between “‘ Ham- let” and “King Lear.” Forty-two characters | suffered death in the first four acts, so that in the fifth, in order to people his stage at all, most of them had to reappear as ghosts, The Shake- spearean method was closely adhered to, and for several years he continued to brood over it lov- ingly. Here was a form intensely individual, self- conscious—in which man explored the depths of his own nature. On that rough wooden stage of the Globe Theatre so vivid were the characters, so rapid and complex the feelings, so perfect and expressive the pantomime, that the want of stage- trappings and accessories was hardly felt. Still it was a restrained expression; it was too mo- saic; the individuals lacked a universal element in which to live and move and have their being: | | | | | we sit fascinated and bewildered with the subtile analysis and changing episodes ; but the charac- ters do not run up into universal types, they are too entirely absorbed by their own thoughts and feelings. The contest here“s not with Fate and Time, as on the Greek stage, but with self and society. It will be said, “ Yes, but each art is complete | Excited but oppressed by the complex inner in itself.” True, but not complete as a means of | life of the Shakespearean drama, Wagner still expressing thought and feeling. You urge: “But felt the need of wedding the personal life to some the power of art lies often in its suggestiveness. | larger ideal types, and intensifying the emotional Tread a poem and shut my eyes, and the vision , element by the introduction of musical sound. more splendid than anything that could be Then the cramped wooden stage of the Globe Presented outwardly.” Yes, indirectly, because Theatre vanished, and in its place rose the mar- Jou have imagination ; the vision was beautiful, | ble amphitheatre, open to the sky, imbedded in but its quality depended on you, not on the art. | the southern slope of the Athenian Acropolis, Art is for expression, and that art is best which In the classical drama nothing was individual *tpresses most. Do not confuse the effects of | —the whole life of Greece was there, but all was ination and association with the effects of | summed up in large and simple types. The act-

Page 136

136 THE POPULAR SCIENCE ors speak through fixed masks, All fine inflection is lost ; all change of facial expression sacrificed to massive groupings and stately poses, regulated by the shrill pipe and the meagre harp. But still there is in the dramas of A2schylus, Eu- ripides, and Sophocles, a breadth of expression which enables the soul to shake itself free from its accidental surroundings and enter into gen- eral sympathy with the wider life of humanity. It is this escape into the ideal which the modern self-conscious spirit most needs: this merging of discordant self in the universal harmony which drew Wagner toward the theatre of the Greeks. There we start from the gods, the ideal repre- sentatives of human thought and emotion. Zeus is in Agamemnon, Ares in Achilles, Artemis in Iphigenia, Aphrodite in Phedra; and there is something prophetic and sublime in the spon- taneous growth of these types beneath the hu- man touch until they transcend the gods and con- quer Olympus itself. Cassandra is greater than the gods in her consciousness of injustice; Pro- metheus is sublime in his godlike defiance of Fate; Antigone triumphs through voluntary sac- rifice—it is the inexorable progress of the hu- man conscience toward a higher Olympus, a purer deity—men come froém gods, but excel the gods; then follows the inevitable decline, “ the dusk of the gods,” and, lastly, the assertion of man’s di- vinity and the rehabilitation through man of the divine idea. This thought Christianity should eternally present ; but as its votaries unhappily trampled upon one-half of human life, and caricatured the other all through the middle ages, the Renais- sance insisted upon reviving the types of Greek beauty and force, in order to restore the balance and reassert the place and dignity of the down- trodden senses. That protest, in the teeth of our modern religious narrowness, will continue to be popular untif the reconciliation between the old and the new world-spirit is reached in a higher, freer life, recognizing and making room for the development in due balance of every part of human nature. The Greek view of life may not be adequate, but it had elements which we want; and to study art we must still go to Ath- ens. Within his limits the Greek remains our supreme standard. For what the Greek was, and for what he saw, his theatre found an almost perfect art-form. The dance or science of pantomimic motion was part of his daily education. His body was trained in the Palestra, or gymnasium, and his life was one of constant drill to enable him to take part MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. | in the games and national festivals. The E | tongue of Homer had been enriched and fired by a hundred poets before the full development of the Greek drama, and hymns and songs, set.dg rhythmic and choral melodies of every characte, and variety, supplied him with ready emotiong utterance upon all occasions. Add to this the profound enthusiasm which still accompanied the ancient rites, the Delphic oracles and the Blew sinian mysteries, and we have a!) the material which were woven into one harmonious whole bp | Aischylus—poet, warrior, stage-manager, and ae ligious devotee. us The soul of the Greek drama, freed from ag cidental associations, must now be melted down in the new crucible. Wagner found there an im ' tense earnestness of purpose—the devout pom trayal of a few fundamental types—the lange clear outline like the frieze of the Parthenon simple plot and well-developed phases of feeling as proncunced and trenchant as the rhythmig thotions of the dramatis persone ; and lastly he : found—what he found not in Shakespeare—the Greek chorus, This gave its binding intensityte the whole drama—this provided the universal ele ; ment in which the actors lived, and moved,and ‘had their being. The chorus ever in motione@ | band of youths or maidens, priests or supernaté | ural beings, fluid and expressive, like the emo tions of the vast and earnest assembly ; the chor rus bore aloft a wail over the agonies of Philog | tetes—a plaint for Iphigenia—a questioning of , the gods for Cassandra; it enveloped the stage | with floods of passionate declamation ; it rushed) it pointed, it swayed, it sighed, and whispered ia broken, pathetic accents; it was like the sobbing’ of the sea on a rocky strand—the sound of the waves in Ionian caves—the wild rush of the teme pest answering back man’s passionate plaiut,and fitting the simple feelings of the great types om | the stage with an almost elemental intensity oh expression. The mysterious variety of Greek metres, the varied spasmodic rhythms, can only be understood when the vision of the Greek cho- rus rises before us in its eager bursts of appro priate but fitful activity, That changing chamh that harsh ringing progression of notes on the Greek scales of which Gregorians are still the” Christian relics, we should not call it musie;it— was not melody, much less harmony, but it was lamation, posture, and pantomime. The soul | it has transmigrated in these latter days—it | become the Wagnerian orchestra. Turn back now, for a moment, to the Sh sound inflections marvelously used to drill dee inv of « SEze Fe

Page 137

RICHARD spearean drama. Chorus, musical sound, band, song, all the voices of universal Nature environ- ing man—appalling, consoling, inspiring him— have vanished. A new inner world, unknown to the Greeks, has taken their place, and man is absurbed with himself. Yet without that uni- yersal voice which he can make his own, how he shrinks, dwarfed by his narrow individuality; no longer a part of the great whole and soul of things; Nature no longer his mother, the winds no more his friends, the sea no more his com- forter! The ideal atmosphere of the Greek cho- rus is missed; the power of music, however ru- dimentary, is absent, Shakespeare seems to have felt it; it passes over his sublime creations as an invocation to Musie in “ Twelfth Night” or in Ophelia’s plaintive song. And this is the point of contact between the old drama of Aischylus and the new drama of Shakespeare: the two stand forever for the opposite poles of dramatic art—the universal type, the individual life—and both are necessary. The individual is naturally evolved from the universal, but, once evolved and developed, it must be restored to the universal, and be glorified by it. At this crisis, in his quest after a perfect art- form, Wagner found himself confronted with Beethoven’s music. He did not believe that drama could be carried further than Aéschylus, Sophocles, and Shakespeare, or music any further than Beethoven ; but he did conceive the project of leading the whole stream of the Beethovenian music into the channels of Shakespearean drama. The Greek chorus might have been adequate to the simple types of Greek tragedy, but modern life, with its self-conscious spirituality, its ques- tions, its doubts, its hopes, and its immense as- pirations—this seemed to require quite a new | dement of expression. The voice of this inner life had been preparing for four hundred years; when it was ready it turned out to be no inflexible mask, through which a human voice might speak, not even a mobile chorus, but a splendid and complex organ of expression, fitted so closely about the soul of man as to become the very #olian harp upon which the breath of his life could freely play. In the great world-laboratory of art Wagner found already all that he required. There was, ‘he remarked, nothing left for him to invent: the arts of poetry, music, painting, and panto- mime, had been explored separately and perfect- td; nay, one step more had been made—the arts had actually been combined at different times in diferent ways. Music with pantomime and poem WAGNER. 137 by the Greeks; music with pantomime, drama, painting, and every conceivable effect of stage scenery and costume, as in modern opera ; music and words, as in oratorio or the cantata. But in Greece music was wholly undeveloped as an art ; acting had never sounded the depths of individual life and expression. The Shakespearean drama left out music. The cantata and oratorio omitted pantomime and painting, while modern opera presented a meretricious and maimed combina- tion of the arts resulting from a radically defec- tive form. With a surprising vigor of intellect Wagner has analyzed the situation, and explained exactly why he is dissatisfied with the best operatic ef- forts of the past, and why he seeks to supersede opera with the “ musical drama.” I think his critical results may be briefly summed up thus: In the musical drama, poetry, music, scenery, and acting, are to be so blended as that each shall have its own appropriate share, and no more, as a medium of expression. The acting must not be cramped by the music, as in common opera, where a man has to stand on one toe till he has done his rowlade, or pauses in the dead of night to shout out a song about “ Hush! we shall be discovered!” when there is not a moment tospare. The music must not be spoiled for the acting, as in ballet and pantomime, where acting is overstrained to express what the sister arts of poetry and music are better fitted to con- vey. And poetry, which after all supplies the definite basis and answers the inevitable “ why ?” must not be sacrificed, as in our opera /ibretti, to the demands of singers for aria and scena, while the scenery must only attempt effects and situa- tions which can be made to look real. The ob- ject of the grand musical drama is, in fact, to present a true picture of human feeling with the utmost fullness and intensity, freed from every conventional expression by the happy union of all the arts, giving to each only what it is able to deal with, but thus dealing with everything, leav- ing nothing to the imagination. The Wagnerian drama completely exhausts the situation. Filled with this magnificent conception, Wag- ner looked out upon the world of modern opera —and what did he see? First, he noticed that the opera had made a false start. It sprang, not from the earnest feel- ing of the miracle-plays, but from the indolent desire of the luxurious Italian nobles to listen to the delicious popular melodies in a refined form. The spontaneous street-action (which may to this day be admired in Naples or Florence) was ex-

Page 138

’ 138 changed for a sort of drawing-room stage, and poets were hired to reset the Italian melodies, as Moore reset the Irish melodies, for ears polite. This new aristocratic mongrel] art had nothing to do with the real drama. Metastasio himself was only an Italian Mr. Chorley, the very humble ser- vant of everybody’s tunes ; but these tunes had to be strung together, so the recilative, used for centuries in church, was borrowed; then the product was naturally a little dull, so the whole had to be whipped up with a dance; hence the ballet, and there you have the three fixed points of the opera—aria, recitative, and ballet—which to this day determine the form of modern opera. Thus opera, while it had no connection with the real drama, did not even spring from the best musical elements. ‘From the prosperity of op- era in Italy,” says Wagner, “the art-student will date the decline of music in that country. .. . No one who has any conception of the grandeur and ineffable depth of the earlier Italian church- music—Palestrina’s “ Stabat Mater,” for instance —will ever dream of maintaining that Italian opera can be looked upon as the legitimate daugh- ter of that wondrous mother.”’?! As ear-tickling, and not truth of expression, was the chief thing, and as there was not much to be expressed, the arias got wider and wider of the words, and at last the words became mere pegs, and the music totally irrelevant—as who should dance a jig over a grave. Gluck’s reform consisted in making the oper- atic tunes once more true to the words, but the improvement touched the sentiment only, with- out reaching the defective form. In France the form was slightly redeemed by the superior /i- bretti and more elaborate pantomime ; while in Germany opera arrived as a finished foreign pro- duction, and Mozart and others had to go to Italy to learn it. ‘In expressing my highest ad- miration of the exquisite beauties of our great masters,” says Wagner, “I did not detract from their fame in showing that the cause of their weaknesses lay in the faultiness of the genre.” ? And the defect of genre lay chiefly i in the im- molation of the dibretto to the exigencies of fixed aria, scena, and recitative. The drama, which has to be stretched upen that Procrustean bed, must necessarily become disjointed and lifeless in the process. Rossini retarded the progress of the musical drama for at least fifty years through the absolute triumph of melody, in the most fas- 1“ Music of the Future.” Letter to F. Villot, p 10. 3 Ibid., p. 22. | THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. cinating abundance, over the resources of the chestra and the inspirations of the poet. re “His opera,” writes Eduard Dannreuther, jg whose pamphlet on Wagner at this season we arg all so much indebted, “ is like a string of beads, each bead being a glittering and intoxi tune. Dramatic and poetic truth—all that makes. a stage performance interesting—is sacrificed tunes.”’ Poet and musician alike had felt this, Goe, the and Schiller both found the operatic form, and even the existing stage, so uncongenial that they, took to writing narrative and descriptive not to be acted at all, and have been followed in this by Byron, Tennyson, Browning, and Swip, burne. Beethoven wrote but one opera, “Fide. lio,” in which the breadth of the overture or overtures seems to accuse the narrowness of the dramatic form, although the libretio of “ Fidelio” is very good as times go. Mendelssohn and Schumann could never find a suitable libretto, ,. The conclusion of all this is obvious. The perfect medium which was to combine the ap. parently unmanageable arts was yet to come, and Wagner proposed to himself the task of h ing these fiery steeds to his triumphal ond driving them all together. He must choose big own subject, with a simple plot and a few strong” passions and great situations. He must write his own drama, which, without being either on thodox verse or fixed metre, would aim in its mobile and alliterative pathos at following the varied inflections of natural feeling. He must arrange his own scenery, perfect in detail, and within the limits of stage possibility ; and finally he must compose his own music and drill big band, chorus, and characters. x To his prophetic vision the old opera formef aria, scena, and recitative, has disappeared. The orchestra in a wondrous fashion floods the soul with an emotion appropriate to the situation, The drama itself advances unshackled by ney musical exigency; the music flows on contin ously, not imposing a form but taking its form from the emotion of the sentences as they follow each other. Snatches there are here and there of exquisite melody, broken up by part-singing, ; with a wild burst of chorus when needful to fuk fill the dramatic occasion ; but never must action — be delayed, never must emotion be belied, truth sacrificed; only at times, when the expre® sional power of words ceases, the music will fuk” fill, deepen, combine, and sometimes lift te drama almost out of itself. Then the spectal is raised into a sphere of ecstatic contemplate the pageantry passes before his eyes as dre: ides whi

Page 139

Bez. ~~ Bacal = ee. se Fes EEEE a. FER. Pindines RICHARD dream, while his soul lives and moves only in the jdeal sphere of the varied and intense passions which are being played out before him. III. Waite these perceptions and aims were slow- jy maturing in him, Wagner found himself con- stantly at war with his age and his surround- ings. At sixteen, he had resolved to devote himself to music, finding in it the ineffable expression for emotions otherwise mainly inexpressible. Musi- cal notes and intervals were to him radiant forms and flaming ministers. Mozart taught him that exquisite certainty of touch which selects exactly the right notes to express a given musical idea. Weber taught him the secret of pure melody, how to stamp with an indelible type a given char- acter, as in the return of the Samiel motive in “Der Freischiitz;”” he also perceived in that opera the superiority of legend and popular myth, as on the Greek stage, to present the universal and eternal aspects of human life in their most pronounced and ideal forms. Beethoven sup- plied him with the smighty orchestra, capable of holding in suspension an immense crowd of emo- tions, and of manipulating the interior and com- plex feelings with the instantaneous and infallible power of a magician’s wand. Schubert taught him the freedom of song—Chopin the magic elas- ticity of chords, Spohr the subtile properties of the chromatic scale—and even Meyerbeer re- vealed to him the possibilities of stage-effect through the grand opera. Shakespeare, Goethe, and Schiller, suggested the kind of language in which such dramas as “ Lohengrin ” and “ Rhein- gold” might be written ; while Madame Schrider- Devrient revealed to him what a woman might accomplish in the stage presentation of ideal pas- sion with such a part as Elsa in “ Lohengrin” or Bruohild in “ Walkiire.” But the immediate result of this, as I have said, was not promising. Contrary to the advice ofhis friends, he had thrown himself, beart and soul, into the study of music as a profession. Under the Cantor Weinlig, at Leipsic, and while at the university, he produced an overture and symphony, which were played and not unfavor- ably received at the Gewandhaus ; but his early vork, with here and there an exceptional trait in harmony, was nothing but a pale copy of Mozart, &$ may be seen from a poor little piano sonata lately republished by Breitkopf. His health now broke down. He was twenty Years old (1833), and he went te his brother, a WAGNER. 139 professor of music at Wiirzburg, where he staid a year, at the end of which time he was appointed musical director at the Magdeburg Theatre, where, under the combined influence of Weber and Beet- hoven, he produced two operas—“ The Fairies ” and “ The Novice of Palermo”—neither of which succeeded. He left his place in disgust, and ob- tained another post at the Kénigsberg Theatre. There he married an actress, a good creature, who, without being much to blame, does not seem to have materially increased his happiness, but who decidedly shared the opinion of his friends that the composition of “ pot-boilers” was su- perior to the pursuit of the ideal. The ideal, however, haunted Wagner, and—poverty. In 1836 he left with Mina for Riga, on the shores of the Baltic, and there, as chef d'orchestre at the theatre, he really appears to have enjoyed studying the operas of Mehul, Spontini, Aber, and Berlioz ; for, while suffering what he describes as a dull, gnawing pain at the frequent irrele- vance of the sentiment to the music, the nobler correspondences and beautiful inspirations gave him far-off glimpses of that musical drama to which he even now dimly aspired. In the midst of his routine duties Bulwer’s novel, “ Rienzi,” struck his imagination. There, as on a large and classic stage, was portrayed that eternal revolt of the human spirit against tyranny, routine, selfishness, and corruption, of which the Polish insurrection of 1831 and the Revolution of July were the modern echoes. Ri- enzi, a tribune of the people, dreaming of the old austere republic, in the midst of corrupt papal Rome—a noble heart, a powerful will at war with a brutal and vulgar age, supported, cheered by the enthusiasm of a devoted and patriotic sister —raised by a wave of popularity to the high- est summit of human power, then hurled down by the papal anathema, betrayed by a mean and cowering aristocracy, banished by the mob that had so lately hailed him asa deliverer, and at last falling by a treacherous hand upon the charred and crumbling ashes of his own home- stead, the last great tribune of Rome !—here was a subject with immense outlines, full of situations in which the greatest breadth might be joined to the most detailed inflections of feeling. In it Wagner, while not departing avowedly from the form of the grand opera then in vogue at Paris, has in fact burst the boundaries. “ Rienzi” is already the work of an independent master ; it is at least prophetic of “Lohengrin” and “ Tri- stan,” while comparing favorably in pure melody and sensational effects with any of the current

Page 140

’ 140 THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. operas. What rush, triumph, aspiration, about | had to do with art, and with “the Revolution? the large outlines and tramping measures of the overture—what é/an and rugged dignity in the choruses — what elevation in Rienzi’s prayer, “God of Light!’’—what fervor and inexhaust- ible faith in the phrase, “‘Thou hast placed me as a pilot on a treacherous and rocky strand ;” what imagery, as of vast buildings and ranged towers dimly seen athwart the dull-red dawn, in the music of “ Scatter the night that reigns above this city,” and what chastened exaltation, free from all Italian flourish or ornament, of “ Rise, thou blessed sun, and bring with thee resplendent liberty!” But in 1839, which saw the text and the com- pletion of the first two acts, we are far indeed from the production of “ Rienzi;” it struck, however, the key-note of a most important and little* understood phase in Wagner’s career—the political phase. IV. Mosicrans, poets, and artists, are not, as a rule, politicians. Their world is the inner world —the world of emotion and thought, which be- longs to no special age or clime, but is eternay and universal. Goethe and Beethoven cared lit- tle for revolutions, and have even been deemed wanting in patriotism. But Wagner was a hot politician. He was at one time a mob orator, and was seduced by his illustrious friend Rockel, who was afterward put in prison, to throw him- self at Dresden into the rise of Saxony and the agitations of 1848. He was proscribed and banished from German soil, and years afterward, when he had, if not recanted, at all events ac- quiesced in things as they were, he was obliged to fly from Munich, warned by the friendly king that his life was in danger. The title of but one of his numerous semi-political pamphlets, “ Art and the Revolution,” gives us the real clew to all this. People have accused Wagner of time-serv- ing and change in polities, but the fact was, that he favored social revolution because he thought it needful to art revolution. Conventionality and stagnation in art seemed to him the natural out- come of conventionality and stagnation in so- ciety ; the world must be recalled to feeling and reality before art could again become the ideal life of the people, as it was once in Greece. But when, through royal patronage later on, all im- pediments to the free development of his art- work disappeared, his revolutionary tendencies also disappeared. He too was, first and foremost, Artist, and he came to realize his vocation, which only in so far as it affected “ Art.” But, in fact, no ardent soul could escapeithe romantic and revolutionary contagion that s over France, Germany, and even England, te tween 1830 and 1850. Europe seemed to breath freely once more after the iron hand of Nape leon I, had been lifted from her oppressed bosom —but then, like a wayward child, she burst intp all kinds of excesses, f The atheism of the first Revolution, the bre tality of Napoleon Bonaparte’s administration, the dullness of Louis Philippe’s, the revived tage for Greek art combined with the inflexible dog matism of the papal creed—all these conspired to fill the ardent youth of the period with a degp revolt against things as they were. With this came a settled longing for a return of some sort to Nature and freedom, and a vague but intense aspiration toward the ideal and immaterial world, which in other times might have taken the form of a religious revolution, but in 1830 brokeout in what has been called “ Romanticism” in Ark It was seen in the writings of Mazzini and the mutterings of Italian freedom, in the insatiable and varied developments of Madame Sand’s gem ius, in the wild and pathetic cries of Alfredde Musset, in the sentimentalism of Lamartine, @ the vast scorn and bitter invective of Hugoyia the heart-broken submission of Lacordaire, and in the despair of De Lamennais. Byron, Shek ley, and Tennyson, caught both the most earthly and the most heavenly echoes of the romanti¢ movement in England; while its inner life-and genius have found, after all, their most subtile expression in the music of Beethoven, Mendel sohn, Schumann, Berlioz, Chopin, Wagner, Listt and Rubinstein. “1th ** Tt seems, indeed,” writes Wagner, in one ¢ those veins of flashing perception in “iat abounds, “ that human sentiment, as if inte by the pressure of conventional civilization, hi sought an outlet for asserting itself its own laws of expression. The astounding pop ularity of music in our time proves the correctnem® of the supposition that the modern developmelt of this art has met an innate desire of the humat spirit.” ? rt v. ie Waener had left Magdeburg for Riga, bublt soon came to the end of his tether there, 4 stupid little provincial town was not like become then what Wagner has made B 1 Letter to Villot, p. 30.

Page 141

BEe REE s ~ E -, BLESS! 4. RICHARD WAGNER. since—the stage for turning upside down the art-theories of the civilized world. Pusbed by what he calls “‘despair,” without money and without friends, but with that settled faith in himself which has made him independent of both until it has won both, the obscure chef dorchestre resolved to go to Paris and storm the Grand Opéra, then at the feet of Rossini and that strange, unscrupulous bric-d-brac composer, Meyerbeer! The small vessel in which he sailed was blown about the Baltic for three weeks, put into many desolate coast-nooks, and nearly wrecked. After many hardships, shared with the rough and often starving crew, the lonely musician arrived in London (1840), with his head full of Paris and the Grand Opéra, and with “Rienzi” in his carpet-bag. While here he playfully seized the musica] motif of the English people. It lay, he said, in the five consecutive ascending notes (after the first three) of “Rule Britannia:” there was ex- pressed the whole breadth and downright bluff “so” of the British nation. He threw “ Rule Britannia” into an overture, and sent it by post to Sir George Smart, then omnipotent musical professor in London; but the postage being in- sufficient, the manuscript was not taken in, and at this moment is probably lying in some dim archive of the post-office, “left till called for.” Crossing to Dieppe, he met the crafty and clever Meyerbeer, who instantly saw the man he had to deal with, and probably conceived in a moment that policy of apparent support and slow intrigue which made him throughout life Wagner’s meanest and bitterest foe. It has been most unwarrantably asserted that Wagner hated the Jews because of Meyerbeer and Mendelssohn, and hated Meyerbeer and Men- delssohn because they were successful ; but Wag- ner’s dearest friends have been Jews: he only objected to the low level of their art-theories ; and if he hated Meyerbeer and Mendelssohn, it was not simply because they had the ear of Eu- rope, but because they and their friends kept every one else out of the field, while Meyerbeer debased musical art to the level of the vulgarest Sensation, and Mendelssohn never rose, in Wag- ner’s opinion, above the plane of a shallow senti- mentalist, while creating a drawing-room standard of excellence to which every one soon learned to bow down. In this opinion I shall never concur. Men- delssohn has been to me as much a revelator of the beautiful as Wagner has been of the sublime.. Nothing is more painful to me than the bitter 141 opposition between the friends of Mendelssohn and Wagner, These two great spirits were prob- ably as antipathetic as Moore and Wordsworth, but although Wagner is ‘he inexorable and colos- sal development in art since Beethoven, Mendels- sohn reigns forever in a sweet wayside temple of his own, full of bright dreams and visions, incense and ringing songs. And partly is he so sweet because, unburdened with any sense of a message to utter, a mission to develop, he sings like a child in the valleys of asphodel, weaving bright chaplets of spring-flowers for the whole world, looking upon the mystery of grief and pain with wide eyes of sympathy, and at last succumbing to it himself, but not understanding it, with a song of tender surprise upon his lips. Wagner passed two terrible years, 1840-’42, in Paris. Meyerbeer had given him introduc- tions, and introduced him later to M. Joly, a stage-director at Paris, whom he knew to be on the point of bankruptcy, and who suspended the rekearsal of “ The Novice of Palermo” at the last moment. But this was but the end of a series of checks. He wrote an overture to “ Faust.” His good friend and faithful ally, Schlesinger, editor of the Gazette Musicale, got it rehearsed at the Conservatoire. It sounded quite too strange and queer to those ears polite, and was instantly snuffed out. He submitted a libretto “Love Forbidden,” to a theatrical manager, but it had not a chance, and dropped. Schlesinger now employed him to write, and he wrote articles and novels, and so kept body and soul together. No one would listen to his music, but he was not a bad hack, and was hired for a few francs to arrange Halé- vy’s “Queen of Cyprus” for the piano, and the latest tunes of Donizetti and Bellini for piano and cornet-d-piston. At night he stole into the Grand Opéra, and there, as he tells us, felt quite certain that his own works would one day supersede the popular efforts of Rossini and Meyerbeer. He does not seem to have been dejected like a lesser soul; in what the French called his immense orgueil, he was sorry for their want of appreciation, but never dreamed of altering his ideas to suit them. “ Je me flattais,” says the unpaid musical hack, “ d’imposer les miennes.” Meanwhile the splen- did band of the Conservatoire, under Habeneck, consoled him, and on the boulevards he often met and chatted with Auber, for whom he had a sincere respect and admiration. Auber was at least a conscientious musician of genius, who knew his business, and did not debase what was

Page 142

’ 142 at no time a very exalted, but still a legitimate, branch of his art, the opéra comique ; and, be- sides, Auber was a bon camarade, and liked Wagner, probably without understanding him. After months of drudgery, and chiefly penny- a-lining for the Gazette Musicale, Wagner felt the imperious necessity for a return to his own art. He took a little cottage outside Paris, hired a piano, and shut himself up. He had done, for a time, at least, with the mean, frivolous, coarse world of Paris—he did not miss his friends, he did not mind his poverty. He was again on the wild Norwegian coast, beaten about with storms, and listening to the weird tales of mariners, as in broken and abrupt utterances, or with bated breath, they confided to him the legend common in one form or other to seafaring folk in all parts of the world—the legend of the Flying Dutch- man. The tale sprang froin the lives and advent- ures of those daring navigators of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, and reflects the desper- ate struggle with the elements, the insatiable thirst for the discovery of new lands athwart unknown seas, and it seems to embody forever the avenging vision of men who, resolved to win, had so often dared and lost all. A famous captain, mad to double the Cape of Storms, beaten back again and again, at length swears a mighty oath to persevere throughout eternity. The devil takes him at his word. The captain doubles the cape, but is doomed to rove the seas forever from pole to pole—as the Wan- dering Jew to tread the earth—his phantom-ves- sel the terror of all mariners, and the dreadful herald of shipwreck. Here was a legend which needed but one inspired touch of love to make it a grand epitome of seafaring life, with its hard toils, its forlorn hopes, and its tender and ineffa- bly sweet respites. The accursed doom of the Flying Dutchman can be lifted by human love alone. The captain, driven by an irrepressible longing for rest, must land once in seven years, and if he can find a woman who will promise to be his and remain faithful to him for one term of seven years, his trial will be over—he will be saved. The legend thus humanized becomes the ve- hicle for the expression of those intense yet sim- ple feelings and situations which popular myth, according to Wagner, has the property of con- densing into universal types. Immense unhappi- ness, drawn by magnetic attraction to immense love, tried by heart-rending doubt and uncertain- ty, and crowned with fidelity and triumphant love, the whole embodied in a clear, simple story, THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. suromed up in a few situations of terrible s and inexorable truth—such is Wagner's tion of the drama of “The Flying Dute with its “damnation” motive belonging te captain and its “ salvation " motive given to bride ; its sailor’s subject ; its pilot’s song; ig spinning- wheel home-melody; and its “Ho!e ho!” chorus ; and the whole, shadowel forth in the magic ond tempestuous overtarg stands out as this composer's first straightfon ward desertion of history proper, and adoption of myth as the special medium of the new Iie sical drama. * Six weeks of ceaseless labor, which to Wag. ner were weeks of spontaneous and joyful pm duction, sufficed to complete the music of “The Flying Dutchman.” The immediate result ig Paris was ludicrous. The music was instantly judged to be absurd, and Wagner was forced 9 sell the libretto, which was handed over toa Frenchman, M. P. Fouché, who could write me sic. It appeared with that gentleman’s approved setting, under the title of “Le Vaisseau Fam tome.” This was enough! No lower depth could well be reached, and Wagner was preparing to lear Paris to the tender mercies of Rossini, Meyem beer, and M. P. Fouché, when news reached him from Germany that “ Rienzi,” flouted in the cap ital of taste, had been accepted in Berlin and Dresden ! d VI. Ir was the spring of 1842, and it was also the rapid and wondrous turn of the tide for Wagner, He hurried to Dresden, to find the rehearsals of “Rienzi” already advanced. The opera was produced with that singular burst of enthusiasm which greets the first appreciation of an impor tant and long-neglected truth, and Wagner, haw ing become the favorite of the crown-prineg, was elected Kapellmeister at Dresden, and found himself for the first time famous. Some might” now have rested on their laurels, but, to Wag ner’s imperious development, “ Rienzi” was ab ¥ ready a thing of the past. He had drunk of the crystalline waters of popular myth, and was still thirsty. “The Flying Dutchman” had opened” up a new world to him, more real because more — exhaustive of human feelings and character than the imperfect types and broken episodes of real history. He seemed to stand where the frets 1 springs of inspiration welled up from a vifg@ soil ; he listened to the childlike voices of “ tive peoples, inspired from the simple heart wit es 2e28.824 to BS EB He-2 8s = —

Page 143

Nature, and babbling eternal verities without gnowing it. Legend was the rough ore—the plastic element he could seize and remould, as Rschylus remoulded Prometheus, or Sophocles Gdipus, adding philosophic analysis and the rich adornments of poetic fancy and artistic form. The legend of Tannhauser now engrossed him. The drama was soon conceived and written. There he summed up, in a few glowing scenes, the op- position between that burst of free, sensuous life at the Renaissance, and the hard, narrow ideal of papal Christianity. Christ not only crowned with thorns, but turned into stone, is all the answer that Christianity had to give to that stormy im- pulse which at last poured its long-pent-up tor- rent over Europe. The deep revolt still stares usin the face from the Italian canvases as we look at the sensuous figures of Raphael or Titian —the free types of fair, breathing life, surrounded with the hard aureole of the artificial saint, or limned as in mockery, like the dreams of a pagan world upon the walls of the Vatican. Tannhiiuser a Thuringian knight, taking ref- uge with Venus, no longer the beneficent Holda, joy of gods and men, but turned by the excesses of the ascetic spirit into a malign witch, and ban- ished to the bowels of the earth in the Venus- berg—Tannhiuser, with a touch eternally true to . Nature, bursting the fetters of an unruly, sensual life, and sighing for a healthier activity ; Tann- hiuser, seeing for a moment only, in the pure love of Elizabeth, the reconciliation of the senses with the spirit, a reconciliation made forever im- possible by the stupid bigotry of a false form of religion, but which is ultimately sealed and ac- complished by love and death in heaven—tbis is the human and sublime parable of the drama, weought out with the fervor of a religious dev- otee, and epitomized in that prodigious over- ture wherein the dirge of the Church mingles with the free and impassioned song of the min- strel knight, and clashes wildly with the voluptu- ous echoes of the fatal Venusberg Wagner’s progress was now checked by that storm of invective which burst out all over Ger- many—not on account of “ Rienzi,” but in con- sequence of “The Flying Dutchman,” and espe- tially of “ Tannbiuser.” The reason is simple. The power of “ Rienzi,” the audacity of its senti- ment, the simplicity of its outline, and the real- im of its mise en scéne, together with a general respect for the old opera forms, insured it a hear- m3 which resulted in a real triumph. But in Tannhiiuser” the new path was already struck RICHARD WAGNER. 143 out, which singers, band, audience, critics, and composers, in a body, refused to tread ; in short, aria, recitative, and ballet, were dethroned, and suddenly found themselves servants where they had been masters. In 1843 “ The Flying Dutchman” was pro- duced at Dresden, and failed. “ Rienzi” was still revived with success. Wagner now sent the “ Dutchman ” and “ Tannhiiuser ” to various theatres. The former was tried at Berlin in 1844, and failed. Spohr had the intelligence to take it up at Cassel, and wrote a friendly and ap- preciative letter to Wagner, but the MS. scores were, as a rule, returned by the other theatres, and the new operas seemed to react on the ear- lier success, for at Hamburg “ Rienzi” failed. Meanwhile, failure, together with the close sympathy of a few devoted friends, convincing him that he was more right than ever, Wagner now threw himself into the completion of that work which is, perhaps, on the whole, his most perfect, as it certainly is his most popular crea- tion, “ Lohengrin.” The superb acting and sing- ing of Mesdemoiselles Titiens, Nilsson, and Al- bani, will be fresh in the minds of many readers, The choruses in England have never yet been up to the mark, but the band under Sir Michael Cos- ta, at its best, renders the wondrous prelude to perfection. The whole of “ Lohengrin ” fs in that prelude. The descent of the Knight of the Swan from the jasper shrines of the sacred palace of Montsalvat, hidden away in a distant forest-land; his holy mission to rescue Elsa from her false accusers ; his high and chivalric love ; his dignified trouble at being urged by her to reveal his name, that insatiable feminine curiosity which wrecks the whole ; the darker scenes of treachery by which Elsa is goaded to press her fatal inquiry; the magnificent climax of the first act; the sense of weird mystery that hangs about the appearance and reappearance of the swan, and the final de- parture of the glittering Knight of the Sangraal ; allegory of heavenly devotion stooping to lift up human love, and dashed with earth’s bitterness in the attempt: to those who understand the pathos, delicacy, and full intensity of the “ Lo- hengrin ” prelude, this and more will become as vivid as life and emotion can make it. “ Lohen- grin,” in its elevation, alike in its pain, its sacri- fice, and its peace, is the necessary reaction from that wreck of sensual passion and religious de- spair so vividly grasped in the scenes of the . Venusberg, in the pilgrim chant, and the wayside crucifix of ‘‘ Tannhauser.”

Page 144

’ 144 VIL. “ LonenGRIn ” was finished in 1847, but the political events of the next few years brought Wagner's career in Germany to an abrupt con- clusion. [lis growing dissatisfaction with socie- ty coincided, unconsciously, no doubt, with the failure of his operas after that first dawn of suc- cess. He now devoted himself to criticism and politics. He read Schopenhauer, whose pessi- mist philosophy did not tend to soothe.his per- turbed spiiit; and during the next ten years, from 1847 to 1857, he spoke to the world from different places of exile in that series of political and wsthetical pamphlets to which I have before alluded. In 1855, owing to the earnest advocacy of M. Ferdinand Praeger, who, for thirty years, through evil report and good report, has never ceased to support Wagner, the Vhilharmonie Society in- vited him over to London, and while here he con- ducted eight concerts. He was not popular; he was surprised to find that the band thought it un- necessary to rehearse, ard the’band was surprised that he should require so much rehearsal. he drove the band in spite of itself, and the band hated him. They said he murdered Beethoven with his ddé/on, because of the freedom and in- spiration of his readings. symphony had been deliberately crushed, or it was the only thing that went, according to which paper you happened to read. He did not care for the press, and he was not much surprised that the press did not care for him. The unfail- ing musical intelligence of the queen and Prince Albert was the one ray of sunlight in this his sec- ond visit to our inhospitable land, but the power of the man could not be hid even from his ene- * mies; his culture astonished the half-educated musicians by whom he was surrounded, his brill- iant originality impressed even his own friends, who saw him struggling through an imperfect ac- quaintance with French and English to make him- self understood. One evening, alone in company with M. Sain- ton, Hector Berlioz, and Ferdinand Praeger, Wag- ner surprised them all by suddenly launching out | on art, music, and philosophy. Berlioz was an elegant speaker, accustomed to lead easily; but Wagner, with his torrent of broken French and his- rush of molten ideas, silenced, bewildered, delighted, and astonished them all. Berlioz is gone, but that night still lives in the memory of those who were present and who survive. But | Mendelssohn’s Scotch | | (whose daughter, Cosima von Biilow, became | THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUVPPLEMENT. second time, leaving behind him a vague ix sion of power and eccentricity, the first of the musical press did its best to kill, while ning the second into a devouring flame, swallowed up Wagner’s reputation. No standing Praeger’s exertions, twenty-one yea flitted by, and little enough was heard of Richagd Wagner in this country until, owing to the im creasing agitation of a younger school of mm siciaus, foremost among whom we must namediq Eduard Dannreuther and Mr. Walter “The Flying Dutchman” was at last oa ently produced at Covent Garden. In 1874 Herr Hans von Biilow, pupil of Ling and great exponent of Wagner’s music, came over, and, by his wonderful playing, aided stem#ie ly by the periodical Wagnerian and Liszt eom certs given by Messrs. Dannreuther and Bache, brought about the rise of the new Wagner more ment in England, which received its development in the interest occasioned by the Baireuth Fey tival, and reached its climax in the Wagner Fee tival actively promoted by Herr Wilhelmj,ané undertaken by Messrs. Hodges and Esser, ia 1877, at the Albert Hall. cab I have anticipated a little, because spac obliges me to draw briefly to the close of this sketch. Mina, Wagner’s first wife, was naw dead. I cannot here tell at length how List Wagner’s second wife in 1870) labored with a tiring zeal to revive Wagner's works, and how his efforts were at last crowned with successall over Germany in 1849-"50. It was a populat triumph. I remember old Cipriani Potter, 4it friend of Beethoven, saying to me at the tim when the English papers teemed with the twaddle about Wagner’s music being inte only to the few, “It is all very well to talkethit stuff here, but in Germany it is the people common people, who crowd to the theatre ‘Tannhiiuser’ and ‘Lohengrin’ are given, have noticed the same at the Covent G concerts; it was always the pit and gallery called for the Wagner nights, while the which had the great run with Carl Rosa’s lish company was “The Flying Dutchman,” “Tannhiuser” and “Lohengrin” at both@ other houses were invariably the crowded In 1861 the Parisians showed their taste ol chie by whistling “ Tannhiuser” off the s In 1863 Wagner appeared at Vienna, Leipsic, St. Petersburg, Moscow, Pesth, and ducted concerts with brilliant success, In Thus, Wagner passed through England for a | his constant friend the crown-prince, now? eSB bag £38 FE | ies z co Ff fF &

Page 145

a E ’ 0 = Li Piravtiei 3 bis SEshESEEccErFids 22 FF aM oS) PO ER ati, 8 ATEN AAT el IW & RICHARD WAGNER. wig II. of Bavaria, summoned him to Munich, where the new operas of “Tristan” in 1865, and “Meistersinger” in 1868, “‘ Das Rheingold” in 1869, and “ Die Walkiire” in 1870, were succes- sively given with ever-increasing appreciation and applause. The “Meistersinger,” through which there runs a strongly comic vein, deals with the con- trast between the old stiff forms of minstrelzy by rule and the spontaneous revolt of a free, rausical, and poetical genius, and the work forms a hu- morous and almost Shakespearean pendant to the great and solemn minstrelsy which fills the centre of Tannhiuser. In Wagier’s opinion it 1s the opera most likely to find favor with an English audience, a point which we hope an English au- dence may soon determine for itself. “Tristan and Iseult,” in which the drama and analysis of passion—love and death—is wrought up to its highest pitch, was thrown off between the first two and last two great sections of the Tetralogie; and the Tetralogie, itself planned twenty years ago, and produced at Bai- reuth in 1876, stands at present as the last most daring and complete manifestation of Wagner's dramatic, poetic, and musical genius, The purpose and power of that great cycle of Scandinavian and German myths, unrolled in the four colossal dramas of “Rheingold,” “ Wal- kiire,” “Siegfried,” and “ Gotterdimmerung,” would carry me far beyond the limits of this ar- ticle, Fragments only of the music can be pre- sented in the concert-room, and these, bereft of the sister arts, must necessarily lose much of their eect. But after studying well the written drama, we may close our eyes and allow some of the Baireuth scenes to flash once more before the mind’s eye. The elemental prelude of the “ Rheingold,” full of deep and slumberous sounds, wafts us away from all account of time and space. The dim gray-green depths of the Rhine alone become Visible. We are aware of the deep moving of the Rhine-water, and the three Undines are seen like faint shadows, swimming and singing, guar- dias of the Rheingold. The dark King of the Undergrounds comes climbing after them among the rocks, but he is scarcely visible in the gloom. Presently the Rheingold begins to brighten. A thaft of radiance strikes through the water—the Undines scream with joy; then through the "hole depths of the Rhine streams an electric shining upon a distant rock, dimmed to tohtest yellow only by the water, and the famous “Bheingold! Rheingold!” wild cry of the Rhine- 10 145 | daughters breaks forth with the golden illumina- | tion of the Rhine-depths. Or let the curtain rise on the last farewell | duet between Briinnhild and the god Wotan. To long-drawn-out enchanting melody Briinn- hild’s head sinks on her father’s breast—she can | but sob that she has loved him dutifully, and im- plore him if she is to become a mortal’s bride to surround her rock with fire, and bar her from all | but the bravest. It is now almost dark, a faint- red light lingers on the supple yet lordly form of Briinnhild. A strange languor comes over her— the god lays her gently on the rock—and waves | her into her long sleep. Then he calls for the | fire-god—and as he lifts his spear a burst of fire breaks out and runs round the stage—in another moment the whole background is an immense wall of rose-colored fame. To the most enchant- ing and dreamlike music of silver bells, harps, and flutes, the sleep of the Walkiire begins—the god scales the rocks, stands for a moment in the midst of the fire, then passes through it out of sight as the curtain falls. But, indeed, it is hard to select. The exqui- site scene where Siegfried listens to the birds in the golden summer woods, and understands their language ; the wild mountain-rocks, and the war- maidens rushing through the clouds, alighting and shouting to each other from, peak to peak ; or the passage of the gods over the rainbow- bridge into the halls of Walhalla; or, lastly, the death of Siegfried and the dusk of the gods—the Albert Hall festival will revive gleams of all these. Long will that prodigious last scene of the “ Gétterdimmerung” linger in the memory of those who saw it at Baireuth. Briinnhild draws the gold ring of the Rheingold—the cause of such grief and manifold pain—from her finger, and flings it back into the Rhine whence it was stolen. Her black Walkiire horse has been brought to her; she waves high a flaming torch, and casts it upon the bier of Siegfried. The flames rise in vast fiery columns. At that mo- ment, in the lurid glow of the flaming pyre, the water, still flashing with moonlight behind, be- gins to surge up and advance upon the shore; and the Rhine-daughters, singing the wildest Rhine-music, are seen floating to and fro. Be- yond, a ruddy light broadens until the distant sky discloses the courts of the Walhalla in flames. With a crash like thunder, in the fore- ground the house of Hagen falls, and, while the mighty conflagration flares up in the distance, the Rhine overflows to rushing music and sub- merges the whole stage. With this scene of un-

Page 146

146 equaled dramatic splendor ends the immense dra- matic cycle of the “ Nibelungen-Ring,” and, quite apart from the music, we may well be impressed with the poetical genius which has welded all these strange elements of Scandinavian and Ger- manic myth into such a whole. But Wagner himself is in our midst. He has at last become to the English people his own best interpreter; and, now that after a struggle of forty years kings are his patrons, and the élite of Europe have gathered to the Olympian- THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. like festival at Baireuth—now that the and sneers of malcontents and irreconci drowned by the applause and recognition of 5 fairly representative English public, we cang call, with a smile of pity and forgiveness, past bickerings of the press, or that naive di of worthy M. Fétis, in 1866: “ To-day, the t sient curiosity about Wagner is satisfied—ing ference has come, and the so-called music of! future is already a thing of the past! "On porary Review. « § 4 a ‘ CENTRAL AFRICA AND THE BRUSSELS GEOGRAPHIC CONGRESS.’ By EMILE DE LAVELEYE. N September of last year the King of the Bel- gians received with gracious and royal hos- pitality, in his palace at Brussels, the presidents of the principal geographical societies of Europe, and a number of other personages who, by their travels, their researches, or their philanthropy, have become representatives of the idea of the civilization of Africa. In his letter of invitation, King Leopold had clearly defined the work to be done by this congress, Several important and heroic expeditions, maintained by private sub- scription, have penetrated to the interior of Africa. “These expeditions,” said the king, “ were animated by the eminently progressive and Chris- tian idea of abolishing slavery in Africa ; of pene- trating the darkness which still envelops that portion of the world; of studying its apparently bourdless resources—in a word, of carrying thither the blessings of civilization: such are the aims of this modern crusade—a crusade worthy of the age in which we live. The efforts that have hitherto been made have had no concert of action, and hence arises on all sides the desire that they who labor for a common end should confer together, with a view to codrdinate their movements, to es- tablish a few landmarks, and to portion out the regions to be explored, so that work already done shall not be repeated.” King Leopold IT., as being the sovereign of a small country, is naturally disposed to concern himself with the general interests of the globe. Being still too young to be, like his father, the 1 Translated by J. Fitzgerald, A. M. counselor of the sovereigns of Europe and | go-between in their secret negotiations, II. has taken a lively interest in the future of f extreme East. Prior to his ascending the thror as a skilled and wide-awake observer he Egypt, India, and China, bringing back, as' fruit of his travels, the conviction that, if Eur pean industry is to continue in its wo career of progress, new outlets must be p for it in these great continents, which hold fourths of the world’s population. North the victim of a blind and narrow c policy, will not take our products; we therefore, push on farther, and open new kets in Asia and Africa. Toward Africa cially must we direct our efforts, for there, the development of commerce, a work of h ity remains to be done—namely, the suppressiag- of the slave-trade, and, as a consequence of th the prevention of the abominable wars which not depopulate those rich and fertile countries. 4 furtherance of the work of exploring Cea Africa, King Leopold wished to submit for 4 cussion to the Geographical Congress e in his palace three chief points, viz. : “1, The establishment of bases of ope the Zanguebar coast and near the mouth of : Congo; 2. The determination of routes to be cessively opened to the interior, with stations scientific observation, pacification of the nativ® and entertainment of travelers; 3. The appou ment of an international and central committee #F the purpose of putting this project into exe y

Page 147

4s ste Soa s ts tei 3 abe ad er _ ln, whose march from the east to the west coast CENTRAL AFRICA. alling to it the attention of the public in all coun- tries, soliciting aid, and raising subscriptions.” The noble idea of the King of the Belgians was duly appreciated by those to whom it had been submitted, and a number of travelers, ge- ographers, and philanthropists, from the various countries of Europe, came together in answer to the call. France was represented by Admiral La Roncitre Le Noury, President of the Paris Geo- graphical Socicty; M. Manoir, secretary of the | same society; Henri Duveyrier, the explorer of the Sahara ; the Marquis de Compiégne, then just back after his perilous travels in the unexplored regions of the Ogowai. M. de Lesseps visited Brussels later, and fully approved the project. Germany sent her three most distinguished trav- ders, G. Péhifs, Schweinfurth, and Nachtigal, of whom the last-named had a little before received the grand medal of the Paris Geographical So- ciety. Besides these, there were present, from Iuly, the Commendatore Negri: from Prussia, the Baron von Richthofen, President of the Geo- graphical Society of Berlin: from the Austro- Hungarian monarchy, Herr von Hochstetter, President of the Geographical Society of Vienna ; Count Edmond Zichy ; Baron Hoffmann, Minister of Finance; and Lieutenant A. Lux, who had just returned from his brilliant excursion to an unex- plored portion of the basin of the Coango: from Ragland, Sir Rutherford Alcock, President of the Geographical Society of London ; Sir Bartle Frere, Vice-President of the Council of the East Indies, md now Governor of Cape Colony; Sir Henry Rawlinson, well known on account of his discov- tries at Nineveh; Colonel Grant, who, with his fiend Speke, made known the existence of the great lakes of Central Africa ; Commander Came- if Africa, by way of Lake Tanganyika and the Lulaba, is now famous ; together with such emi- mat philanthropists as Sir Harry Verney, Sir John Kennaway, Sir T. Fowell Buxton, Mr. W. Mackinnon, and Admiral Sir Leopold Heath. Belgium, not having any distinguished travelers, 147 ' to establish a line of permanent stations reaching | from Bagomoyo on the coast of Zanguebar to St. Paul de Loanda on the Atlantic coast, in the Portuguese possessions, the first stations being | fixed at Ujiji, on the eastern shore of Lake Tati- | ganyika, at Nyangwe on the Lualaba, Living- | stone’s farthest point northward, and at a point to be yet fixed in the dominions of Muata Yamvo, one of the most powerful chiefs of Central Africa. | This is the route so gloriously followed by Com- mander Cameron. But what is to be the character and the pur- pose of these stations? English and German travelers are unanimously agreed that they must not be military in any sense. As was well said by Sir Bartle Frere, they must act by gentleness, by persuasion, by the natural ascendency of civ- ilized man over barbarous races. Armed force provokes hostility on the part of the chiefs, and then, if we must defend ourselves, we have war, conquest. The colovy should be small in numbers, but active, disinterested, and able- bodied. At its head should be a man accus- tomed to command—a naval officer, for instance ; there should be a physician-naturalist, and a few | skilled artisans, especially a carpenter and a ma- chinist. According to a communication which I have received from Sir Fowell Buxton, the Free Church of Scotland has collected 260,000 francs | and founded a station, known as Livingstonia, on the shore of Lake Nyassa, from which flows one of the affluents of the Zambesi; the personnel of this station comprises a naval lieutenant as com- mandant, a carpenter, a machinist, a weaver, and three agricultural laborers, besides two mission- aries. The station of Mombasa, on the coast of Zanguebar, is after the same model, as is also the Anglican Church Expedition to Uganda, whose object is to establish a post between Lakes Victo- ria and Albert. Of course, the stations founded by the Inter- national Congress could not take part in a relig- ious propaganda, inasmuch as they would have to be supported by contributions from persons be- "represented only by men whose codperation might contribute to the success of the work at home; and one of the Belgian members, Emile Banning, has just published a work of merit, in longing to every sect. While sympathizing fully with the efforts made to spread the gospel, they would themselves be exclusively laic. Their main object is to serve as bases of operations for trav- thich he sets forth the present state of our iowledge with regard to Central Africa, and | gives a synopsis of the work done by the | tmgress.' After four days of discussion, the | Mclusion was reached that it would be advisable '*LAfrique et la Conférence Géographique de Bru- telles,” 1877. elers en route to the interior with a view to pene- trate regions as yet unexplored. At present the explorer, on quitting the coast, must take with him provisions, instruments, and, above all, goods for barter sufficient to supply his wants for months, or even for years. Hence he must keep an endless string of porters, who quickly use up his

Page 148

? 148 resources, and who, by their frequent desertions, continually delay his progress. It would be of * incalculable advantage, therefore, if the traveler could find in the interior of the country the sup- ‘plies he requires, and if the starting-point, instead of being at a point on the coast, as Bagomoyo or St. Paul de Loanda, were situated on the very threshold of the unexplored regions which he de- signs to visit, for instance at Nyangwe or at Ujiji. THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. These stations would constitute a sort of entrepots where he might supply himself with everything needed, and a place of refuge whither he might re- tire in case of illness or reverse. The privations, the sufferings of every kind that befell the Liv- | ingstones, the Nachtigals, the Grants, the Came- rons, and which prevented them from following up their discoveries, would henceforth be in a great measure avoided by those who should walk | in their footsteps. The heads of these posts, being men of scientific training, would soon be- come acquainted with the resources of the coun- try. They could serve as guides to explorers; they could make known to Europe the proper commodities to export, and could thus open new routes to commerce. The handiwork of the European artisans being performed under the | eves of the natives, the latter would be thus ini- tiated into the arts and the needs of civilized life, and in this way a civilizing influence would be gradually spread abroad. The Catholic mission j | { at Gondokoro held its own in the very heart of | Equatorial Africa, and changed its site only in | order to escape from the dreadful mortality caused by fevers. Here is proof that stations of this kind, though they possess no military character, | may be established, and may even prosper, in | these regions. Stations having been founded in the interior, | Brussels Congress was to devise the means @ the facility of supplying them with provisions | penetrating this ferra incognita, But the whole will depend on their means of communication | region of the great lakes has been already && with the coast. Hitherto everything has been | plored with sufficient care to enable us to 10m carried on the heads of the negroes—a system of | some idea of the future reserved for efforts transport which occasions delays and difficulties | civilization. that can only be appreciated by those who have read the narratives of Livingstone, Stanley, and | route now protected by Colonel Gordon, ¥ Cameron. An agent of the London Missionary Society is now engaged in surveying a route for ox-teams from the coast of Zanguebar to Lake Tanganyika, and during the present spring an expedition consisting of five or six members will attempt to make the journey. To me it appears that a much surer method of transportation would be by means of elephants. The English brought several elephants from India for use in their Abyssinian war, and there these powerful animals rendered great services, despite the many deep the 1 ravines that had to be crossed. In Equatorial faloe Africa the elephant would be, as it were, in his ceale native country, for the African species is abun. by th dant there. He would find appropriate food, and furth, would have nothing to fear from the redoubtable wood tsetse-fly. In this way goods could be carried mite | much more easily than on the backs of men, or From even by wagon. The elephant-train would be the the se | precursor of the railway, which will certainly be nothit | constructed before the present century enda, warm, Colonel Grant even laid before the Geographical ambat Congress at Brussels the route of a line of tele. plants graph extending from Khartoom, where the line air, lac | from Cairo terminates, to Delagoa Bay, to which and di the line from the Cape already extends.’ The land r line would ascend the Nile, and follow the shores river { of Lakes Victoria and Nyassa, and Colonel Grant, gneiss ' who is familiar with the country, is certain that J ws enti it would meet with no insurmountable obstacle, inhabit But the question arises, ‘“‘ Whatis the useofall try of these efforts? Can Central Africa ever be effec Unioro tively won for civilization? Can the Europea @ King ¥ live in that climate? and will the natives eve @ thenor submit to the regular toil which is the condition J table e: of economic progress?” In the first place, we % counts , have still to explore in the centre of Africaa vast HH figs, ac: ' region, altogether unknown, which is a blankia % fow co _ our maps, and which comprises about 4,000,000 here th square kilometres, or more than seven times the thicket area of France. Its frontiers have been detes natives | mined by the expeditions led by Barth, Rohlf, describe ‘and Nachtigal, on the north; Schweinfurth @ hundred | Baker, Gordon, Gessi, and Stanley, on the east} = mammo: Cameron and Livingstone on the south; amd eormor Tuckey, Du Chaillu, Giissfeldt, and Compiégng vertical | on the west. One of the principal objects of te# enable ¢ produce equatori: in the ye the sever in Winter The a To reach the great lakes let us follow ties from 8 1,120 n the khédive the other day named Governor off banishes | Province of the Upper Nile, with residence My products | Khartoom. Leaving that town behind and cereals of cending the river, we quit the region of pei cane, durs drought and enter a region where the eq Tesins, co rains cover the soil with the most luxuriant and indig tation. Crocodiles and hippopotami abo lumber of 1“ Remarks ona Proposed Line of Telegraph, ¢ eange, 1 from Egypt to the Cape of Good Hope.” By KN Of Esq., E. Arnold, Esq, and Colonel Grant, C.B. 79 "4, more

Page 149

Ee sBEebBES ESSER sab Se" ERG FSF ee TEs aS ePEES CENTRAL AFRICA. 149 the waters ; lizards, serpents, monkeys, and buf- faloes, in the forests. The river-banks are con- eealed by a dense growth of gigantic papyrus, and py the ambatch, the wood of which, says Schwein- furth, is as light as a feather. Between the wooded areas lie vast savannas, dotted with ter- nite hills and the cabins of the Shillook negroes. From the Giraffe River to the White Nile, or from theseventh to the ninth degree of latitude, there is nothing to be seen but a boundless swamp. The warm, stagnant water is filled with papyrus and ambatch, and covered with floating isles of water- plants. Mosquitoes swarm here, and the sluggish | air, laden as it is with swamp miasms, causes fever | and dysentery. As we approach Gondokoro the | land rises and mountains begin to appear; the | river flows between rocky banks, in which the gneiss predominates. The aspect of the country w entirely changed; we are now entering the inhabitable portion of Central Africa. The coun- abundantly in various places. The climate re- sembles that of the Himalaya sanitariums. It seems to be less enervating than the climate of | Java; the latitude is the same, but the African | plateau is more elevated, and therefore less hot ; yet in the coffee districts of Java, among the hills, the Hollanders live and multiply, nor does the death-rate exceed to any appreciable degree the death-rate of Europe. Those explorers of Africa who succumbed to disease were carried off by the fevers of the low-lying regions of the coast, and of the marshes of the interior. Those who have traversed the lake plateau, as Livingstone, Speke and Grant, Baker, Stanley, Cameron, Gessi, did not there contract any fatal disease, though exposed to privations and climatic conditions which in Europe would have broken down the strongest constitution, such as lying on the damp | ground, wearing wet clothing for weeks, taking try of the Niam-Niam, of Mombottu, of Madi, of | colony of whites settled at an altitude of 800 or Unioro, and of Uganda, where reigns the famous King M’tesa—in other words, the whole region to thenorth of Lakes Victoria and Albert—is a veri- | table earthly paradise, if we are to believe the ac- counts given by travelers. Mighty trees—palms, figs, acacias—form lofty vaults, in whose shade fow countless rivulets. So active is vegetation here that in the course of two years a dense | thicket is to be seen in the clearings made by the natives by burning down the timber. Cameron describes sycamores in the shade of which five iundred persons encamped; and the baobab, the | } | ‘ ! | | | | mammoth of the plant kingdom, also attains | t2ormous proportions, Nature never rests. The | vertical sun and the unfailing abundance of water | ing climate. In those countries, however, the produce flowers and fruit at all seasons. In the equatorial region rain falls regularly every month | inthe year, and in the southern zone, as far as | the seventeenth degree, it rains in summer just as | able the plants to grow unceasingly, and to in winter, The altitude of the central plateau, which va- | ties from 600 to 1,300 metres (Victoria N’yanza | is 1,120 metres), moderates the heat, cools the air, tanishes miasma, and favors the growing of the products both of hot and temperate climes. The cereals of Europe grow here, as well as the sugar- fane, durah, and rice. Spices of all kinds, oils, teins, coffee, cotton, dyeing-plants, as garance ind indigo, a great variety of medicinal plants, lumber of the best quality, the banana, fig, date, trange, even the vine—all these are produced Of mineral products we find gold, iron, iad, more important still, coal, which crops out food irregularly, often eating food that was un- wholesome or insufficient in quantity. Suppose a 1,000 metres, occupying good houses and sup- plied with all necessaries they will surely enjoy better health there than they would at Calcutta, Bombay, Singapore, or Batavia, or even in the island of Bourbon, or in the Antilles. A moment’s reflection suffices to discover the magnificent future that awaits, the colonies which, before long, will be established in Central Africa. Whence comes the wealth of the South- ern States of the American Union, of Cuba, of San Demingo and Brazil? It is produced by turning to account the amazing fertility of a soil fecundated by the rays of the equinoctial sun, and employing the labor of a race inured to the burn- cultivation of the soil had two very disagreeable aspects: on the one hand the slaves labored only under compulsion, and hence their work was ill- done ; and again the laborers commanded a very high price. Transfer the same enterprises—as the cultivation of sugar-cane, cotton, coffee, or tobacco—to the interior of Africa, and how much more favorable are the conditions! The land is more fertile, and vegetation incomparably more vigorous. The laborer is there already, and has not to be transported over sea at great cost, or reduced to slavery. The natives are a laborious race, obedient, intelligent. Already they carry on with success all manner of agricultural work, Their wealth in cereals and in cattle is very great, despite the chronic state of insecurity. They know how to smelt copper and even iron, forging arms and utensils of very good quality, The arts

Page 150

‘ THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. 150 of tanning hides, of spinning, weaving, mat-mak- ing, cotton-dyeing, are widely diffused among them, and many of their products are remarkable for their fineness and strength. Thenegro is but poorly endowed with the inventive faculty; but he learns quickly, and, when directed by Euro- peans, he is hardly inferior to our own laborers and artisans. The really dreadful trials endured by the carriers employed by Grant, Stanley, and Cameron, show that they readily undergo the greatest toil in consideration of a recompense that is often ridiculously small. The energy dis- played by Livingstone’s servants, when they’ car- ried down to the coast the body of their master, | embalmed in salt, shows that they are capable | of a devotedness bordering on heroism. Hence, | agricultural and manufacturing industry would | find here ready to hand all the necessary raw | material, cheap labor, and coai for mechanical motors; and production would go on under con- ditions infinitely more favorable than are to be found in countries where slavery still exists in the transition state, as in Cuba and Brazil, or where coolie labor is employed. Central Africa, which till lately was supposed | to be a hopelessly barren region, on the contrary presents, in its atmospheric phenomena, its fauna and its flora, an exuberance of life and force un- | equaled in India or Brazil. The quantity of water | which here falls to the earth is greater than in | any other region. The sun, in passing alter- | nately from one tropic to the other, produces over this region a zone of clouds from which are pre- | cipitated fertilizing showers of rain. The result is a vegetation resembling that of the Carbonifer- ous period ; and as was the case in those remote | geological ages, the great herbivores—elephants, rhinoceroses, hippopotami, the last survivors of | the ancient world—here abound. The quantity | of ivory exported from Africa represents an annual | destruction of 30,000 elephants. graphic features, too, this region is unparalleled anywhere on the globe. In order to form some idea of the hydrography of Central Africa, let us in the first place glance at the great lakes. On quitting Lado, in latitude 5° north, and as- cending the Nile, we pass through a mountainous region, which gives to the stream the Arabic name it here bears, Bahr-el-Djebel—the river of the mountains. Rapids in the stream interrupt navigation in the vicinity of the Egyptian station of Duffi. Above Duffli, in a vast fissure extend- ing southward as far as Lakes Tanganyika and Nyassa, lies Lake Mwootan, which the English have named Albert N’yanza, after the late prince | | In its hydro- | | ing a southwesterly direction. tude, or 3,000 kilometres. consort. According to the recent explorations of the Italian engineer Gessi, Colonel Gordon's lieutenant, this lake is situated at an elevation of 670 metres. It is about 220 kilometres in length, and from 35 to 90 kilometres in width. On the east it is bounded by the heights of Unioro, ver. tical cliffs of granite, gneiss, and porphyry, at. taining an elevation of 300 metres, and on the west by the Blue Mountains, whose peaks rise 1,800 metres above the surface of the lake. Lake Albert lies so low within its rocky shores that most of the rivers which enter it form magnificent waterfalls. Toward the south it terminates in @ vast swamp, which Gessi was unable to penetrate, But toward the north that traveler made a dig. covery of very great importance, if his conjecture should happen to be correct. Just at its exit from the lake the Nile bifureates, one branch tak- This branch is supposed to be the Iei or Ayi, which, after flowing through the country of the Niam-Niam, rejoins the main river at the point where it forms the marsh of floating islands. If this is so, it might | be possible to escape the rapids at Duffli, and establish an unbroken line of navigation from the Mediterranean to the Albert N’yanza. This would be of incalculable advantage for commerce and for | civilization. In consequence of the almost entirely | pacific annexations effected by Sir Samuel Baker and Colonel Gozdon, Egypt now extends as far as Lake Albert, and thus becomes one of the largest _ empires in the world, From the foot of this lake to Alexandria is a distanee of about 30° of lati This is equal to four times the length of France from Dunkirk to the Pyrenees. Some 40 miles in a straight line from Lake Albert lies the Victoria N’yanza, or Ukerewe, the great inland sea of Africa. Its superficial area is | 84,000 square kilometres—equal to the area of | Switzerland, with Lombardy and Venetia. Lake Victoria is dotted with large islands. On the west it is bounded by the Alpine region of Uganda and Karagwe, which divides it from the Albert N’yanza, and on the east by Ugejeia and Ururi. To the north lies the country subject to King M’tesa, whose capital, Dubaga, occupies an ad- mirable situation overlooking the blue waters of Murchison Bay. M’tesa has always kindly received the European travelers who have visited him, aad has even made a request for missionaries and artisans to introduce among his people the eivilk zation of Europe. Nevertheless, I have heard it asserted by the Marquis de Compi¢gne—the other day so unfortunately slain in a duel at Cairo= that ] tion 0 escort two g may b which but 01 the al of Lal navigs it forr After has its Tbrahi down flows | passes Karun the Kai midway tainous Visited The ev by inn mounta metres, and the the bla: the life. the equ: ing mor the cap Europe: this clin Just lies Lal

Page 151

@R Fe REST R SCEPC ER SKE S FE \-~ o t eS — | TR ese SSS SS Ba Sh CENTRAL AFRICA. 151 that M’tesa treacherously procured the assassina- | 1858, by Burton and Speke. Like Lake Como, it tion of Linant de Bellefonds at the hands of the | resembles a great river, its length being 670 kilo- escort assigned to him by the king himself. The | metres, while its width in some places is not over two great lakes are connected by a river which | 20 or 30, and in no place is it much over 100 may be regarded as a continuation of the Nile, and kilometres. Its area is 37,000 equare kilometres, which hence gets the name of the Victoria Nile; | or about half the area of the Victoria N’yanza. but owing to a difference of 450 metres between | Lake Tanganyika is situated in a prolongation of the altitude of Lake Albert (670 metres) and that , the fissure in which lies Lake Albert, and, inas- of Lake Victoria (1,120 metres), this river is not | much as it is some 150 metres higher than Lake navigable. Just below its exit from Napoleon Bay Albert above sea-level, Livingstone and Grant itforms the Ripon Falls and the Isamba Rapids. supposed that it emptied into the latter lake, and After receiving an affluent, the Luadcherri, which thus was the true source of the Nile. Tangan- has its source in a vast swamp, it traverses Lake yika is fed by over 100 streams, most of which Ibrahim, discovered by Long in 1874. Farther have a rapid fall as they enter it, owing to the down it receives the waters of the Kafoor, which abrupt rise of its shores. In 1871 Living- flows from the mountains of Uganda, and soon it stone and Stanley carefully inspected the north- passes between steep banks. Below the Falls of ern end of the lake, expecting there to discover Karuma it forms eight rapids or cascades within the supposed exit of the Nile. But, instead of alength of 30 kilometres, Finally, before enter- an outlet, they found a small stream, the Ruzizi, ing Lake Albert, it has a precipitate fall of 20 carrying into Tanganyika the waters of Lake metres. This fall, known as Murchison Fall, sur- Kiro. Thus the problem was solved: it was seen rounded as it is by a luxuriant vegetation, and that Tanganyika does not belong to the Nile basin ; commanding a view of the beautiful lake as far as but then what becomes of the surplus water of the Blue Mountains, forms, says Baker, the most the lake? This question was settled in 1873 by wonderful landscape imaginable. Cameron. Having surveyed all the bays and af- There is no longer any doubt that the Victoria fluents of Tanganyika, he discovered at about the N'yanza, and not the Tanganyika, is the upper middle of the western shore a river, the Lukuga, reservoir of the Nile; but which one of its many which, instead of entering the lake, forms the affluents can lay claim to being the true source of exit for its waters. So abundant was the aquatic that stream? At one time it was supposed to be vegetation in this stream, that he was unable to the Kadjera, which forms two Alpine lakes, Win- follow its course in his boat; but, nevertheless, dermere and Akenyara, and which has its origin while making his way to Nyangwe, he found that in the elevated plateau of Uzinza. But now the | this outlet of the Tanganyika falls into a great tre source of the Nile is supposed to be the | river, the Lualaba, which is in all probability iden- Shimyu, which comes from the south and pours | tical with the Congo or Zaire. This mighty river is into Speke Gulf, in the southeast corner of Lake | | also fed by a number of other lakes situated in Victoria, a volume of water greater than that of | | the same region, namely, Lake Bangweolo, on the Kadjera. One degree south of the line lies, whose shore Livingstone met his death, Lake Mo- midway between the two great lakes, the moun- | ero, Lake Kamalondo, Lake Kassali, described by tainous region of Ankori and Ruznda, recently | Cameron, Lake Langi, and Lake Sankorra. visited by Stanley; it is a remarkable country. At only a little distance from the southern The ever-verdant valleys are constantly watered | extremity of Lake Tanganyika, but 200 metres by innumerable torrents, and the peaks of the lower, commences Lake Nyassa, which fills the mountains rise to an elevation of 4,000 or 4,500 | same fissure, for it has much the same breadth metres, Here we find the bold crags of the Alps and the same north-and-south direction, with and the beautiful landscapes of the Tyrol beneath a slight bend to the east. Nyassa being only the blaze of an equatorial sun ; here are combined | one-half as long as Lake Tanganyika, its area is the life-giving air of high stations in Europe and | only about 1,500 square kilometres, It empties the equable climate of the equinoctial zone. Noth- | into the Zambesi through the Shire, whose course, ing more can be desired for sustaining health and | | lying through a mountainous region, is highly the capacity for toil, and hence a population of | diversified. Lake Nyassa, being situated at no European origin might easily live and thrive in | great distance from the Mozambique coast, is this climate. more accessible than the other lakes. It is on its Just below Lake Albert, in latitude 3° south, | southern shore that the Scotch Missionary Society lies Lake Tanganyika, discovered in February, , have founded their station of Livingstonia, a place

Page 152

152 enjoying its full measure of prosperity ; there is even a little steamboat for navigating the lake and checking the slave-trade throughout this whole region. Then there are Lakes Baringo and Manyara, the one lying north, the other south of Kilimandjero and Kenia, whose snowy peaks at- tain an elevation of over 6,000 metres. In no other portion of the globe do we find so many inland seas, every one of which is admirably fitted to beccme a centre of civilization. It is a second Switzerland, but with gigantic proportions. Even in antiquity it was known that the Nile had its source in lakes situated in the heart of the con- tinent. Marinus of Tyre and Claudius Ptolemy, who lived in the second century after the Chris- tian era, learned from Arab traders of the exist- ence of two lakes, whose site they fixed in the | parallel of the island of Menuthias, now Zanzibar | —a very precise determination of its true locality. | The “Tabula Alinamuniana,” of the year 833, and the chart of Abul Hassan, of the year 1008, indicate two lakes; while the “ Tabuia Rotunda Rogeriana,” of 1154, and the chart of P. Assianus, show three lakes answering closely enough to Lakes Albert, Victoria, and Tanganyika ;! but it is only within the last twenty years, thanks to the discoveries of Grant, Burton, Speke, and Living- stone, that we have been enabled to demonstrate the exactitude of these ancient indications. Ge- ographers were beginning to call them in question, and compilers of maps who were sticklers for positive data left the whole central region of Africa blank. From this central plateau, so admirably con- stituted from the hydrographic point of view, de- scend some of the mightiest rivers on the globe. From its source to the Mediterranean the Nile measures 3,900 kilometres in a straight line, and hence its actual length is greater than that of the Mississippi or the Amazon. It is a most singu- lar river: in its upper portion it branches out in all directions, and is fed by innumerable lakes and affluents; then, after receiving in Nubia the Atbara, which comes down from the bigh land of Abyssinia, it courses through an absolute desert, without so much as a single rill bearing to it the tribute of its water. According to Schweinfurth’s calculation, the river-basin of the Nile comprises 8,260,000 square kilometres, while that of the Amazon comprises only 7,000,000, and that of | 1 See the excellent summary of our knowledge concern- ing Africa by Dr. Josef Chavaune, in the Mittheilungen of the Vienna Geographical Society, “ Central Africa nach , dem gegenwirtigen Stande der geographischen Kent - | nisse,” 1876. THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. the Mississippi hardly 3,000,000; and soon Gor don’s lieutenants will unfurl the Egyptian flag over this immense territory. The Congo surpasses the other rivers in the enormous volume of water which it pours into the Atlantic Ocean, Att itg mouth it is 2,950 metres wide, with the simply im credible depth of from 380 to 400 metres. Its current flows at the rate of 7 kilometres per hour, and its discharge (51,000 cubic metres per second) is so enormous, that the river becomes entirely lost in the sea only at the distance of 100 kilo metres beyond the shore-line, and at the distance of 12 kilometres the water is still perfectly fresh, This discharge, which is 200 times greater than the flow of water in the bed of the Seine at Pariga is nearly constant, a fact which appears to show that the river receives affluents from both sides of the line, drawing now upon those to the north, again on those to the south, as both are alternate. ly swollen by the rains in their respective zones, The expedition of the brave and unfortunate Tuckey in 1816 resulted in tracing the Congo only as far as the Falls of Jelala, and since his time no one had penetrated any farther. The dis. coveries of Cameron now appear to have removed all doubt as to the identity of the Congo with the Lualaba, and hence its source must be the river Tchambesi in the Bemba country of Living- stone, situated between Lakes Nyassa and Tan ganyika, and not far from the sources of the Nile. The Zambesi is the third of the great arteries which descend from Central Africa. Its course was determined by Livingstone. It is not so long as the Nile, and it has a less volume of water than the Congo, but it presents more picturesque views. Issuing from Lake Dilolo, as the Leeba, it flows south, passing through the Makololo coun- try, where it is known as the Leeamby, and then, after receiving the Chobe, which comes from the west, it reaches the granite plateau of the Batokas. Here, precipitating from # height of 450 metres, through a narrow rift in the rocks, its waters, which before had been spread abroad, it forms the famous cascade ap- propriately named by the natives Mosiwatunya, i. e., Thunder-Smoke, but for which Livingstone substituted the more trivial title of Victoria Falls _ 1 At low-water level the d@édit of the Seine is only % cubic metres per second; the mean débit is 250 cubic metres. On March 17, 1876, when the mver was at it~ greatest height. it did not exceed 1,650 cubic metres at the Pont-Royal. To equal the Congo, therefore, we should have to combine 200 rivers like the Seine; that is to say, all the rivers of Europe taken together would hardly suf ¥ fice. i while i known. Ozowai with th the Gul Ace and ciy easiest tunatel: liarity t the glot Ata ve rises al instead with g form of have te tramwa Small s Water, 1 chandis would in this the Zan in the rainy se¢ region the wat stone ¢ hundre: hinety-s ganyika a piégne e Graphie Feently checked distance :

Page 153

orn rans oar FF eae ESE PS = = CENTRAL AFRICA. Before it enters the Indian Ocean, between Quili- mane and Sofala, the river contracts, traverses the Lupata Pass, and from the Shire receives the surplus water of Lake Nyassa. Finally, to the west of Lake Albert, in the Mombuttu country, Schweinfurth has discovered a mysterious river, the Welle, which, rising in the western slope of the Blue Mountains, is 250 metres wide, with considerable volume at no great distance from jts source. Where does the Welle discharge its waters? Schweinfurth is of the opinion that it forms the upper portion of the Shari, which is the principal affluent of Lake Tsad, and, if such is the case, then this river might be of great service to commerce. But it may really be an affluent of the Congo, or the source of the Ogowai, the lower portion of which was recently explored by Compiégne and Marche,' while its upper portion is as yet entirely un- known. If it proves to be the source of the Qzowai, it must one day facilitate commerce with the vast unexplored region lying between the Gulf of Guinea and the great lakes. According to Commander Cameron, commerce and civilization will find in the great rivers the easiest route to the central plateau; but, unfor- tunately, the African Continent has one pecu- larity that is seldom found in cther quarters of the globe, and which hinders regular navigation. Ata very little distance from the coast the land rises abruptly to a great height, and the rivers, instead of wearing away for themselves a bed with gradual slope downward, descend in the form of rapids and falls. These obstacles would have to be overcome by portages, for which tramways might be advantageously substituted. Small steamboats of steel, with light draught of water, might thence carry passengers and mer- chandise into the heart of the continent. It would even be possible, says Cameron, to cross in this way from ocean to ocean, inasmuch as the Zambesi and the Congo both take their rise in the swampy flats of Lake Dilolo, and in the miiny season their sources are united. The whole | region then resembles an enormous sponge ; and the water-courses are so numerous that Living- stone counted thirty-two in a distance of one hundred and twelve kilometres, Cameron found hinety-seven water-courses ‘entering Lake Tan- gunyika, many of them very considerable, and '“ Voyage dans le Haut-Ogoué, par le Marquis de Com- pligne et A. Marche,” in Bulletin de la Société de Géo- Graphie de Paris, 1874. Du Chaillu, Walker, and more eently Dr. Lenz, had, like M. de Compiégne, been | thecked by the cannibal tribes of the interior, at a short distance from the coast. | 153 themselves made up of a number of affluents, The compacted meshes of this hydrographic net- work have been very aptly compared with the innumerable little blood-vessels that ramify be- neath the epidermis of the human body. So great is the abundance of water that the rivers are navigable almost from their sources, and only a few leagues’ length of canal would be required to connect the basin of the Congo with that of the Zambesi. The Portuguese Government has lately authorized the navigation of the last-named stream by steamboats, and the station of Living- stonia has a little steamer, the Ilala, on Lake Nyassa. If the Iei, the as yet unexplored branch of the Nile, is not broken by rapids, small, swift steamers can easily pass up from the Mediterra- nean to Lake Albert. Already, in January, 1876, Colonel Long transported in sections to a point above the Duffli rapids a steamer fifteen metres in length, and two iron vessels, and with these Gessi thoroughly explored Lake Albert. Toward the end of July, in the same year, another steamer first made the voyage from Duffii to Magongo, on the Victoria Nile, reaching the frontier of M’tesa’s dominions on Victoria Lake. And, as Colonel Gordon, in the spring of 1874, made the journey from Cairo to Gondokoro in six weeks, it may safely be affirmed that even now we can, without any danger, reach the region of the great lakes from Egypt in two months, Of overland routes, the one most frequented is that from Bagomoyo to Ujiji, on Lake Tangan- yika. It is regularly traveled by caravans, dis- patched coastward by the Arab traders in the interior. This is the route followed by all ex- plorers starting from Zanguebar. It is the opinion of Cameron that a narrow-gauge railway of very light construction would not cost over 15,000 or 20,000 franes per mile, end that before long it would pay interest on the outlay. In the mean time, a very easy route might be opened by way of Lake Nyassa. The steamers at Livingstonia could carry explorers to the northern end of the lake. Thence ascending the little river Rooma, they would soon reach the sources of the Ki- rumbe, which empties into Lake Tanganyika. The distance between these two lakes appears to be not over thirty leagues. From the north end of Lake Tanganyika, by navigating the Ruzizi and Lake Kivo, we reach Lake Albert, only eighty leagues distant from the foot of Tangan- yika. This is plainly the best route for a line of telegraph, which would be almost entirely sub- | merged, and so protected from injury by the natives or by wild animals. But the true line of

Page 154

¢ 154 THE POPULAR SCIENCE approach by which Central Africa might be un- interruptedly connected with the already settled regions of Southern Africa plainly lies through the Transvaal country, the plateau of Monoma- tapa, Tete on the Zambesi, and Lake Nyassa. The distance is about six degrees, or 150 leagues, through an elevated region, free from the fevers which infest the coast. A Frenchman, Dr. Emilien Allou, has, in fact, just made the journey from the South-African republic to the Zambesi, bringing back collections of great in- terest from the number of new species they em- brace. Were the republic of the Boers to become a member of the Cape Confederation, England would have only to establish a few stations be- tween the Limpopo and the Zambesi, and at once the tide of immigration, which is now en- riching Natal, would begin to pour in from that side. In a few years the Anglo-Saxon influence would pervade Africa, and win for civilization the magnificent region of the great lakes. peaceful conquest would be in no sense exclusive, for there is plenty of room here for energetic men of every nation. Let no one imagine that this is all a dream. The future that awaits European stations in this region is assured by the success which has at- tended the founding of Arab posts in the interior. | At Kazeh, in Unyanyembe; at Kawele, on the shore of Tanganyika ; and at Kwakasonga, on the Lualaba, the Arabs have permanent residences. They live here in great comfort, owning large | houses, herds, poultry, slaves. By the caravans which at stated times go down to the coast, they | are supplied with coffee, tea, sugar, arms, and tex- | tile fabrics. Even in a far less accessible region, at | Nyangwe, at a considerable distance beyond Tan- ganyika, Cameron found an Arab, Jumat Meri- cani, making exchange both with Zanguebar and Benguela, that is to say, with the coasts of both oceans, The natives are extremely gentle and peace- ful in disposition ; and, though strangers seldom This | MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. Burton and Speke were on their way to the in- terior, on the journey which resulted in the dig. covery of Lake Tanganyika, they experienced great difficulty in traveling through the Mgunda. Mkali country. There was a lack of water, the jungle was almost impassable, and many of their carriers perished in the effort to make their way | through it. When Cameron visited this region Ive 1873, everything was changed. A tribe of the Wanyamwesi, driven back by local wars, had settled here. In the heart of the forest they had | built villages, had dug wells, and had converted the jungle into well-cultivated fields. The ap. | Pearance of the country was delightful, resem. bling an English park. Hence European settle. ments would here find in abundance the neces. saries of life; and if, as their numbers increased, they were to render less frequent those wars be- tween tribe and tribe, which now desolate the country, progress would be assured, and the well being of the people would be augmented rapidly, Another instance of the success which awaits | the colonist in these regions, long regarded ag inaccessible, is supplied by the adventures of M, Bonnat, as lately rehearsed by him at a meeting. of the Paris Society of Geography. In 1860, | Bonnat was a member of an expedition com manded by Captain Charles Girard, who had re solved to ascend the Niger. Girard having aban- doned this enterprise, M. Bonnat, by himself _ alone, penetrated into the interior of Guinea, and there entered on a very lucrative business career. | The village in which he lived was attacked by the Ashantees. Carried away to Coomassie, he was treated very harshly, as were also his two com- panions in captivity—a German and his wife Soon the king conceived a liking for Bonnat, and took him into his favor. There he spent five years, experiencing all manner of kind treatment, _ He learned the language of the natives, and found that they carried on an extensive trade with & large town in the interior, Salaga, which is @ | commercial relations with the Sahara, and even | t | visit this country, save for the purpose of slave- | with Tunis. When the English made war on the hunting, and destroying and depopulating their | Ashantees, the king determined to put Bonnat to .Villages, English travelers have nearly always | death. He was made fast to a tree, and was 08 been able to procure provisions at the ordinary | the point of being beheaded, when, as luck would prices. If travelers have been robbed, it has have it, the marines entered Coomassie. In 1874 nearly always been by their own carriers. Hus- | he again set out for Africa, intending to settles bandry is very well understood, and conducted Salaga, of which town he had heard such wonder with care, the men laboring in the fields nearly | ful stories. He succeeded in ascending the river the entire day. When the country is not wasted , Volta, despite its rapids, and in overcoming the by war, the population increases, and the jungle | objections made by the native chiefs ; thus he has is quickly cleared away. A noteworthy instance | opened a new route for commerce. He was the of this is cited by Cameron. In 1857, when © first European to visit Salaga, a city of over 40, 000 in of Dab has es! able p! times | francs is 50 Coast river-s in ord soon ¢g son of ployed Spanis Bonna his sta ary as is mor Th To pr foot. the co: half-br system chiefs. tack n tonade quent fall uy sistanc escape captive to Eg: marke fields « as a | Throu; of Con moditi former head « unable he did the pe Trader and m: In ord Camer Portug of the: Bihe.! 'Th Protest de Vasc height | answer:

Page 155

SEerrrrrerrPyvrRerc se am FF Pr Pa ad I OE LE, a A edn i Te ee li ai le | CENTRAL AFRICA. 900 inhabitants, situated in Upper Guinea, back of Dahomey and the Ashantee country. Here he has established an exchange, and made consider- able profits. He buys ivory for one franc 20 cen- times per kilogramme, and sells at the rate of 730 francs per ton salt, the price of which in Europe is 50 francs. Gold-dust, from which the Gold Coast derives its name, is here abundant in the river-sand. M. Bonnat has returned to Europe, in order to obtain improved apparatus ; he will soon go back, taking with him M. George Bazin, son of the inventor of the ingenious dredge em- ployed in recovering the coin from the famous Spanish galleon sunk in the bay of Vigo. M. Bonnat has never suffered from disease during his stay in Salaga, for he has used the same diet- aryas the natives ; and yet the climate of Guinea is more unwholesome than that of the lake-region. The slave-trade is the great scourge of Africa. To procure slaves, regular man-hunts are set on foot. The,Arab traders in the country lying near the coast of the Indian Ocean and the Portuguese | half-breeds of the Atlantic coast carry on this system of man-hunting, with the aid of the native | chiefs. The latter sell their own subjects, or at- | tack neighboring tribes, in order to procure cot- | tonades, glass beads, or arms. The result is fre- quent wars of extermination. The man-hunters fall upon a village, slay all those who make re- sistance, and carry off all that have not made their | excape—men, women, and children. Some of the captives are sent down to the coast, or transported | to Egypt or Arabia; others are sold at various | markets in the interior, for employment in the fields or in domestic service ; others, again, serve as a medium of exchange—as actual money. Throughout the entire region between the coast | of Congo and Lake Tanganyika the price of com- modities is estimated at so many slaves, just as ! formerly in Europe it was estimated at so many head of cattle. Again and again was Cameron wable to obtain what he wanted simply because he did not possess the one form of money which | the people would accept by way of payment. Traders visit the regions where ivory is abundant, and make payment for their purchases in slaves. In order to get back from Nyangwe to Benguela, Cameron was obliged to travel in company with Portuguese half-breeds, who were leading herds | of these unfortunate people in the direction of | Bihe.! ! This statement of Cameron's has called forth a strong Protest in the Portuguese Chambers from Senhor Texeira de Vasconcellos and Senhor d’Andrade height of injustice to hold the Portuguese Government “swerable for the horrible crimes committed by half- It would be the | 155 In proportion as commerce penetrates into the interior, and the chiefs learn to have new wants, the slave-trade develops and calls for a larger number of victims, For every ten slaves that reach their destination, a hundred lives are lost in the attack upon the village or on the route. To escape from the slave-hunters the natives flee from their homes, conceal themselves in the jun- gle, and return to the savage state. Cameron fell in with this unfortunate class of people every- where in the woods bordering on Lake Tangan- | yika, Livingstone has drawn a striking picture of the ravages wrought by the traffic in slaves. In 1851, when he visited the region of Lake Ny- assa, he found there a dense population, industri- ously cultivating a fertile soil, and living in great comfort. The climate was so mild, and the na- tives so gentle, so industrious, that he conceived the idea of here settling the colony which later was actually founded here, and which bears his name, Ten years afterward, when he passed through this same country, he could not recog- nizeit. The villages had been burned down and the fields abandoned ; the people were gone—slaugh- tered, carried away, or hid in the jungle. The water courses were still choked with corpses, and | on the trees hung the bodies of women that had been horribly mutilated. During the last years of his life, Livingstone was ever haunted by these horrible sights. | | “ In endeavoring,” he wrote, shortly before his death, ‘to give an account of the slave-trade in Eastern Africa, I have had to keep far within the limits of the truth, for fear of being charged with | exaggeration; but it were impossible to overstate its cruelty and the evils resulting from it. The spectacle that I have witnessed, though it included nothing save the every-day incidents of this traffic, was of so revolting a character that I am forever striving to efface it from my memory. At times I succeed in forgetting the painfulest of my recollec- | tions; but often the dreadful scenes at which I | have been present rise up before my eyes in spite of all that I can do, and cause me to start out of my sleep with horror at the dead of night.” breeds, and even by negroes who call themselves Portu- | guese because they have learned a few words of the Port- | uguese language during their stay in the coast towns, In the late lamented Marquis de Sa da Bandeira’s “ O Tra- | balho Rural Africano,” we may read of the measures | taken with a view to secure equal rights to all natives in the Portnguese colonies. As was very eloquently demon- strated by Senhor Texeira, his country has passed laws quite as humane as those of any of the countries which assume to lecture Portugal now. Nevertheless, the gov- ernors of the Portuguese colonies in Africa might take greater care to prevent an abuse of the national flag in covering a hateful traffic, and one severely prohibited by law.

Page 156

‘ THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. 156, * Africa,” says Cameron, “ is bleeding at every pore. A country of unparalleled fertility, needing only labor to make it the foremost productive country on the globe, is depopulated by the slave- trade and the massacres which attend it. If noth- ing occurs to put a stop to these wars of exter- mination, the land will become a wilderness ut- terly impenetrable to traders and travelers. It is a disgrace to the nineteenth century that such horrors can go on. It is unaccountable that Eng- land should let slip so favorable an opportunity of opening for her products so important an out- let.” In Berlioux’s conscientious work, “ La Traite Orientale,” we learn that this odious traffic has two other centres besides the regions south of the equator. These are, in the first place, Soodan, whence slaves are sent to the great mart of Koo- ka in Bornoo, and thence to Moorzook, the capi- tal of Fezzan, and so on into Tunisia and Tripoli; in the second place, the Upper Nile. The cruel- ties practised in this region have been described » by several European travelers, and latterly the Egyptian authorities at Khartoom have been justly charged with favoring the slave-trade. Arab merchants and European adventurers would enter the country of the Shillooks, the Dinkas, and the Djours, penetrating as far as Gondokoro, under the pretense of hunting elephants and buy- ing ivory. They would have under their com- mand a band of two or three hundred well-armed miscreants, and would establish a seribah, or in- trenched camp. From this basis of operations they would make raids upon the surrounding tribes, which could make no effectual resistance. Baker estimated the mean animal profit of each seribah at 450 slaves. The slave-hunters received from their employers a fixed payment in the shape of slaves. It is estimated that even quite recently 30,000 negroes were annually carried away out of this region alone, and distributed throughout the Mussulman territories. This would presuppose a loss of 200,000 human lives. The total number of unfortunates reduced to sla- very or butchered during the raids must be con- siderably over half a million. Happily, two recent events encourage the hope that the slave-trade will cease throughout the en- tire western half of the African Continent. On setting out for Khartoom, there to assume com- mand of all the Egyptian forces on the Upper Nile, Colonel Gordon announced his determina- tion of putting an end, cost what it might, to this traffic, and there is no doubt that he will head of an English flotilla, exacted from the sover. eign of Zanguebar a promise no longer to tolerate the sale and exportation of slaves in his domin. ions. After this the trade was carried on by the way of Kilwa; but Dr. Kirk, consul-general of England, recently obtained from the sultan the issuance of a proclamation prohibiting the equipment of any caravan destined to engage in the slave-trade, and threatening with confiscation any such caravan coming down to the coast, And, as the edict was rigorously enforced, bands of captives, already en route, had to be taken back into the interior. Money-lenders refuse to risk their capital in enterprises whose results are so precarious. One expedition, involving a million frances, proved to be a total loss. Thus, for the time being, the slave-trade is suspended along the Zanguebar coast.' According to a pri- vate letter, written by the gallant Captain Young, commanding at Livingstonia on Lake Nyassa, unlooked-for results have been obtained. Ten thousand slaves used annually to pass by the southern extremity of the lake on their way coastward, In 1876 only eighty-eight of these wretches reached their destination by this route, If by these energetic measures the traffic can be rendered so risky as to be unprofitable, the Arab traders will probably abandon it; but, as is very justly observed by Mr. Waller, great danger will hence result to ulterior relations with the heart of Africa. The native chiefs and Arab traders in that region will find themselves suddenly de- prived of the means of procuring cottonades, glass beads, arms, and other commodities, which they were wont to purchase with slaves. They cannot buy all they want with ivory and tobacco alone. They will be enraged on seeing their commerce annihilated, and it is highly probable that they will try to revenge themselves on trav- elers and missionaries, on whom they will lay the blame of suppressing the traffic in slaves, The only means of escaping from this peril is to be found in the idea proposed by the King of the Belgians, of exchanging European goods for the agricultural products of Central Africa. The majority of the chiefs, we are assured by Mr. Waller, very well understand that man-hunting and the massacres thence resulting are ruining their dominions, and they would gladly see regular commerce taking the place of the odious traffic in human beings. 1 These details I take from an interesting letter lately published in English newspapers by Mr. Horace Waller, succeed, provided his life is spared. It will be | who has spent several years in Zanguebar and in the inte- remembered that in 1873 Sir Bartle Frere, at the | rior of Africa,

Page 157

> 5 es FB Fe F&F S&S se oe: ee CENTRAL AFRICA. 157 But, even in the present state of things, com- modities for export would not be lacking if the cost of transportation were not so heavy. Where everything must be carried on the backs of men, the only products that can profitably be trans- ported to the coast are ivory, gold, gums, or slaves, who are their own carriers, With steam- boats, a tramway, or an elephant-express, com- merce would develop to an extraordinary degree. Cameron, in the concluding chapter of his book, enumerates the chief products that might be ex- ported; these are: Sugar, for the sugar-cane thrives wherever there is not lack of water; cot- ton, which is cultivated everywhere, and which grows wild in sandy districts, especially in Ufipa ; palm-oil, which is abundant in the whole Lualaba basin up,to an elevation of 700 metres; coffee, which grows spontaneously in Karagwe and else- where, producing a bean of the same size and flavor as Mocha; tobacco, everywhere cultivated on a small scale, that grown in Ujiji being of the very best quality; sesame and castor-oil, spices of every kind, sorgho, copa], caoutchouc, maize, bananas, hemp, wax, hides, copper, gold, cinnabar, and silver. Such are the chief products already exploited by the natives, to say nothing of others which the European would soon discover and turn to account. M. Bonnat’s experience goes to show the chances of success which await the man of enterprise who, backed by the International Exploration Society, should take up his abode in this magnificent country. One-hundredth part of the effort made in con- quering India would suffice to found here an em- pire larger, more productive, less costly to ad- minister, and less exposed to outside competition. The virgin soil of Central Africa possesses a fer- tility very different from that of Hindostan, now impoverished by thousands of years of exhaustive husbandry. Being regularly and far more abun- dantly watered by the equinoctial rains, it is hever exposed to those droughts which periodi- cally cause such cruel famines in the provinces of India. The negro is a far more able-bodied agricultural laborer than the Hindoo; and, wher- ever there exists a small measure of security, the population rapidly increases, and hands are in plenty. In the whole region of the great lakes the villages touch one another ; the land is culti- vated with great care, and the laborers are better fed than the rural population of Europe. Hence there might be developed here an outlet for our manufactures greater than India and Australia taken together. The most pleasing feature of the plan devised . the patronage of the Prince of Wales. by the Brussels Congress is, that it does not pro- pose to conquer Central Africa by force in the interest of any one power ; but to bring that im- mense region into the current of civilization, for the benefit of mankind in general, by peaceful means and by the development of commerce. The organization of the society founded at Brus- sels, and the noble words pronounced by King Leopold when he inaugurated the enterprise, clearly show its international character. At its head is an executive committee, consisting of a president—the King of the Belgians himself—and three other members, namely, M. de Quatrefages, representing France; Dr. Nachtigal, Germany ; and Sir Bartle Frere, England. To these will be added two delegates for each national committee, appointed in the different countries. The mission of these national committees is to bring the pro- gramme of the society into public notice in their respective countries ; to collect subscriptions, and to suggest to the international committee plans for the judicious employment of its funds. In Belgium the national committee was formed im- mediately, under the presidency of the king’s brother, the Count de Flandre. Thanks to the warm attachment of the people for their sovereign, subscriptions have come in freely. Most of the departments of the government, the officers of the army, the civic guard, the criminal and pro- vincial councils, the functionaries, the industrial establishments, have contributed their mites. The sum already collected is sufficient to yield an annual revenue of 124,000 francs — enough to defray the expense of an expedition every year. Had not the industrial crisis considerably reduced the income of the whole people, the subscriptions would have been larger; and, besides, the enter- prise is still only in its initial stage. In Germany the national commitee has been formed under the auspices of the prince imperial, and its president is the Prince von Reuss. In England the “ Afri- can Exploration Fund” has been placed under Portugal, the home of great navigators, will not be indiffer- ent to this work, for her fearless travelers, the Pombeiro brothers (1806-1815) and Silva Porto (1853-1857), have already traversed Africa from the Congo coast to Mozambique, and she owns the ports that will be the principal outlets for African commerce. A committee isin process of formation, under the patronage of the Lisbon Geographical Society and the Minister of the Colonies. An important rdle seems also to be reserved for Holland, whose sons colonized the Cape, and founded the two free states of the

Page 158

158 THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. Oranje-Staat and the Transvaal, which are des- | Belgians to the effect that his codperation might tined to form the connecting link in the chain of | be counted on. posts yet to be established from Cairo and Khar- It is to be wished that every nation in Europe toom down to the extremity of Southern Africa. | may enter heart and soul into this holy crusade The Netherlands committee has been constituted | of civilization against barbarism and the trade ig under Prince Henry of the Low Countries. The | human beings, at the very moment when the Austrian committee has for its president Baron | rivalries of the respective governments threaten von Hofmann, Minister of Finance, under the | momentarily to place them at enmity with each patronage of the prince imperial, the Archduke | other in spite of themselves, and though they de. Rudolf. The Italian committee is in process of | sire only to labor in peace. At the Brussels Com formation, under the presidency of the heir-ap- | gress the representatives of the various nations parent. The French committee is being formed | extended the hand to one another, forgetting all under the direction of the Admiral La Ronciére | animosity and every old grievance, and devoting Le Noury, the Paris Society of Geography codp- | themselves to labor in common for a noble object: erating. Would it not be an admirable confirmation of the A Society for the Exploration of Africa has | great principle of human brotherhood if, in the been founded at Madrid, under the presidency | clash of arms and amid the preparations for war, of the King of Spain, in conformity with the | there were to spring up and develop an interna: programme of the Brussels Congress. Judge | tional association appealing to the kindly feelings Daly is engaged in forming a national committee | of the people of our continent for the means of - in the United States ; and M. Bouthillier de Beau- | bestowing on the wretched inhabitants of a neigh- mont, President of the Geographical Society of | boring continent order, security, and liberty—of Geneva, has announced that a committee will be | suppressing the slave-trade, and of introducing formed in Switzerland. Finally, the King of | among them the blessings of modern civilization? Sweden, the King of Saxony, the Grand-duke of | Would it not also be the most telling and, at the Baden, the Duke of Saxe-Weimar, the Grand-duke | same time, the most honorable protest against Constantine of Russia, the Crown-Prince of Den- | that policy of mutual jealousy and distrust whose mark, and the Archduke Carl Ludwig of Austria, | upshot must be to join in a general mélée nations — have accepted the title of honorary members of | that ought to have but one aim—namely, to dif the international committee. Thus have the sov- | fuse throughout the whole world the principlés ereign houses of Europe given at least the sup- | of justice revealed by Christianity for the enfran- port of their names to the work, and even the | chisement and happiness of all mankind )—Revue Sultan of Zanguebar has written to the King of the | des Deux Mondes. ian a THE CONTEST OF HEATHENISM WITH CHRISTIANITY, AS REFLECTED IN GREEK AND ROMAN LITERATURE. By Pror. E. ZELLER, or Beruiy. HE great preacher of Christianity to the] were absolutely without the assumptions with heathen, the Apostle Paul, calls his! which it found points of contact in the Jewish preaching of “Christ crucified, unto the Jews | world. Its monotheism placed it in undisguised a stumbling-block, and unto the Greeks foolish- | enmity to the polytheistic national religion ; and, ness;”! and thereby gives a concise and striking | on the other hand, to those who might have definition of the point of view from which the | been disposed to adopt monotheism as such, the opposition of the two sections of the non-Chris- | doctrines which had grown out of the Jewish tian world, whom he had gone forth to gain, | belief in the Messiah must have been all chiefly proceeded. To the Jew, nn, | more unintelligible. The worship of a Jew who € even when hostile to him, was to a certain ex- | had suffered the disgraceful death of oo Loh tent intelligible, for it was rooted in monotheism | factor; the belief that he still lived in heaven} 3 and in the Messianic hopes of his nation But | faith in his divine origin and nature; the € ~ the heathen, or, as Paul calls them, the Greeks, | pectation that he would come again with the i 1 1 Corinthians i. 23. hosts of heaven to put an end to the existing”

Page 159

i}. }t~-7=_00G 0.2 = 2 Ee SSeS PTS ST Ew FZ AF HEATHENISM AND CHRISTIANITY. state of things and the kingdoms of this world; the hope of a future resurrection of the body —how could this faith and these expectations appear to any cultivated Greek, at first sight, as anything but extreme folly, the offspring of fanatical phantasy, or as downright imposture ? Add to this the peculiarities of Christian life and manners ; the way in which the party held to- gether, which to an outsider conveyed the im- pression of a secret society, a conspiracy against the established order; the anxious care with which all contact with the heathen world was avoided, which could but lead to entire with- drawal from all non-Christian society ; the aver- sion to military service and public offices; the principle that Christians should settle their dis- agreements among themselves, and not go to law before heathen courts; the refusal to take part in public festivals and rejoicings, and in the sac- rifices for the empire and emperor: add to this the contempt which an educated Greek or dis- tinguished Roman was sure to feel for a society which was for a long time mainly recruited from the people, in which artisans, slaves, and freed- men, associated on a footing of equality and fra- temity with the few of the upper classes who entered it, in which, to say the least, no value was placed on the artistic adornments of life, scientific, esthetic, or social culture, the deeds of the warrior, or the fame of the savanf—when we realize all this, we cannot wonder that the friends of Hellenic art, the pupils of the Attic philosophy, the sons and heroes of imperious Rome, could not take to a religion which pre- sented itself in a form so repugnant and incom- prehensible. In reality, this religion was not without numerous and profound relations to the mental tendencies, the modes of thought, and the needs of the age. Indeed, Christianity was a product of the age, a result of the spiritual forces by which it was actuated. Neither did the condi- tions of its rise and progress lie exclusively in Judaism, It was not until Judaism had come into wide and permanent contact with Hellenic culture, and had been fertilized by it in many ways, that Christianity could be developed from it As the world-wide empires of Alexander and the Romans prepared the way for the religion of the world by an entire revolution in political circumstances, so was its most essential inward condition contained in that doctrine which, chiefly through the influence of the Stoic philos- ophers, had for centuries attained wide circula- tion the doctrine that ull men form one great 159 commonwealth, that they have equal rights and duties, that they are only separated from. each other by their moral conduct, that they are all subject to the same natural and moral laws. The high moral demands of Christianity were in unison with what had been taught by the most eminent of the sages of old. As Paul placed value on faith alone, so did the Stoics on moral sentiments, virtue, and wis- dom ; if the former could not paint in colors too glaring the universal depravity of mankind, we find similar descriptions among his Roman con- temporaries, and especially by the Stoic Seneca; if the Christians divide all mankind into the re- generate and unregenerate, the Stoics class them not less strictly as wise men and fools; if the Christians look beyond this world to the glories of heaven, the Stoics rejoice no less in the “ birth- day of eternity,” which even they call the day of death, in deliverance from the bondage of the flesh, the entrance on “ the great eternal peace.” Many other points. might be mentioned in which Christianity met the deepest needs of the time, had an affinity with its best aims, and with movements which had long been widely spread ; and it might have been expected that among those who, like it, recognized the moral deprav- ity of the age, and sought to correct it with an earnestness and devotedness which we cannot but admire, it would have been fustly estimated. But it was not so. The Christians, in their esti- mate of the Greek and Roman character, were unable to throw off the assumptions of their supernatural dogmatics, and their Jewish preju- dices against heathenism; and neither could the Greeks and Romans rise above the pride of culture which forbade them to place the Syrian barbarians, among whom the new religion had arisen, on an equality with the revered sages of their own people; or to perceive, beneath its strange traditions, a deeper truth, having an affinity with their own philosophical convictions, and worthy of their serious consideration. If the Christian sect was hated by the mass of the heathen population, by the cultured portion it was despised, and centuries elapsed before con- tempt and hatred gave way to a more just and worthy conception. To the heathen nations, the Christians were | in the first place atheists ; for in every age this name has been given to those who did not agree with the prevailing conceptions of the Deity ; not only when they denied his existence, but when they sought to instill a more just and worthy idea of God. “Down with the atheists!” this was

Page 160

160 THE POPULAR SCIENCE the war-cry of the heathen mob against the Christians. It was with this cry, for example, that in a. p. 156 the venerable Bishop Polycarp was received on the race-course at Smyrna. The only gods the people knew anything about, whose temples they frequented, whose statues they worshiped, to whom they offered sacrifices and prayers, were denied by the Christians ; they were declared to be the inventions of man’s superstition, and sometimes to be evil spirits, devils. Can we wonder that the people who were still devoted to these gods felt the attack upon them to be an attack upon themselves, their most sacred and cherished possessions ; that they were the more deeply incensed at it the more seriously they feared by toleration of it to lose the favor of the gods on whom their welfare depended? The reproach of atheism was therefore the most dangerous that could be brought against the Christians. In that “ Down with the atheists!” with which the yells of the mob greeted Polycarp at Smyrna, was included the sentence of death, which they at once pro- ceeded to execute by preparing the stake. And the cry was followed in numberless cases by the same results. If any public misfortune, any alarming event occurred, which seemed to indi- cate the displeasure of the gods—a pestilence, a dearth, a flood, an eclipse, an earthquake—super- | stition was always ready to make the Christians | responsible for it, as enemies of the gods; the | exclamation was sure to be heard, “The Chris- | tians to the lions!” Both the educated and uneducated have always attributed every other | wickedness to the enemies of the gods, and so it was with the Christians. Being atheists, they were also criminals, and all manner of horrible stories were told of them. It was not enough that they were said to worship a god with the head of an ass, which we see represented to this day in a caricature of that period, the well-known mock crucifix in the Kircher Museum at Rome; it was said, also, that in their secret assemblies they practised all sorts of horrors, killed and devoured children, and gave themselves up to frightful excesses. Scarcely any evils were at- tributed to the Jews in the middle ages by Chris- tian fanatics which had not been before at- tributed to the Christians by heathen supersti- tion. How ancient this bad opinion of them was we learn from the account given by Tacitus of the persecution under Nero. When more than two-thirds of Rome was burned to ashes in his reign, and report accused the emperor himself of setting fire to it, he tried to find people on MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. whom he could lay the blame, and selected sect, says Tacitus, “ who were universally for their shameful deeds, to whom the gave the name of Christians.” These stupid misrepresentations of the Christians, then, wer not only circulated, but so generally believed that but a few years after their rise as a com munity at Rome, and only two years after Paul’ arrival there, Nero could venture to throw on them the responsibility of a public calamity. He was out in his reckoning, however ; suspicion still attached to him, and the cruel torments which he inflicted on his wretched victims at last aroused the pity of theirenemies. But one thing is obvious—Nero could not have punished the Christians as incendiaries if they had not been judged capable of such a crime; and Tacit expressly says that they were so. We cannot, however, be much surprised that | the credulous and ignorant masses had not more correct ideas, It is far more astonishing that even the great historian to whom we owe this first mention of the Christians in profane history should share their opinions, and he+ cannot be | cleared from this accusation. He not only treats _ the excesses of which they were said to be guilty as acknowledged facts, but adds this remarks | ‘The founder of this sect, named Christ, had been executed under Tiberius, by the Procurator Pontius Pilate. The heinous superstition was | thereby checked for a time, but the infection soon spread again, not only throughout Judea, | where the disease was indigenous, but also im the capital, where all that is disgraceful and rep robate collects and finds favor.” And of the accusation against the Christians he says, “ They certainly cannot be convicted of causing the fire, but of being enemies of the human race they can.” This is the impression made upon the Roman by what he had heard of the religion and conduct of the Christians. Of atheism, of which the enemies of the popular divinities had been certainly by that time accused, he makes no mention. In the eyes of Tacitus the chief error tion, But in his general estimate of them this Christians ; race,” and from such any crimes may be ¢i these words: “Guilty as they were, and well a — they deserved the severest penalties, they Cae in the new religion is not disbelief, but supersti. does not turn much to the advantage of the” they are “enemies of the humam pected. And after mentioning the fearful tom ments and cruel scorn with which Nero treated: the Christians, Tacitus closes his narrative with 3 cited pity, because it was considered that theg were 82 the cru that th to ther ground it an al 0 dep! pation | have t: vith w new for

Page 161

the ted »ple pid ere ved om. ul’s on He My nts ast ng the "en tus lat re rat his ry be its ty k: ad or as mn a, in p- 1e y e y e d h D 0 rr. i is - Do [- d- bh s a y a a¢ were sacrificed, not for the common weal, but to the cruel caprice of an individual.” He admits that they were not guilty of the crime attributed to them, that their being put to death on this ground was judicial murder, and the manner of jtan abomination, but he regards them as a sect so depraved and dangerous that their extermi- pation was demanded by the public interest. The prejudices against the Christians must have taken very deep root, and the contempt with which the educated classes regarded this new form of Oriental superstition must have been very general, before the greatest historian whom Rome has produced could accept, at the begin- ting of the second century, the notions of the masses and the misdeeds of the Christians as facts, without even taking the trouble to sift into their truth. Under these circumstances, the real facts could not be ascertained about the crimes of which the Christians were accused, md to which even a Tacitus gave credit; nor could the cause of the Christians, which went against them under Nero, be fairly judged, until it should be tried again under a better government and by more just judges. This happened even during the lifetime of Tacitus, and but a few years after he wrote of them as above. The greatest of the Czesars, Trajan, amid the multi- tude of affairs to be regulated in his vast em- pire, found it necessary to interest himself with the Christians and their relation to the state; and the younger Pliny, one of the noblest and most cultivated men of that day, was commis- tioned to investigate the accusations against them. In the west of Asia Minor, and especial- lyin Bithynia, the province over which Pliny tiled, the Christian religion had found so much favor that in many places, in the cities and even in the country, the temples of the gods were de- serted, the festivals were not celebrated, the flesh of the sacrifices scarcely found purchasers. The embitterment of the heathen at this success of their enemies led to complaints. At first indi- viduals, and soon increasing numbers, were in- formed against to Pliny, as adherents of the Onristian sect, a pretext for which was afforded bya recent prohibition of all societies not rec- ognized by the state. Pliny was perplexed; there were then no legal enactments against the Christians, and no method of procedure had been established in practice ; at any rate, Pliny, he himself wrote to Trajan, had never been Present at a trial of Christians. Such trials, after the great persecution under Nero, had taken place but rarely under Domitian, and since 11 HEATHENISM AND CHRISTIANITY. 161 his assassination there had been none. But, like a true Roman, he looked at the subject from a simple, straightforward, political point of view. Let Christianity be what it might, as soon as it asserted its peculiarities in opposition to the re- ligion of the state and the acts of worship con- nected with political life, it became dangerous to the state. On this principle Pliny acted. The persons informed against as Christians were sum- moned to appear, and were asked whether they were such or not. If they confessed it, they were required under pain of death to renounce their faith; if they refused, they were executed, or if, like Paul, they were Roman citizens, they were seut to Rome to be tried. “For I had no doubt,” says Pliny, “that their obstinacy and unyielding contumacy demanded punishment, whatever the religion might be that they pro- fessed.” He who denied that he was a Christian or recanted, after he had shown his reverence for the statues of the gods and of the emperor and cursed Christ, was released. It was cer- tainly a very summary proceeding. The gov- ernor, however, took the opportunity of obtain- ing more precise information as to the religion and lives of the Christians, partly from those who denied Christianity, and partly from two Christian deaconesses whom he subjected to this painful examination. But none of them had anything to tell him of the crimes and horrors of which report accused them ; they told him of their religious assemblies, their love-feasts, their adoration of Christ, their moral principles. Pliny wrote that he had discovered nothing in the confessions of the tortured deaconesses but a foolish and boundless superstition. But, wide- ly as it had spread, he hoped to uproot it by severity against those who persisted in it, and showing favor to those who renounced it. This report of Pliny to Trajan undoubtedly shows | more knowledge and a more correct view of Christianity than what is said by Tacitus. He gave credit to the slanderous reports of the vices of the Christians, while Pliny does not; he has convinced himself that they are not necessarily connected with Christianity. This accusation is thenceforth confined to the lower classes; it is no longer repeated by contemporary authors. But Christianity is still held to be a strange and absurd superstition, and tolerant as imperial Rome was, in general, of superstition of every kind, in this case toleration was limited by the peculiarities of the Christian religion. All other religious usages were compatible with the estab- lished public worship; the Christian religion

Page 162

162 could not fail to be opposed to it—the Christians were enemies of the gods, atheists. Pliny does not use the term, but. it is really this character- istic which makes him regard them as enemies of the state; they refused to offer sacrifices to the gods and the emperor, and such defiance must be put down, Trajan himself formed the same opinion. In his reply to Pliny’s report he approves his conduct, and adds that they are not to be officially proceeded against, but, if they are denounced and refuse to recant their Christianity by worship of the national gods and the emper- or, they are to be punished. He evidently con- sidered it to be a comparatively harmless super- stition, a delusion which might be tolerated so long as it could be ignored, but which must not be indulged, in consequence of its open resist- ance to the religion and laws of the state, nor left unpunished when brought before the courts and obstinately persisted in. Trajan’s mandate to Pliny was for a hundred* and fifty years the standard by which the rela- tions of the Roman state toward Christianity were regulated, and the views which dictated it remained for a long period unaltered. While among the people the old hatred of the atheists survived, and the old calumnies retained their hold, the new religion was regarded by the edu- cated as one of the many fruits of superstition which inundated the Roman Empire from the East ; and whether it was regarded with lenience or severity, as perilous or absurd, its followers as deceivers or deceived, in one thing all were agreed, that it could not be permitted to break the laws against making proselytes and against unauthorized societies. The contumacy which the Christians showed in refusing to join in the public worship of the gods must be put an end to, especially in cases in which, according to the prevailing ideas, the established customs were inseparable from the fulfillment of duties toward the state and its rulers. The three successors of Trajan, and the excellent Marcus Aurelius Antoninus, two generations later, formed the same opinion of the Christians. This emperor was one of the most benign, philanthropic, and conscientious rulers who ever adorned a throne. He was, moreover, a zealous adherent of the Stoic philosophy, which in its morals, and even in its theology, was so closely allied to Christianity. And yet in his reign the Christians were subject- ed to persecutions more severe than even under Nero. He felt compelled, as Roman emperor, to protect the religion of the state from its pro- nounced enemies ; and, as one of a school which THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. r was content to place philosophical ideas and me ligious myths on an equality, and made terms with the popular religion by the most extrayg. gant allegorization of it, he had no compreheg. sion of the scruples of conscience which made all participation in heathen worship appear teig Christian as an unpardonable sin. In the pos tive Christian doctrines, which could not, like poetic myths, be evaporated into mere symbols of philosophic dogmas, a Marcus Aurelius could not possibly see anything more than Pliny sawe a “foolish and boundless superstition ;” noryin the steadfastness with which the Christiangad. hered to them, anything but a stupid obstinacy, originating in defiance and bigotry, and perhaps in a desire to excite attention. And this is just what he says in the only passage in his “Mone logues ” in which he mentions the Christians (ai, 8): he observes that a man should be ready die at any time, but with dignity, without boast ing; from reasonable conviction, ‘not out éf mere defiance, like the Christians.” §o little did the devoted heroism of the Christian martyy overcome the prejudices of the Roman. Mare Aurelius doubtless pitied the Christians who wer put to death by his orders, since he so often tellsus that pity is the only sentiment that befits the wise man in view of the folly and perversity of mea; but he judged that, for the sake of the common weal and public order, he could not restrain the arm of justice, and, in truth, he had no idea that it was not to justice they were sacrificed, but to political laws and interests which were incompat ible with the natural law of liberty of conscience. Since even a Marcus Aurelius was not ableto form an unbiased opinion of Christianity, this will not be expected from one so entirely want ing in religious interests, and therefore in appre ciation of religious life and motives, as his com temporary, the satirist Lucian. A man of te world, half skeptic, half Epicurean, could mt possibly regard Christianity as anything but om of the follies and fancies of which the age wal so prolific. He only mentions it in connectié® with them. In his book on the cynic, Pert grinus, who had publicly burned himself at the Olympic games in a. p. 165, he relates eae eccentric man had in his younger days by to the sect of the Christians in Palestine, bat, gained a high standing among them, had imprisoned for his faith, but was afterward se liberty ; and he takes occasion to give his ions of the Christians. He describes them a sort of contemptuous pity, as poor simple who had been persuaded by the founders of

Page 163

fESFRORG EEF s BSSREESSSEREP SP ESKRESERESR ees ES ERP SPEREA RS HEATHENISM AND CHRISTIANITY. 163 sect that they would live forever, and that if they | foretold, and invented the Gospel stories of his would only deny the Hellenic gods, and worship | birth. He succeeded in collecting around him a instead that crucified Sophist and live according ; few followers from among the lowest rabble, to his laws, they were all brethren. ‘He was well | with whom he went about the country, not doing aware of the courage with which the Christians | anything more than other magicians had done, died, the joy with which they made any sacrifice | or achieving more success. Being betrayed by for their faith. But this heroism and self-sacri- | his own friends, he suffered death for his crimes, fice had no value in his eyes, being based on | and his disciples afterward carried on the im- notions so fanatical. Their superstition, he says, | posture. They persisted that he was a God and makes the Christians the prey of every impos- | the Son of God, ascribed miracles to him which tor who knows how to work upon it; and while | he had never performed, put prophecies of his he sees no serious danger in it to the existing ; death and resurrection into his mouth, and in- order of things, he is equally destitute of any | vented the fable of his resurrection after the vision of the historical importance and intrinsic pattern of heathen myths, but without adducing value of the new faith. He speaks of it in the | any credible proof of it. Christianity is, there- superficial tone of a man who is too well convinced fore, from the beginning, not only a worthless of its unimportance to think it worth while to innovation but a tissue of lies; the “Sophist,” inform himself further about it. | as Lucian calls its founder, now becomes a con- Lucian’s friend, the Platonist, Celsus, regard- | jurer, whose magic arts the Platonist will not ed Christianity in a far more serious light. His dispute, though he will not admit that he is any- knowledge of it is also far more profound. In thing but a good-for-nothing impostor. And, “The True Word,” which he addressed to the ' according to Celsus, the character of the Chris- Christians between a. p. 178 and 180, he shows tian religion accords with its origin. So far as it an acquaintance with their doctrines and docu- deviates from what had long before been ac- ments in which he is quite alone among the op- | knowledged as truth, it is nothing but a com- ponents of Christianity till we come to Porphyry. pound of superstition and imposture. In order Still, his verdict is not less severe than that of that they may worship the highest God alone, his predecessors. Even though he does not deny _ the Jews and Christians refuse all reverence to that there is some truth in the Jewish-Christian | the other divinities—as if it behoqved the high- doctrines, this gives Christianity but little advan- est God to interfere immediately and personally tage in his eyes. As the Jewish and Christian , in the material world; as if he had not his ser- Alexandrians made the heathen sages the disci- | vants and instruments by whom he rules the ples of Jewish revelation, the Greek philosopher | world and in whom he will be honored—those made the Jews and Christians plagiarists of the | divinities whose glory we admire, those demons wisdom of the Greeks. The good that is found | whose invisible rule is continually about us, among them they have borrowed from the Egyp- | whose favor we have good reason to secure by tins, the Hellenes, and from the nations whose | prayers and sacrifices. And while the Christians gods they despised. But they have not made a ' refuse the honors due to the greatest of created good use of this foreign good; they have misun- | beings, while they will not admit that Hercules derstood and distorted the doctrines they have | and Aisculapius have been deified, they them- ‘ppropriated, and mixed them up with supersti- | selves adore as a God a conjurer who died a tious fancies and fictions of all sorts. Celsus | shameful death. They assert that it was he believes everything about the ancestors of the | whose coming was foretold by Jewish prophets, Christians, the Jews, which their heathen foes | although his teachings are opposed to the Jewish had been saying about them for centuries; he | laws. They call him a son of God, forgetting believes all the calumnies about the founder of | that they thereby ascribe to the God whose son Christianity and his disciples, which the hatred | he was things upworthy of the Deity, just as of their compatriots had circulated in much the | much as the Hellenic myths. They make God tame form as we find them in the later Talmudic | come down to men, ill as it comports with his Writings. Jesus was, according to the well- | unchangeableness and perfection. How absurd, known Jewish fable, not only of humble but | again, are their anthropomorphic representations disreputable parentage; in Egypt he learned the | of the Deity; their stories of the creation, the arts of a magician and conjurer; after his return | fall, the flood, and the patriarchs; their doctrine his own country he gave himself out for a| of the devil who slays the Son of God, and of Yorker of miracles and for the Son of God long | Antichrist whom he has to fear as a rival; their

Page 164

’ 164 tion of the world by fire, and the resurrection of the body—a notion which can only be enter- : tained by sensual people! What an arrogant notion of the Christians that the world is created for them only, and that at the end of the world they alone will continue to live in new bodies, while everybody else will be burned in the fire! Such a religion is truly only fit for the ignorant, to whom the Christians for the most part are confined; whoever expects to find credence for such things must look for it among artisans and slaves, women and children, sinful and wicked people, and must exclude all the learned and edu- cated from his community. But perverse as all this may be, it might be more easily tolerated if the Christians were only following the faith of their forefathers, if they had the excuse of its being their national reli- gion. As it is impossible that all the various nations should worship the Deity in the same way, it is best that every one should worship in the way to which he has been accustomed, and which is acceptable to the tutelar genii of his country. This is the case with the Jews, absurd as the national pride is with which they look down upon all other religions and think their own the only true one. But the Christians have not even this excuse. Originally apostates from Judaism, they are now a medley of renegades from other nations, and are split up into innu- merable parties among themselves. And with this the reproach is connected with which Celsus closes his controversy with the Christians—their indifference to the Roman state and its welfare. They will not have anything to do with public worship, and neither do they concern themselves with the public interest. The enmity to the hu- man race with which Tacitus reproaches them meets us again here under the more definite form of want of patriotism. This polemical treatise of Celsus clearly shows why the better-educated classes among his Greek and Roman contemporaries would, as a rule, have nothing to do with the Christian religion, even when they were somewhat better acquainted with it, They could not take to it because it originated in a sphere, and presupposed a way of thinking, entirely different from their own. Christianity was a religion for the weary and heavy-laden: to him who was ill-treated and set at naught in this world compensation was prom- ised in another; to him who was oppressed by a feeling of moral weakness and guilt it offered to restore peace of mind by the gospel of recon- THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. expectation of the return of Christ, the destruc- | ciliation, to raise him into a liberty and joy moral aspiration hitherto unknown. But th things which had been the delight of the G; and the pride of the Roman, it counted asthe glories of this world, on the ruins of which kingdom of God was to be established. The more deeply a man was grounded in the cultum — of the classic nations, the more uncongenial must these views have been to him; the more hewak ued his culture, the less was he disposed ste exchange it for the faith and worship of the bay barians of Palestine. While on the other hand the fewer of these good things had fallen toa man’s lot, and the more he belonged to the pariahs of ancient and aristocratic civilization, the more strongly must he have been attracted to a faith which made him at once a member@a” equal terms with the rest, who in part shared with him the highest good at once in their moral and religious life, and in part held out @ sure hope of it in future. Such a one would easily” get over those points in the new teaching which were repugnant to the educated. Large as might be the demands made by the Jewish-Christian supernaturalism on the faith of its votaries ia comparison with the mythology of the popular religion, Christian dogmatics bore so rationale — stamp, and the change from polytheism to aol theism was in itself so great an advance, that thie most dogmatic Christian, the man most lous of miracles, could at once look down, as@_ person of superior enlightenment, upon heathen superstitions. He, on the contrary, who bad” been led-by philosophy to renounce this supem stition, did not require Christianity to aid him ia doing so, and it could not, therefore, gain him over in that way; while all the doctrines whidh owed their origin to Jewish revelation as sue or were a sequel to it, would inevitably be: pugnant to a disciple of Plato or Aris Epicurus or Zeno, and would only excite or be subjected to serious refutation. If we sider further the undisguised aversion and tility of the Christians to the heathen gov and how they withdrew as far as possible all codperation with it, it becomes the more? ligible that it was just the more educated of the population, the men of political i who perceived a danger in Christianity to the lower classes, mivors in a political were partly indifferent and partly blind, a far-seeing governments, imbued with the cal instincts of Rome, should try to che spread of a religion which must sap the’ forces of the existing order of things. 4 or vet AO asi FO Mi! Milan, RS tasting

Page 165

HEATHENISM AND CHRISTIANITY. 165 For Christianity and humanity it was well | tian religion had gained so much by its successes that these political sentiments did not constantly | and its obvious moral effect, that it could no lon- gasert themselves on the throne of the Caesars. |.ger be regarded simply as an imposture or a prod- Although it was a great exaggeration to say of | uct of superstition by serious and truth-loving the Christians, as Celsus did, that only one and | opponents, such as the neo-Platonists mostly were. gnother of them were still wandering about, and | They even recognized in it a kernel of truth, that they were in constant danger of prosecu- | round which, doubtless, much error and impost- tion, the rigid measures of Marcus Aurelius | ure had grown. The founder of Christianity, said against them seem for the time to have met with | these neo-Platonists, was a good and wise man, eonsiderable success. But the renewed attacks | but his disciples had distorted his doctrine. It of the Marcomans, which, after a.p. 178, de- | was they who first gave out that Christ was a manded all the forces of the empire, must have | God, and introduced the worship of him as op- diverted attention from the Christians, and after | posed to the popular deities. He himself had the emperor had died in camp at Vienna in a. p. | worshiped these gods, and with their aid, by 180, the Christian Church under his successors | means of magic arts, had worked the miracles, enjoyed seventy years of rest, which was not dis- | the reality of which the philosophers did not dis- turbed till,the middle of the third century by the | pute; but he did not, therefore, claim to be more severe persecution for a few years under Decius | than a man, as otber sages were on whom the and Valerian. The followers of Christ increased | gods had conferred similar powers. so greatly during this period, their mode of life From this point of view, Philostratus, in his and worship emerged so completely from its pre- | “ Life of Apollonius of Tyana,” about a. p. 230, vious obscurity, that, in spite of the laws against ; had, without naming Christ, compared the Gos- unauthorized religions, they had become a power | pel representation of him with the neo-Pythago- which had to be taken account of, or at any rate | rean ideal of an Hellenic philosopher and prophet ; to be recognized as a fact. The attitude assumed | and his disciple, the Emperor Alexander Severus, by the public opinion of the Greco-Roman world | placed a statue of the founder of Christianity toward Christianity was inevitably influenced by | side by side with Orpheus and Abraham, Py- it, We hear no more of the secret excesses of | thagoras and Apollonius, in his private chapel. It ° the Christians after they became more generally | was on similar assumptions that, half a century known. Hatred of the enemies of the gods | later, the neo-Platonist Porphyry proceeded in became appeased in time, as people had become | that famous polemical treatise against the Chris- more accustomed to see Oriental divinities fifing | tians, which their hatred caused them so effect- alarge place beside the ancient gods of Greece | ually to destroy, that only isolated indications and Rome, not only in the religion of individuals, | of its contents have come down to us. We learn but even in public worship. The aversion of the | from these fragments that Porphyry, a learned heathen to Christianity of course continued; | man, skilled in logic and philosophy, chose just jealousy could but be fostered by its successes. | such points for his attack as have, in more recent But the professors of a religion who formed so | times, been selected by the opponents of super- large a portion of the population of the empire | natural religion. He asked, with a Reimarus, could no longer be regarded as “ enemies of the | why had not Christ appeared before, if salvation human race ;” and even political distrust gradu- | depended upon him? He thought it incompre- ally disappeared to so large an extent that toward | hensible that the Christians should reject sacri- the end of the third century many Christians | fice, when God himself had enjoined it on the served in the army, were intrusted with posi- | Jews. In the oft-discussed contest between Peter tions of command, important pvlitical offices, | and Paul at Antioch, he saw a proof that a faith, and places at court. over which its most enlightened advocates dis- Under these circumstances, the attacks upon | puted, must be based upon a fiction. He accused Christianity took a different form. After the | even Jesus of dissinulation, because he said he middle of the third century the last learned | was not going to the feast in Jerusalem, and af- champion of polytheism arose in the neo-Platonic | terward went.! He stumbled at many of the nar- Philosophy. But decidedly as it was opposed to | ratives in the Old Testament, and, rightly enough, Christian doctrine, up to the sixth century, and | would not permit the Jews to get over them by long after it had gained its outward victories, the | allegoric interpretations. With keen eye he de- heo-Platonists did not venture to deny that there | tected in the prophecies of the Book of Daniel a was some truth in these doctrines. The Chris- ? John vil. 8, 14. See eSRecseis se Eo eect sae : reeS ea S a at hdl pes ennige sa RRS, ‘one # a a ene pb ete ate An dean bt Melia,

Page 166

5 166 forgery of the time of the Maccabees, and gave | reasons for it which have lost nothing of their | force to this day. jections that Christian theologians of the present day would not be able to refute. But there is no tradition that he passed a verdict on Christianity, as a whole, so reproachful and adverse as Celsus did in his day; and, taking into account the attitude He doubtless raised many ob- | THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. it was now necessary to adopt it for the same reasons, But Christianity had possessed vitality enough to resist all the allurements and terrom _ of political power; heathenism, on the contrary, proved so rotten under their altered rela generally assumed toward it by the neo-Platonist | school, it is not probable that he only regarded the religion of the Greeks as a legal mode of worship, and the Christian as a revolt against that divine ordinance that every nation should | worship the gods according to its own traditions. This is not maintained even by Hierocles, who | was of the same school, although a chief share is ascribed to him in the last attempt made by the Roman state to suppress Christianity by force for many years, by the severe persecution under Diocletian, after a. p. 303. that, fifty years after Constantine's first edict of toleration, its adherents were in the minority, their ranks thinned more and more, and they were soon only to be found among the uned. cated populace in the country, among the upper classes of Rome and Alexandria, and the learned men and philosophers who could not separate the worship of the ancient divinities from classie culture. It was only natural that this triumph of a foe whom they had never ceased to hate and despise, that the severity with which the triumph was turned to account, that the repulsive spectatle | of a nominal Christianity, spiritual ambition, and In a treatise | against the Christians, this neo-Platonist com- pared the founder of Christianity with the fabu- | lous picture of the neo-Platonist saint, Apollo- nius of Tyana, as it had been drawn by Philos- tratus, need not take their Jesus for a God on account He tried to show that the Christians | fierce controversy, which the new imperial Church at once offered, should deeply embitter the sub- ject party. Under Julian’s short reign (a & 361-363), there was a prospect of once more stk jecting the foe. But the restoration of heathem ism, projected by this emperor with al} the fer | vor of a neophyte but in utter misconception of of the few miracles he had performed, and that | “the heathen judged far more rightly of Apollo- | nius, Pythagoras, and others, far greater workers | of miracles than Christ, in regarding them as men beloved by the gods. But he branded the | Apostles as impostors, because they had adorned © the deeds of their Master with silly stories, while | those of Apollonius were handed down by credi- | ble witnesses. Even this enemy of Christ does prophetic character; it is only his divinity that he assails, It is not until the second half of the fourth century that we find heathen polemics recurring | to the tone against Christianity with which they | had begun. It had, in the mean time, been made Y ‘against the Christians was to forbid them the religion of the state in the Roman Empire by Constantine, and its adherents before long began to suppress the worship of the ancient gods with the same violence which had been employed to put down Christianity. If heathen governments had commanded the Christians, under pain of death, to sacrifice to the gods, these sacrifices were now forbidden by the same penalties ; if the heathen mob had raged against the Christians, the Christian rabble were now set on those who would not part with their ancient deities ; the age, could but have failed, even if his speedy death had not put an end toit. Julian had be come acquainted with Christianity among bis predecessors and relations under its worst form, He had personally suffered from their jealous des potism, Brought up a Christian, he had been obliged to profess this religion when he had el ready adopted the neo-Platonist philosophy. It was a cherished project with bim to restore the not dispute his greatness as a man, nor even his | worship of the ancient deities when he ascended the throne. But he did not wish ‘to effect it by force ; this was forbidden by his principles, his_ noble sentiments, his respect for justice, amd, finally, he could not conceal from himself that” the forces at his command were not equal’ the task. The severest measure which he took receive public instruction in ancient literature phy and learning, and wasf ond of hearing him ' self speak, could not refrain from writing against” them. In his seven books against the Christiam’, But this ruler, who prided himself on his lee : which we know from Cyril's reply, and in his ke ters, all the ill-humor and contempt which had | been accumulating in his mind for years find if it | had formerly been necessary to renounce Chris- | tianity to be promoted at court and in the army, | | expression; and this was increased by the tinacity with which the Christians resisted Bil” measures for converting them. The “ Ga as he contemptuously calls them in his edicts;

Page 167

cS3955 fa F &FR5'F ee ee x Fes iste tset Fee S i ‘na! oath ot MENTAL PHYSIOLOGY. to him, as to Celsus, people who have departed from the faith of their fathers, in order to con- struct a new religion out of the worst elements of Judaism and heathenism. They would have nothing to do with the eternal gods, whose laws encompass them, in order that they might wor- ship a dead Jew instead, and, with him, the tombs and bones of other dead men, with which, even in those days, there was fetichism enough, Neither will they listen to Nature and her laws; they appeal to the will of God rather than to any other authority, as if it could ever be opposed | to the laws of Nature. Nor will they understand that it is impossible for all nations to have the same religion, and that it is just because they are assigned to different divinities that nations differ so much in their character and gifts. But they have no national worship themselves ; they fol- low the teaching of those deceitful sectarians, the Apostles, and have not even left this alone. How little this teaching is good for is obvious enough ; for everything great and beautiful in the world, all noble deeds and all eminent men, have, as Julian believes, sprung out of heathendom. Christianity is a religion of barbarism, and it can only produce barbarians, men of servile minds. Thus do heathen polemics against Christianity | finally return to the same point of view from | which they set out. But these polemics had not , 167 hindered its advance, and it was a still more vain hope that they could wrest the victory out of its hands. When Cyril wrote his ten books against Julian, the last hope of heathenism in the Roman Empire had sunk into the grave with him. Even the written attacks against the Christians grad- ually diminished, although many particular doc- trines were for a long time discussed between Christian and heathen philosophers. It was not till recent centuries that these po- lemics have been revived. Modern opponents of Christianity have repeated many of the reproaches with which Celsus and Porphyry once assailed it, little as they could adopt their point of view as a whole. In many of these reproaches, some who are far from being in principle hostile to Chris- tianity have perceived some truth, and have en- deavored to reconstruct it so as to shield it from them. These parallels, however, cannot be pur- sued further here. Our purpose has been to indicate how the contest of heathenism with Christianity, and the varying attitudes of the one to the other, are reflected in Greek and Ro- man literature, in order to bring before the view of our readers this aspect of the peculiarities and motive of that world-wide movement out of which modern society and its civilization have arisen, with the triumph of the Christian religion.—Con- temporary Review. . MENTAL PHYSIOLOGY.’ E reported in our impression of yester- \ day an interesting lecture by Dr. Car- The glimpse our readers will thus have got of the question may have probably roused a desire to know more of it; and we, therefore, make no apology for penter on “ Mental Automatism.” noticing, somewhat tardily, Dr. Carpenter’s “Principles of Mental Physiology,” in which the whole subject is treated most ably and thor- oughly. The study of the natural history of the human mind, if it could be at all adequately pursued, or carried to the attainment of any definite con- “Principles of Mental Physiology, with their Applica- tions to the Training and Discipline of the Mind, and the Study of its Morbid Conditions.” By William B. Car- penter, M. D., LL. D., F. R. 8., F. L. 8., F. G.8., Registrar of the University of London, etc. 8vo, pp. 737. Revised edition, 1877, New York: D. Appleton & Co. clusions, would so obviously transcend every other in importance that it is unnecessary to dwell upon the advantages which might be ex- pected to follow from its cultivation. During many years, unfortunately, this study was only attempted by methods which were necessarily sterile of results—that is to say, by the intro- spective self-examination of persons more or less gifted, in whom all mental processes had attained the highest degree of complexity. The dawn of a more hopeful future may be said to have com- menced in this country nearly thirty years ago, at the time when Mr. Justice Grove’s discovery of the correlation of the physical forces led almost inevitably to the suggestion that the vital force, the power underlying the actions of living organ- isms, must itself be a kindred member of the group formed by motion, light, heat, magnetism, electricity, and chemical affinity; and, when the

Page 168

168 then recent investigations of Sir Charles Bell, Marshall Hall, and others, had begun to eluci- date the nature of sensation and motion as func- tions dependent upon the properties and the in- tegrity of the nervous system. It had long been evident that the operations of the mind, what- ever might be their original source in a higher or spiritual nature, were recognizable as opera- tions of the brain, which was, at any rate, the immediate instrument of their performance ; and it was soon perceived that all the modes of ac- tivity of the nervous system, from the lowest to the highest, were united in one continuous series, which could only be successfully investigated by beginning with the simplest forms of their dis- play, and by then tracing upward to the summit the separate strands of an ever-increasing com- plexity of structure, and the separate rudiments of an ever-increasing variety of use. In this THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. itself a seat of activity, and which receives “afferent” fibre from some remote part of the body, and sends forth an “ efferent” fibre tothe same or to some other part. The afferent fibae conveys intelligence of some change occurring iq the external part in which it terminates; thee ferent fibre conveys from the centre an impulse consequent upon that intelligence. All this,ig its essential nature, is independent of sensatigg or of the knowledge of the animal, and is saidjia. physiological language, to be automatic. In the human body there are ganglia in the lower pat of the spinal cord, which receive afferent fibres from the sole of the foot, and send out efferent fibres to muscles which move tne leg. The ae tions hence arising are usually the subjects of consciousness, but this is only because the self or organ of consciousness is attending to them, When there is disease limited to the middle part work Dr. Carpenter was himself the pioneer, and | of the spinal cord, but cutting off this part from it was one of his first achievements, by the appli- | communication with the brain, and when the legs cation of comparative anatomy, or the study of | of the patient are concealed from his sight by the nervous endowments of the lower animals, to | the interposition of a screen, the essential inde crumble the whole fabric of phrenology into dust. | pendence and the automatic character of thé He showed, in the British and Foreign Medical | spinal movements may be readily demonstrated: Review for 1846, that the first rudiments of brain | If the sole of the foot is then tickled by a feathery found in ascending the animal scale were rudi- | the tickling will produce an impression upon the ments of the anterior lobes, that the middle and extremity of the afferent nerve. This impressiog the posterior lobes were gradually added, that the posterior lobes reached their full develop- ment in man alone; and hence that the hy- is conducted to the central ganglion, whence ~ impulse is conveyed along the efferent nerve to pothesis which seated the intellectual qualities | moved away. Very violent action may often be in the anterior lobes, the moral qualities in the | obtained in this manner, the patient feeling nee middle lobes, and the animal propensities in the ' ther the tickling nor the movement, and remaim — posterior lobes, was in direct contradiction to | ing unconscious of both. Such movements, which | | muscles of the leg, and the foot is drawn up or | the unbroken order of Nature. In the same | are neither voluntary nor attended by sensation; article, the publication of which formed an epoch ; but are produced by the automatic response é in the history of nervous physiology, he estab- | the simplest form of nerve-mechanism to the i lished cardinal principles, which he has since | stimulus of an “ impression,” are called “reflex! — done much to elucidate and to develop in the | In some of the lower forms of animal life the successive editions of his great work on physi- | fibres and ganglia recessary for reflex movements ology, and which, in the present treatise, he has | are detached from one another, cnd distri . given to the world in the most finished form that, | irregularly about the body; but in the classof — in the present state of knowledge, they are capa- | insects named Articulata, of which the common ble of receiving. In order to render them even | centipede may be taken as a good example, the partially intelligible it is necessary to endeavor | ganglia are united into an axial chain, whieh em to sketch some outline of the essential conditions | sentially corresponds to the spinal cord of the” under which nervous functions are performed. [ higher animals and of man. The purely refles In doing so, we are constrained by the exigencies | character of many of the apparently “ purposive™ of space to limit ourselves to the most simple | or voluntary actions of the Articulata was first statement, and must refer those who desire illus- | demonstrated by Dr. Carpenter in his “Ina ‘] tration and elucidation to the pages of the book | Dissertation” at Edinburgh for the degree which lies before us. | M. D., which was published in 1839. His . The fundamental conception of a nervous | were at that time strongly opposed by Mr. New system is of a central body or ganglion, which is port, who became a convert to them four yea® :

Page 169

Baaseiatan sce ioe SRE RR ER EE SSSR SE BS + ee nc utetnastak itt Ae EER nae MENTAL PHYSIOLOGY. later, and who announced to the Royal Society his conversion in a paper on “ Scolopendra,” which was printed in the “ Philosophical Transac- tions.” Notwithstanding the proof of priority thus afforded, and notwithstanding that Prof. Qwen, before Mr. Newport's paper had been read, had announced his own acceptance of Dr. Carpenter’s doctrine, and had given Dr. Carpen- ter full credit for having originated it, some Con- tinental writers have assigned the honor of the discovery to Newport. The evidence is so clear that the point is not worth discussing, but it is mentioned in order to show for how long a period Dr. Carpenter has occupied a prominent place among the philosphers who have made a special study of the functions of the nervous system. Returning from this digression, it is to be ob- served that the Articulata possess not only a chain of centres of reflex action, usually one for each segment of the body, with afferent and ef- ferent nerves which are mainly subservient to the movements of the legs, but that they also possess organs of sense, notably large and well- developed eyes, from which afferent nerves pro- ceed to special ganglia. These differ from the ganglia of the cord in this, that the central change produced in them by an impression made upon their afferent nerves is attended by sensa- tin. The efferent nerves from the optic ganglia, or some of them at least, pass down the cord to its own simple reflex, or “ motor” ganglia, and exert either a “‘ motor” or a controlling influence upon them ; but the effects which are thus pro- duced, although attended by sensation, may be just as purely “ reflex” or automatic, as entirely dissociated from any idea of the purposes which they fulfill, as those which are produced directly bythe motor ganglia themselves. When a centi- pede is running along the ground its progression is reflex only. The successive contacts of its feet with the surface send impressions along the afferent nerves to the motor ganglion of each segment, and these impressions produce changes in the ganglia which cause motor impulses to be tent along the efferent nerves to call the muscles of the legs into action. If a visible obstacle is Placed in the insect’s path, as soon as this is seen—that is to say, as soon as the impression made upon the afferent nerves of the eyes has been communicated to the optic ganglia—the resulting change is conveyed by their efferent nerves all along the axial cord, or chain of motor ganglia, and first arrests, and then modifies, the motion of the legs The insect will first stop, as if to reconnoitre the obstacle, and will then turn 169 away, as if to avoid it. If the axial cord is com- pletely cut through in two places, the movements of progression will be unaffected, but the power of the sense of sight to arrest motion will only extend as far as the first place of division. When the obstacle is seen, the legs of the anterior third of the body will stop moving, but those of the posterior two-thirds will continue their move- ment, and will push the anterior third along. If the motor ganglia between the two places of di- vision are destroyed, the legs of the middle seg- ments will be paralyzed, and will cease moving ; but those of the anterior and posterior segments will carry the middle ones along. When an ob- stacle is seen, the legs attached to the anterior segments will stop; those attached to the pos- terior segments will continue their progression ; and the middle segment, the legs of which are paralyzed, will be doubled up between the other two. In the higher animals and in man the spinal cord is surmounted by several pairs of sensory ganglia, which collectively form what is called the sensorium, and which are subservient not only to the “five” senses of sight, smell, hearing, taste, and touch, but also, in all proba- bility, to every variety of consciousness, even to the consciousness of the intellectual operations, It is believed that the brain thinks, as the eye sees, without the production of consciousness until the thought-change has been conveyed to the sensorium. Pausing for a moment upon the two great nerve-functious which have been mentioned, re- flex motion and sensation, it is found that they produce or govern a very considerable proportion of the vital actions of man. Perhaps the best example of a purely reflex action is the sucking of a newly-born infant, which is excited by the contact of any soft substance with its lips; and the ordinary movements of the chest in breathing are of the same character. The presence of ve- nous blood in the lungs produces an impression upon afferent nerves which proceed to the respira- tory ganglionic centre, and the resulting change in that centre directs a wave of motor impulse along the efferent nerves which proceed to the muscles by which the chest is moved. But in man, and probably also in the higher animals, the change produced in the motor ganglion is not limited to the motor channel of discharge, but also passes upward to the sersorium and excites sensation, so that the original impression is felt. This is more especially true when the impression itself is of unusual intensity. For example, we are ordinarily unconscious of the impression which

Page 170

170 originates the breathing moment; but if the breathing is arrested (even voluntarily) for a few moments the impression is at once acutely felt. It follows that the stimulus conveyed to a mo- tor ganglion by its afferent nerve may either be reflected along the efferent nerve at once, and may exhaust itself in motion, or it may pass on to a sensory ganglion, and may excite sensation. The sensory, like the motor, ganglia send out efferent nerves to muscles, and are essentially motor ganglia themselves, with the difference al- ready mentioned, that the changes produced in them are attended by sensation. Many of the actions which they excite are as purely reflex, or automatic, as those excited by the motor ganglia themselves. The sudden closing of the eyelids when any substance is seen to approach the eye, the yawning which is produced by the sight of yawning in others, the start which follows an unexpected sound, are familiar examples which might be multiplied a thousand-fold. Such ac- tions, which are automatic and involuntary, but which differ from those formerly described as “ reflex” in being accomplished by the agency of a sensory ganglion, are called “ sensori-motor,” and in most of them the sensation appears to ful- fill no other purpose than that of being con- ducive, under ordinary circumstances, to the The two groups together, pleasure of the animal. the reflex and the sensori-motor actions, contrib- ate largely to form the sum of what is properly called instinct—they are impulses “prior to ex- perience and independent of instruction.” Many of them present a character of adaptiveness which is curiously deceptive as regards the intelligence or knowledge of the animals engaged in perform- ing them. These animals are alike unconscious of a purpose, and unable to act otherwise than they do, but the original or true instincts, prob- ably in every case, are directed to the mainte- nance of life, to the capture of prey, to escape from anger, or to the perpetuation of the species. The growth and nutrition of the nervous cen- tres, like that of other organs of the body, are increased by active employment; and hence a good many capacities for action, which are natu- rally dormant, are capable of being developed by. use until they become acquired or secondary in- stincts; and these, or an increased aptitude for acquiring them, become hereditary in the course of a few generations. The “pointing” of dogs, which is manifestly an instinct modified by train- ing, and which is now often perfectly well done by puppies the first time they are taken out in quest of game, is a familiar example furnished THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. by a lower animal; but the acquired insti z are seen most frequently in mankind, who ang more exposed to the necessary training. Any kind of muscular action, such as the fingering of a musical instrument, the working of a treadle, or even the act of writing from dictation or from a copy, may assume a purely sensori-motor char. acter, so that it can be performed automatically : and with perfect correctness when the thoughtg” are far away. Dr. Carpenter relates some be curious illustrations of this. In the higher mammalia, and in the grestgll degree in man, the sensorium is crowned by yet another pair or assemblage of ganglia, constitut. ing the cerebrum, which has for its office the formation of ideas. An impression made upog the sensorium, whether by the passing upward of a message from a motor ganglion or direetly through an organ of sense, may either discharge itself in sensori-motor action or it may pass om to the cerebrum and lead to the formation of an idea about the impression. The idea is not itself an object of consciousness ; but it becomes so as soon as it is carried back to the sensorium by” the efferent nerves of the cerebrum. It is then recognized; and at this stage of its history if may go out in purely automatic action, which is called ideo-motor. Thus the idea of a disgusting object may occasion the muscular effort of sick ness, just as perfectly as the sight or smell of the — object itself. An idea which excites anger may lead to a sudden blow; or one which excites fear may lead to sudden efforts to secure safety. Am officer was once breakfasting alone, in an Indian jungle, in a tent supported by a tall central pole of smooth and slippery bamboo, A tiger walked into the tent. The officer climbed to the top of the pole, and remained there until bis uninvited visitor had departed, The stimulus to this ee traordinary feat was not the sensation, not the” sight of the tiger, but the idea of the danger are ing from its proximity; and all panlo- tna flight is in like manner ideo-motor. 4 There is great reason to believe that the nerve 4 changes already mentioned, coupled with emo tions—which may be defined as ideas with which — feelings of pleasure or pain are associated—and with memory, or the faculty of remembering past — ideas as matters of personal experience, are sub ficient to explain all the particulars of the coh duct of the lower animals. It is probable that the actions of a dog, when they are neither refles 4 nor sensori-motor, neither original nor acquired instincts, are always ideo-motor, and always the inevitable results of the balance of his past | a

Page 171

ease a Estar . 4 STS Ee ASS BPES SPA ee ST ekesscaseF ess eget Lidae et a we eS pa 2 ee eee ee MENTAL PHYSIOLOGY. 171 perience, 80 that they could be foretold with | fatiguing and intermittent. Dugald Stewart point- certainty if this experience were fully known. But in man, over and above all which the lower animals possess, there is also a true volition, rudimentary enough in many instances, but capa- | ble of great development in two different direc- tions—first, as an inhibitory power, to restrain | either reflex or sensorial or ideo-motor impulses ed out, moreover, that what we are conscious of in such circumstances is not our attention to the | subject-matter, but only our lapses of attention, and our efforts to bring back the thoughts to points from which they perpetually wander. When the pursuit is inherently attractive, the at- tention paid to it becomes automatic, the thoughts ! . from going out in action—to hold the machine have no tendency to wander, and no conscious- of the body still in spite of them; secondly, as a ness of effort or of fatigue is experienced. Be- selecting power, to retain certain ideas before | tween these two states there is an intermediate the consciousness to the exclusion of others, to one, in which the direction of the thoughts, at first purely volitional, intermittent, and fatiguing, is rendered daily more and more easy by con- stantly-recurring habit, and becomes at last a | second nature to the individual. “dwell” upon them by deliberate choice, and thus to derange the balance of mere experience, and to give to the selected ideas an increased weight in determining the conduct. When the merely restraining action of the will is removed, and the idea is suffered to work itself out in action, such action is said to be “voluntary ;” but when the will is employed to maintain and continue a selected course, the action is then said _ to be “ volitional.” We have already seen that sensorial impulses, when constantly directed into some definite chan- nel, lead to acquired instincts ; and these in time become, if not irresistible, yet nearly as powerful | as the instincts which were original. A practised musician was once a learner who had to acquire finger-movements singly, slowly, and laboriously. He arrives in time at a condition in which he is unconscious of what his hands are doing, and in which he simply permits the visual sensations derived from the printed notes, or the ideas lin- gering in his memory, to run away with his mus- cles as. they will. The change is believed to de- pend on a distinctly structural change in the herve-centres, which have “ grown to” a certain On the basis of the principles which are thus sketched in the barest outline, and by the aid of a variety of illustrations derived from the daily conduct of mankind—illustrations which, when taken singly, are often trivial, but which in most cases so fit into the mosaic of the argument as to complete a pattern of great symmetry and beau- ty—Dr. Carpenter has built up a natural history of the mental faculties which will fully repay the most careful study that can be bestowed upon it, His account of “ Memory,” of “ Common-Sense,”’ of “ Unconscious Cerebration,” and of “ Reverie and Somnambulism,” will be absolute revelations to the great majority of readers ; and, when once certain preliminary details have been mastered, the facts and arguments upon which he relies are stated and explained with a freedom from techni- calities, and with a pellucid clearness of thought and diction, which leave nothing on either score to be desired. Of equal temporary, although of less abiding interest, are the chapters in which method of activity; and hence, probably, it is , he analyzes the marvels described under the Wrought most easily in early life, when the struct- | names of “ biology” and “ spiritualism,” chap- ures of the body have a greater capacity for de- velopment than that which they afterward retain. What applies in this way to the sensorial centres applies likewise to the cerebrum ; and the power to select from among the ideas which offer them- selves to the consciousness, as well as the facility | of dwelling upon particular classes of ideas, in- creases rapidly under the influence of well-di- rected effort. Dugald Stewart, though he was hot guided by the light of modern physiology, was well aware of the difference between voli- tional and automatic attention. The condition of learning anything, and especially of learning anything which is not of itself attractive to the learner, is one of volitional attention ; and this, like most other forms of volitional effort, is both | ters which withdraw these marvels wholly from the domain of the supernatural, and arrange them, as far as they may be assumed to be real, under their proper places in a system which takes note of the aberrations and perturbations as well as of the health and normal acts of the nervous ap- paratus of mankind. We must observe, however, that it will for most persons be wasted labor to turn to these portions of the volume until those which precede and lead up to them have been perused with due attention, since the former con- tain the keys by which alone the latter can be unlocked. Until the mechanism of the ordinary varieties of mental action is fully understood, it will be generally useless to attempt the compre- hension of varieties which are more intricate.

Page 172

172 The practical question which underlies Dr. Carpenter’s work, and to which this work to some extent furnishes a reply, may, perhaps, be most clearly put by asking how far our knowledge of the organs which are subservient to the mental operations, and of the conditions under which these organs act, will enable us to modify the nature of the operations themselves; how far they will assist us in guiding the moral and intel- lectual faculties of man, and in making each suc- cessive generation wiser and better than those which have preceded it. Until now it must be confessed that education, whether intellectual or moral, has been an empirical art, chiefly prac- tised by persons who have despised and avoided the knowledge of the simplest rudiments of phys- iology. The late Dr. Arnold stood almost alone, for a long period, in his endeavors systematically to influence moral character by scholastic dis- cipline ; and even he, although he displayed a clear perception of some of the means to be used, and of the ends which might be compassed by using them, could have had little or no knowl- edge, certainly no precise knowledge, of the mo- dus operandi of his method. Dr. Carpenter tells us, on the other hand, that the scientific educator should possess a very great degree of control over both the moral feelings and the purely in- tellectual acts of his pupils ; and that education, using the word in the sense given to it by Paley, to express every preparation which is made in our youth for the sequel of our lives, should not only exert a potent sway over the thoughts and acts of those who have been trained by proper means, but that also, besides producing a decent conformity to accepted socia! standards, it should produce, in every successive generation, a dis- tinct elevation of the race. In each individual it may be admitted that the capacity for improve- ment is confined within comparatively narrow limits, imposed by the physical condition of the brain-substance; but it may fairly be doubted whether these limits are reached as a general rule; and the readiness of the brain to “grow to” habitual methods of activity, and to transmit its thus acquired capacities to posterity, would sufficiently provide for a progressive increase in the powers of each generation to acquire and to apply knowledge. Regarded by the light of physiology, we ought to begin to see our way toward a great educa- tional reform. It ought to be within the power of the educator, if the principles now enunciated by physiologists are well founded, to determine, in the first place,.the nature of the responses | THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. made by the nervous system to external im sions, and, in the next place, the nature ofthe ideas which should be kept most prominent. i ly before the consciousness, and which, 4 fore, should become the “ motives” by the general course of conduct will be gor erned. 4K With regard to the first of these points, it ita necessary to revert to the account already given of the difference between sensori-motor and ideo. motor action, and to show that, as it is the natm — ral tendency of an undeveloped nervous system to perform the humbler rather than the higher function, to allow impressions made upon tie” sensorium to expend themselves in sensori-motor action rather than to pass on through the sem sorium and to excite ideas, it should be the com stant endeavor of the educator to overcome this tendency, and so to direct and reiterate the im pressions made by teaching that ideas should ia” time become their habitual results, There are probably few teachers who have not heard some thing abont the possibility of “ learning by rote” (which is one form of merely sensorial activityia which certain sounds have become associated with the sight of ceriain written or printed sym bols, and are uttered when these symbols am seen or remembered), but there probably is net one in a thousand who understands what “lear — ing by rote” is—how it is accomplished by the — nervous centres, how it differs from learning with — the intelligence, and how it may be detected and — exposed under whatever guise it may be com cealed. The great majority of teachers think that they have banished learning by rete when their pupils are able to “ explain ” their first am swer to a question by a second one; the second, in most cases, being as purely sensorial a symbol — as the first, and the original sight-symbol, with — its two vocal equivalents, being really, as farias E “ideation” is concerned, an unknown quantity — for which either of two other unknown quantities — may be substituted. One of the most familia? illustrations of sensorial action is that which ad recorded by the late Mr. Brookfield, in which children, aged about eleven years, who did arithmetic and reading tolerably well, who something pretty legible, intelligible, and sens — ble, about an omnibus and about a steamboat, were called upon to write down the answers of the Church Catechism to two questions. Ee children had been accustomed to repeat the Cate chism during half an hour of each day, in dae school and Sunday-school, for four or five yest and this is what they wrote: ot A 3

Page 173

Se eR ed AF 2 hae od gk See 2, ety Us ts So weer ereescsecvees PRT MENTAL PHYSIOLOGY. “My duty toads God is to bleed in him to fering and to loaf withold your arts withold my mine withold my sold and with my sernth to whirchp and to give thinks to put my old trast in him to call upon him to onner his old name and his world and to save him truly all the days of my life’s end.” “My dooty tords my Nabers to love him as thyself and to do to all men as I wed thou shall do and to me to love onner and suke my farther and mother to onner and to bay the queen and all that are pet in a forty under her to smit myself to all my goones teaches sportial pastures and mars- ters to oughten mysilf lordly and every to all my betters to hut no body by would nor deed to be trew in jest in all my deelins to beer no malis nor ated iu your arts to kep my ands from pecking and steel my turn from evil speak and lawing and slanders ‘not to civet or desar othermans good but to lern labour trewly to get my own leaving and to do my dooty in that state if life and to each it his please God to cail men.” It will be observed that these written answers, if recited with sufficient rapidity in the custom- ary school-room patter, really bear a horrible likeness to the sounds of the genuine ones; and there can be little doubt that the writers and their classmates had so recited them for years, to the entire satisfaction of all who were “pet in a forty” over them. Even in Mr. Brookfield’s re- port, from which the examples are taken, there is no evidence of any perception that they repre- sent a nervous action which, as a result of teach- ing, is wholly wrong in kind, and not only in degree, and which, so far as it is permitted to continue, is not merely an expression of waste of time, but of the growth of habits directly antagonistic to, and incompatible with, those which it should be the chief object of instruction to encourage. Until this is recognized and acted upon, and until teachers have some knowledge of the profound difference between the two kinds of action as modes of mental operation, it is hopeless to expect from schools an amount of cultivation of the intelligence at ail commensurate with the magnitude and costliness of the ma- chinery which is employed. Nay, more, as the brain “grows to” its habitual methods of activity, the habits which are to lay the foundation of any teal intellectual growth must be established early in life. It is vain to expect the best results as long as it is practically held that the junior classes may be handed over to pupil-teachers or other imperfectly-skilled persons, It should be the special work of the master to guide the minds of the youngest children through the recognition of 178 sensations to the formation of ideas; and, if this foundation were well laid, the subsequent care of the same pupils might be safely lett to inferior hands. In schools for the poor this division of labor is especially important; because, as a rule, the children who attend these schools are almost entirely dependent upon them for such culture as they receive. In their homes there is no floating information, there are no stimui to arouse the dormant intelligence. Supposing that the stimulus of an external impression has been restrained from being re- flected as motor-force through the sensorium, that it has been carried upward to the cerebrum, and has there given rise to the formation of an “idea,” this idea may either go out at once in instinctive or purely automatic action, or it may be detained by the volition and considered in various aspects before action is determined upon, The former course of events is that which is natural, the latter is a result of education. For example, a child sees some delicacy within its reach. The visual sensation excites ideas of the pleasures which would be afforded by possessing and consuming the delicacy. The untaught child at once endeavors to seize the tempting object. The educated child, on the contrary, detains its idea, thinks before acting, remembers that it has been forbidden to take what is not offered, and refrains. There are many ideas which have no very powerful tendency to produce action, and which it is easy to restrain. There are others which are in their nature acutely pleasurable, or acutely painful; and these, together with the pleasure or pain which is associated with them, are called emotions, and their tendency to pro- duce instinctive action can only be restrained with difficulty. When the teacher has guided his pupils to the formation of ideas, he should next guide them to a knowledge of the way in which ideas should be employed, and to the rudi- ments of the art of restraining them. Apart from certain emergencies in which in- stinctive and appropriate action upon an idea (which is then very incorrectly called “ presence of mind”) is immediately necessary for the avoidance of some injury or danger, it may be broadly said that almost the only desirable form of ideo-motor action, the only form of it which should be cultivated by educators, is the conver- sion of thought into language. A person who has decided upon giving utterance to his thoughts on any given subject should be able to surrender the choice of words and the formation of sentences entirely to automatic action; and, thinking about / ,

Page 174

174 his thoughts, should never be recalled from them | either. to think about his words. In this respect, much of the higher education of the world is conduct- THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. % But it should be one great aim of ed; 3 tion to withdraw conduct from the control gf emotion, and to place it securely under the coq ed on an essentially faulty principle, by which | trol of will; the word conduct, in this the words and phrases of a language are made subjects of reflection. The operation in these | cases may be good for the meutal faculties, but | it is very bad for the language, and it is still worse for the language-using faculty. The shrewd sense of Cobbett enabled him to antici- pate the results of physiologists, when he said that children should learn languages as birds learn to chirp and sing—that is, by imitation. The genius of Mr. Prendergast led him to the same conclusion; and the principles Jaid down in his “Mastery System of learning Languages” are in absolute accordance with all that is known about the proper relations of the nervous cen- tres to tne act of speech. As the power to arrest a sensation from going out in action, the power to detain it and dwell upon it, so as to become acquainted not only with its general character but also with the small peculiarities by which it may be differenti- ated from others of like kind—as this power lies at the root of the faculty of observation, so the power to prevent an idea from going out in ac- tion, the power to detain it and examine it in all its bearings, lies at the root of the faculty of re- flection, and affords materials for the operations of the judgment and of the will. The former steps in to decide upon the conduct that shall be pursued, the latter carries the decision into effect. Want of space forbids us to point out how little is intelligently done, in ordinary schools, to cultivate the power of ebserving— although without this power there cannot only be no accuracy, but even no love of truth; and we can only glance in the slightest way at the bearing of educational methods upon judgment and will. It is comparatively easy to restrain ideas which excite no feeling, but the great work of the educator should be to give a similar con- trol over those which have beea mentioned as the emotions. Using the words in their widest sense, conduct must in every case be determined either by emotion or by will. The human agent, when an idea which is associated with pleasure or pain is presented to his conscious- ness, either acts on the emotional impulse, to secure the pleasure or to avoid the pai, or he considers and decides. Between the typical cases on both sides there will be many in which emotion and volition have a struggle for mas- tery, a struggle that may terminate in favcr of | | being used to include the direction of the thoughts as well as of the acts. The predomb nance of an emotion, whether it be good @ bad when abstractedly considered, means the predominance of the emotional state over the will ; and the volition which is habitually subja gated by a so-called laudable emotion will be subjugated with equal ease by any other whe the first is exhausted or superseded. This igg matter of familiar experience in those em forms of religion which are continually being displaced by the ascendency of other kinds of passion. Emotion invests certain ideas with ap inherent attractiveness which renders it easy to dwell upon them, but which does not on that account render them any the more trustworthy as motives of conduct. . The power to retain ideas before the com sciousness, and to examine them in all their bean — ings, has an equal applicability to the moral and to the intellectual side of man’s nature. Whe exerted with reference to the former, it leads to the growth of a standard of duty in accordanee with knowledge, and to the shaping of the lifeim harmony with this standard. When exerted with reference to the latter, it leads to the possession” of mastery over the attention, to the ability, that is, to fix the thoughts upon some predetermined — object of pursuit. Ilow these great ends, which are necessary conditions to the attainment of ex cellence, may be worked for, and compassed, we must leave our readers to learn from Dr. Carpem ter himself, saying only that he tells the story im the language of a master of English, with a sim plicity and directness before which difficulties and obscurities vanish Jike ghosts in sunbeams, and with a copiousness and aptness of illustration which are rendered the more valuable by derived from the most ordinary acts and ci 3 stances, so that the experience of daily life made to furnish a key to some of the most recat, dite problems of physiology. It would be diff cult to exaggerate the benefit which a full cot re prehension of the principles thus dealt with " be calculated to confer upon the coming g tions of the human race. uf Lastly, in a concluding chapter of eloqueng® and dignity worthy of its subject, Dr. Carpent@t grapples boldly with the attitude of Science tom ard Religion, and with the doubts and diffi of those who are unable to reconcile a

Page 175

cay aes rie ken akE 5 os sy eS 28 Fe PREFER ras ps eo ak edie, es THE ALKALINE AND BORACIC LAKES OF CALIFORNIA. law with a personal government of the universe. In this chapter, as well as in some others, he will probably fail to satisfy the holders of extreme views on either side, but—though success in the attempt can almost necessarily only be partial— in his book, as in his “ Presidential Address” at the Brighton meeting of the British Association, he has done much to reconcile aspects of truth which cannot be in real opposition to each other. We have not hitherto been able to afford him ‘space to speak for himself, but we must cite, as the conclusion of this article, the paragraph which terminates his volume. We can only prefix to it the expression of a hope that this volume may not only be read, but studied, and that it may be studied with especial care by all who are responsible for the education of the young. The paragraph itself is as follows: “Thus, then, if theologians will once bring themselves to look upon Nature, or the material universe, as the embodiment of the Divine thought, and at the scientific study of Nature as the endeav- or to discover and apprehend that thought (to have ‘thought the thoughts of God’ was the privilege most highly esteemed by Kepler), they will see that it is their duty, instead of holding themselves altogether aloof from the pursuit of Science, or stopping short in the search for scientific truth wherever it points toward a result that seems in discordance with their preformed conceptions, to apply themselves honestly to the study of it, as a revelation of the Mind and Will of the Deity, which is certainly not less authoritative than that which he has made to us through the recorded 175 thoughts of religiously-inspired men, and which is fitted, in many cases, to afford its true interpreta- tion. And they cannot more powerfully attract the scientific student to religion than by taking up his highest and grandest thought and placing it in that religious light which imparts to it a yet great- er glory. They will then perceive that although, if God be outside the physical universe, those ex- tended ideas of its vastness which modern science opens to us remove him farther and farther from us, yet, if he be embodied in it, every such exten- sion enlarges our notion of his being. As Mr, Martineau has nobly said: ‘ What, indeed, have we found by moving out along all radii into the In- finite? That the whole is woven together in one sublime tissue of intellectual relations, geometric and physical—the realized original, of which all our science is but the partial copy. That Science is the crowning product and supreme expression of human reason. . . . Unless, therefore, it takes more mental faculty to construe a universe than to cause it, to read the Book of Nature than to write it, we must more than ever look upon its sublime face as the living appeal of Thought to Thought.’ But the theologian cannot rise to the height of this conception unless he is ready to abandon the wor- ship of every idol that is ‘graven by art and man’s device ’—to accept as a fellow-worker with himself every truth-seeker who uses the understanding given him by ‘ the inspiration of the Almighty’ in tracing out the divine order of the universe, and to admit into Christian communion every one who desires to be accounted a disciple of Christ, and humbly endeavors to follow in the steps of his Di- vine Master.” —London Times. THE ALKALINE AND BORACIC LAKES OF CALIFORNIA. By J. ARTHUR PHILLIPS, F.G.S. [SMES TELY east of the range of the Sierra Nevada is an extensive region of alkaline lakes and hot springs, of which very large areas are almost totally barren, the only vegetation consisting of wild-sage, yucca, a few cacti, and scanty tufts of bunch-grass. This district affords, in its many extensive craters and in its lavas, basalts, and obsidians, the most conclusive evidence of its volcanic ori- gin, while its solfataras and boiling springs may be regarded as the last representatives of active Vulcanicity. The region is one of great scientific interest, and, as it may eventually become indus- trially important, it has been thought that a | brief description of the district, as well as of that of the borax-lakes, lying on the western side of the Sierra, might not be without general interest. The most remarkable of the alkaline lakes of this portion of California are Mono and Owen’s Lakes. The former lies in a depression occupy- ing a portion of an elevated plateau of desert land, situated at the eastern base of the Sierra Nevada between the head-waters of Owen’s and Walker's Rivers, The distance from the summit of the range to the lake-shore is about six miles, and the difference of elevation is about 6,000 feet. On all sides, excepting toward the Sierra, this

Page 176

¢ 176 lake is surrounded by a wide belt of desert, the total area of which is from 400 to 500 square miles. Mono Lake is about fourteen miles long, from east to west, and nine wide, from north to south ; but it was formerly much larger than it is at present; this is indicated by numerous terraces, by means of which the lines of its ancient shores may be readily traced. The water of this lake, which has a high epe- cific gravity, and is alkaline and extensively sa- line, is not easily thrown into waves, but is gen- erally smooth and glassy. Near its north shore there are springs which have produced extensive deposits of tufa, some of which rise several feet above the surface in forms resembling gigantic fungi. There are numerous islands in this lake, two of which are of considerable size, the largest being two and a half miles long, from north to south, and the other about half a mile in length, from east to west. These, as well as a group of smaller islets lying to the north, are entirely composed of volcanic materials. On the northeastern corner of the larger island are extensive hot springs and steam-jets, covering an area of some thirty acres, and ex- tending into the lake. The escape of steam and hot gases from so many hundreds of vents is at. tended with much noise, and the sides of the orifices of many of the fumaroles are incrusted with a reddish-brown substance, which is prob- ably chloride of iron. In the neighborhood of these springs there is a slight smell of sulphurous acid, but no free sulphur is deposited. Some of them furnish a copious supply of boiling water, large quantities of which enter the lake, and so perceptibly raise its temperature for a consider. able distance around. Much gas and steam es- cape from a fissure caused by the sinking of a portion of the crust, while on the eastern part of the island are two well-defined craters, now filled with water. Mono Lake is, during the summer, the resort of myriads of gulls and other aquatic birds, which are most numerous during the breeding-season, but the water is believed to be entirely destitute of life, with the exception of a small crustacean, Artemia fertilis, nearly related to the so-called brine-shrimp (Artemia salina) found in the strong brine of the salt-pans on European coasts, and the Koo-cha-bee of the Indians, a whitish larva, occurring in immense quantities, and which is much esteemed by them as an article of food. THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. | least 1,000 feet per mile, the distance being . Stretching south of the lake is a chain of ep tinct volcanoes, presenting the form of truncat 4 cones, of which the generally steep sides, ap covered with ashes and other loose materia Obsidian and pumice are abundant on the um, face of these cones, and also cover the plains at, their base. ie Owen’s Valley is a narrow basin lying south of Mono Lake, and running nearly north ang south for a distance of about 140 miles, ]y average width may be taken at ten miles, Itis bounded along its western edge by the Sierm Nevada, which in this portion of its course pre sents an almost unbroken wall, of which the highest peak, opposite Owen's Lake, reaches ay elevation of 15,000 feet. No pass crosses it at a less height than 11,000 feet, and near the lake shore the descent from the summit to the valley: beneath must have an average inclination of af ten to eleven miles, and the difference of between the highest point of the pass and dhe valley being from 10,500 to 11,000 feet. On the eastern side of this valley are the Inyo" Mountains, toward its southern end, and thé White Mountains farther north. This range® dry and desert-like, and not a single stream of any size flows from it into Owen’s Valley, whidl is exclusively watered by the melting of snows accumulated during the winter months@ e the eastern slope of the Sierra. Owen’s pi rises a short distance from the source of the Sem Joaquin, and, after flowing for a distance of 12) miles, falls into Owen’s Lake in latitude 36% 20’ north, longitude 118° west from Greenwidt) This lake, of which the water is exceedingly ae line aud strongly alkaline, is twenty miles long and eight wide. It has no visible outlet, and its” shores are often thickly coated with a snow-like alkaline incrustation, No fish inhabits its waters, but Koo abundant, and at certain seasons is carriedi the waves and deposited on the shores ip 3 of several inches in thickness. This was fowy merly collected in large quantities by the da dians, and, after being dried in the sun, rub between the hands and roughly winnowed, crushed in a stone mortar, and made into a of bread, which furnished an important artit of food, This insect, which has been describes as a white grub, is also found abundantly im waters of Great Salt Lake, Utah, and of other saline and alkaline lakes of the Wet and appears to be the larva of a two-winged which is described by the late Prof. Torrey undt the AS Lak of | mat:

Page 177

THE ALKALINE AND BORACIC LAKES OF CALIFORNIA. the name of Ephydra Californica, and by Dr. A. 8. Packard as Ephydra gracilis.! A specimen of water taken from Owen’s Lake, in January, 1866, had a specific gravity of 1.076, and contained 7128.24 grains of solid matter per gallon, The composition of this resi- due was found, calculated on an imperial gallon, to be as follows: 2942.05 956.30 2914.43 122.94 35.74 139.34 16.94 7128.24 Chloride of sodium Sulphate of sodium Carbonate of sodium Sulphate of potassium Phosphate of potassium Silicate of potassium Organic matter In addition to the substances above enumer- ated, iodine was present, but only in such mi- nute proportion that its amount could not be estimated. It is also to be observed that since, for convenience of carriage, the sample of this water operated on was reduced by evaporation to one-fourth of its original bulk before being brought to this country for analysis, it is prob- able that some alkaline sesquicarbonates may have been originally present. The incrustations which at certain periods of the year accumulate to the extent of many hun- dreds of tons on the shores of this lake mainly consist of carbonates of sodium, in which the proportion of sesquicarbonate is somewhat vari- able; in some specimens examined monocarbon- ates were alone present. Besides carbonates of sodium, these deposits contain three per cent. of chloride of sodium, and about five per cent. of sulphate of sodium, together with traces of silica. It was proposed some years since to erect works on the eastern shore of Owen’s Lake, for the purpose of refining this deposit, for the manufacture of merchantable carbonate of so- dium; but whether this idea was ever carried out, 1am not aware. The only serious obstacles to the success of such an enterprise would ap- pear to arise from scarcity of fuel, and the great distance'of the lake from a shipping-port. As this lake continuously receives the waters of a considerable and constantly-flowing river, while it has no apparent outlet, it follows that it must act the part of a huge evaporating basin, which the salts introduced by the not appar- ently saline water of Owen’s River become con- tentrated to an alkaline brine. The rocks on either side of the valley through which the river m See Hayden, “Geological Survey of Montana, Idabo, Yoming, and Utah,” 1872, p. 744. 12 177 flows are, to a very large extent, composed of granites, lavas, and basalts, from the decom- position of the feldspars in which the alkaline salts of the lake have doubtless been derived, The very small proportion of potassium salts present in these waters is remarkable, for al- though, from the circumstance of the feldspars of the district being to a large extent triclinic, sodium might be expected largely to predomi- nate, still so great a disproportion in the re- spective amounts of the two alkalies could scarce- ly have been anticipated. This circumstance may perhaps, to some extent, be accounted for by supposing the potassium salts to have been largely assimilated by plants during the per- colation of the waters containing them through vegetable soil, while the salts of sodium, not having been thus arrested, have passed into the river, and thence into the lake. Owen’s, like Mono Lake, was at one time much more extensive than it is at present; this is evident from the occurrence of a series of parallel terraces, plainly traceable on each side of the valley. In addition to these lakes, nu- merous alkaline lagunes and boiling springs are met with throughout this region. The Artemia fertilis, before referred to as be- ing plentiful in Mono Lake, is also exceedingly abundant in Owen’s Lake. A petuliarity of this crustacean is, that it congregates into masses which have often a strange appearance in the water. These masses sometimes stretch out in such a way as to have the form of a serpent, while at others they represent circles or various irregular figures. A gentle breeze scarcely affects water filled by Artemia, so that while on all sides the water is slightly ruffled, that which is occupied by these dense aggregations remains perfectly smooth, thus indicating the figure of the mass. On placing some of these crustaceans in a bottle filled with lake-water, for the purpose of preserving them for subsequent microscopical examination, it was found that those which died rapidly disappeared, and on closely examining what had taken place, it soon became evident that as soon as vitality had ceased chemical ac- tion was set up, and the animal gradually dis- solved in the strongly alkaline brine. Burton Springs are situated at the extreme northern point of Owen’s Valley. These springs rise from the earth over an area of about eighty square feet, which forms a basin or pond that pours its heated waters into a narrow creek. In this basin a vegetable growth is developed at a temperature of about 160° Fahr., and is con-

Page 178

178 tinued into the creek to a distance of about a hundred yards from the springs; where, at a temperature of about 120° Fahr., the alge grow to a length of over two feet, looking like bunches of waving hair of a beautiful green color. Be- low the temperature of 100° Fahr., these plants cease to grow, and give way to a slimy fungus, which is also green in. color, but finally disap- pears as the temperature of the water decreases. Dr. J. H. Wood, Jr., who has carefully examined this growth, makes the following observations with regard to it: “‘ This plant certainly belongs to the Nostochacee, and seems a sort of connect- ing link between the genera Hormosiphon of Kiitzing and Nostoc. “The best algologists now refuse to recog- nize the former group as generically distinct, and the characters presented by this plant seem to corroborate this view. “The species appears to be an undescribed one, and I would propose for it the specific name Caladarium, which is suggested by its place of growth.” ! Twenty miles south from Owen’s Lake across a sage-brush and grease-wood waste, the surface of which is plentifully strewed with fragments of lava, pumice, and basalt, is Little Lake. This sheet of water, which is of comparatively small extent, is surrounded by huge masses of con- torted vesicular lava, and evidently occupies the cavity of an ancient volcanic vent. The waters of this Jake are considerably less alkaline than those of Owen's Lake, but bubbles of carbonic acid make their way to its surface in almost un- interrupted streams. Fifteen miles east from this point are numer- ous hot springs; the path for the greater portion of this distance lies over lava-flows, which render traveling slow and fatiguing. At the principal group of springs the ground is covered, over a large extent, by innumerable cones of plastic mud, varying in height from a few inches to sev- eral feet ; these rise above the surface of a seeth- ing swamp, and give issue to steam and jets of boiling water. In some cases the steam and gases, instead of issuing from cones as above de- scribed, are evolved under the surface of water and mud contained in basin-shaped reservoirs formed in the decomposed rock. By these means are produced multitudes of boiling caldrons in which violent ebullition keeps clay in a constant state of suspension ; this clay varies in color from bluish gray to bright red. The waters of these springs are much employed by the Indians as an 1 Silliman’s Journal, vol. xlvi., 1868, p. 33. THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. a embrocation for the cure of diseases of the eygy_ on examination they were found to contain f : eight grains of solid matter to the gallon, of which amount twenty-six grains are sulphateof aluminium ; in addition they contain lime, soda, potash, and a little free sulphuric acid. Borates of sodium and calcium occur inv rious localities in North America. The two be rax-lakes are both situated near the shoresof Clear Lake in Lake County, California, seventy miles northwest of the port of Suscol, and one hundred and ten from the city of San Franciscd, The larger of these lakes is separated from Clear Lake by a low ridge of volcanic material loosely packed together, and consisting of scoria, obsidian, and pumice; it has an average area of about three hundred acres. Its extent, however, varies considerably at different periods of the year, as its waters cover a larger area in spring than during the autumnal months. No stream flows into its basin, which derives its supply of water partly from drainage from the surrounding hills, and partly from subterranean springs dit charging themselves into the bottom of the lake, ’ In ordinary seasons its depth thus varies from five feet in the month of April to two feet at the end of October. The borax occurs in the form of crystals of various dimensions, imbedded in the mud of the bottom, which is found to be most produe tive to a depth of about three and a half feet, ab though a bore-hole which was sunk near its cen tre to the depth of sixty feet afforded a certain amount of the salt throughout its whole extent. The crystals thus occurring are most abundant near the centre of the lake, and extend overan ares equivalent to one-third of its surface ; they are, however, also met with in smaller quantities the muddy deposit of other portions of the basil, The largest crystals, some of which are consider ably above a pound in weight, are generally i closed in a stiff blue clay, at a depth of betwee three and four feet; and a short distance above them is a nearly pure stratum, from two to three inches in thickness, of smaller ones ; in addition to which crystals of various sizes are disseminated through the blue clayey deposit of which the bob tom consists. y Besides the borax thus existing in a crystik lized form, the mud itself is highly charged with that salt, and, according to an analysis by Dt Oxland,- affords, when dried, in those portions of the lake which have been worked (includiag the inclosed crystals), 17.73 per cent. a analysis of an average sample, by Mr. G Nf - PFSETVeor Sees aes

Page 179

THE ALKALINE AND BORACIC LAKES OF CALIFORNIA. 179 ee a SERPRSREA Faass . 2 Ba FS r of ing dis- he. rom the sof of duc- ak cen tain nt. dant area are, iD asin. ider- y in yeen pove hree ition ated bot: wy with y De tions ding + 7 Moore, of San Francisco, yielded 18.86 per cent. of crystallized borax. In addition to this the de- posit at the bottom of the other portions of the basin, although less productive, still contains a large amount of borax. Water collected from Borax Lake, in Septem- ber, 1863, was found by Mr. Moore to contain 2401.56 grains of solid matter to the gallon, of which about one-half was common salt, one-quar- ter carbonate of sodium, and the remainder chiefly anhydrous borax, equal to 535.08 grains of crystallized salt to the gallon. Traces of jodine and bromine were also detected. A sam- ple of water taken from the interior of a coffer- dam sunk in the middle of the lake; and which had been allowed to fill by percolation from the bottom upward, was found to be more concen- trated, yielding 3573.46 grains of solid matter to the gallon, but it contained the same ingredients, and in nearly the same proportions as the water from the lake itself. When evaporated to dry- ness, this water yields a considerable quantity of finely-divided carbon, resultifg from the various organic bodies which have been dissolved in it, Mud from the bottom of Borax Lake is in high repute among the local Indians as an insecti- cide, and is used in the following way: The head of the patient is thickly plastered with mud, which is well rubbed in, and then allowed to be- come perfectly dry; when dry, it is removed by rubbing between the hands, and with it disap- pears the colony of parasites. Ordinary clay is, under pressure of circumstances, sometimes em- ployed for this process of shampooing, but when alkaline or boracic mud is available, it is consid- ered more efficacious. When this locality was visited by me in 1866, borax was manufactured exclusively from the native crystals of crude salt, while the mud in which they were found was returned to the lake after a mechanical separation of the crystals by washing. The extraction of boracic mud was affected by the aid of sheet-iron coffer-dams. The only apparatus employed consisted of a raft, cov- ered by a shingled roof, provided with an aper- ture in its centre about fifteen feet square, above Which were hung, by suitable tackle, four coffer- dams, each six feet square in horizontal section, and nine feet in depth. This raft, or barge, was successively moored in parallel lines across the surface of the lake, and at each station the four dams were sunk simultaneously by their own weight into the mud forming the bottom. When they had thus become well imbedded, the water was baled out, and the mud and crys- tals removed, by means of buckets, into rectan- gular washing-vats, into which a continuous stream of water was introduced from the lake by Chinese pumps, the contents being at the same time constantly agitated by the aid of wooden rakes. In this way the muddy water continually flowed off, finally leaving a certain amount of crude borax at the bottom of each tank ; this was purified by recrystallization. From the density acquired by the 70,000 gallons of water daily employed for this purpose, it is evident that only about one-half of the borax ex- isting in the form of crystals was thus obtained, while the mud was again returned to the lake. Instead of the coffer-dams, a small hand- dredging machine, worked, like the former, by Chinese labor, was subsequently introduced ; but the mud brought up by it was subjected to the wasteful process of washing before described. The crystals of crude borax thus daily ob- tained amounted to about 3,000 pounds; these were dissolved in boiling water, and recrystallized in large lead-lined vessels, from which the puri- ~ fied salt was removed to be packed into boxes, each containing 114 pounds, in which it was for- warded to San Francisco. The loss of weight experienced in the process of purification amount- ed to about thirteen per cent. Shortly after my visit in 1866, the manufact- ure of refined borax at Big Borax Lake was suspended, and I am not aware whether it has now been resumed, but the works do not appear to have been in operation in 1874. Little Borax Lake covers an area of about thirty acres, and is usually dry during the months of September and October; it is then covered by a white crust, which is collected by Chinese laborers and carried to the works, where it is re- fined by recrystallization. U/dexite,a double borate of sodium and calcium, is brought to this place from Wadsworth, in the State of Nevada—a great distance, with several transshipments—to be treated at these works; it appears that on ac- count of the presence of carbonate of sodium, and the cheapness of fuel, this can be done more cheaply here than in Nevada. Clear Lake isa large and picturesque sheet of water, twenty-five miles long, by about seven wide, surrounded by mountains, which in many places rise abruptly from the water’s edge. Boat- life on this lake is delightful ; the water is smooth, there is usually a sufficient breeze for sailing, and should it fall calm, an Indian can always be hired to row. Lying about a mile beyond the ridge which

Page 180

180 THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. borders Borax Lake on the northeast, and at the | by him to contain 184.62 grains of common ont foot of a shorter arm of Clear Lake, which extends | 76.96 grains of bicarbonate of sodium, 36.37 off to the southward parallel with the larger one, | grains of free carbonic anhydride, 103.29 graing is an interesting locality, known as the “Sulphur | of borax, and 107.76 grains of bicarbonate of Bank.” It is some six or seven acres in extent, | ammonium, in an imperial gallon; besides silieg and consists of a much-decomposed volcanic | alumina, and traces of various other substances) rock traversed by innumerable fissures, which Prof. Whitney remarks with regard to thig has become almost covered by a large accumula- | spring: “ The most extraordinary feature in the tion of sulphur. above analysis is the very large amount of am From the fissures steam and gas are constant- | moniacal salts shown to be present in this waten ly issuing, and over and through the mass large | in this respect exceeding any natural springats quantities of sulphur have been deposited in such | ter which has ever been analyzed. Mr. Moot a way that at a short distance the whole bank | thinks that, as in the case of the boracicatid appears to consist of this substance. Into some | waters of Tuscany, ammoniacal salt may be sep of these cavities a pole may be inserted for a | arated and made available for economical pup distance of several feet, and they are often lined | poses. This locality is worthy of a most careful with stalactites and beautiful crystallizations of | examination, to ascertain how considerable a flow sulphur. | of water can be depended on.” ! a Sulphur is being constantly deposited, and its Dr. A. Blatchly, of San Francisco, in speak deposition is attended by the evolution of car-| ing of the geyser group of quicksilver-mingg bonic and boric acids. The gaseous matters | says: “Nearly all these veins contain iron if issuing from these crevices appear to be the | considerable amounts, frequently in sufficient agency by which the various substances now de- | quantities to constitute an ore of iron, Gold, posited in the cavities have been brought to the | silver, and copper, are also frequently constite surface. Sulphur is deposited on the sides of | ents of these lodes, and occasionally chromeinéa the various fissures either in the form of crystals , in considerable quantities. But, so far af@ or as amorphous, translucent masses of a beauti- | known, in no instance have the precious metals ful yellow color. It is sometimes intermixed with | been sufficiently abundant to pay for the expetiit cinnabar, the presence of which was first discov- | of extraction. A ered by Dr. Oxland; but more frequently with “ Bitumen is found in nearly all these vein§ minute cubical crystals of iron pyrites. Pul- | sometimes a deposit of a gallon or two in verulent silica, blackened by some hydrocarbon | cavity. “ial resembling coal-tar, is also frequently observed. “Thermal springs are numerous throughout On the sides of the cavities colloid silica is found | the whole quicksilver-region, and the uniformity coating chalcedony and opalescent quartz in the | of their occurrence leads prospecters to the be various stages of formation, from the gelatinous | lief that there is an intimate relation between th state to that of the hardest opal. The indurated | causes which generate thermal springs and pre duce deposits of cinnabar, and that where one found the other may probably occur in the viele material is sometimes colorless, but is more fre- quently permeated by cinnabar and iron pyrites, or blackened by the tarry matter before referred | ity.” # i to. Cinnabar is also found in lamine, and occa- On the eastern slope of the Sierra Nevada sionally even in veins and concretionary masses | near Walker's Pass, borax is found in what a> of considerable thickness. pears to be the bed of an ancient lake, lam In addition to being employed as a source of | crystals of this substance having been met with sulphur, this deposit has been worked for quick- | in a hardened mud, exactly resembling those silver, and-has produced large quantities of that | found in the blue clay of Borax Lake. By fat valuable metal. the largest amount of borax is, however, O On the shore of Clear Lake, near the sulphur- | tained from the indurated mud, where it exislé bank, is a hot spring, of which the outlets, even | in common with other salts, This mud, from when the water is low, are partially beneath the | which borax is separated by lixiviation, contais lake, so that the amount flowing from it can- | about half its weight of that salt, and is a light not be ascertained. Hot water, however, rises | clay-like body, having a strongly saline and through the sand at various points extending over 1 « Geological Survey of California,” p. 100. at a considerable area. A specimen of water col- 2 “ Mineral Resources west of the Rocky Mow lected by Mr. Moore from this spring was found | 1875, p. 176.—Raymond.

Page 181

THE ALKALINE AND BORACIC LAKES OF CALIFORNIA. kaline taste. The portion insoluble in water ef- fervesces on being attacked by hydrochloric acid, and contains silica, alumina, lime, ferrous oxide, and magnesia. Similar deposits containing borax exist in Panamit and Death’s Valley, in Lower Ne- vada; but these desolate districts have not as yet received so careful an examination as they deserve. About twenty miles west of San Bernardino is the so-called ‘Cane Spring District,” where ulexite or boronatrocalcite is found, over an area about ten miles in width by fifteen in length. The surface of the ground is covered by efflorescent salts, commonly known as “alkali,” beneath which the borax salts (chiefly ulexite) are found ata depth of only a few inches. At Hot Springs, in the northwestern portion of the State of Nevada, at a height of 4,500 feet above the level of the sea, and where the water issuing from the ground has a temperature of about 190° Fahr., there are deposits of boronatro- calcite, extending over considerable areas. Here, as far as the eye can reach, nothing is seen but barren mountains, formed of a black, porous lava; while the valleys are covered by an efflo- rescence of a mixture of common salt and sul- phate and carbonate of sodium. In other eases the sands of these mountain-valleys contain de- posits of more or less pure boronatrocalcite. Geysers and hot springs are numerous in the whole of this district, and from the number of ex- tinct geyser-vents still visible they were, probably, at one time much more numerous than at present. The analysis of an average sample of the boracic material from Nevada afforded Mr. Loew the following results : Boronatrocalcite..........cceseccecece 22.13 Chloride of sodium : Sulphate of sodium a hate of calcium “ar RR Traces of potash, iodine, and loss 1 Moniteur Scientifique, 1876, p. 1230, 181 The purification of crude borax (tincal) is ef- fected by a simple recrystallization, but the prep- aration of marketable borax from boronatrocal- cite is attended with considerable difficulty, more particularly as the appliances available in the re- mote deserts in which it occurs are of the most primitive and limited description. When boronatrocalcite is moderately pure it is first ground and subsequently dissolved in wa- ter, with the addition of an amount of carbonate of sodium sufficient to effect the decomposition of the calcic carbonate present. The solution is subsequently heated, and the carbonate of calcium allowed to subside, when the liquor is drawn off, and, after concentration, borax is obtained by crystallization. Unfortunately, this mineral often contains notable quantities of gypsum, which transforms an equivalent amount of carbonate of sodium into Glauber salt, a relatively valueless product. This salt is also frequently present in the material operated upon, and thus materially adds to the difficulty of treatment. In order to avoid these difficulties, it has been proposed to treat native boronatrocalcite with sufficient sulphuric acid to transform the whole of the carbonate of calcium into gypsum, and to liberate boric acid to be subsequently saturated by carbonate of sodium. Boronatrocalcite bas also been treated with ex- cess of hydrochloric acid, in order to obtain crys- tallized boric acid, but neither of these process- es has hitherto afforded satisfactory commercial results, The comparatively recent discovery of large quantities of this substance in Nevada will, no doubt, eventually, to some extent, affect the Tus- can producers of boric acid; but the fact that crude boronatrocalcite varies considerably in its composition, and that it is found in situations in which its local treatment would be almost impos- sible, has higeerto prevented this mineral from being extensively employed as a source of com- mercial borax.— Popular Science Review.

Page 182

182 THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. DEAF, BUT NOT DUMB. By B. ST. JOHN ACKERS. HY am I standing before you to-night ? Why am I reading this paper on the “deaf and dumb” before your honorable Socie- ty? Notas a schoolmaster wishing to bring be- fore your notice some special method of teaching that he himself invented ; not as a medical man wishing to advocate some special treatment of ear-diseases; not because, in fact, I have any claim to speak in my own person as a professional practitioner, either scholastic or medical, but solely because that has happened to me which might happen to any one here present: illness came upon my only child; its life was spared, but its hearing lost. Great, indeed, were the difficulties we expe- rienced in deciding on the best way of educating } our child; meagre, indeed, the help we could ob- tain in our own country. I am desirous that others should have the benefit of our experience, so that no one need go through the terrible un- certainty and anxiety we had to endure. Our child was three months old when a severe attack of fever took away her hearing. For a year or two we kept hoping on. I even refused to enter the child in the census as ‘“‘ deaf and dumb.” I would not “ brand” it as long as there was any doubt. Such was my foolish pride; such is the foolish pride, alas! of very many; and it is men- tioned here in order to show that this, among other causes, makes the census-returns of the “deaf and dumb” below the real number. As soon as our child’s loss of hearing was beyond question, we brought her here to London for the best medical, surgical, and educational advice. We hoped—indeed, we never doubted—that we should have received the best ad@iee about the education of our child from those of the medical profession whom we consulted. But such was not the case. Sad and disappointed, we turned to those who had devoted their lives to the edu- cation of the deaf. Here, at least, we expected to be assured: beyond doubt of the best method on which to instruct her; but again we were doomed to utter disappointment. We found dif- ferent systems at work, and the advocates of each said very hard and bitter things of one another, Here it will be well to explain the technical terms that will be used in this paper. For want of this, it is sometimes difficult to understand the mean- ing of many works on this subject, as different terms are used by various writers and speaker to express the same things, and the same termg to express different things. “Deaf and Dumb.” Those wholly uneducat ed, or who cannot hear or speak, though edy cated, or partially so. “Deaf.” ‘Those who cannot hear or speak before they have been educated, or who, having been educated, are still without hearing, but can speak, “German” System. That which is based on articulation and lip-reading. “French” System. That which is based on a system of signs. “Signs.” All, except “Natural Signs ;” which I define as such as hearing persons use and can understand—e. g, “come,” beckoning with the hand; “go,” me tioning away with the hand—which are really actions, not signs. You may wonder why we did not test for our. selves the results obtained by the various meth ods in this country. We would willingly have done so, but the “ German ” system had not been long enough at work to prove the value of its teaching to pupils in general after leaving school, and we were assured by the “ French” system teachers—the “old” system, as it is so often er roneously called by Englishmen, simply because in this country it has been the longer established —that, however good the “ German” might ap- pear in school, the speech and lip-reading there learned were of no value in after-life. We could not disprove this assertion. Nay, we were inclined to believe it, for, we said to ourselves, as so many do now, “if it be the bet ter method, surely it would have been adopted by such a practical nation as our own long ago.” Of this I must speak hereafter. It will be seen that, to persons considering this subject for the first time, as we were, it was impossible to arrive at a satisfactory conclusion —one that would leave no doubt on their minds —without going into the world to find out the truth. So, without loss of time, in August, 1872, our child being three years old, we left her with my wife’s family, and commenced investigation for ourselves. We visited some of the principal schools in each of the following countries, in the order named: England, United States, Canada, —

Page 183

DEAF, BUT NOT DUMB. Great Britain, Holland, Belgium, Germany, Sax- ony, Bohemia, Austria, Bavaria, Switzerland, Sa- voy, and France. The subject before you naturally divides it self into three heads—Medical, Historical, and Educational. Time will not allow me to-night to enter upon the medical and historical aspects of the case, in- , teresting as they are, even more so, probably, to the general public, than the educational view of the subject. This paper, however, must be con- fined to this latter portion of the question, viz., education. Education.—Chiefly as bearing on the results of the different methods of education on the pu- pils in after-life. Let it be clearly understood that the term “deaf and dumb,” as used in this and all coun- tries where the “ French” system is adopted, in- , cludes the toto-congenital—those born wholly deaf; the semi-deaf—those with partial hearing ; and the semi-mute—those who have spoken be- , fore loss of hearing. This term “ deaf and | dumb,” used for such degrees and classes of af- | fliction, is very confusing ; the different conditions | are often misunderstood, and much evil arises therefrom. There are three systems of teaching the deaf —“German,” “ French,” “ Combined.” The “‘German” system teaches by articula- tion and lip-reading; the “French” by signs, dactylology (i. e., the manual alphabet), and pan- tomime. Writing and pictures are, of course, common to each system. It is true that in “German” system schools natural signs are used at first, but they are dropped as soon as the pupils have | learned to express their meaning in words; and, on the other hand, in ‘ French” system schools some few pupils are taught articulation. The “German” system teaches the pupils from the first to think in the order of the language of | their country, whereas the “French” system | teaches the pupils to think in the order of the | language of signs, which is an inverted order, as far as English and all other European languages | go—e. g., “cart draw horse.” It also ignores particles, and other things necessary to ordinary English. The “Combined” method is so called because 183 which has brought, and always will bring, articu- lation into disrepute ; for it is useless to think of teaching articulation successfully unless it be, as in the “German” system, the basis of instruc- | tion ; so that the pupil may always think and ex- press ideas in the order of the language of his country. This is next to impossible for him to , do, when taught upon any system which is based , onsigns. Signs are also much easier than articu- lation to the deaf. The two have nothing in | common. The easier will always supersede the harder in the affection and practice of the pupil. Now, it would be well, before going any further, to get rid of the idea so common among hearing people, that children “deaf and dumb” | are quite different from others. For instance, it is often imagined that they must be of weak in tellect. This is a great mistake. True, some | have not full mental development, which is not to be wondered at, when the causes of congenital _ and accidental deafness are remembered ; often ‘it is a fever that takes away hearing, and leaves mind and body in an enfeebled condition, Such, _ however, is just as often the case with hearing children after suffering like maladies. The brain _ is uninjured in the vast majority of the deaf, and | is exactly the same as that of hearing children. | Another very common fallacy is, that the child does not speak—is dumb—on account of some malformation of the vocal organs. Now, this is | so rare a case if indeed, it exist at all, that it | cannot be classed as one of the causes of dumb- | ness. Indeed, there are but two causes, so far las I know, of absolute dumbness, viz., want of | brain-power, and deafness. As the latter causes _ dumbness only on account of want of proper ed- ucation, the former is the only true cause. The term “deaf and dumb” is really an unnatural ‘and artificial one, expressing not the action of Nature under favorable circumstances, but the | result of neglect. It is not uncommon to meet with dumb per- sons who have their hearing perfect ; their dumb- ness arises from defect of brain. But what I ‘ have never met with is dumbness from deafness, except through disuse of voice. There is no such thing as a child born dumb because deaf. The born deaf are at first exactly the same as hearing children; they cry, sneeze, cough, crow, laugh, ay, and talk too, like hearing children. This it tries to combine parts of each of the two great | may seem very startling; but, startling though it opposing systems. The teaching, however, being | be, it is true. The born deaf do talk, in their based on: signs, is far nearer the “ French” than | own baby-language, just like hearing children of the “German ” system, though some articulation | the same age, only we do not understand them. is attempted at first with each pupil—a system | | What mother understands all her hearing baby

Page 184

184 THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. says at first? But, it will be said, “even if this ! in an inverted order, has a difficulty in making be so, hearing children can understand all that | is said to them, and that is what deaf ones never | can.” Really! Can hearing children understand | all that is said to them? Then why do mothers and nurses say the same thing, over and over again, a hundred times? And when the hearing child can imitate what is said to it, does it there. fore know the meaning? Does it know what “papa’’ or “mamma” means, because it can say the words? Of course not. The objects must be shown with the words spoken, and shown over and over again, too, before the hearing child can connect the object with the spoken word; and so—exactly so—is it with the deaf child; you do not let it go on | talking its own language; but, just as with the hearing, you educate it to repeat certain sounds | ’ after you, and to connect those sounds (spoken | words) with certain objects—only with the deaf you cannot teach through the ear, and so must through the eye. It is all by imitation, as with | a the hearing child; it does not “come natural,” as unthinking people so often say, either to the hearing or to the deaf. Now let us contrast the effect of these sys- tems on the after-life of those educated thereon. We will take the “French ” system first, as that best known in this country. I have said over | and over again, and here repeat, that if the ob- ject of the education of the deaf were to fit | them to live in large asylums and comfortable institutions, they should by all means be educat- ed on the “French” system. It is the easiest and pleasantest to the pupils, so long as they | are together or with their teachers, But we know well that institution-life can be but the lot of very few. Almost all have, before long, to leave what has to them become a happy home, where every one understands and uses the lan- guage of signs, and to take their place in the world and earn their daily bread. Here they scarcely meet with any one able to use the lan- guage of signs, and very, very few who know the finger-alphabet. But it may be said, “They have writing.” ™ but what ape this amount to? However much knowledge or education may be justly claimed for the deaf-mute instructed upon the “French” system of signs, still such knowledge is to hearing persons in a great measure a sealed book, by reason of the want of a proper communication between the two classes ; the deaf-mute, in consequence of the peculiar na- ture of his instruction, which gives him language _ himself understood by writing, and in compre | hending the writing of ordinary hearing persona His own knowledge of language is very imper fect, and few of those with whom he daily ag sociates are sufficiently educated to read or write with comfort, and many, we know, cannot do so at all. Now let us pass to the “ Combined” method This is the system that Gallaudet, the first teach er of the deaf in America, found in this cduntry, and erroneously supposed to be the “German” method. He took this for granted, because ar, ticulation was taught. He failed to appreciate, | as so many do now, the cardinal difference of these systems. It is this, that under the “Com. bined” method a system of signs is the basis of instruction, articulation being only an accom plishment, just as modern languages were taught | in our old public schools, with the result we all know: the thing was looked upon by the boys. as “bore,” and the knowledge (or rather want.of knowledge) of these languages so gained, and the little use they were in after-life, have passed inte a by-word. Those thus taught never feel at home in speaking, find great difficulty in making them ‘selves understood, and so soon cease to con- tinue the attempt. So it is with those taught on the “Combined” method. Articulation is to them a “bore;” they find people outside their schools unable to understand them, and so they, too, soon cease to make the attempt. Thus articulation is brought into discredit, not by its being in any way unsuited to the deaf, but because it has been treated as an accom: plishment. Indeed, the case of those thus educated practically differs but little from those under the “French” system, but that little is notin favor of the “Combined” method. In examim ing the pupils taught on this system, we find them the least educated, and the reason was not, far to seek; for the pupils so taught were taken away from the rest to learn articulations it may be half an hour a day, more or lest What were the constant remarks of the teach ers? Why, that “the articulation-pupils were behind the others.” And no wonder; for what ever takes the pupil away from his companions) regularly for ever so short a time, be it articur. lation, drawing, Latin, or any other thing foreign to the ordinary work of his class, must hay the effect of making him show to disadvantag®: with his classmates, whose attention and time,

Page 185

ZE ‘AGGSPERSGTEGEEbeRa FRE have not been disturbed. But, it may be ar- gued, ‘Could not more time be given to articu- Jation?”’ It would be of no avail, I reply, so long as signs constitute the basis of education, for so long will the pupils think in them rather than in articulation. In that case no good re- sult is to be gained, because articulation will be but a foreign language, in which ease enough to be pleasant or useful will rarely be gained, an annoyance very often—a task, and will ever lead to disappointment. A “foreign” language! Is it not startling to bear English spoken of thus, in the case of Eng- lish children? Yet such is English to those taught on the “ French” or “ Combined” meth- ods. It is a foreign language to them, as we are constantly reminded by the teachers of thosé systems. Let us see whether such is the case with those taught on the “ German” system, Here, to begin with, there is no inverted order; and, as those taught thereon have no other medium for thought than the English lan- guage, there is certainly no reason, theoretically, why their language should not be as pure as that of hearing children. This is scarcely the case at first, yet such a result is reached before leav- ing school, and is not lost afterward. I fancy I hear some one say, “This may be 80 with the semi-mute and the semi-deaf, but ean it be possible with the toto-congenital, who have never heard? Are they able to make speech the means of communication with the world in general?” Wait a minute, and I think, when you have heard a few examples of the very many cases that have come under our notice, and which we tested for ourselves, that you will acknowledge that articulation under the “German” method is no mere accomplishment, but is the practical means by which those so taught communicate, not with their fellow-pupils and teachers only, but with their bearing fellow- creatures also. Remembering the three classes called “ deaf and dumb” in this country, let us take a few examples, all of which came under our personal notice, unless mentioned to the contrary. In these cases names and dates will not be speci- fied, but they are at the service of any person who chooses to ask for them for the purpose of Proving the accuracy of the statements con- tained in this paper. I will not weary you with cases of the semi- deaf speaking, because it must be evident to all that this class—having hearing, although not tificient to enable them to be educated with DEAF, BUT NOT DUMB. 185 hearing children—have ear enough to understand to a certain extent the modulations of sound. We will pass on, therefore, to the next class, the semi-mute. The first case we will take is that of one of the daughters of a gentleman who, through bis kindness to us, has become a great personal friend of my own. As soon as he heard the ob- ject of our journey, and that our child was deaf, he spared neither pains, time, nor personal exer- tion to help us in this matter. His child had lost hearing, from fever, be- tween four and five years of age. At that time there were no schools in this country on this admirable “German” system; but the parents, convinced of the advantage of this method, made themselves acquainted with the details of instruc- tion, which were successfully carried out in the person of their own child, as you will acknowledge when I tell you that she was able to go into shops in Germany and get things that her father wanted, he being unable to speak the language; and that she came to stay with us in our house in the country, and was conversed with by our friends, both at garden parties and privately, to the sur- prise of a!] who saw her. Take another case. A lady of great wealth had four children; fever came and struck down three; two died, the other lived, but her hearing was totally lost. She was then four years of age. The poor mother, as might be expected, was overwhelmed with grief, and for twelve months was herself ill, and unable to attend to the educa- tion of her poor little deaf child. It was not until the latter was between five and six years of age—twelve months after losing hearing—that the mother attempted to educate her at all. Her speech was almost gone; indeed, to such an ex- tent was this the case, that she had but one word left—a word natural toa child—“cake.” The mother was an energetic, clever woman, no doubt, but she had a large household, and kept much company, living in the most fashionable society of a wealthy neighborhood; yet she found time to educate her child, notwithstanding that a large younger family (she had eight living children when I saw her), added to her other cares, must have left her little time for such teaching. She made a practice of giving her deaf child two hours every morning, and with this instruction her daughter became a highly-educated and agreeable woman in society. We spent the day at her father’s house, and a most accomplished woman we found her. She talked to my wife of pictures, poetry, and all manner of subjects common to

Page 186

186 ladies, such as needlework, etc. To me she talked of riding (she was a great horsewoman), billiards, and other topics she thought would in- terest me, explaining the difference between their game of billiards and ours, giving me the names of the different woods the cues were made of, and conversing with me as freely as though she had been a hearing person; indeed, several times during the day my wife forgot that she was speaking to one deaf, so accurately did this deaf young lady read everything that was said to her when she could see the speaker’s face ; but occa- sionally my wife, forgetting this, turned away, and of course received no answer, Yet had she been sent to a “French” system school, all speech would have been lost. There would have been no attempt made to keep up, or restore, the THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. speech of a child so young; and one more would have been added to the long list of the dumb. The next and last case of a semi-mute—well known, but which did not come under our own observation—is that of a man who went through part of the civil war in the United States as a private soldier. He spoke so well, that for some time the secret of his deafness was undiscovered. One night, however, he was challenged by a sen- | try, and, taking no notice, was wounded. This led to discovery, and he had to leave the army. | His early history is interesting and instructive, | and I will give it almost in his own words as told to a friend of mine. He lost hearing through | fever at five years of age, but retained his speech. | His friends communicated with him by writing. | One day, sitting on the floor, he watched his fa- ther and a neighber talking, and when the neigh- bor left, he looked up and said, “Did not Mr. —— say so-and-so?” “ Yes,” said his father ; “how do you know—who told you?” “ Father, I saw his lips move, and I guessed that was what he said.” “You had better practise watching people’s lips,” his father said. The “German” system was then unknown in America; but the boy did practise, both with his family and by studying his own lips before the glass. The only | difficulty being that he soon discovered a differ- | ence in his own pronunciation of words ending in “tion,” as he called it “ti-on,” and such like spellings, where the sound and the spelling did not agree. At twelve years of age he was sent to the American asylum at Hartford, and for a whole year he could make absolutely nothing out of the signs and finger-talking used around him. This made him very wretched. He continued to say his lessons aloud to the master, who ques- tioned him on his fingers. One day, going to his master for the meaning and pronunciation of some new and difficult word, the master, in a fit of impatience at his not pronouncing it rightly, wrote the word down, spelling it phonetically; the boy at once gave it correctly, and his delight and joy were intense. Here was the key of knowledge. From that day he always went to others with his new words, with the request, “Spell it wrong—spell it as it sounds,” and he had no more difficulty. He married a deaf-and. dumb woman, and had several children, all of whom heard. When these children were old enough they were sent to school. Very soona complaint came to the father from the teacher, his children were so remarkably impudent and naughty they would write nonsense on their slates instead of their exercises. They had been pun ished, but continued to bring such sentences ag this, “Man horse black on riding was,” and, if he did not use his authority to stop this, the children must be expelled. He at once wrote, explaining that they had been in the habit of communicating chiefly with their deaf-and-dumb mother, who employed signs, and this inverted language was the consequence. If no notice were taken, but the children allowed to mix free. ly with their schoolfellows, he had no doubt their language would right itself, and so the event proved. We now come to the last of the three classes of the so-called “deaf and dumb”—the tote congenital. How these educated on the “Ger. man” system were able, after leaving school, to get on in the world by articulation and lip reading, was, you may remember, the great object of our inquiries. This point is all the more im- portant now, as the advocates of the “French” system allow in theory, however little they carry it out in practice, the value of teaching articula- tion to most of the semi-mute and semi-deaf, but still deny the use of attempting it with toto-con- genitals, except in very rare instances. Now as to those who have left the “German” system schools, We saw specimens of these, some in workshops, some milliners, some married to hearing persons, some at home with their pa rents, some master tradesmen, etc. ; all, I again remark, were toto-congenital—such as would be termed in America, France, and England, “deaf and dumb.” The result was encouraging beyond anything we had dared to hope. Had we & pected to find old pupils that “one would not have known from hearing persons,” we & have been disappointed. There may be such, but we have never been able to trace any, DOF a ae|hlUaee ae ae” ae

Page 187

on of na fit ghtly, elight ey of nt to Juest, id he all of e old oon a cher, t and e8 28 nd, if s, the rrote, vit of dumb ez Ectvil biged -_ did we ever meet with a “German” system teacher who knew of one—that is, a toto-con- genital pupil, old or present, that habitually, or for any length of time, could pass as a hearing person. But what we did see, were men and women able to earn their own livelihood in trades and other occupations, communicating with and answering hearing persons sufficiently well by articulation and Jip-reading to go through the world comfortably, and, in some instances, very successfully. In no case were we unable to make ourselves understood, or failed to understand in return, except when with those educated in a school where some signs were allowed, a large “internat.” Just in proportion as signs were allowed in institutions, so those taught therein appeared to less advantage when we saw them in after-life. We asked their fellow-workmen, their employers, their work-people, their relations, and those with whom they lodged, ‘‘How do they communicate with hearing persons?” and were universally answered, often with embarrassing astonishment at such a question, “Why, by speaking, of course!” Let us take a few individual cases, That of the Dutch gentleman, who kindly allowed himself to be examined and tested in this room, and be- fore the Social Science Congress at Leeds in 1871, is probably known to most here present. Of him Dr. E. M. Gallaudet, the Principal of the National College for Deaf-Mutes, at Washington, U.S, A., not too willing a witness, declared that he and the Dutchman before-mentioned had no difficulty in conversing together on various topics by word of mouth, not even the jolting of the cab on their way to the station making any dif- ference in the ease with which they understood cach other. But let us pass on to eases that came under ourown notice. One, that of a poor woman living with an aunt, is worthy of special notice, show- ing, as it does, that the education given on the “German” system is good, and not lost after- ward. She had left school some twelve years, and lived in a part of Germany where one of the many dialects prevailing in that country was spoken. Her aunt, a garrulous old woman, chat- tered at such a rate that my wife, though a good German scholar, was sometimes at fault, as was also the German lady who acted as my interpret- er. More than once, when such was the case, my wife asked the deaf niece, whose purer Ger- man interpreted the sentence. Another case was that of a young woman, DEAF, BUT NOT DUMB. , 187 who was a leading dressmaker in a small German capital, She was rather shy at first. On our mentioning this to the landlord of the hotel where we were staying, he called the hotel-por- ter, who was engaged to the deaf dressmaker, and told him we had not found his sweetheart very communicative ; whereupon the porter begged we would, escorted by himself, give her another trial. So off we started, but met the young woman soon after we left the hotel. The meeting of the two lovers was most amusing, He took her roundly to task for appearing to so little advantage on our first acquaintance, and, after some lively sparring—rattled off between them just as though both, instead of one only, had been hearing persons—we chimed in, and had a long and pleasant talk. She assured us that, in following her occupation, the only means of communication between herself and those who employed her were articulation and lip-reading. Writing was never had recourse to; finger-talk- ing and signs she did not understand.—Take another case. We saw in Vienna a fancy-leather merchant, who employed seventy men under him, whose premises the Emperor and Empress of Austria visited before the great Vienna Exhibition, who could not only speak the language of his country fluently, but also a little English, who had visited England and other countries, was a practical horticulturist, and altogether an agreeable, in- telligent, wealthy man—wealthy through his own educated talents and industry. A good instance of the independence which pupils well educated on this system feel in after- life, was mentioned to me last year. A journey- man cabinet-maker had such a thorough com- mand of language, that he told my friend he in- tended to seek work in other countries, and should settle in whichever he found gave him best employment, having no doubt of being able secon to talk the new language sufficiently. Not to weary you with more of the many other in- stances one could give, I will end this part by telling you, that we went into a hatter’s shop in Friedberg who had a toto-congenital deaf work- man. That very morning a man had been con- victed for theft, principally on the evidence, given vivd voce in open court, by that deaf work- man, who stood the test of examination and cross-examination without any other method of communication being used than word of mouth. After what you have just heard of the power of the “German” system, does it not seem strange that its introduction into this country 4

Page 188

188 should have been opposed so strongly? Yet the same prejudice against the value of the system THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. “Ina little village called Riehen, about foup English miles from Bale, in Switzerland, is to be —taking the twofold form, either of utter dis- | found a most excellent school for the education belief in the power of the deaf to speak, because | of the deaf. I cannot refrain from advising any they are called “deaf and dumb,” or, on the | one reading or listening to the following story, if other hand, the deep-rooted idea that speech, when thus given, is not better than that of the | parrot or the magpie—is widespread, as the fol- lowing will show. A gentleman in America had a child who lost | | at some future time he happen to find him self at Bale, to drive over to Riehen and visit the ‘ Deaf and Dumb Institution’ there. I prom, ise bita that he will be most cordially received, and, what is far more to the purpese, greatly ag. hearing in her fifth year; he took her to the best | tonished at what can be done with children stone, institutions that he knew of in his own country. These were on the “French” system. He was | deaf from birth. ** This school has been in existence now thir there told he had better take her back, and bring | ty-six years, and is prosperous, but at the Com. her again when she was twelve. he, “‘ must she be seven years without any educa- tion? And what is to become of her speech ? She has already lost some of her words.” “ Oh, that wiil soon be gone, and in a few months she will be as dumb as she is deaf.” The parents were greatly hurt at this, and resolved that her speech should never be lost—a resolve which they suc- ceeded in carrying out, by means of studying the “German” system. Finding the great benefit their child received from this method of teaching, the father endeavored to get a school established on this principle. For this purpose he applied for State aid—which is, I believe, freely afforded for the education of the deaf in every civilized country but our own. His application was re- fused. Twice his proposition was defeated in Congress ; and it was not until he had publicly exhibited the system in the person of his own child, that the measure was passed. The opposi- tion was led by a member of Congress, who him- self had a toto-congenital deaf-and-dumb child. When I was in America the school was large and flourishing, one of the warmest supporters and most active members of its committee being the very Congressman who had so long and suc- cessfully opposed its foundation. He told me him- self that he felt he could never do enough to further the ‘‘German” system, in order to make amends for having kept its benefits from his na- tive State so long. Now we will go toa very different part of the world, and give you an instance of the prejudice which did exist against this system in Switzerland. For this purpose I will quote from the able re- port of Mr. A. A. Kinsey, made of a school at Riehen. He is the gentleman who has qualified himself, by residence and practical instruction in the best “ German” schools in Germany, to pre- side overthe proposed training-college for teach- ers of this system in England: “ What!” said | | mencement of its career such could not be said of it; in fact, Mr. Wilhelm D. Arnold, the ad. mirable head of this school, could with but the greatest difficulty and economy make both ends meet. Persons accustomed to support charita: ble institutions pooh-poohed it—looked upon it as the idea of a visionary—a waste of money, which might with greater advantage be used elsewhere. Foremost among such persons was a rich merchant of Bale, named Merian, This gentleman had occasion very often to visit Mr, Arnold at Riehen on business not connected with the school. On each of these visits, at the conclusion of the work in hand, Mr. Arnold would endeavor to interest his wealthy friend in the school, but always without success. He sighed to think how easily this rich man could place them out of all their pecuniary troubles, could he be but once convinced of the genuine ness of the education. But how to do it was the question. He had talked, argued, quoted in favor of his school; had invited Mr. Merian to see and hear for himself. But, no; Mr. Merian | had no time to waste in such an absurd manners he was a strict man of business, and, the moment his business with Mr. Arnold was at an end, he would step into his carriage and be driven back to Bale. One day Mr. Merian, being, let us sup pose, in a very good humor, or Mr. Arnold's em treaties to him to visit the school-rooms_ being more than usually strong, he consented just to give five minutes of his valuable time to an x amination of the children. Crossing from the dwellinghouse to the school, he grumbled out, ‘You know it’s all nonsense, Arnold! You know very well, as well as I do, that these children just talk like so many trained parrots. I don't deny they do talk—never did; but I simply re peat, they talk like parrots; and it’s a downrigyt waste of time teaching them to do so.’ ‘Well, well,’, said Arnold, ‘you come and judge for

Page 189

ut four 8 to be 1cation ori d visit eived, tly ag. stone, v thin | COM, ne ad. ut the 1 ends on. it oney, : was t Mr, it the PEEPFSSLF TR SASSER SESE yourself.’ Mr. Merian continued: ‘I never could understand how a man like you, so thoroughly conscientious and honest in all other respects, should be mixed up with such humbug, such charlatanry, as this.’ ‘Pray don’t use hard words,’ said Arnold, ‘until you have satisfied yourself by proof that they are deserved.’ Both gentlemen then entered one of the class-rooms together. All the children present rose, and greeted them with a ‘good-day.’ Mr. Merian broke out at once, ‘There! I knew it; 1 told you what it would be: “Good-day!” “ Good-night!” Pretty poll!”’ A boy came up to him with a chair, saying, ‘ Will you be pleased to sit down, sir?’ Mr. Merian sat down, but without thank- ing the boy for his politeness. What was the use of thanking one who couldn't understand ? —a parrot, in fact—but said, ‘Oh, yes, it’s all very clever, Arnold; the boy has been well- trained in his lesson, but you can’t blind me.’ Mr. Arnold said to the class, ‘ This is Mr. Merian, of Bale.’ Several children repeated the name, and bowed to him. This gentleman, however, broke out again, ‘There! there! I can’t stop any longer; it is nothing more than what I ex- pected.’ ‘Well, one moment, if-you must go,’ said Mr. Arnold, ‘while I ask the children one or two questions.’ Turning to the class, he said, ‘Did you see Mr. Merian come this morning ?’ ‘Yes, we did,’ answered several. ‘ Did he arrive on foot?’ ‘No.’ ‘How, then?’ ‘He came in his carriage.’ Mr. Merian sat up in his chair, and paid somewhat more attention. ‘Has Mr. Merian’s carriage one, or two horses?’ ‘Two horses,” Mr. Merian said, hastily, ‘ Now, Arnold, you are deceiving me; you are telling them all this in some secret way.’ ‘Oh, no,’ said Mr. Arnold, ‘I never make use of signs, or the finger- alphabet ; and if I did, I am truly happy to say my pupils wouldn’t understand me. Besides, see, my hands are behind my back.’ He went on: ‘What color are the horses?’ ‘One is brown, with a white face, and the other is gray.’ Mr. Merian jumped up, saying, ‘This is very curious !'—looking from Mr. Arnold to the boy who had last spoken, and appearing puzzled— ‘this is really very curious! One might easily be deceived into fancying that the child was really thinking.’ Mr. Arnold, without answer- ing, went on, ‘Why does Mr. Merian ride in his own carriage, instead of walking, or going by cart, as we do?’ ‘ Because Mr. Merian is a very - man, and can afford to ride in his carriage.’ Why, Arnold, the child is thinking, I declare !’ ctied out the gentleman. ‘Of course he is,’ DEAF, BUT NOT DUMB. 189 replied Mr. Arnold, quietly ; ‘ they all think, and express their ideas as youandI do. True, not in such finished language, because, at present, their vocabulary, like that of all children, is limited ; but I hope, by the time they are con- firmed, they will be able to express themselves in as perfect language as, if not more so, than do their parents and relatives.’ ‘Well, put some more questions,’ said Mr. Merian. This was done, and, after half an hour, he said: ‘ Arnold, why didn’t you tell me about this before? Why did you leave me under such an erroneous impression?’ ‘My good friend,’ answered Mr. Arnold, ‘if I have told you once, I have told you a hundred times.’ ‘Yes, but you should have explained the matter properly to me, so that I could have understood it. But, there! I will come and see your school again to-morrow. I feel quite interested in the poor little things, since I find tiey can talk rationally.” He did so, and during the next month he was to be found for several hours, twice a week, listening to the pupils. The first time he put some ques- tions vocally to one of the children, and re- ceived an answer, his delight was boundless. He felt almost that he was the wonderful instructor of the child ; that he had placed the little deaf boy before him far above the reach of his sad affliction, and had given him the power to see that which others hear; that he himself had re- stored to the poor boy the Divine gift of human speech, temporarily lost, which, but for the un- tiring aid and skill of his teachers, would have been lost, indeed, forever. “From that moment Mr. Merian made a reso- lution, and his resolution was good. He gave 32,000 florins for the purpose of educating six pupils annually; and lent his most willing assist- ance and influence to the method of instruction he had so long, through unreasoning prejudice, condemned and despised.” A similar noble instance is recorded in Amer- ica, where a Mr. Clarke most liberally endowed the institution at Northampton, Mass., named after him; though in that country such support is the less wanted, on account of the State aid which is afforded to institutions for the deaf. Let us hope to find in this far richer country some such munificent benefactors. Briefly to recapitulate some of the conclu- sions to which our investigations led us, we find that the “‘ French” system schools, to a limited extent, will always be wanted for those who cannot be educated on the “ German” system, viz., the weak in intellect, and the very few

Page 190

190 whose speech, had they been hearing persons, would have been scarcely intelligible. All others should be educated on the “ Ger- man’ system. And it should be borne in mind that it is for the poor that education on this sys- THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. tem is so especially desirable. Important ag itis to all, to the poor the gift of speech is of intenge value, enabling them to make themselves undep. stood to the world at large.—Journal of the Society of Aris. DR. ASA GRAY ON DARWINISM.’ ROF. GRAY has, in the volume under no- tice, presented us with a compilation of extremely thoughtful and erudite essays, col- lected from the scientific periodicals in which at various times they originally appeared, as reviews of Mr. Darwin's book on the “ Origin of Species” ‘and of kindred works. The main object of the whole series is to vindicate the religious charac- ter of the evolutionist, of whose theory Prof. Gray entertains a high opinion, supporting it by several new and cogent arguments, based on his own immediate observation and researches. Dar- win himself, the priest and prophet of the new theory, thus expresses his convictions: “To my mind, it accords better with what we know of the laws impressed on matter by the Creator, that the production and extinction of the past and present inhabitants of the world should have been due to secondary causes, than that each species has been independently created.” It is therefore evi- dent that Prof. Gray has not only reason, but authority on his side, when he affirms that the charge of atheism brought against the Evolution- ists is a false conclusion, and that nothing hin- ders the most thorough-going of the school from indorsing the noble dictum of Aristotle, philoso- pher and naturalist—‘“the Divine it is which holds together all Nature.” Experience teaches us to argue from analogy, and to refer productions in the past to the same causes or sets of causes as those we see operating in the present. It is nowhere within the knowl- edge of living man that God acts, or has acted, on any principle.of caprice, working, as Lord Ba- con says: “by means of his own rules upon the creature, as fully and exactly as he could by miracle and new creation.” The immediate source of the volition inherent in matter is out of our ken, we see only the effects produced by 1“Darwiniana: Essays and Reviews pertaining to Darwinism.” By Asa Gray, Professor of Natural History in Harvard University. New York: D. Appleton & Co. it, and to suppose that it ever acted in any other way than that in which it now acts is.obviously to suppose that the earlier ages of the world were not regulated by the laws which obtain in our own, and that some radical and wholly unac countable change has taken place in Nature and her modes of production and transmutation since the commencement of our era. Moreover, the whole tide of investigation and speculation with regard to the various departments of natural sci- ence sets in the direction of evolution; and again, arguing from analogy, we cannot be wrong in apprehending a probable synthesis and har- mony of the circle of natural and physical sei- ences. The theory of derivative process in the origin of animal species chimes in wonderfully well with the result of M. Alphonse de Candolle's botanical investigations, an account of which was published before the appearance of Darwin's hy- pothesis, in the “‘ Géographie Botanique Raison- née.” “ Existing vegetation,” says M. de Candolle, in the final.chapter of this classical work, “ mustbe regarded as the continuation, through many geo- logical and geographical changes, of the anterior vegetations of the world; consequently the pres- ent distribution of species is explicable only in the light of their geographical history.” Certain species or quasi-species may, in his opinion, have originated through diversification under ged graphical isolation, and yet others independently of such cause. With regard to geology, Sir Charles Lyell has given us his conviction that “the natural oper tions now going on account for all known gee logical changes connecting the past with the pres ent by imperceptible gradations,” and Prof Geikie has long since taught us that not only upon such an hypothesis can the existence, structure, and position of the sedimentary, oF ganic, and igneous rocks of the earth be rightly explained and understood. Extending our in. quiries into the domain of physics and chem"

Page 191

Bie F BE PRPeF ETL ESS REA = — BeSssGee3eE S336 DR. ASA GRAY istry, we find the scientific world, with but few individual exceptions, quite content to accept the nebular hypothesis framed by Laplace, and to believe that the matter of the solar system existed originally in the form of a vast diffused revolving mass, which, gradually cooling and contracting, threw off, in obedience to me- chanical laws, successive rings, from which sub- sequently, by the same laws, were produced the several planets, satellites, and other bodies of the system. Such a theory is indeed justly regarded as the complement and corollary of the Newtonian doctrine, which proves that certain forces acting upon matter in certain directions produce planet- ary orbits of the exact measure and form in which observation shows them to exist. The merest tyro in science regards light, heat, elec- tricity, magnetism, chemical affinity, and me- chanical power, as varieties or derivative and convertible forms of one force, instead of believ- ing them independent species; and chemists have lately hinted their anticipation that some or all of the supposed elementary bodies will be found to be themselves compound and derivative, while here and there appears a man bold enough to record his conviction that all these substances will be at last reducible to one, precisely as Haeckel believes that he can trace the genesis of man and of all species to a single simple element —the protoplasmic cytode. The true reason, no doubt, why the doctrine of evolution, as applied to animal existences, has failed to become popular, is that it involves the origin of the human race, and affects, as some suppose, the dignity of man’s position as the creature distinctively soul-endowed. The scien- tific difficulty of this knotty point—which is the logical outcome and conclusion of the theory of development—lies in the explanation of Mr. Dar- win’s term, “ differentiation.” Mr. Darwin says: “In each member of the vertebrate series, the nerve-cells of the brain are the direct offshoots of those possessed by the common progenitor of the whole group. It thus becomes intelligible that the brain and mental faculties should be capable, under similar conditions, of nearly the same course of development, and consequently of performing nearly the same functions.” Now the brain-cells of man, as he is at present consti- tuted, have no known analogy or representative among the lower animals. In order to fill up the gp existing between the highest extant group of the simi and man, Haeckel has found it neces- sary to invent an intermediate extinct species, to which he gives the name of “speechless ape- ON DARWINISM. 191 men,” assigning to them the glacial, post-glacial, and historic periods, summed up in the Anthro- polithic age. The fact is, that there exists a notable hiatus in the ascending scale, for which hitherto evolutionists have failed to account sat- isfactorily. It is easy to silence, or at least to puzzle, lay objectors by the use of long scientific terms and phrases, but among physiologists much doubt and uncertainty exist with regard to the application of the word “ differentiation,” in the sense in which evolutionists are at present fond of employing it. Cells may or may not be admitted to be spontaneously generated, but it can at least be shown that each kind of cell, once in existence, has its own special endowments, and its own special method of development. One kind of cell has never been known to de- velop into or to perform the functions of another kind, Nerve-cells cannot, by means of any con- ceivable process, become cells of another sort’ of tissue even in the same structure; nor will the cells composing the olfactory nerve ex- change office with those which constitute the op- tic, the auditive, or any other of its coadjutors, begotten of the same substance and on the same territory. With this truth present to the mind, it is difficult to understand how the brain-cells of the ape can ever have so altered in character and in destiny as to have “ differentiated ” them- selves into human brain-cells. Mr. Herbert Spen- cer might, perhaps, wish to dispose of this diffi- culty, as he seeks to do with its analogue, upon the very threshold of the evolution theory, by as- suming that the distance apparently separating inorganic from organic substances may be bridged over by an hypothesis relegating the dissimilarity of mode and function to a mere difference of molecular adjustment and arrangement. But if philosophy can theoretically solve the problem of life with so much ease, how comes it that chem- istry remains still practically unable to demon- strate this assumed convertibility of matter? De- spite all the confidence hypothetically entertained on the subject of the identity of inorganic and or- ganic compounds, no scientific man has yet been able to construct a single particle of organizable protein, much less a vitally-endowed cell. It wild be evident, on a little reflection, that the most important inference deducible from the theory of development, as expounded by the materialistic school, is one which refers all modes of being, organic and inorganic, to the operation of mere mechanical power. But if this be a true conclu- sion, it is hard to comprehend how that power— unconscious and characterless—should be capa-

Page 192

’ 192 ble of giving rise to various forms, seeing that the effects of mere mechanism, uninfluenced by volition, cannot be other than unique. How comes it that chemical ingredients, controlled by one and the same force, and unsolicited by any extraneous or inherent will, should assume so many kaleidoscopic forms as those which go to make up the actual Cosmos? Is there no hand to move the instrument, no power to shake the many-colored molecules into the varied patterns they are seen to assume? The theist, or even the pantheist, has at least an intelligible reply to offer ; but what is the position of the materialist, who denies the existence of any other force than that of a blind and invariable mechanism, oper- ating upon matter alike in all modes of being, uninfluenced by external intellect and without in- ternal consciousness, a force which he can phys- ically dissipate, a matter which he can chemical- ly dissolve and evaporate? Until some answer is given to this question, we cannot accept the idea presented to us under the term differentia- tion as a definite and comprehensible one; nor can we hold that the atheistic school has ad- vanced one step toward the elucidation of the difficulty it has so boldly set itself to explain, since Prof. Huxley wrote these words: “The question of questions for mankind, the problem THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. which underlies all others, and is more deeply in. teresting than any other, is the ascertainment of the place which man occupies in Nature, and of his relations to the universe of things. Whence our race has come, what are the limits of our power over Nature and of Nature’s power over us, to what goal we are tending, are the prob. lems which present themselves anew and with undiminished interest to every man born into the world.” #" It is not, then, against the facts involved ip Mr. Darwin's theory that we contend, but against the interpretation given to those facts by the materialistic school. The hypothesis of evolu tion is favored by discovery, by inductive reason, — and by analogy ; the puzzle lies only in the meth od assigned to it by modern science. We think, with Prof. Gray, that the belief in a gradual eve — lution extending upward from the lowest forms is, in the main, scientifically sound, and experi mentally probable, but that, in accepting the is sues of such a doctrine, we must carefully guard ourselves against the common error of insufficient thought, which leads certain evolutionists to ig- nore the prime and moving principle of the the ory to which they give their adhesion, viz., that secret of the potency of matter which alone explains Prof. Tyndall's “ mystery of causation.” — Spectator. . Meteorological Observations with Unattended Balloons.—An original and ingenious mode of making meteorological observations has lately been put in practice in Paris, by M. Sécretan, who, since the beginning of February, has been sending up every day at noon small exploring bal- loons, for the purpose of ascertaining the direc- tion of the air-currents and the height of the clouds. The balloons, furnished gratuitously by the Grand Magasin du Louvre, are made of India- rubber, and filled with pure hydrogen, and are about three feet in diameter. The average velo- city of elevation, as obtained from numerous ex- periments, is four metres (about thirteen feet) per second. Counting the seconds from the moment of starting, until the balloon disappears in the clouds, and multiplying the number of seconds thus obtained by four, gives the height of the clouds, which is found to vary from 400 metres (about 1,300 feet) to 800 metres (about 2,600 feet). It is found that the higher the clouds, the better the prospect of fair weather. The diree tion of the air-currents for the first 100 metres of height is almost always found to be very uh ~ certain, varying according to unknown causes; above this height two different streams of ait are often observed, the lower one extending upward to 200 or 300 metres. The clouds fol low the direction of the aérial stream, in which they are wholly immersed, not being placed, #8 has been often stated, at the plane of separa tion. fe lL—7F eh hlU—7=e hh lee -_ _ ao an Pa ry

Page 193

yin 4% s 552223 a rie RSS +i tear > Rae R ES EEE bas REEFS BI i¢esaee yo uses } of ait nding \s fol- which ed, 28 s Bea hs oh a on ts ROMAN EXCAVATIONS. 193 EXCAVATIONS IN THE ROMAN FORUM AND ON THE ESQUILINE.’ By GASTON BOISSIER, VERYTHING invites the visitor at Rome | to put a stop to these wranglings, and to give nowadays to concern himself by preferenee | greater unity to the explorations, decided to es- with antiquity: antiquity it is that appears to | tablish.a general directorship of excavations and have derived greatest profit so far from the events | antiquities for the entire kingdom, and to appoint of the year 1870. The new Government owed | thereto Signore Fiorelli. much to ancient memories; to prove that Rome Notwithstanding these few misadventures of deserved to be free and to control its own for- | detail, we can affirm that the excavations under- tunes, and that Italy had the right to claim Rome | taken at Rome since 1870 have produced the as its capital, appeal was made to the history of | best of results. Their success is explained by the republic and the empire; people were ever the fact that they have been carried on methodi- talking of the Senate, the Forum, the Capitol, and cally and scientifically. Till our own times this the new reclamations had much force added to | Wa8 @ very rare merit. There have been, it is them from being backed by these great names, | true, very able archwologists before our time, yet Thus the Italian Government contracted an obli- | archeology dates from yesterday. The princes gation to the past which it set itself about dis- | Who since the Renaissance have had excavations charging so soon as it was installed at Rome, | made in the soil of ancient cities, have sought As early as November 8, 1870, by a decree of the only for statues, curiosities, objects of art to king’s lieutenant, there was instituted a super- | adorn their palaces; beyond this they took little intendency of excavations for the city and the | interest in excavations. If by good luck they province, and Pietro Rosa, the explorer of the | came upon some grand edifice underground, they Palatine, was appointed to fill this office. Eight , hastened to remove out of it everything that days later work was begun in the Forum. At | could be carried away, as the paintings on the the same time men were set to excavating at | Ceilings, the mosaics of the pavements, the mar- the Baths of Caracalla, the Farnese Gardens, | bles of the walls. They first gutted the build. Hadrian's Villa, and at Ostia. There was an ar- | ings, and then made haste to cover up the ruins. dor of curiosity, a-passion for exploration, the | We must therefore tone down considerably the like of which had not been seen for a long time, | CUlogies that have been pronounced upon these and which were repaid by the most brilliant dis- | pretended lovers of antiquity: they have saved coveries, Unfortunately, these efforts grew slack , less than they have destroyed, and it were diff- after a few years. The bad state of the Italian | cult to say at what cost of irreparable ruins | finances compelled the Government to be less lib- | those museums were formed which have reflected enal than was to have been wished; then, too, it | 80 much glory on their founders. There is all happened that the archeologists, genus irritabile, | the more reason for protesting against such bar- did not agree very well among themselves, and _ barous proceedings, inasmuch as they are not yet time that might have been better employed, was | quite out of vogue. At Rome it is stated that lost in disputes. Some few errors committed in | they are still practised daily in the excavations exploring the ancient floor of the Coliseo, gave at Porto, and that all that is done there is to rise to sharp objections ; public opinion was ex- | collect everything that may enrich the large col- cited, and the Government, after having consulted | lections of a great seigneur. It is openly charged 4 municipal commission consisting of the most that the workmen, having found the ruins of a eminent archeologists of Rome, as De Rossi, Vis- | magnificent palace, the entire structure was conti, Lanciani, and others, to whom had been | Wrecked, and the ruins covered up, without per- added for that special occasion a few foreign | mitting even the plan to be determined. No scholars, as Henzen and Gregorovius, decided to | doubt statues, paintings, mosaics, are very valu- suspend the work. Then it was that the late | able; but if we are curious about the different Minister of Public Instruction, Bonghi, in order | kinds of works of art found in ancient monu- ‘Translated from the Revue des Deux Mondes, by J. | ments, ought we not to be still more curious A. M. about these monuments themselves, which these 13 | | | |

Page 194

‘ 194 art-objects were designed to embellish, and of } which the latter were after all only accessories ? Even when all that remains is only the founda- tion and the first few courses of the masonry, what memories do these ruins awaken! What | precious lessons do they teach us! What a de- light for the mind to reconstruct the edifice, to restore all its ornaments with the faded paint- ings, the columns, the bits of mosaic which re- main, to see it again in imagination as it was | when at its best! In the popular quarters even, where we find fewer objects of value, what ser- vices may we ds to history by collecting what- ever concerns common life, by making out the plans of the houses, the directions of the streets, the sites of public squares in which so many im- | portant events have taken place—in a word, by reconstructing the topography of ancient Rome! If this be the object sought in excavations, | then we can affirm that at Rome, however well | or ill the works are conducted, they will never | be sterile. Wherever the laborer strikes with | his mattock, he finds beneath the soil, as it is, the remains of the ancient city. Under the present houses, sleep several buried cities, and the modern monuments rise on the top of two | or three tiers of ruins. Every one knows what took place in the excavations made a few years ago at the church of St. Clement, but it will be well to recall it here to show the good luck that attends excavations at Rome. St. Clement’s is a fine basilica of the twelfth century, and con- tains some beautiful frescoes by Masaccio. While certain works were in progress, it happened that beneath the present basilica there was discovered a church older still, with curious paintings, and marble and granite columns; it dated from the time of Constantine, and had been used for seven | centuries, until the sack of Rome by Robert Guiscard. Encouraged by this success, the man- agers of the works excavated still deeper, and soon they found, under this primitive church, a sanctuary of Mithra, and some remains of a Ro- man house belonging to the early period of the empire. Descending still deeper, they discovered constructions in tufa which certainly are as old as the early years of the republic, and perhaps even date from the time of the kings. Here, then, is a succession of monuments belonging to all the epochs of Roman history, from the founding of the city down to the Renaissance. Nor is this case altogether exceptional ; it would | not be, in my opinion, rash to expect that what has occurred at St. Clement’s will occur again and again; and for this reason: Rome, like all THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. great capitals, has been oftentimes rebuilt jp the course of its protracted existence, but the Roman mode of renovating and rejuvenating their city is less disastrous than ours to the old ruins of the past. Nowadays old buildings are torn down; formerly they used to be covered over. Our aim is, above all, to have straight avenues, and, in order to facilitate the circulation of the innumerable vehicles that traverse our streets, we level away all elevations of the ground. Hence we may say that the soil of Paris is sinking from day to day, while that of Rome was ever rising. Wealthy Romans, when they desired to feast their eyes on an extended prospect, or when they wished merely to enjoya purer air in that unwholesome climate, were wont to build their houses upon enormous substruet- ures. So, too, when a new quarter was to be built, they began by filling up the old one with earth, and then built upon this. Hence it is pretty certain that, if we remove this earth, we shall find the original soil and the remains of the ancient buildings. But will it be possible amid these ruins for one to know where he is? This is an impor tant point. It is plain that history can gain noth- ing from these heaps of rubbish, these founds tions of houses, these pavements of temples orof streets, unless we can say to what quarter of the city they belonged, or of what group of monw ments they formed a part. Can we seriously ex pect tobe able to dothis? Skeptics have strong doubts; they even go so far as to ridicule the archeologists who assume to be ignorant of noth- ing, and who have no hesitation in giving names to the most unimportant ruins they find. Still, I think the archeologists are in the right. Thereis abundance of information about ancient Rome: the orators and historians are full of details re garding the localities in which the events oe curred which they record. The poets, especially those of them who, like Horace, have been pleased to acquaint us with the history of their lives, frequently take occasion to speak of the quarters where they loved to dwell. What they have to say of these various quarters, and of the monuments they contained, gives many ® valuable hint to us; but there exists still more trustworthy means of information. Nowadays when a traveler would make his way up and down through the streets of a strange town, he uses @ map and a guide-book ; the ancient Romans, 000 had their maps and guides for the traveler. “A people so inquisitive and so practical, who were J obliged to travel all over the world, and who i”

Page 195

i SS2828F 2 #2 Bs ns for mpor- noth. yunda- s orof of the sly ex- ROMAN EXCAVATIONS. 195 order to govern must needs have been familiar ; authors, maps, and guide-books—the topography with its geography, could not be ignorant of the | yalue of maps; they made constant use of them, and even employed them in decorating their public buildings. They would paint maps, or trace them with the chisel on the walls of tem- ples, or beneath the beautiful porticoes which served as promenades for people of leisure. Among these maps, plans of Rome, it is sup- posed, were not wanting. been found, of colossal proportions, dating from the time of Septimius Severus. It was engraved onslabs of Luna marble, which were made fast to the wall by iron clamps; in its perfect state this map must have covered a surface of three hundred square metres. been carefully collected and fastened to the wall of the staircase in the Capitol. On studying this map, we may get some idea of what Rome was in the second century. The streets appear to be narrow and irregular, though they had been greatly widened and straightened after the great fire in Nero’s reign. The theatres, baths, basilicas, all the public monuments, are here shown in their proper places, and oftentimes they are named; the private houses, even, seem to be represented exactly as they were, and the artist has even portrayed the porticoes which often adorned their frontage on the streets for the benefit of promenaders. Ineed not dwell on the value of this plan to those who study the topography of Rome. The travelers’ guides are no less useful. Such “guides” there undoubtedly were, and not few in number, in a city to which people flocked from every part of the world. Such works of this class as have come down to us, all date from toward the fall of the empire; they are mostly itineraries, suclk as are found in our present | guide-books, The traveler has his route marked What is left of it has | out for him from one end of the empire to the other, and the names of all the edifices which he | will meet on the way are given. The older edi- tions of these itineraries are dry and curt, but | the later ones are filled with marvelous stories, intended to give the reader an interest in the | curiosities brought under his notice. After the of ancient Rome can be easily reconstructed, and there is no longer any reason to fear that exca- vations can lead only to finding insoluble enig- mas. There is nothing that more clearly proves the truth of this last remark, nothing that is better calculated to encourage archeologists in their hopes and in their efforts, than the discoveries One of these has | made on the Esquiline within the last few years. The success of these excavations is all the more notewortliy, inasmuch as the enterprise was not at all of a scientific character. The question was simply the building of a new quarter; but at Rome it is impossible to disturb the soil, to exca- vate to any depth for the foundations of a house, without coming upon something of interest to the antiquarian. This was the case here, and Science has profited by works undertaken with- out any reference to science.! Still, the Esquiline is not one of those hills which are most famous in the history of Rome. Toward the end of the republic it was an unin- habited spot of evil repute. Capital executions usually took place here, freemen being beheaded on a block, and slaves hanged from a gibbet or crucified. The bodies of these malefactors, when no one claimed them, were allowed to remain till they were devoured by birds of prey; hence the vultures of the Esquiline bore a sinister reputa- tion at Rome. The hill was used as a burying- place for the city’s poor; here, among the wretched tombs, were to be seen those famous pu- ticuli, or pits, a sort of public graves, into which were cast the dead bodies of those who did not leave money enough to defray the expense of burial. Mecenas, who saw with regret one of the most healthful quarters of Rome lying unin- habited, resolved to introduce life there. He *1 It must, however. be said, to the honor of the indus- trial company that built the new quarter, that it has also had excavation made at its own expense by a distinguished ' archeologist, Signore Brizio, and has published the results in a work entitled “Pitture e Sepoleri scoperti sull’ Es- quilino” (Roma, 1876). Signore Brizio has unearthed some ancient tombs found in the vicinity of the company’s works. One of these tombs contained some very curious paintings, representing the founding of Lavinium, and the lapse of twelve or fifteen hundred years, they death of neas and of King Latinus. As these paintings, may now render us the same service which they | in Signore Brizio's opinion, antedate the age of Augustes, tendered to the travelers in the time of the Lower | Empire or during the middle ages: they aid us | Mfinding our way through this labyrinth of tor- | tuous Streets, and amid these oftentimes undis- Unguishable ruins of monuments. With the aid Of these diverse resources—passages from ancient | they have the advantage of acquainting us with the state of those legends as they were found by Virgil when he made them the groundwork of his poem. Signore Brizio has also discovered a highly-important columbarium of the family of the Statilii Tauri, who were prominert dur- ing the first century of the empire. The inscriptions of this tomb furnish us with some very interesting informa- tion on the organization of slavery in ancient households.

Page 196

: 196 purchased at a low price the untenanted lands, | and planted magnificent gardens — the Horti | Meceniani, so famous in antiquity—and in the middle of the gardens built hima palace. This charming mansion, which commanded a view of | the entire plain, was so famed for its salubrity that the Emperor Augustus took up his abode | there whenever he was ill. The ancient hill, | hitherto shunned by all, was now soon covered with noble mansions, and the poet Horace took pleasure in celebrating in verse the metamorpho- | sis wrought by his illustrious friend. It is not surprising, then, that remains of sep- | ulchres should be found in a spot which was so | long used as a burying-place. In digging for the | foundations of new houses, the pickaxe would every moment hit upon bones or tombs. Among these tombs, some of whick were interesting on account of the inscriptions they bore or the | objects of art they contained, it was not difficult to recognize the puticuli. These were small, rec- tangular chambers, excavated down to the rock, with thick, rude walls. They were ranged in a line, but without intercommunication ; hence they opened only above. When a slave had been un- able to save money enough to buy a place in a poor columbarium, or if he had neglected to be- come a member of a burial society, his body was thrown into one of these puticuli. These cham- bers are still found filled with dust, bones, and human remains, which have blackened the soil and the walls in the process of decomposition. While the work of clearing these chambers out was going on, a quite unexpected discovery was made. Inasmuch as the natural rock formed the floor of the puticuli, it was natural to expect that nothing would be found beneath. But it was noticed that in some places the rock itself had been excavated, and that sepulchral cham- bers had been hollowed out in it. Not only are these sepulchres anterior to the puticuli overlying them, but, from certain indications which exist, it has been supposed that they even antedate the wall of Servius, which belongs to the time of the kings. The people who hollowed out these sep- ulchres, therefore, lived in the time of the kings, «nd only a few years after the founding of Rome, and hence they possess a very high degree of interest for the historian. Alongside of the graves have been found remains of rude pottery, vases, cups, lamps; and all of these objects appear to be of Etruscan workmanship: The walls, too, are built of large, square stones, exactly the same as are seen in the walls surrounding ancient Tus- THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. can cities. Have we not here a fresh proof of | the relations existing between Etruria and Rome in those ancient times, and an argument againgt Mommsen, who will not admit that the Romans borrowed from any other people but the Latins and the Greeks ? It was upon these two tiers of tombs —the one contemporaneous with the earliest period of Rome, and the other dating from republican times—that Maecenas laid out his gardens. He had carried thitker all sorts of rubbish from the burned quarter, and to this he added a quantity of loam, and so he covered over with five metres of débris all these ancient burying-places of slaves, He then built his palace, surrounding it, doubt. less, with therme, stadia, exedre, porticoes—in short, with all those different structures with which the ancients were wont to embellish their residences. These have all in their turn disap- peared under the soil of the modern city, and, as they have perished little by little, it might be supposed that they would have left no trace be- hind. Nevertheless, an important discovery, the most curious, perhaps, of all that have been made on the Exquiline, enables us to form an idea of what these surroundings of Mecenas’s palace must have been. In March, 1874, while digging for the founda- tions of a house, the workmen, just below the surface of the soil, came upon the summit of an ancient wall of curved form, on which were still to be seen some traces of painting. The earth was removed with the utmost care, and then it was found that this wall belonged to a great hall still in a good state of preservation, which meas- ured twenty-four metres in length by ten metres in width. This hall must have been decorated with considerable magnificence: on the floor were still to be seen some traces of a marble pavement, and the vaulted roof rested on a stucco ~ cornice. The walls, on being exposed to the light, were seen to be colored with a fine bright red. At the two extremities along the cornice and near the floor they are framed as it were im two casings with a black ground, which serve a8 a border, and on which are painted, by skillful hands, mythological subjects grave or gay, genii and nymphs, pleasant landscapes, many of them) still preserving their original freshness of color. Along the whole length of the walls, at intervals, are large niches resembling walled-up windows; in these niches, too, are some very fine painting& — Here we see standing out from a background of ons azure sky masses of verdure, flowers, and trees with birds flying through the air or perched om) — the branches, These frescoes, in the opinion of $

Page 197

aaeFaee FEES it be ROMAN EXCAVATIONS. 197 connoisseurs, give evidence of higher art and of the hall sat packed together the commonalty, more skillful execution than are to be found in | obscure friends, clients, dependents, people that the best specimens from Pompeii. We know as | were invited to fill the house and to applaud. afact that, in the reign of Augustus, that is to | This was the noisy portion of the audience: the say, at the time when this hall was built, a cer- | grandees in the orchestra expressed their satis- tain artist won a great reputation by being the | faction in hardly-audible murmurs. When we first who thought of adorning with pleasing pict- have ascertained the purpose for which this hall ures the walls of apartments. ‘On the walls,” | was built, we have no difficulty in understanding writes Pliny, “he represented country-houses, | its plan and arrangement. It was half under- porticoes, shrubbery trimmed in various figures, woods, groves, hill-sides, fish-ponds, canals, rivers. He introduced into these scenes persons walking about, or boating, or arriving at the house on asses or in vehicles; or, again, fishing, hunting, setting snares, engaged in the work of the vint- age.” This famous artist must surely have been employed by Mezcenas, and who knows but that here we find one of his great works? There is one circumstance which at first seemed strange, but which, as we shall see, is easily accounted for, namely, the fact that this hall, with its grand decorations, appears to be nothing but a kind of cave. It rises only four metres above the ground, while its floor is ten metres below the surface. It was lighted through its vaulted roof, and the large quantity of broken glass found among the rubbish shows that light was admitted through glass windows. For what purpose can this vast hall have been used, and why was it constructed with so much luxury? The answer is to be found in its inter- nal arrangement. At one end it forms a semi- circle around which are seven rows of concentric seats, rising one above the other to the ceiling, amphitheatre-fashion. At the opposite end there are found, in the middle of the wall, the remains of a rostrum. These two discoveries set all doubts at rest ; for, as we learn from the writers of that period, this was the arrangement common in halls for public reading where those literary gatherings, so fashionable under the empire, used lobe held. Here, then, it was that the wits of the time, after inviting their friends and acquaint- ances to come and hear them, used to read their ground so as to be cooler in summer. Public | readings often took place in August during the vacations of the Senate—Augusto recitantes mense poetas—and we know what August is at Rome. To make the audience of two hundred or three hundred souls more comfortable at the noontide hour, the hall was half subterranean ; but, at the same time, to make them forget that they were in a cave, decorations of a light and cheerful ' character were introduced everywhere. This was especially the object of the blind windows with their false perspectives. Thus nothing was lack- ing that might promote in the audience a kindly disposition toward the author: friendship had _ already made them indulgent critics, and the lux- ury and comforts of the hall might easily trans- form this favorable disposition into enthusiasm, Imagine a delightful retreat such as this, where everything is provided that can please the eye, with a kindly audience, and a skilled reader re- citing a piece that on the whole is mediocre and poorly written, but filled with clever hits, happy observations, sly allusions to the occurrences of the day, and little thrusts at the emperor and his ministers, and you will understand why the au- dience should burst every now and then into ap- plause. This it is which so often led men at that time astray as to the true merits of literary com- positions, and which caused them to regard as immortal masterpieces trifles that were destined never to be heard of by later generations. If the work done on the Esquiline by private industrial enterprise has been of such value to science, what might we expect of work done un- der the immediate control of Science itself, and literary productions. Yonder, on that elevated | directed toward purely scientific ends? Success platform, the orator would take his stand, “clad | was here assured: the excavations were to be in a brand-new toga,” says Persius, “with glit- | carried on in well-known, historic ground, which tering rings on his fingers, after having greeted _ had been the scene of great events in the past. the audience with a winning glance of his eye.” | The Forum of Rome was marked out in advance At the foot of the rostrum roomy seats were ar- | as the best field for the researches of explorers, ranged on the marble pavement for eminent per- | and hence the Forum first engaged the attention ‘onages whom the author wished to flatter, and of Signore Rosa. Having once commenced work who were made as comfortable as possible, so | here, he labored on for two years without inter- that they might be the more ready to admire the | mission. In speakitig of the excavations in the Forum Performance. On the benches at the farther end

Page 198

198 THE POPULAR SCIENCE I feel entirely at ease, for I have before me an excellent work, which refreshes my memory, and leaves me hardly any occasion for referring to my note-book. This work is the production of a young architect belonging to our school in Rome, M. Ferdinand Dutert, who closely observed all the work done under the direction of Signor Rosa, noting its progress from day to day, fol- lowing in the steps of the workmen, collecting and copying every little fragment of ornamenta- tion, every trifling bit of sculpture found as the work progressed. Not only will his book inform the reader who has never seen the Forum as to its present state, and refresh the memory of those who have seen it; he has furthermore en- deavored to give us an idea of the Forum as it was in ancient times. He reconstructs ruined temples, sets up again fallen columns, erects statues on their bases again, and restores all those splendors of which hardly the ruins still remain. I know that in works of this nature there is a great deal of con- jecture, but M. Dutert’s restorations are com- monly grounded upon indications so clear that we may regard them, on the whole, as entirely trustworthy. To his work, therefore, I confi- dently refer the curious reader who would know what the Forum looked like in the early days of the empire.! The Forum has always enjoyed the rare good fortune of being the centre, the heart of Rome. In nearly all of our modern capitals activity and life migrate in the lapse of ages: at Paris they have passed from the left to the right bank of the Seine, and from one extremity of the city to the other. Rome has been more faithful to its ancient traditions. Ever since the time when, according to Dionysius of Halicarnassus, Romu- | lus and Tatius, occupying the one the Palatine and the Ceelian, the other the Capitoline and the Quirinal, concluded to meet together for a dis- cussion of their common affairs in the humid and unwholesome plain lying between the Capitoline and the Palatine, that region has never ceased to be the scene of the assemblies and deliberations of the Romans. In early times there was no other public place in the city, and it was used for | 1“Te Forum Romain,” par M, Ferd. Dutert, archi- tecte, ancien pensionnaire de I’ Académie de France 4 Rome, | Paris: Lévy. The only fault I am disposed to find with this excellent work is, that now and then proper names are given incorrectly. proofs to some of his fellow-pupils in the Archrological | School at Rome for revision? Had this been done, we should not find, for instance, the name of the triumvir Lepidus given as “ Lepidius.” Why did not the author send his | MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. ' all sorts of purposes. In the morning it was market-place for the sale of provisions of all kinds, during the day it was occupied by the courts of justice, and in the evening it wag promenade. In the course of time public squares were multiplied, and there were special markets for the sale of cattle, vegetables, fish, ete. (forum boarium, olitorium, piscatorium) ; there were even markets for the sale of chcice delicacies (forum cuppedinis). But the old Forum of Romulus al. ways held its preéminence over them all. Even the empire, which changed everything else, did not deprive the Forum of this privilege. The em. perors established round about it public squares more extensive, more regular, more sumptuous; but these were always looked on as mere annexes and dependencies of what continued to be the Roman Forum, par excellence. This Forum with- stood the first disasters of the barbarian inva- sions, and outlived the capture of Rome by the Visigoths and the Vandals. After each squall the citizens set about refitting it as best they could ; and even the barbarians—Theodoric, for example—took pains to repair the ruins they themselves had wrought. This ancient public square and its edifices were still in existence at the opening of the seventh century, when the , Senate conceived the unfortunate idea of dedi- cating to the abominable tyrant Phocas that col- umn of which Gregorovius says that “it was preserved by the Nemesis of history as a last monument of the baseness of Romans.” From this time forward the process of decay went on unhindered. Each war, each invasion, over- turned some ancient monument which was never again restored. The temples and the triumphal arches were now flanked with towers and crowned with battlements after the manner of strong: holds; they were daily attacked during the par- tisan conflicts; they finally went to ruin, and their débris now covers the soil to the depth of some ten metres. Every century adds its share to the stratum of rubbish covering the ancient city. When, in 1536, Charles V. passed through Rome on his return from the expedition to Tunis, the pope wished to have the avenger of Christen- dom pass beneath the Arches of Constantine, Ti-. | tus, and Severus ; and, in order to make a better route for the imperial train, he had the Forum cleared of the ruins which filled it. “Over two hundred houses,” says Rabelais, who was an eye witness, “ were torn down, besides three or four churches.” Antiquity was covered over with this rubbish, and lost to sight. Henceforth the Forum, ; now become a grazing-place for cattle (camp?

Page 199

Was a of all y the was a arkets forum e even forum lus al. Even se, did 1e em- yuares {uous ; nexes be the | with- | inva- by the t they ‘ic, for s they public nce at en the f dedi- at col- it was From ent on over. } never amphal rowned he par- in, and pth of s share vaccino), assumed the appearance it wore down to the beginning of the present century. It was no longer anything but a dust-covered square, surrounded by mediocre churches, with here and there a column projecting half-way out of the soil—a melancholy, desolate spot, man greatness and the vicissitudes of events, Thus is it represented by Poussin in his little painting in the Doria Gallery, and by Claude Lor- rain in the landscape preserved in the Louvre. One might suppose that these half-buried col- | umns would have awakened the curiosity of | scholars. How is it that, since the Renaissance, none of them thought of digging at the bases of these columns to discover the soil on which they rested ? was full of historic débris, yet no one thought of undertaking a work that might lead to discoveries of the highest interest. It was not until the early years of the present century, during the French occupation, that scientific researches be- | _ portico the spectator could overlook the whole gan to be made; but they were interrupted pre- maturely, and gave rise to more problems than they resolved. The results were so incomplete that hot disputes arose among the archeologists. Every one gave a different name to the buildings discovered, every one had his own plan of the Forum ; neither its exact limits nor its precise | position was known, some thinking that it ex- tended from the Arch of Severus to the Arch of Titus—that is, from west to east—others making | it lie in the opposite direction, from St. Adrian's to St. Theodore’s ; and each one found in the an- cient authors passages clearly confirming his own particular view. Everything was in a state of | confusion, and new excavations alone could set- | ! tain precisely the site of the Julian Basilica, for, tle the disputes. But how all of these problems | have been solved ; thanks to the work done by | | Rosa, the mass of rubbish accumulated during | eight or ten centuries has disappeared. Nor was this done without labor ; over 120,000 cubic me- tres of soil has been removed, but the topography | of the Forum is now settled. We will consider in detail all these labors, enumerating the discoveries to which they have | led. The starting-point was the Julian Basilica, Which had been discovered by Canina, and partiy unearthed by the preceding Government. This was one of Cexsar’s finest monuments. hot the time to finish it, his nephew assumed the task; but hardly had it been completed before it was destroyed by a fire,-and it had to be begun Augustus took this opportunity for ; Over again. ROMAN EXCAVATIONS. where one | might come to meditate upon the fragility of hu- | That soil was the soil of the Forum, and there was no room for question but that it | As he had | 199 ! enlarging its plan and making it more beautiful. | There still remains of this edifice the marble pave- | ment, covering 4,500 metres of surface and raised several steps above the surrounding streets, This ' pavement bears the marks of the pillars which supported the roof of the basilica, and hence we can reconstruct the plan of the building with cer- ‘titude. It consisted of a double row of porticoes inclosing a grand hall. These porticoes were frequented by both sexes as a promenade; they were the largest and finest of all the porticoes in Rome. The hall was used as a court of justice. It was sufficiently roomy to accommodate a tri- bunal of one hundred and eighty judges, with | benches for tne advocates and the friends of the litigants, and a large free space for sight-seers. Here it was that the most important civil suits were tried during the empire; here it was that Quintiiian, Pliny the Younger, and other famous | advocates, achieved their most brilliant legal vic- ‘tories. Above the first tier of porticoes rose a second, reached by means of a stairway, some traces of which still remain. From this upper plaza. Caligula was wont thence to throw money down among the people for the pleasure of seeing them scramble for the possession of it. From - this portico a view could be had of what was go- ing on in the interior of the basilica, and even the pleadings of the advocates might be heard. Pliny tells of how, while once he was making a plea for a young lady disinherited by her father, who at the age of eighty had been captivated by an art- ful woman, the crowd was so great that not only | the hall, but even the upper corridors, were filled with men and women who had come to listen to him. It was a matter of great importance to ascer- this once known, then we can fix with certainty the names of the neighboring monuments. In the Ancyra inscription the Emperor Augustus says: “I have finished the basilica commenced by my father, situate between the temple of Cas- , tor and the temple of Saturn.” This fixes the ' identity of the two edifices between which stands the basilica erected by Casar. The temple of Saturn lies nearest to the Capitol; of it there still remain eight columns. The workmanship of these columns is rude enough. They must have been repaired during the later years of the em- pire, in the interval between two invasions, and the work was done so bastily and so carelessly that the sections of the shafts are in some in. stances set upside down. The other temple, situ-

Page 200

200 ate in the vicinity of the Palatine, is the temple of Castor, called by Cicero “the most illustrious of monuments, a memorial of the entire political life of the Romans.” columns which have always been an object of study and admiration to artists. to the excavation, look at them from a lower level. These first excavations accomplished, it was found that we were in possession of one whole side cf the Forum, the southern, from the Capito- line to the Pelatine. Hence all that remained to be done was to push the work on toward the north side, and the remainder of the Forum was sure to be discovered. We shall first come upon a paved street skirting the monuments just named, and ascendiug to the Capitol. On the opposite side of this street was a sort of square covered with | great slabs of travertine, arid about one hundred and twenty metres in length. as it were, the centre of the Forum. It is filled, especially alongside of the street, with large blocks of stone, on which must have stood the column and statues which were so numerous in the Forum. Near the middle, a little below the cclumn of Phocas, there is a larger heap of stones apparent- ly belonging to the substructure on which was | erected the famous colossal statue of Domitian; at all events, this must have been its site. Statius, the courtier poet, has celebrated the erection of this statue in verses in which, defying all shame | and all verisimilitude, he specially commends Do- mitian for his gentleness, ranks him high above Cesar, and represents the ancient republican he- roes as complimenting him. As luck would have it, the poet, in the midst of these distasteful plati- tudes, has contrived to render us a signal benefit. In enumerating the edifices by which the statue of his hero is surrounded, naming them and indi- cating their sites, he gives us information of great value as tending to identify all these ruins. “ Be- hind him,” says Statius, “ rises the temple of Con- cord; on one side of him stands the Basilica of Julius, and on the other that of 7Zmilius. Full in front is the monument of him who first opened for our princes the road to heaven”—viz., the temple erected'in honor of Julius Cesar after his deification. Now, it was a point of high impor- tance to discover this temple. And, as Statius clearly points out the direction in which it was to be looked for, it was soon fourd on the east side of the Forum, in the open space extending from the temple of Castor to the temple of Antoninus and Faustina. Of this temple of Julius only some shapeless ruins of the substructure now re- THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. Of this there remain three | They appear | more striking than ever, now that we can, owing This square was, ' main, but that these ruins really belong to the | edifice in question is proved beyond cavil, It , was observed that the steps in front do not, as is usual, extend the whole length of the facade; ig , the middle is a wall of peperine faced with slabg of marble, dividing the two narrow stairways, This wall used to support a platform from which orators could address the people. Now, we know that Cesar conceived the idea of erecting a new hustings facing the ancient Rostra; that Augus. tus adorned it with the beaks of the ships taken at Actium ; and that it was situated in front of the temple which he built in honor of his uncle, on the very spot where the body of the great dicta- tor was burned. This hustings once found, it is beyond doubt that the monument back of it can be none other than the temple of Cwsar. The discovery of this temple enables us _ Clearly to define the limits of the Forum, We have made out three of its sides, and the fourth alone we have not been able to unearth; it un- derlies a portion of new Rome, and in order to _ bring it to light we should have to tear down all | the houses from San Lorenzo in Miranda as far as San Martino. Fortunately, we can pretty accu- | rately determine what we should find here. The texts of ancient writers are pretty explicit with | regard to this part of the Forum, and a certain very singular discovery places it so to speak , under our very eyes. In the course of the exca- vations made near the column of Phocas, there , Were found two bass-reliefs, belonging apparent- _ ly to the first century, but which were worked up into buildings erected during the middle ages. | The subject of these bass-reliefs has given rise to much heated debate, yet every one admits that the scene is laid in the Forum, and that the | artist intended to represent its principal monu- ments, In one of the bass-reliefs we plainly | recognize the temples of Castor and of Saturn, _as also the Julian Basilica, that is to say, the edi- fices of the south side of the Forum. Now, a8 | the other one was designed to face this, it is cer _ tain that it contains the monuments on the oppo | site side of the Forum—the one side hitherto not unearthed. Thus we are in possession of the | elements necessary for a knowledge of the entire Forum. True, it is not the Forum itself that is te stored to us by these excavations; we see noth- ing but shapeless ruins, but these assuredly awaken great memories. One cannot, without emotisn, tread the pavement of the Via Sacre | over which so many triumphs have passed, OF oe | step upon the broad flags worn by the feet of 0 Let

Page 201

as ig + in slabs ays, hich now 1gus. aken f the e, on licta- t can * ences of level; but these edifices, built at ran- many great men. But these flags are now all cracked aud broken, and the street pavement is in ruins. We may add that, in order to maintain communication between the two halves of the modern city, it has been necessary to leave in the middle of the excavations an unsightly cause- way known as the “Bridge of Consolation.” It cuts the Forum in two, and prevents a general view of it from any side. To see the Forum as it used to be, we must first in imagination remove | this obstacle, and then—a more difficult thing to do—we must repair and reconstruct these ruins. Here, M. Dutert’s reconstruction becomes of ser- vice, as aiding our imaginations in the effort to go back into the distant past. Suppose, then, that we have before our eyes not heaps of ruins, but the Forum in its entirety aiid intact, just as it was when the empire began to decline, after the time of the Antonines. Let | us take our stand at some convenient and cen- tral point, from which we may command a gen- eral view, for instance, on Cesar’s hustings, and contemplate the spectacle which presents itself ROMAN EXCAVATIONS. to our gaze. I should not be surprised if the first glance were to fall short of our expectations. We are wont to reckon great size and regularity of plan among the principal qualities of a public square, and the Forum is small and irregular. Originally, indeed, the Forum included areas at different levels and with uneven surface. The Comitium rose out of a swampy plain; the Vul- canal rose above the Comitium; and from the Vulcanal a steep ascent led to the Capitol. In the course of time the construction of great edi- fices led to a partial concealment of these differ- 201 encumbered with trophies, edicule, columns, and above all with statues, which, in the language of Chateaubriand, formed a population of the dead in the midst of the living population of the city. Vanity so multiplied these monuments that from time to time the Senate was compelled to have some of them removed. Among the columns were some of considerable prominence; they were surrounded by a balcony commanding a view of the whole Forum. On days when a sue- cessful and grateful candidate gave a spectacle to the people, the descendants of those in whose honor the column was erected were entitled, them- selves and their families, to occupy this balcony for the purpose of viewing the performances of the gladiators or athletes. Hence, I do not doubt that on first view the Forum wotld have an un- pleasing effect ; such a crowding together of mon- uments wearies the mind, and one regrets the absence of all order, simplicity, and symmetry. I nevertheless am of the opinion that, if for a moment we forget our habits of thought, our eye will adapt itself to this rather confused spec- tacle, and that we will find therein a certain pict- uresqueness that is never met with in the cold and stately regularity of our great public squares. We shall then be able without difficulty to com- prehend the general plan of the Forum, though at first it appeared to have no plan. It stretched from west to east, and formed not a long quad- rangle, but rather a sort of trapezium, being wider at the end toward the Capitol than at its other extremity. In the middle of the streets surrounding the Forum, there was a certain space paved with broad flagstones, and reserved for promenaders and loungers. At the extremity dom, and at very different periods, do not always correspond to each other. Time, it may be said, made the Forum what it was. No architect drew its plan beforehand, fixed its proportions or dis- | tributed the monuments over its surface; and hence they are huddled and crowded together | without order. Each of the great personages | that ruled the republic having been intent on leaving some memorial of himself in the most | famous and most frequented locality in Rome, the result is a multitude of temples, basilicas, and triumphal arches, fairly bewildering. New | structures were constantly building, and, when | old ones were repaired, they were always in- creased in size. In consequence of these suc- | cessive invasions of its area, the free space of | the Forum grew more and more contracted. Even the spaces between these edifices which should have been left open for public use, were | of this promenade toward the Capitol was the hustings of the republican period, the same from which the Gracchi and Cicero addressed the peo- ple. Its foundations are still to be seen near the Arch of Severus. The hustings erected by Cesar stood just opposite. Supposing ourselves to stand on Cesar’s hustings, we see right in front of us the Rostra of republican times; behind this the temple of Concord, erected by Camillus; and in the background the Tuabula- rium, in which were kept the archives of state. To the right the Via Sacra, entering the Forum near the temple of Antoninus and Faustina, crossed it on its north side—the side not yet ex- plored; it skirted first the basilica of Paulus nilius situated in front of that of Cesar, and which rivaled the latter structure, and then the palace of the Curia, in which the Senate met. After passing under the Arch of Severus it

Page 202

¢ 202 THE POPULAR SCIENCE turned to the left, and near the temple of Saturn began to ascend the hill-side toward the Capitol, reaching by a steep gradient the famous temple of Jupiter Capitolinus, the foundations of which have just been discovered under the Caffarelli Palace. Topographical problems are not the only ones raised by the study of the Forum. After we know where to locate the edifices it must have contained, and what names are to be given to the ruins of monuments which still remain, all is not yet done; otber questions arise that are nearly as difficult of solution. Above all, the question suggests itself, on seeing how inconsid- erable its area was, how it could suffice for all the purposes which it served. ancient authors that it was the most frequented place in all Rome. Loungers, so numerous in all great cities, here kept their rendezvous. Horace tells us that he used to walk about in the Forum every evening. There was much here to gratify curiosity: to say nothing of the charlatans of every sort, who were never wanting, there were now and then regular exhibitions of paintings. The chefs-d'euvre of Greece, after its overthrow, were often exhibited here undér the porticoes or in the temples, and amateurs flocked thither to view them. Victorious generals would sometimes have their battles painted by able artists, and ex- hibited in the Forum. One military commander, the Prator Mancinus, carried his complacency so far as to take his stand beside a picture repre- senting his great achievements, in order to give to visitors such explanations as they might re- | quire. This politeness so delighted the people that in the following year they named him consul. ! lative assemblies (consilia plebis, comitia tribula), s News-mongers and politicians crowded around the hustings, forming animated groups, who en- gaged in hot disputes, raising a fearful clamor. The disputants busied themselves with drafts of laws and plans of campaign, and they spared neither the unpopular statesman nor the general who was not victorious in the first battle. A lit- tle farther down, below the Curia and near the Emilian Basilica, was the ’Change. The money- brokers had their offices in certain arched pas- sages known as Jani, and here they might be | seen seated at their desks, entering on their books | the money placed in their keeping, or the moneys they loaned on good security and at an enormous | rate of interest. Here were assembled the stew- ards of great estates, the equifes who farmed the public revenues, brokers, usurers, borrowers; | important business was here transacted ; money was quickly made, but more quickly lost. We know from | MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. The Forum was also sometimes used for pop. ular exhibitions, especially combats of gladiators, Of course on such occasions it was crowded with spectators. People were packed together in dense masses, pot only in the vicinity of the areng itself, but also on the steps of the temples or the terraces of the basilicas, and all along the streets leading up the Capitoline and the Quirinal. Such exhibitions often lasted several days, and usually closed with a banquet served to all who were present. To enable the people to view the spec. tacle and to enjcy the banquet despite the heat | of the sun, Cesar bethought him of stretching great awnings over the entire Forum; and these awnings were of silk, according to Dion Cassius, Soon this sort of magnificence became the rule; and once even, during a very hot summer, Augus- | tus suffered the awnings to stand during the en- | A more frequent spectacle even ' tire season. | than the combats of gladiators was the obsequies of great personages. The cortége always passed through the Forum, with its bands of flute-play- ers, trumpeters, and clarionists, its women-mourn- | ers, its troops of friends, clients, and dependents, Finally come chariots or litters bearing the an- cestral statues. When the family of the deceased | Was an ancient one, the number of statues carried ; in the funeral cortége was very great; at the | funeral of Mareclius there were over 600 of them, | And these processions never failed to pass | | | through the Forum even when it was occupied by other assemblages of people. But it was the political assemblies, above all, that attracted crowds to the Forum. Of these | there were three kinds, known as—1. The legis- which made laws. 2. Simple meetings (conciones), in which nothing was put to a vote, and which were called by magistrates who desired to make anything known to the people. 3. Political tr als, conducted in public before juries, drawn by lot, and presided over by a prator. Of these three sorts of assemblies, the first was the mest important, and of least frequent occurrence, It matters not how insane the desire of perpetually changing their legislation that possesses a free people, they cannot every day have laws to make or to unmake. I would add that this first class | of meetings was not the most popular of the three. Those solid discourses in which are se | forth broad views, and questions of state are di* cussed, are less adapted to popular assemblies than to select bodies consisting of small numbers of educated men. The multitude usually take but little pleasure in such discourses, which af |

Page 203

it the upied ve all, ROMAN EXCAVATIONS. 203 too calm, too cold for them. To arouse their in- True, this place which we now see is not the terest, there was needed at Rome some personal | Forum of the republic, but only that of the em- question ; and hence the importance attached to | pire. Weare told that it was not narrowed down the political trials. The latter were as frequent | to its present limited area till the time of the at Rome as at Athens, and politicians were con- | empire, when there was no need of a larger stantly engaged in defending themselves, or in | Forum, inasmuch as the people no longer passed bringing charges against their opponents. Politi- | upon laws; but this hypothesis is erroneous. cal parties had no other means of attack but this. There doubtless was a time during the early cen- It was a spectacle of high dramatic interest to see | turies of the republic when the Forum was not a great man surrounded by his weeping family, his | 60 filled with buildings as it now is. With the clients, and his friends, standing up in the Forum | exception of a few temples which are as old as to defend his fortune and his honor, and crowds | the city itself, it then contained only miserable would come to witness it. No less numerously | shops, the public schools, and butchers’-stalls, attended were the meetings called by magistrates for the purpose of addressing the people. The democracy is everywhere very exacting and full of suspicion; at Rome, as elsewhere, they desired those to whom they had intrusted the public offices to render an account of their doings, and this duty no magistrate neglected to discharge who wished to continue in favor with the people. Cato, one of the most perfect types of the popu- lar magistrate, always maintained relations with his constituency. He was ever calling meetings | ' for the purpose of setting forth in detail what he had done; he would express his opinion on every subject with that broad humor that so pleases the multitude ; he would talk about himself and | But from the time when Cato built the first ba- silica, monuments of every kind were constantly erected. Nearly every monument that is still to be seen was built under the republic; all that the empire did was to repair them. These monu- ments, therefore, did not hinder the meeting of | the popular assemblies in the Forum, The place was very nearly what it is now about Cwsar’s time, when Clodius and Milo had their regular battles here, and when Cicero here thundered against Catiline or Antony. There is another | reason for holding that the Forum could never have been so extensive as we picture it in imagi- nation, and this is, that it must have been possi- ble for orators to make their voices heard. Now, others, never sparing his opponents, whom he , however strong we may suppose the lungs of a serupled not to describe as debauchees and | Cicero or a Demosthenes to have been, we could knaves, while he never tired of bragging of his own | never think of them delivering speeches in the sobriety of life and his disinterestedness. The | Place de la Concorde. people were delighted with this sort of address, The republics of ancient times found them- which made them feel that they were the sovereigns, | selves in great straits when they had to lay out In seasons of public excitement, when it was | their public places: they had to make them large known that a tribune was about to speak against | enough to hold an entire people, and at the same the Senate, or to discuss more all-absorbing ques- | time so small that the voice of the orators would tion, artisans would quit their work, the shops | not be lost. Inasmuch as the Roman Forum was would be shut, and the people flocked from all | for many centuries the ordinary place for holding quarters to the Forum. On such occasions the Forum, being packed with people, must have ap- peared rather small. But the crowaing was still greater at the legislative assemblies of which we | spoke above. Then certain precautions had to be taken for regulating the voting: the place was divided into thirty-five separate compart- ments for the different tribes, and narrow pas- | public assemblies, we must suppose that it ful- | filled these two conditions. This is a fact, and we must accept it, even though we may be unable to account for it. Hence we are forced to believe , that the orators could be heard here; that, even when their words were not very distinctly heard, their voices could still control those noisy meetings which have been compared to the waves of the sages, called bridges, were constructed, through | stormy sea. Perhaps the situation of the Forum which the citizens could pass only one by one to will enable us to understand what at first appears deposit their ballots in the baskets. When we | to be absolutely unaccountable. It occupies low cast our eyes over the Forum as it now is, and grounds, surrounded by steep declivities. On see what a small area it embraces, it is hard in- | the side toward the Capitol there is actually a deed to understand how it ever sufficed for all | precipice ; the incline is more gradual at the op- those complex operations, and how it ever could | posite extremity toward the Arch of Titus, but hold the Roman people assembled. still rather steep. One “went down” to the

Page 204

204 Forum, as the saying was. When we consider that this arrangement of the ground, the small extent of the place, these surrounding hills, these inclosing buildings, supply conditions very favor- able to the voice, it becomes a little less surpris- ing to us that orators should have made them- selves heard here, and that they should have been able to produce such great effect. We must further confess that this Forum, small as it ap- pears, may have been sufficiently large to hold all who wished to be present at important trials or to deposit their ballots on days of voting. may be that, after all, the number of voters was less than we suppose, and that the place was large enough simply because a portion of those qualified to vote ubsented themselves. Toward the end of the republic, in proportion as the popular assem- blies became more stormy, wise and moderate men, who everywhere are the most timid, feil into the habit of staying away. When it was seen that these assemblies usually ended in bloody quarrels, people that disliked strife ceased to attend. Cicero bitterly complains of this de- sertion of the Comitia, and speaks of certain laws as having been passed by a handful of citi- zens, or even by those who had no right at all to vote. This explains why so many Romans should have made so little difficulty about ac- cepting the empire: it was a very small matter for them to be deprived of political rights which they themselves had renounced. Still, under the empire, the Forum appeared 7HE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. It | to be too small. The popular assemblies were now no more; but the promenaders, loungers, sight-seers, were constantly increasing in num. bers, and strangers were coming in from all parts of the world. The plan was now adopted, not of enlarging the old Forum—a thing that could not be done save by destroying the ancient mon- uments—but of constructing other forums all around it. Cesar made the first step in this di. rection, and the other princeps imitated him. As each strove to eclipse his predecessors, the out- lay was larger from reign to reign, and the build- ings finer. Thus it was that there was created in the heart of the sovereign city the finest col lectiun of monuments and public places ever seen. The stranger who entered Rome by the Flaminian Way, and who, after passing through the Forums of Trajan, Nerva, Vespasian, Augus- | tus, and Cwsar, came at last to the ancient Forum Romanum, where the beauty of the edifices was enhanced by the grandeur of the memories assp- ciated with them, must have been filled with sur- prise at the spectacle. However great an idea he had conceived in his own country of the wonders of Rome, he had to confess that his dreams fell below the reality. He felt that he stood in the capital city of the whole world, and he went home filled with an admiration, never to be effaced, for that city upon which were fixed the eyes of all mankind, and which, as early as the second century, was called the “ Holy City.” A LEAF OF EASTERN HISTORY. By tHe Late NASSAU W. SENIOR. NTRODUCTORY NOTE.—In the month of June, 1855, M. Ferdinand de Lesseps vis- ited England for the purpose of inducing the British Government to withdraw their opposi- tion to the proposed construction of the Suez Canal. He had been for some years the French consul-general in Cairo. His father had filled that post before, and it was mainly by the advice of the elder M. de Lesseps that the sultan select- ed Mehemet Ali to be Pasha of Egypt. Mehemet Ali reposed great confidence in M. Ferdinand de Lesseps, and intrusted to him in a great degree the education of his favorite son Said Pasha, who consequently was prepared to view with favor M. de Lesseps’s important scheme. A firman was submitted to the sultan, who, how- ever, delayed its ratification until the formal con- sent of England could be obtained, and M. de Lesseps was empowered by the French Govern- ment to negotiate with the members of the Brit ish cabinet. M. Thiers gave him a letter to Mr. Senior, in whose house he became a frequent and a welcome guest. A commission, consisting chiefly of engineers from various countries, was appointed to proceed to Egypt in the following winter, end Mr. Senior (who, unlike most of his countrymen, had be- lieved from the first that the proposed

Page 205

uM hich hich, | the would rather forward than impede the interests A LEAF OF EASTERN HISTORY. 205 Mrs. Lieder and Hekekyan, believed themselves of England) was invited, with three or four other | to have drunk poisoned coffee. In each case it personal friends of M. de Lesseps, to join the party. They were royally entertained by the viceroy. The best apartments in the best hotels were put everywhere at their disposal ; carriages, camels, and running footmen, were always in readiness for them, and a small steamer conveyed the whole party up the Nile. According to his practice when abroad, Mr. Senior kept an elab- orate journal, which still retains its interest, for the East does not materially change. This jour- nal contains records of his conversations with people of all nations: a fact well known, for on one page he writes: “ The viceroy said to Ruys- senaer after I left him, ‘J’ai donné a M. Senior une belle page pour son journal.’” Among his interlocutors there was none more interesting and instructive than Hekekyan Bey, an Armenian, who had in early youth been sent by Mehemet Alito be educated in Europe. Throughout the reign of that pasha he and his family had re- tained great influence: his brother-in-law Kos- rew Bey being first dragoman, another brother- in-law, Artim Bey, prime-minister, and Hekek- yan himself director of the Ecole des Arts et Métiers. Abbas, the next pasha, hated his grandfather's friends, and dismissed them all. In 1855 they were still out of office. In 1862 Hekekyan Bey came to England with his wife and his son to see the second Exhibi- tion. He was at that time an exceedingly hand- some man, apparently about fifty, tall, and rather like an Italian from the north of Italy. He was full of animation and good-nature, and his man- ners and conversation were most agreeable. He spoke both French and English perfectly well. His wife spoke nothing but Arabie, so it was dif- ficult to get on with her. On one occasion she put on, as a favor, her Eastern dress, It was composed of black satin, and, it must be owned, was far from becoming to an elderly lady ; but those were the days of crinoline—in 1877 it would probaoly not appear so extraordinary. It is difficult to make selections when there is 80 much that is interesting and instructive. This story of Mche net Ali, related by Hekek- yan, is perhaps the most striking of the follow- ing extracts. Extract from Mr, Senior’s Journal. “Mr. and Mrs. Lieder, Hekekyan Bey and his wife, and Mr. Bruce, drank tea with us. “It is a remarkable indication of Oriental morals that of our four Egyptian guests, two, was detected by its peculiar and extreme bitter- ness, and not enough taken to do serious mis- chief. Mrs. Lieder received hers at Nazleh Hanem’s; Hekekyan’s was given to him at Me- neele Pasha’s. It was in 1840. He was at that time out of favor with Mehemet Ali: his bold- ness of conversation and perkaps his boldness of character, partly natural and partly acquired in England, unfit him for Eastern courts, He has seldom continued long in favor or long in dis- grace. His talents, knowledge, and industry, force him into employment, and some unguarded speech or the performance of some duty offen- sive to the master, or to his minister, or to his cook, or to his barber, turns him out: when they cannot do without him he is recalled. “*TIn 1840,’ he said to us, ‘after the bom- bardment of Acre, some weeks passed without any news from Ibrahim Pasha, or from his army in Syria. A strong suspicion arose that he had made his peace with the sultan at his father’s expense, and that Mehemet Ali’s reign and life were drawing to a close. “«T was then the engineer charged with the defenses of the coast. We were expecting an attack from Sir Charles Napier, and I had been to Rosetta to inspect the batteries. It was ona tempestuous night that I returned to Alexandria, and went to the palace on the shore of the for- mer island of Pharos to make my report to Me- hemet Ali. “*The halls and passages which I used to find full of Mamelukes and officers, strutting about in the fullness of their contempt for a Christian, were empty; without encountering a single attendant, I reached his room overlooking the sea; it was dimly lighted by a few candles of bad Egyptian wax, with enormous untrimmed wicks. Here, at the end of his divan, I found him rolled up in a sort of ball, solitary, motion- less, apparently absorbed in thought. The waves were breaking heavily on the mole, and I ex- pected every instant the casements to be blown in. The roar of wind and sea was almost awful, but he did not seem conscious of it. “*T stood before him silent, Suddenly he said, as if speaking to himself, “I think I can trust Ibrahim.” Again he was silent for some time, and then desired me to fetch Motus Bey, his admiral. I found him and brought him to the viceroy. Neither of them spoke, until the viceroy, after looking at him steadily for some minutes, said tome: “He is drunk; take him

Page 206

‘ THE POPULAR SCIENCE 206 away.” I did so; and so ended my visit, without making any report.’ “* Was Motus drunk ?’ I asked. “*He was -drunk,’ answered Hekekyan, ‘as all the naval officers were; they expected to be sent out to fight Napier, and kept drinking to keep up their spirits. “The viceroy,’ he added, ‘was not pleased at my having witnessed his emotion or his neglect- ed state; but what completed my disgrace was my having alluded some months after to the events of that night. He immediately sent me off to Cairo, on a trifling errand about the forti- fications of the citadel, and kept me there for three months. “¢ At the end of that time I received a sum- | mons from Meneele Pasha, the man who has just returned from Eupatoria, who was the Minister of War. He placed me by him on his divan and gave me a pipe, but said nothing. Then came coffee. I just sipped mine, and found it totally unlike anything that I had ever tasted before ; it was nauseous and intensely bitter. back to the servant. Meneele looked hard at me, but said nothing. Isata few minutes longer, waiting for him to tell me why he had sent for me, and, hearing nothing, went away, without a word having passed between us. after Mehemet Ali arrived from Alexandria at the citadel. “*T cannot but suspect that I had become disagreeable, and that he had directed Meneele to dispose of me before his return to Cairo. certainly seemed that the only purpose for which Meneele summoned me was that I might drink that cup of coffee.’ “* But,’ I said, ‘if Mehemet Ali wished to re- move you, might he not have had recourse to a more certain expedient ?’ ““* There were objections,’ answered Hekek- yan, ‘m my case to the use of the dagger or | the cord. I was not then, as I am now, alone; one of my brothers-in-law was his prime-minis- ter, another was his first interpreter. It would have been inconvenient to part with them, and | they certainly would have quitted him. “““He wished me to die, but he did not wish to be suspected of having killed me. I believe that it was for the same purpose that he sent me a few months after, at the beginning ef the hot season, to pass some months in the Southern Desert ; and I am not sure that he did not take means to increase the dangers of the desert. The only place at which I halted was Berenice, on the Red Sea, where I spent a month, time I gave it | Half an hour | It | MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. enough for my sojourn there to be known at Cairo. A few days after I had left Berenice g party of armed Bishareem arrived there, inquired anxiously for me, and, finding that I was gone, followed me; luckily I left Komsko on the Nile before them, and in my boat I was safe, for the | Bishareem are not aquatic.’ “*Are they coarse or scientific poisoners,’ J asked, ‘in Egypt?’ , “* Scientific,’ answered Lieder. ‘ The poisons are vegetable, and are not often intended to pro. duce an immediate result, or even to operate by a single dose ; they undermine the healtb by free quent repetition. The custom of giving coffee to every visitor affords great facilities to what may be called dietetic poisoning. In Europe, } unless you live in the same house with a man, it is difficult to poison him unless he dines with you, and even then, without accomplices. The accomplices cannot be easily obtained, and they would possess a dangerous secret, which would make them your masters. You seldom can re peat the dose, it must therefore be violent. The fact of his having dined with you would be easily proved, and his death by poison connected with it. The poisonings of Europe, therefore, are fam- ily poisonings. ; “In Egypt a man may drink coffee in the | course of the morning at ten different houses. A single accomplice is all that iz necessary; there | is no difficulty in prevailing on him to accept the | office ; it is as natural to him as any other ser- | Vice. He does not think much about it, and is | not likely to talk about it. If he does, you poi- ; son him, or have him strangled, and bury him in | your garden. You run little risk by doing 80; | nothing that happens in a man’s house is known. For most purposes, indeed for all purposes, ex- cept opposing the will of the pasha, a man’s house is his castle in Egypt more really than itis in England. The reverence paid to the harem | extends to everything that is under the same roof. The Egyptian thinks himself well recom- pensed for being a slave abroad by being absolute at home. He would not accept freedom or sect | rity for himself if the condition were that it should | extend to his household.’ “In this country,’ said Hekekyan, ‘the dis appearance of an unprotected man is not noticed. | If I were to walk out to-morrow and not to re turn, no one except Madame Hekekyan would think about it. She would be alarmed the ioss night, and more so the second, and on the third she would give me up for lost. But she would infer that I had been removed by the higher po¥*

Page 207

n at ice a ’ fre. ers, and that, if she made complaints or even in- quiries, she would share my fate ; and in a short * time it would be forgotten, at least among the Turks, that Hekekyan Bey had ever existed. “‘Mr, Lieder,’ he added, ‘says truly that our poisonings are seldom rapid. When the exist- ence of a man has become offensive to the mas- ter he is impoverished, his villages are resumed, claims against him are countenanced, it is whis- pered about that it is imprudent to visit him or to receive him; he soon finds himself alone as if he were in the desert. A Mussulman who has no resources, who neither sports, nor gambles, nor converses, nor reads, nor writes, nor walks, nor rides, nor travels, soon smokes himself into dys- pepsia. If he be, what few Mussulmans are, a man of quick sensibility and self-respect, he is also oppressed and irritated by the intolerable feeling of wrong. Then perhaps he is suddenly recalled. He is again in favor, he is soon to be again in power; at every visit that he pays to the palace or to one of the divans, he gets a cup of coffee slightly impregnated; the moral and the physical excitement combine, His death follows an illness which has not been scandalously short.’ “The remark,’ said Lieder, ‘that Orientals are not to be judged according to European no- tions, is so obvious that it has become trite; on no point is the difference between the two minds more striking than in the respect for life.’ “The European cares nothing for brute life ; he destroys the lower animals without scruple whenever it suits his convenience, his pleasure, or his caprice ; he shoots his favorite horse and his favorite dog as soon as they become too old for service. “The Mussulman preserves the lives of the lower animals solicitously. Though he considers the dog impure, and never makes a friend of him, A LEAF OF EASTERN HISTORY. 207 to his little grandson that such things ought not to be done without a motive.’ “When Nazleh Hanem,’ I asked, ‘ burnt her slave to death for giving her cold coffee, did her father interfere ?’ “*No,’ said Hekekyan, ‘he could not. That took place ina harem, The murdering the mes- senger at Shoobra is another instance: it would have cost little to shut up the poor old man until any danger of his telling from whom he came was over; but it was simpler to drown him. Perhaps, however, in that case Mehemet Ali merely followed instructions which he might have thought it dishonorable to disobey. There was probably at the bottom of the letter some mark indicating how the person who brought it was to be disposed of, as we write, “ Burn this note as soon as you have read it.”’’ “‘That incident,’ I said, ‘is mentioned by Cadoleone and Barrault in their history of the East in 1839 and 1840, and they affirm that the messenger was drowned for having refused to disclose the name of his employer.’ “«That is a mistake,’ said Hekekyan. ‘I was the only person present when Mehemet Ali received the messenger. He was obviously a man of the lowest class, who would not bave re- fused to disclose anything. Mehemet Ali asked no questions, and indeed had none to ask.’ ” Mr. Senior heard the sequel to this story some time afterward at Alexandria from Artim Bey, Mehemet Ali's prime-minister: “T asked him if he recollected the night de- , Scribed to me by Hekekyan when Mehemet Ali _ lay alone in an empty palace, thinking over the ‘ he thinks it sinful to kill him, and allows the | neighborhood and even the streets of his town to | be infested by packs of masterless dogs whom we should get rid of in London or Berlin in one day. The beggar does not venture to destroy his vermin, he puts them tenderly on the ground. There are hospitals in Cairo for superannuated cats, where they are fed at the public expense. But to human life he is utterly indifferent: he extinguishes it with much less scruple than that With which we shoot a horse past his work. ““Abbas,’ said Hekekyan, ‘when a boy, had hia Pastry-cook bastinadoed to death. Mehemet Ali mildly reproved him for it, as we should cor- recta child for killing a butterfly; he explained chances of Ibrahim’s fidelity. “* Certainly I do,’ he answered, ‘and I recol- lect the day that followed it. Napier appeared off the old port and sent in a letter requiring the viceroy to surrender the Turkish fleet, and to submit to the award of the four powers.’ ““* What was his force?’ I asked. “*T forget,’ answered Artim; ‘five or six ships. We had about eighteen sail-of-the-line and twenty frigates—not less than fifty ships— but we could not rely on the Turkish sailors. They would have joined the English if we had allowed the ships to quit the port, nor could we indeed trust the Egyptians, and as for the artil- lerymen they had spiked the guns on the bat- teries. Mehemet Ali was still in his mood of re- sistance. I took to him Napier’s letter. He asked fiercely, “What does the Englishman

Page 208

208 THE POPULAR SCIENCE say?” “Let the letter be translated to you,” I answered. This was done. He rose from his divan and began to walk up and down the room exclaiming: “I will not give up the fleet; they may burn it if they can, they may burn Alexan- dria, they may drive me out of Egypt and I will live a hadji in Mecca; but they shall not drive me out of Egypt, or even out of Alexandria. I will fight until further resistance is impossible. I will make my last stand in the powder-maga- zine, and when all is lost, je sauterai.” “This may be well,” I said, “in your highness’s high position, but it will not suit your subjects, Si vous sautez, vous sauterez seul.” “*He came up to me in a fury, and I own that I trembled, and that my knees shook. I moved back, and he advanced until I was close to the wall. Then we stood face to face. He looked at me for some time, probably considering whether he should give a sign for my being strangled. At last he said, “Send an order to the Englishman to come on shore to me.” ““*] wrote to Napier to say that “the vice- roy thought that the matter could be best ar- ranged in a personal interview, and to request that he would visit his highness at the palace.” The next day Napier came. Mehemet Ali had had a night to reflect, and he had profited by it. He seized him by both hands, placed him on his right side on the corner of the divan, gave him diamond-topped pipes, and coffee in gold cups, and acceded without remonstrance to all his de- mands, and in the same evening Napier was wandering alone over the bazaars of Alexandria in around hat. I offered him a “ tchaous,” but he said he had objects with which an attendant would interfere. “*Mehemet Ali,’ he continued, ‘was not a safe master, but he was an agreeable one. He was very generous ; he had a quick and correct appreciation of character, and his conversation was charming. “* Although he did not learn to read until he was forty-seven, he had more literary taste than any Turk that I have known. He had every book about Napoleon that he could find trans- lated for him, and read them or had them read to him with avidity. He made me translate the “Esprit des Lois,” and read it with great inter- est. Of course I rather paraphrased than trans- lated. He would not have understood Montes- | quieu’s terse epigrams. “*He told me one day that he had read much about Machiavelli’s “ Principe,” and begged me to translate it for him. I set to work, and gave | MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. him the first day ten pages, and the next ten pages more, and ten more the third ; but on the fourth he stopped me. “I have read,” he said, “ al} that you have given me of Machiavelli. I did not find much that was new in your first ten pages, but I hoped that it might improve ; but the next ten were not better, and the last are mere com. monplace. I see that I have nothing to lear from Machiavelli. I know many more tricks than he knew; you need not translate any more of him.” “*Though passionate, he was not cruel, nor indifferent to human suffering. I went with him one day to one of his farms. He found that his manager had been buying straw. He was very ; angry. “A farm,” he said, “ought to furnish its own straw; there must have been peculation or mismanagement.” He ordered the manager to receive three hundred blows. I was shocked, and | ventured to remonstrate; but he kept repeating | that his farms must provide their own straw, ““«The next morning I found him on his di- van in tears. “A dreadful thing,” he said, “has happened to me. The man whom yesterday I ordered to be beaten is dead. You must find out his family, give his widow a pension of one hundred dollars a year, and provide for his children, if he has left any.” “*Mehemet Ali's sons,’ continued Artim, ‘by | his old Macedonian wife, Ibrahim, Ismail, and l Toussoun, were all men of ability, far superior to those by his slaves, and they were much better | educated; not that they had more learning, but | that, as they were born before he was pasha, they | escaped the flattery which has ruined the others. | Perhaps, however, power would have spoilt them as it spoiled Abbas and Said. I once said to Achmed,' “ You are an excellent man now, _ but God knows what you will be when you are ' viceroy!” Abbas was good and Said was good in private life.’ | “Which had the most talent,’ I asked, ‘ Ab- | bas or Said ?’ “* Abbas,’ he answered. ‘And, though be could speak only Turkish, he talked well and wrote well his own language. Said speaks well no language but French; his Turkish is bad, and | he cannot write at all, Abbas hated Europeans and European education, but wished to diffuse | Turkish education. Said hates all educaticn of every kind. Said is the bolder man, Abbas was | timid, Mehemet Ali used to abuse him for his ' indolence, and prophesied to him that, if he _ passed all his time smoking and lolling on his 1 The heir-apparent in 1856,

Page 209

xt ten on the d, “all lid not e next > com- learn tricks y nore el, nor th him hat his 8 very urnish ulation iger to d, and W. his di. “has rday I st find of one or his mn, ‘by 1, and rior to ig, but , they thers. spoilt e said | now, ou are ood in

SUBMARINE CABLES AND THEIR MANUFACTURE. 209 divan, he would be assassinated. This prophecy | mon soldiers, have free access to him. Turks sank deep into the mind of Abbas, and assassi- | are fond of low company. They are at ease in it.’ nation was always uppermost in his thoughts.’ “«Said,’ I said, ‘seems to me at ease in all “¢] wonder, then,’ I said, ‘that he ventured | companies,’ to ill-treat or even to threaten the very Mame- “* For a short time,’ answered Artim; ‘ but he lukes who kept guard over him!’ does not like the restraints of polished society, or “*No European,’ answered <Artim, ‘ would | the sustained conversation of intelligent persons. have done so, nor would he, perhaps, when he | He has quickness, @-propos, and repartee, and was cool, but in his fits of anger he was mad. | some humorous naiveté, but there is no sequence He killed several of his Mamelukes—one a few | in his ideas. He cannot reason. He has dis- days before his own death—and certainly had | missed all his council, and turned his ministers threatened the two who murdered him.’ into clerks; but so little is he aware of the ex- “What has become of them?’ I asked. tent of the duties he has assumed that he wastes “‘T believe,’ answered Artim, ‘that they are | four or five hours every day drilling recruits. still in the army. They have never been pun- | That, however, is his amusement; and the amuse- ished. Abbas’s mother came to Said to ask that | ments of a Turk are so few that he must take what her son might be revenged ; but Mahmoud Pasha, | he can get. A friend of mine, a native physician, Mustapha Bey, and Elfi Bey, the three persons | was called in a few days ago by a Turk, and who first heard of the murder, had all been | found him dying of dyspepsia, arising from tor- Mamelukes. To preserve the honor of the corps | por of mind and body. He advised him to ride. they made the physicians sign a certificate that | “I don’t like riding,” said the patient. “Then,” the death was natural, and Said was anxious that | said the physician, “spend a few hours every that story should be believed, as he did not wish | morning in your harem.” “I hate my harem,” to put the assassination of viceroys into people's | was the answer. “Then,” said the physician, heads,’ | “count your money for a few hours.” “I don’t “With whom,’ I said, ‘does Said live?’ care about money,” said the patient. ‘“ Then,” “*With his servants,’ answered Artim Bey, | said the physician, “hang yourself, for how can ‘like all Oviental princes. His barber, his bath- | life be endurable to a man who does not care for ing-man, his pipe-fillers, form the fonds of his so- | his horse, or his wife, or his money ? ”’”—Fort- ciety. Then his soldiers, particularly his com- | nightly Review. °

SUBMARINE CABLES AND THEIR MANUFACTURE. WENTY-SEVEN years ago the first subma- | the lion’s share of the work and the capital. The rine cable was laid across the Strait of | cables have nearly all been manufactured in Lon- Dover. This was a single copper wire covered | don, which is the headquarters of telegraphy. in gutta-percha, which parted next day ; and the The principal parts of a submarine cable are: first practicable submarine cable was laid in | the conductor ; the insulator ; and the protector, 1851, on the same route. Since then the prog-| or sheathing. The conductor, as its name im- ress of ocean telegraphy has been extraordinary, | plies, is the wire which conducts or conveys the no fewer than six cables spanning the Atlantic | electric current from one place to another, It bed—five to North America (although these are | corresponds to the iron wire of our ordinary not all working), and one to South America by | open-air or land lines of telegraph. Along this way of Madeira and Pernambuco. And so ex- | wire, as is well known, the current from the bat- tensive is the already existing network of foreign | tery at the station from which the message is cables that, when Asia is united to America by | being sent travels to the station receiving the cabling the Pacific, the electric girdle round the | message, where it passes to the earth, and ap- World will be complete from east to west, as it | pears to return through the earth to the battery now is between north and south. again, thus completing its circuit, There are two In this great development of telegraphy our | distinct parts of the circuit which the current countrymen have unquestionably furnished both | has to traverse—namely, the outgoing part, rep- 14

Page 210

210 resented by the wire or conductor ; and the re- turn part, represented by the earth itself; and, inasmuch as these two parts must be kept dis- tinct and apart throughout their length, the wire which is laid along the earth’s surface must be kept apart from the earth, to secure which the conductor is entirely surrounded with an insu- lator. In land-lines, erected on posts overhead, the wire is separated or insulated from the earth by the air, which is, when dry, the most perfect insulator known; and at the points of support contact with the earth is prevented by the use of porcelain, stoneware, or vulcanite insulators, to which the conducting-wire is fastened. An insulator is a non-conducting substance, impervious, so to speak, to electricity. It is the theoretical antipodes of a conductor. While the conductor is a substance through or over which electricity flows freely, the insulator will neither permit electricity to pass through its mass nor over its surface. It can, therefore, be used as a means of confining electricity to a conductor, and preventing it from escaping to other con- ductors in the neighborhood. In short, it can be made to insulate or isolate the particular con- ductor from all other conductors. Its use in a submarine cable is to confine the electric current to the conductor or wire, so that it travels along it from one station to the other without escaping to the water, and through that to the earth (which, as we have already said, is the neighboring con- ductor, and the return part of the circuit) on its way. It is, therefore, of course, important that there shall be no flaw in the insulator; and, in order to protect it from strain and violence, it is covered with a strong guard or sheathing. This outer sheathing or protector, which is composed of twisted-metal strands, is purely mechanical. Only the conductor and the insulator are con- cerned in the electrical requirements of the cable. The conductor is invariably of copper wire, that metal being chosen because, next to silver, which is, of course, too expensive, it is the best metallic conductor of electricity. The metals, as distinguished from most other minerals, are excellent conductors of electricity; that is to say, they oppose relatively less resisfance to the passage of the electric current through their mass. There is an economy of power in using a good conductor for the telegraphic line. The current is less weakened when the resistance to its passage along the line of wire is less, and it is, therefore, capable of more powerful effects throughout the route, and consequently at the THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. other end. The conductivity or conducting | which has either been tanned or soaked in brine | gutta-percha, and Stockholm tar. power of a wire increases with the thickness of the wire; and, therefore, by taking a thicker wire of a more common metal than copper (such as iron), the resistance to the passage of the eur. rent may be made as small as when a thin cop. per wire is employed. But it is important that the conductor of a submarine cable, especially of a long one, should be of as fine dimensions ag possible, in order to economize insulating mate. rial and sheathing, and reduce the total weight of the finished line. Therefore the advantages, in point of price, of iron wire over copper, in the first place, would be greatly overbalanced by the increased cost of insulating and sheathing it, It is of the greatest importance that the copper wire of the cable should be as pure as possible, for the slightest trace of arsenic or other foreign element is sufficient to hamper, in some mys- terious way, the swift course of the subtile cur. rent, and very materially to weaken the conduct- ing power of the wire. iy In a few cables the copper conductor has been made in the form of a single thick wire; but, for the sake of greater flexibility and less risk of breakage, it is generally made in the form of a strand of three or more, and frequently of seven wires—six set round a central one. The wires are wound together in a spiral strand, and their interstices filled with an adhesive substance called Chatterton’s Compound, a mixture of resin, This com- pound not only renders the strand solid and im- pervious to water, but also acts as an adhesive connection between the copper conductor itself and the insulator with which it is to be coated. Bound together with this or similar pitchy com- pounds, the conductor and the insulator form @ solid core expanding and contracting together. The insulator is always either of gutta-percha or India-rubber, but most frequently the former; and it is, of course, essential that there shall be no flaw or defect, such as an air-bubble or steam- vesicle, or hair or thread inclosed so as to d& teriorate its insulating properties. To guard against such accidents, it is usual to apply a 8 ries of coatings to make up the total thickness of the insulator. Accordingly, when one coating has cocled, a layer of Chatterton’s Compound is applied to it, and another coating overlaid, and so on, until the required amount of insulating material has been put on. Whether the insulating substance is gutt® percha or India-rubber, there is generally wound round it a serving of untarred hemp or jute-yar

Page 211

ess of hicker r (such he cur- 1 COp- nt that recially ions ag z mate: weight ntages, yper, in ced hy hing it, copper ossible, foreign e mys- ile cur- onduct- tor has k wire; nd less he form ntly of nd, and bstance of resin, Ss com and im- dhesive r itself hy com- form & other. -pereha former; shall be r steam- ; to de » guard ly a se 1ickness ound is aid, and sulating 3 gutta y wound ite-yarD, in brine asa preservative. This is to act as a padding or cushion for the iron sheathing or protector next tobe applied. This serving is applied in the fol- lowing way: A circular disk or frame, carrying on one face a series of bobbins which hold the threads of the yarn, is kept revolving. The core js made to pass through a hole in the centre of this disk, and the threads are wound spirally round it as the disk revolves. The iron wires of the sheathing, which com- pletely inclose and cover the served core, are wound on by the powerful “ cable-machines,” whose operation is so interesting a feature in a visit to a cable-factory. The great revolving disk, seven or eight feet in diameter, is set round with iron bobbins filled with the iron sheathing- wires, These bobbins are suspended on the face of the disk, so that as the disk revolves they always preserve their fixed position with respect to the earth. In this way the wires themselves are not twisted round their own axes as they are laid on the core. These wires are generally of the best homogeneous iron wire—that is, a wire intermediate in quality between iron and steel, and uniting some of the toughness of the former to the strength of the latter. They are some- times themselves covered with a serving of the best tarred Manila hemp ; sometimes laid on in single wires abutting against each other, so as to form a smooth and complete casing for the cable; and sometimes they are applied in strands of three wires, each abutting against each other. The composite sheathing of hemp and iron is usually applied to the deep-sea portion of a cable where, in laying, a union of lightness and strength is demanded, and where, when once laid, the cable is not likely to be molested. The single- wire sheathing is applied to cables to be laid in shallower depths, such as coast-waters; and the heary-strand sheathing is for protecting the cable in anchorages and on sea-beaches. The light- sheathed cable is called “main” or “deep-sea cable;” the medium is called “ intermediate ;” and the heavy-sheathed cable is called “shore- end.” There is seldom more of the last than ten or twelve miles, to carry the cable well out of teach of the abrasion of storm-shifted bowlders aad coast-anchorage. The intermediate usually extends until deep water has been reached, where the deep-sea portion takes its place. These three types of cable are connected together by “ taper- Pieces.” The core is, of course, uniform through- out the entire length of the cable; but the taper- Pleees serve to connect the different types of sheathing artistically and soundly with each oth- SUBMARINE CABLES AND THEIR MANUFACTURE. 211 er. The intermediate cable generally has its sheathing-wires covered with a serving of min- eral pitch, silica, and hemp of a coarse quality, in order to ward off as long as possible the dis- solving action of the sea-water. The cable being thus finished at the manufac- tory, it is coiled into large iron tanks, and there immersed in brine until it is shipped for transport and laying. All the materials of a submarine cable are carefully watched and tested—the iron wire for stretching, twisting, and breaking stress, and the core for all its electric properties. The special properties of. every knot or mile of the core are chronicled, so that a complete account of every part of the cable is preserved during its progress of manufacture. And after it is made, it is test- ed electrically every day, to see that no change takes place in its electric qualities. These elec- tric tests are three in number: For resistance— the resistance of the copper wire to the passage of the current. For inductive capacity — the amount of charge or quantity of electricity which the cable will take up. For insulation resistance —the insulating power of the gutta-percha coat- ing. These tests are made by direct comparison with units, just as bodies are weighed by com- parison with a pound or unit of weight. The unit of electric resistance is the ohm ; so called after the celebrated German physicist and elec- trician Ohm. The ohm is the resistance of a cer- tain length of platinum-silver wire determined by a committee of the British Association. Multi- ples of the ohm are readily obtained, and these are arranged and made up into what are called resistance-boxes—the practical tool of the elec- trician. A resistance-box usually contains coils of platinum-silver wire of from five thousand ohms downward to single ohms or fractions of an ohm. It is with this finely-graduated tool that the electrician compares the resistance; or, in other words, ascertains the conducting power of the cable. The unit of measurement of the insulation re- sistance of the cable is a very high multiple of the ohm, called the meg-ohm or million-ohms ; for, inasmuch as the insulator is, technically speak- ing, a non-conductor, its office is to exercise the necessary resistance to the escape of the current. The unit for capacity is called a micro-farad or millionth part of the farad, which derives its name from Faraday, and represents a certain quantity of electricity. The practical tool for the micro-farad is a contrivance called a condenser,

Page 212

212 a description of which, without the aid of draw- ings, would be too technical for our readers. A submarine cable is itself, however, a particular form of such a condenser. The copper wire is one of the opposed conductors, the sheathing, earth, and sea-water, form the other, and these are separated from each other by the insulating coating of gutta-percha. It is a curious fact that when a charge of electricity is communicated to the copper wire of a cable, it induces a charge of an opposite kind in the earth outside. This in- ductive property of an insulated wire contiguous to the earth has an important bearing on practi- cal telegraphy ; for, inasmuch as the communi- cated charge and the induced charge attract each other, the former travels less swiftly along the wire; it is held back, as it were, by the retarding influence of the earth’s induced charge; or, in other words, has a tendency to ooze out of the cable instead of traveling uninterruptedly to the other end. It is of consequence, therefore, to ascertain the inductive capacity of a cable; as the less it is, the greater will the speed of sig- naling be. The resistances and capacity of a cable are usually tested, according to the standards of re- sistance and capacity—that is, with the ohm, meg-ohm, and micro-farad—by measuring the strength of an electric current passing through the cable, by means of an instrument called the galvanometer, or current-measurer. Its principle depends upon the fact, discovered by Oersted, the famous Copenhagen philosopher, that when a current is sent along a wire in the neighborhood of a freely-suspended magnetic needle, the needle will be deflected into a new position, and this po- sition will be to right or to left according as the | current of one kind or the other is sent through the wire. Moreover, the amount of deflection THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. | | will be directly proportional to the s/rength of the | current. This great discovery, which gave an incalculably great impetus to the progress of the | telegraph, is the theoretical basis of the galvanom- eter. One form of this instrument, used to test submarine cables, is called the “reflecting gal- vanometer,” and is the invention of Sir William Thomson. The wire through which the current to be measured is made to pass, consists of a great many turns of silk-covered or insulated copper of a very fine gauge, forming a hollow coil, in the heart of which a very diminutive mag- netic needle is suspended by a gossamer-like fila- ment of floss-silk. This magnet (or magnets, for there are generally more than one) carries a tiny circular mirror, the whole arrangement of mag- | and observing their respective discharges by beam of light is thrown from a lamp in front onto the mirror, and reflected back again on to a grad, uated pasteboard scale. measured is sent throughout the coiled wire gur, tally on their former position, and the mirror is inclined round with them, so that the reflected tance to which it is moved being a measure of the current strength. nets and mirror being no longer than (@), 4 When the current to be rounding the magnets, they are turned horizop. beam of light is moved along the scale, the dis. Now, when the current from a given battery or source of electricity is made to pass through wires of different resistances, the strength of the current which will pass through these wires can be made a measure of their resistances ; and there. fore, when the current from a particular bat tery is sent through the conductor of the cable or to test the insulator, and in each case meas ured by the galvanometer, and compared with the current from the same source which will flow through the units of comparison, the copper re sistance and insulation resistance can be obtained, In a somewhat similar way the capacity—the amount of electricity which a cable will take—is compared with the capacity of a standard con denser or measure of capacity. The opposite plates or sheets of the condenser are charged by a particular battery; and, as these charges are eager to flow into each other and unite, but are held apart by the insulator, they may be allowed to do so through a wire or other conductor. The discharge of the opposite electricities into one another sets up a short, powerful current in this wire, and its strength is proportional to the quan tity of electricity discharged ; that is, to the ca pacity of the condenser. If the coil of the gab vanometer be substituted for this discharging-wire the strength of this discharge will be measured by the deflection of the gleam of light on the. scale. By charging alternately, therefore, the condenser and the cable from the same battery, means of the galvanometer, the capacities of the cable and condenser are compared. The speed of signaling through a submarine cable, that is to say, the number of words per minute that can be transmitted through it, varies with the resistance of its conductor, its inductive capacity, and its length ; and it is by a consider tion of these properties, together with weight and cost of material, that its form and dimensionsa® designed ; and on this interesting subject we MAY — have a few words to say in a future re Chambers’s Journal. va

Page 213

HE critic who aims at the highest triumph of his art, the revelation to the world of unrecognized genius, must often feel a disagree- able qualm. May he not be puffing a charlatan, instead of heralding the adveut of a great man ? The doubt is still more perplexing when the genius to be proclaimed is his own, and the re- sponsibility correspondingly greater. And hence arises a problem which has often occurred to me when reading about two eminent men of the last generation. Wordsworth and Haydon were friends. Each sympathized with the aims of the other. Words- worth wished to reform poetry as Haydon wished to reform painting. Each of them endeavored to breathe a loftier spirit into the devotees of his favorite art. Each of them persevered heroically in spite of the most depressing reception. The enthusiasm which animated Haydon was not less elevated above the ends of a commonplace self- ishness than that which animated Wordsworth. If the painter was undeniably vain, the poet pushed vanity to the verge of the sublime. One, however, failed where the other succeeded. Poor Haydon’s life-long exertions were not, one may hope, entirely thrown away; but his most cherished ambition came to naught. He pro- duced no work which might entitle the English school to rank among the great schools of the world. Wordsworth, on the contrary, breathed new life even into the rich and vigorous growth of English poetry; he set his mark upon a gen- eration; and enjoyed, before he died, the pro- found homage of the best and purest minds of the succeeding generation. Haydon, then, made a fatal mistake, whereas Wordsworth’s daring was justified by the result. That is clearly a reason for pity in the one case and congratulation in the other. But is it a rea- foh—as it is certainly a common pretext—for pronouncing a different moral judgment upon the ‘women? Is suecess to be the sole test of vir- tue in this as in so many other cases? When a hero burns his ships, scorns the counsels of cool common-sense, plucks the flower safety from the nettle danger, and ends by winning an empire in defiance of all calculation, we are ready with our nas. But, if he fails, should we therefore Stone him? If Columbus had met with a little More adverse weather, his courage would not have prevented the failure of his enterprise. GENIUS AND VANITY. 213 GENIUS AND VANITY. Had our arctic voyagers chanced upon a better route, they might have reached the pole without expending more devotion, The hero is the man who dares to run a risk; who is not deterred be- cause an element of the radically unknowable enters into his calculations. If he knew more than others he would be a wiser, but not a better, man than his fellows. He would be playing the great game with loaded dice. His insight, not his daring, would deserve our wonder. But he who risks life and fame upon an uncertainty de- serves equal credit, for his intrinsic merit is the same, whether the cards turn up for him or against him. Our life is little but a wandering in a trackless desert. We throw out exploring- parties in every direction, Ten die of starvation and misery; one hits upon the right path. Too often we praise the man already rewarded by fortune, and attribute his good luck to some mys- terious power of intuitive judgment. But, if we were just, we should bestow equal praise and more sympathy upon the luckless ones whose steps led them to the barren places, and whose failures, it may be, served as warning beacons to their more favored successors. Why not apply this rule to the pioneers of intellectual or artistic progress? Hundreds of men have wasted lives of energetic endeavor in following delusive paths in that great labyrinth of human knowledge, where the clew is so hard to find, and where at every stage so many paths hold out equal promise. We, enlightened by slow experience, or by wider knowledge, can see that these wanderings were predestined to fail- ure. But why not honor equally the high faith which scorned meaner aims, and was unchilled by the indifference of the vulgar? Is devotion to knowledge so common a quality that we can afford to despise it unless it bears fruit in appre- ciable results? We often laugh at the poor would-be philosophers who waste years in trying to discover perpetual motion, or to square the circle. They are, we may be sure, grossly igno- rant, and, in all likelihood, intolerably arrogant. They must be ignorant of other men’s work, or blind to the vast improbability that they should be right, and all the great intellects of the world hopelessly wrong. Yet, even in this case, pity as much as scorn may be due to the ignorance ; and the arrogance itself is but the ugly side or the ex- aggerated development of the quality which, more

Page 214

214 than any other, is necessary for intellectual prog. ress, We have never a sufficient supply of origi- nality and intellectual daring. We always need more men able to cast aside the traditional spee- tacles, to see for themselves and once more test the dogmas which our indolence tempts us to ac- cept with too easy a faith. Such courage is good, even when misguided. Find men who will dare, and all is possible. Let obedience to authority be installed as the first intellectual virtue, and knowledge will be petrified into Chinese finality. And, if even such eccentricity deserves that con- tempt should be tempered with mercy, may we not rightfully bonor many others who have thrown away their lives, like poor Casaubon in “ Middle- march,” in labors fruitless because accidentally | misdirected? Itis a great misfortune, but it is not a vice, to be an anachronism. But what are we to say to that great army of martyrs, among whom poor Haydon is to be reck- THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. oned—the epic poets, the rivals of Shakespeare, the would-be eclipsers of Raphael or Phidias— | the men whose efforts to sing or to paint have | supplied the world with mountains of waste-pa- | per, and spoiled acres of good canvas? One of the most pathetic of Balzac’s minor stories de- scribes the fate of a poor painter, who had la- bored for years at a picture destined to create a new era in art. All his hopes in life, his love and his ambition, were involved in its success. No one had been admitted to the room in which he labored with unremitted devotion. At last, the day came when the favored person stood be- fore the curtain which concealed the masterpiece. | The painter drew it aside slowly and solemnly, | and revealed a meaningless confusion of chaotic coloring. The artist’s mind was of course un- | hinged ; but his melancholy story is a symbol of | the fate of many men still outside Bedlam. Any one who has seen the darker side of the literary and artistic worlds can match Balzac’s hero with numerous instances of similar self-delusion. The pictures are not often mere random blotches of color; the poems frequently obey the laws of grammar, and even of metre; but, for all good purposes, the artist might as well have thrown his brush at the canvas, or the author taken his words at random from the dictionary. And what should be our feeling ? Contempt or pity or ad- miration for the devotion, combined with com- passion for the error? Should we honor, say, a Chatterton who is a martyr to his ambition, be- cause the poems unrecognized during his lifetime turned out really to have something in them (though, after all, not very much !), and despise the numerous Chattertons who have hopelessly failed, because there was nothing in them at all? The moral quality was the same. The differenee was, that one man judged his powers rightly, while the hundreds judge of their powers wrongly, But this is an error to which almost every man is liable. Our squarers of the circle are silly, because they can appeal to a court which is prae. tically infallible. A hundred professors of mathe. matics are ready not only to tell them that they are wrong, but to explain to them how and why they are wrong. But the poet can appeal to no such ccurt. If he is not appreciated, it may be that he is in advance, not in rear, of his time, A century hence, his work may be winning recog. nition, and his descendants be ridiculing the blindness of their ancestors. Why, then, should he not persevere, and trust his work to time? Do we not, in any case, owe to him the tribute of admiration for a devotion of which it is pre. mature to pronounce that it was directed to a mistaken object ? The easiest answer is, that a false estimate of our own merits is in fact immoral. Vanity is weakness which we can all condemn unreserved- ly, because we all feel that we are free from it ourselves, and recognize its existence throughout the rest of the species. The appointed chastise. ment of vanity is ridicule. Therefore we are right in laughing at the man who thinks himself to be a Milton when he is merely a Satan Mont- gomery. The victim may reply that we are beg- | ging the question, and that what we call his van- ity will hereafter be called consciousness of genius. And, in truth, the dilemma is in one sense in- soluble. Critics are fallible ; cliques are fallible. The outside public is so fallible as to be gener- ally wrong; no literary court is infallible except — that to which the best minds of all ages are ad- mitted as judges, and in which many of our most dogmatic utterances would look foolish enough, Yet we must take our chance. Judges must sen- tence prisoners, though now and then they may condemn an innocent person. Critics must laugh at charlatans, though they may now and then mistake a man of genius fora fool, But there is a more fundamental difficulty. Granting that a man’s confidence in his own powers really im- plies vanity, are we, therefore, justified in eo demning him? Is vanity a vice at all? Is it not in any case a vice so universal that none of us have a right to cast the first stone? Nay, if we lay aside the conventional attitude of mind, in which our little cut-and-dried maxims pass ~ for legitimate currency, ought we not rather to

Page 215

\opelessly m at all? lifference + rightly wrongly, very man are silly, h is prae- of mathe. hat they and why al to no t may be his time, ng recog. ling the n, should (0 time? e tribute it is pre- ted to a imate of Yanity is reserved. . from it roughout chastise- . we are himself an Mont- are beg- his van- of genius. sense in- » fallible. e gener- le except — ; are ad- our most enough, aust SeD- — hey may st laugh nd then ut there ing that pally im- in con 9 Isit none of - Nay, if of mind, ns pied ather to call vanity a virtue, or at lowest a desirable qual- ity? Listen to the ordinary moralizing of the pulpit and the moral essayist, and we, of course, must condemn vanity, as on the same showing we condemn many of the most essential qualities by which the world is carried on, There is a sense—nobody denies it—in which these com- monplaces have a sound, if a rather obvious, meaning. But all maxims that have been much used by preachers—lay or clerical—become so strained and perverted in the process that, like worn-out muskets, they are apt to produce very random shooting. Who that has looked at the world for himself can deny that vanity may be reckoned among the most enviable of possessions ? It deserves, even more than the original object of the panegyric, the praise which Sancho be- stowed upon sleep. Vanity does indeed wrap a man up like a cloak. It bestows its blessings freely upon the poet striving against general mis- appreciation ; it enables the poor loser in the great battle of life to make himself happy with some trifling success ; it softens the bitter pangs of disappointment and gives fresh strength for new struggles ; it prevents resentment and facili- tates the intercourse of society; it can make any man contented with his lot, and lets the poor drudge in the kitchen think without envy of the statesman in the parlor, Who would not be tempted to frequent irritation if he could enjoy that gift for which the poct so foolishly prayed, the gift of seeing himself as others saw him, and recognize his infinitesimal importance in the eyes of his fellows? It is because of the tender illu- sions of vanity that a man can accept the petty sphere of his own activity for the wider circle of the world, and shut out the annihilating image of the vast forces beyond. It is the safeguard against a depressing fatalism, Vanity has as many virtues as the vaunted panaceas of medical quackery ; and, were it not for that softening oil, the wheels of life would grate harsh music too discordant for mortal ears. Yet in singing the praises of vanity we be- come aware of a certain vagueness of outline about this Protean goddess, She can take many shapes ; and changes so rapidly and completely that we are unable to fix any definite portrait “pon our canvas. Sometimes there is a scowl upon her features, and sometimes a complacent smile, She can pass herself off in the likeness GENIUS AND VANITY. of her conventional opposite, humility, or ape the gestures of pride, or be undistinguishable from mere sullen egotism. All our definitions of the | passions have this provoking vagueness, because, | 215 in truth, we do not know what are the ultimate elements of character. We cannot find chemical formule for human nature, or say how many atoms of spiritual oxygen or hydrogen must be combined to form a definite product. Our efforts at analysis break down at every instant. Every new light thrown by new circumstances brings out previously unsuspected aspects of bewilder- ing complexity. Every new character seems to require a new category for its description. There seem to be as many species of men as there are individuals, Our complacent little formule may guide our conduct with tolerable accuracy; but, when we confront theory with the infinite variety of facts, we recognize the futility of any claim to scientific accuracy. We class men as good or bad, humble or vain ; and when looking at excep- tional cases, or dealing only with large classes and average results, our words have a kind of meaning. The saint and the sinner, St. John and Judas Iscariot, may be distinguished easily enough, But between the extremes we may in- terpose any number of terms, varying so strange- ly, in so many directions, and combining so many apparent contradictions, that our lines of demar- kation become hopelessly blurred and confused. Our compartments may be most logically subdi- vided, but no real being will quite fit into any one of them. The inferior classes multiply on our lands ; they cross, blend, overlap, and confuse each other till we admit them to be useless, We can seldom apply a rule to a dozen cases without finding twelve exceptions. The qualifications to our statements become so numerous that the statements are practically worthless. The poet ean create characters; the man of science can- not define them or assign their composition. Thus the condemnation of vanity collapses when we try to answer the plain question, What is vanity? Try to define accurately the various cognate terms, vanity, conceit, pride, egotism, and their numerous allies, to mark out accurately their points of resemblance and contrast, and then test your conclusions by appropriate exam- ples. Take a few cases at random. Ilere is Miss Martineau, for example, who says in her au- tobiography that all the distinguished men of her time were vain—and she does not add that the limits of time or sex are a necessary part of the assertion. But was she not vain herself? No, for she formed a singularly modest and sound estimate of her own abilities. But again, yes, for she certainly seems to have considered that to one person at least Miss Martineau was incom- parably the most interesting person in the uni-

Page 216

216 verse, that coming generations would be od foundly interested in the analysis of her character | and the genesis of her works, and also that the merits of her contemporaries might be accurately gauged by the extent to which they did or did | not sympathize with Harriet Martineau. Is not | egotism of this kind mere vanity disguised by a superficial air of impartiality? Take the vanity, again, which is revealed so curiously in the re- cently-published letters of Balzac. Here it be- comes a force which leads a man to reckon him- self among the four greatest heroes of his age, and goes far to make him what he supposes him- self to be. It develops a kind of monomania leading to utter absorption in his own affairs, in his literary ambition, and, above all, in calcula- tions as to the number of francs into which his genius can be coined. Was it a strength or a weakness ? Contrast it with the vanity—for many people will call it vanity—of his contem- porary Doudan. Doudan’s letters reveal to us a man of that admirable fineness of intellect so conspicuous in the best French writers, which may be defined as the sublimated essence of com- mon-sense. But his exquisite sensibility was pushed to such a point as to destroy his fertility, and but for his letters his name would have been known to his fellows only through a passing allu- sion of Sainte-Beuve. Shall we say that Balzac’s vanity led him to produce the “Comédie Hu- maine,” and Doudan’s humility made him pro- duce—nothing? Then vanity is so far a good and humility a bad thing. Or shall we say that this excessive sensibility is but vanity disguised ? —that a man who trembles before criticism thinks too much of his own importance? The theory is a common one, and enables us verbally | to condemn vanity in all forms; but it implicitly admits, too, that vanity may produce diametri- | cally opposite results, and at times codperate | hand-in-hand with humility. Infuse vanity into such a man as Goldsmith, | and it adds a childlike charm to his character ; it gives a tinge of delightful humor to his writ- | ing, and enables his friends to love him the more heartily because they have a right also to pay themselves by-a little kindly contempt. Make a Byron vain, and half his magnificent force of mind will be wasted by silly efforts to attract the notice of his contemporaries by attacking their best feelings and affecting (a superfluous task !) vices which he does not possess. The vanity of a Wordsworth enables him to treat with profound disdain the sneers of Edinburgh reviewers, and the dull indifference of the mass of readers; but THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. it encourages him also to become a literary sloven, to spoil noble thought by groveling language, and to subside into supine obstructiveness. Converse. ly, the vanity of a Pope makes him suffer yp. speakable tortures from the stings of critics com. pared to whom Jeffrey was a giant, condescend to the meanest artifices to catch the applause of his contemporaries, and hunger and thirst for the food which Wordsworth rejected with contempt But it also enables him to become within his own limits the most exquisite of artists in words; to increase in skill as he increased in years; and to coin phrases for a distant posterity even out of the most trifling ebullition of passing spite. The vanity of a Milton excites something approaching to awe. The vanity of a Congreve excites our rightful contempt. Vanity seems to be at onee the source of the greatest weaknesses and of the greatest achievements. To write a history of vanity would be to write the history of the great. est men of our race; for soldiers and statesmen have been as vain as poets and artists. Chatham was vain; Wolfe was vain; Nelson was childish- ly vain; and the great Napoleon was as vain as the vainest. Must not our condemnation of the quality undergo some modification before we can lay it down as an absolute principle ? If, to set aside some ambiguities, we declare that man to be vain who, for whatever reason, over-estimates his own merit or importance in the world, we shall naturally infer that vanity is so far bad as it implies an error. A man is the bet- ter for knowing the truth, in this as in all other cases. But we may still ask whether the error is of such a nature as to deserve moral disapproval. We do not blame a man because he gives the wrong answer to one of those problems which have tasked the ingenuity of countless thinkers of the highest ability. The difficulty of discover- ing the truth about one individual, especially about our own individuality, is as great as the difficulty of discovering the truth about a general problem of philosophy and theology. The moralist who, in this latter case, admits that sincerity is no guarantee against error, orders men to be candid, but cannot order them to arrive at right conclu sions. A mistake in judgment is not wicked, pre cisely because mistakes are the necessary Conse quence of candid examination by our imperfect reason. Sincerity, not infallibility, is our moral duty. Similarly, it is right to judge of ourselves as fairly as we can; but the difficulties which be set the task of at once seating ourselves on the bench and taking our place at the bar are #0 great, that the least prejudiced of self-crities will

Page 217

it once of the ory of great. atham rildish- rain as of the we can declare >» in the y is 80 he bet- 1 other error is proval. ves the which hinkers fficulty roblem st who, © y is no often blunder. The sanguine observer will differ from the melancholy; the man of quick sympa- thies will be more apt to be affected for good or evil by his neighbor’s judgment than the man whose affections may be stronger though less mobile; the excitable man will be led into one extreme or the other more easily than the pbleg- matic ; a vivid imagination predisposes us to ac- cept a set of tests different from that which would commend itself to the severe logician; and, moreover, a man’s judgment of his own charac. ter will vary from day to day, like his judgment of all other matters, according to the state of his liver or his banker’s balance. All these—and many other—difficulties are so inevitable that we must look with compassion upon a wrong esti- mate so long as it is not palpably due to some irrelevant cause. Only when a man is vain for some bad reason—because he has a longer purse ora more uncommon disease than his neighbors —and cases of far more eccentric judgment are not uncommon—he is admitting evidence which he clearly ought to have excluded. The errors of the judge in this case imply not only fallibility but corruption ; he has taken a bribe from some of his passions, and he deserves some of the in- dignation due to such unworthy leanings. Iam, you say, capable of being a great poet; my talents shall not be lost to the world; I will brave poverty, anxiety, contempt; my fellow- creatures may repent their indifference, and ren- der a tardy homage over my grave or to my de- clining years. Brave words! but words as easy to the fool, the knave, and the charlatan, as to the neglected martyr of the race. Is your first judgment beyond all suspicion—not only of error but of sincerity? Are you not biased by some baser motive when you pronounce yourself to be one of the elect? If you really hold that your wretched dribble of mechanical metre is equal to the mighty harmony of a Milton, you must be wanting in ear for the music of verse; if you take your tinsel-decked platitudes for the passion- ate utterance of a great intellect, stirred to its depth by the sadness of the world’s tragedies, you are probably deficient in philosophical in- sight; if you cannot see the difference between your conception of the world as a gigantic pot- house, or a magnified stock-exchange, and that Which represents in their full force the purifying and ennobling passions, it is probable that there 84 gap or two in your morality. Making all al- lowances for the difficulty of self-judgment, there Temains a strong presumption that the man who takes a daub—even a daub of his own manufact- GENIUS AND VANITY. 217 ure—for a true masterpiece is deficient in the power of sharing as well as in the power of ut- tering the loftiest thoughts. You cannot put col- ors on canvas because you cannot see them in Nature. Your artistic standard is low because you are incapable of the high emotions which it is the true function of the best art to express, and the full utterance of which is the one true test of artistic excellence. You appeal to vulgar tastes because you are wanting in innate refine- ment. It is due to other bad qualities if you take size for sublimity, contortion for force, in- tricacy for subtilty; if brutality appears to you to be strength of feeling, and sensuality to be masculine vigor. If you succeed, you are a char- latan; and, if you fail, your failure is deserved. Your vanity is the index, not of the inevitable illusion of self-contemplation, but of a mean, or narrow, or degraded nature, Such a verdict would be inevitable, if the power of representing were always proportioned to the power of feeling emotions; if productivity and receptivity were but opposite forms of the same power. Notoriously this is not the case, Silence may sometimes indicate a defect of the organs of speech, not an absence of thought Many a man enjoys Nature heartily who cannot put together two lines of description; and yet he may fancy himself to be eloquent, because he naturally infers that the “clumsy phrases which express his own sentiment must express the sen- timents of others. Molitre’s old woman is a typical case. Thousands can enjoy for one who can create, or even assign intelligible reasons for his judgment. Unluckily, many such old women fancy that their appreciation of their Moliére en- titles them to write comedies. The weakness is an amiable one. We ought to pity those poor dumb poets who have music in their souls, and strive in vain to embody it in artistic shape. So long as they do not insist upon our reading their verses, we will tolerate and even love them. Sin- cere devotion to art is perhaps most touching in those to whom art never makes any return of praise and success. But it is the more necessary to distinguish clearly between these victims of an innocent delusion and those whose delusion im- plies incapacity, not only to produce but to enjoy. One class worships at the true shrine, though its offerings are poor; the other grovels before an ugly idol, because it is dead to the true instinct of veneration, and admires the reflection of its own base passions. How shall we tell whether the vanity of an artist be of the noxious or innocent kind? The

Page 218

218 most applicable test is perhaps to be found in the nature of the alleged motive. When a man says or insinuates that his primary object is the good of the world, we may reasonably set him down as a humbug. The transparency of the pretext is too obvious; and the implied belief that his final success is really a result in which the world at large can be seriously interested, indicates a vanity too gigantic to be quite innocent. In truth, there are two and only two excuses which can be accepted as a sufficient justification for adding to the masses of existing literature. One is, that you want money ; the other, that you can- not help it. Johnson went so far as to say that any man must be a fool who wrote for anything but money. The statement is a little too sweep- ing; but we must admit—when it is genuine—the plea of necessity. Writing, at all events, is an honest trade, provided that the author does not lie or flatter base passions. It is rather difficult for a professional author to comply with that pro- viso ; but, so long as he supplies good, whole- some food, sells his wares for what they are worth, and pretends to no higher motive, he is an innocent and even useful member of society. He may rank with other honest tradesmen, and is at least as well employed in selling his literary tal- ents to publishers as a lawyer in selling his rhe- torical powers to attorneys. The best work, indeed, is probably ascribable to loftier motives. It has been accomplished not under pressure of want, but because an active mind, dominated by new thoughts, or set on fire by an imaginative impulse, is constrained to utter itself in some way to the world. It must speak or burst; action of some kind is an imperative necessity; and it is a question of circumstance and character whether the impulse spends itself in producing philosophy, or poetry, or art, or practical activity. The spontaneity characteris- tic of such work is the quality which determines whether a poem is to live or to die; it is the dis- criminating mark between the manufactured ar- ticle and the genuine organic growth. The test, of course, covers that other variety of literature —including much of the very highest—in which the writing is considered not as an end, but a means ; where the polished style and strict order are the symptoms of an intense desire to accom- plish some ulterior object—-to strike down a pes- tilent fallacy, to encourage the supporters of a good cause, to disseminate ideas which may lift mankind to a higher social order. In such cases a man may be excused if he is eagey for some testimony of success. The degree of attention THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. which he excites is the measure of the work which he has done. He looks for praise as the artillery. officer looks for the cloud of dust which shows that his shot has struck home at the right point of the hostile lines. Unluckily, there are many people who seem to be content so long as they can make the dust fly, without reference to the means adopted or to the purpose contemplated, This is, in fact, the motive which is excluded by our suggested tests. The affected desire to do good to the world means really a desire that the world may sing our praises. The love of praise as praise, the simple appetite for incense, as thick and stupefying as may be, is the really bad symp. tom, as it is the bane, of our modern literature, This is the true mark of the charlatan, and the natural fruit of that kind of vanity which deserves all the contempt that can be poured upon it, No stings can be too severe which help to kill down the noxious swarm of parasites which find their natural food in the fulsome stream of adulation. For, unluckily for us, there was never a time when this weakness was so prevalent, because there never was a time when the power of adver- tising, and therefore of winning notoriety without attaining excellence, was so enormous. The evil tends to corrupt the highest and most sensitive natures. A man can scarcely keep his head, when the voice of real sympathy is drowned by the chorus of insincere jubilation. By an anach- ronism—which has too many parallels—we are still employed in denouncing an excess which has long been supplanted by its contrary. We abuse the severe critics who quench youthful genius. The true evil is different. The really mischievous persons are those appreciative and generous critics who force all eminent writers to live, whether they wish it or not, in an atmosphere so thick with the fumes of incense as to be enervating to the strongest constitutions, A clique is notori- ously bad; with our customary twaddle about generous criticism, we are going far to make the whole literary world into one gigantic clique. Youthful genius is no longer crushed—it is puffed into imbecility. We long for some of the bracing air of the old slashing criticism, which, if it caused much useless pain, did at least promote the growth of tough fibres instead of fatty degeneration of tissue. But, leaving this aside, let us assume that 8 man’s vanity is harmless and his ambition pure He really thinks that he can bestow upon his fellow-men gifts of truth and beauty. He fancies, to put the case distinctly, that he can produce # new “Hamlet.” He sees that he must choose be

Page 219

duce & ose be- ty RS Lee tween his bread-and-butter and his literary am- bition. Which course deserves our approval ? Shall we praise him for daring greatly or for listening to the voice of respectability? If we prefer the more venturous course, we must, of course, admire the Haydons, and many men with- out Haydon’s talent, who have been martyrs to their courage. If not, we prefer Philistia to Bohemia, and sympathize with the numerous parents who have condemned Pegasus to har- ness. There are, it is to be observed, two dis- tinct problems: First, we may ask whether it is better to pay your bills or to produce a “Hamlet ?” Secondly, as nobody can be certain that his work js really a “ Hamlet,” we must ask whether it is better to pay, or to take the chance of producing what may possibly turn out to be a “ Hamlet?” Most people will answer the first question with little hesitation. _ Better, they will say, that Shakespeare’s butchers, bakers, and landlady, should have gone unpaid, though want of pay- ment had meant starvation ; better that the debt should have gone on accumulating at compound interest from that day to the present, than that “Hamlet” should have been burked. What would be the loss of a few tradesmen compared to the GENIUS AND VANITY. loss of one of the few imperishable monuments of human genius? The two things are not com- parable. A man who could pronounce against “Hamlet” would be capable of breaking up West- minster Abbey to mend the Thames Embank- ment. But is this so very clear? Are we per- fectly certain that our valuation is just ? Assum- ing that “‘ Hamlet” deserves all the-praises it has received from Shakespeare’s most slavish idola- ters, I confess that I should still have certain twinges of doubt. What, after all, is the worth of any creation of human genius? What is the proportion between the value of a work of art ‘ and the artist’s ordinary discharge of his daily duties? What—for that seems to be the real question—is the value to the world of its greatest men? What is the value of a Shakespeare, as measured against the value of an honest grocer ? We cannot adjust the proportion to a nicety, nor even with approximate accuracy. The right point would doubtless lie somewhere between the extravagance of the hero-worshiper and the dep- recatory view of that kind of spiritual democ- racy which holds that the individual is nothing and the multitude everything. But it is equally clear that the average opinion has been hitherto deflected from the true line by the enthusiast far | more than by the cynic. The more we know, the more clearly we realize the vastness of the debt | 219 which even the greatest owe to their obscure contemporaries. Every advance of criticism di- minishes the share of glory due to the great man, and increases the merit of his coéperators. His- tory sees everywhere, not the work of a solitary legislator, but processes implying the slow growth of many generations. The scattered stars of the firmament are but bright points in vast nebule revealed by closer observation. In art, the im- portance of the social medium, relatively to the single performer, assumes ever greater propor- tions. But what is this but to diminish the ex- travagant value attributed to single perform- ances? Their intrinsic excellence may not be lessened, but we must lower our estimate of their importance as self-originated and creative forces. “ Hamlet” may be incomparably superior to “ The Maid’s Tragedy ” or “ The Duchess of Malfi ;” but we must admit that Shakespeare was but a co- operator with Fletcher and Webster. The gen- eral character of the period would not have been greatly altered had Shakespeare died of the measles ; though it would have left behind it a less superlative relic. The disregard of the second-rate performers has fallen in with the tendency to adulate success, What passes for criticism of great men has become a mere com- petition in extravagance. Each man tries to raise a loftier cloud of incense, and grovel more profoundly in the dust. He wins a cheap praise of generosity and generality by tacitly depressing the mass, in order to give a more imposing air to the pinnacle on which he erects his solitary hero- Without speaking, however, of those mon- strous accumulations of hyperbolic panegyrics which form the monuments of our great men, we should rather alter our view of the importance than of the excellence of the supreme poets and thinkers. Let them tower above their fellows as much as you please. Say, if you will, that the powers implied by the greatest achievements are different in kind, as well as degree, from those possessed by their humbler brethren. Still it will remain true, first, that the greatest of men is but the organ through which thoughts and feel- ings common to thousands and millions of his fellows find their fullest expression. He is not an isolated phenomenon dropped into the world from without, but the finest of flowers, which ap- pears when the soil and the atmosphere are fully prepared for his development. Cut the flower down, and it could not be replaced ; but its disap- pearance would have but a minor influence upon the conditions to which it was due, The same conceptions of the world and of man’s place in it

Page 220

220 would mould the thoughts of the time, though they would be less sharply impressed and less ob- vious to their successors. And, in the next place, a man’s influence upon his own contemporaries is that which is incomparably the most important. We are what we are because Shakespeare’s con- temporaries were what they were: and, doubt- less, Shakespeare’s influence in forming them must count forsomething. But we are not what we are because we read Shakespeare’s plays. Of course, we derive a good deal of pleasure from them. They influence our literature—very often for evil —and they supply us with innumerable quota- tions and imaginative symbols. But their effect upon the race is almost a vanishing quantity. For, first, not one man in a hundred reads them; secondly, of those who read, few understand ; and, finally, of those who understand, few can count the influence of any particular author as among the forces which have really moulded their lives. Do half a dozen men in a generation really trace any great spiritual change to the power of any one writer—especially of a distant period? This is indeed a point upon which we willfully deceive ourselves, and, doubtless, the implied assertion may at first sight be denied. But let any man examine frankly what are the forces which have really moulded his nature. He has been pro- foundly affected by his family, by his school, by his profession ; by the religious faith in which he has been educated; by the moral standard ac- cepted around him; and sometimes by the ar- tistic tastes and intellectual biases which are prevalent in his day. But how many men can say frankly, after real self-examination, that their characters have been altered or their views of life materially modified by reading any author, whatever his fame, who died even a century ago ? So far as he affected the development of the thoughts and history of his race, he has, of course, affected the development of all subsequent time. But I speak of the direct influence—of the difference between our character as it actually is, and that which it would have been if we had not read a particular book of a past century. A few literary persons will, of course, attribute great weight to such readings, and literary people gen- erally speak as if they were the whole world. They are really, I fancy, a superficial ornament, counting almost for zero in the great forces which really move mankind. But, of course, this is a sentiment not to be indulged even in private. If, however, there be any share of truth in these statements, they naturally limit our estimate of the value even of the greatest works. Every THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. man has an influence, powerful in proportion to his character, upon his own circle. That will be exerted, whether he wishes it or not, and whether he puts his thoughts in print or expresses them in life. His influence as a writer reaches and affects—often very deeply—a wide circle of con. genial minds, who are prepared to receive hig teaching. Beyond that circle, again, he has vague influence upon people who may hear his name and think it becoming to have some opinion about him. But this last influence, if it deserveg the name, is one which no wise man should desire, and which has but a small and uncertain effect, Why should I care whether a number of ignorant people clatter about my name or not, when of me, as I really am, they are radically incapable of knowing anything whatever? Yet the knowledge which an indifferent contemporary has of a Shake- speare is probably as vivid and as influential as the knowledge of any but the very finest critics in the later generations, when the writer's lan guage is already growing dim, and his thoughts are embodied in unfamiliar images. Even of great men it may be true that their influence either upon their children, their friends, or their depend- ents, is far more important than that which they exercise by direct communication with distant ages. The most powerful voice becomes faint as it spreads into ever-widening spheres, It then becomes but the ghost of a real utterance—a faint murmur of half.forgotten meaning, loud enough to be heard in the study, but not to guide men amid the rough shocks of vivid present experience, My relations to my butcher and baker belong to the inner sphere, where my influence is still po- tent, and my dealings with them may be more effectual than my dealings with posterity, though bearing upon smaller matters. But you cannot be certain that you are 8 Shakespeare, or even distantly akin to Shake- speare. The difficulty of judging ourselves, which makes error venial, makes dogmatism madness, Nobody has a right to say positively that he has drawn the one prize out of the many million blanks. The English writers of past centuries, whose books are still alive for any but professed students, may be counted on the fingers. Grant- ing that you have talents, and even genius, the probability that you will be added to the sacred band, instead of perishing with the unknown rank and file, is almost infinitesimal, The lad who runs away to sea, in hopes of becoming an ad- miral or a Captain Cook, is scarcely making # less judicious venture. Genius is rare enough, and it is the rare exception when even genius

Page 221

ion to hether S and f con- ve his has a ar his pinion serves effect, 10rant of me, le of vledge shake- ED esl eSEGEERTE as pears its perfect fruit. The Shakespeare is not merely the man of greater power than his neigh- bors, but that particular man of great powers who appeared when the times were ripe and circum- stances propitious. To stake your happiness on the chance that you are an exceptional being under exceptional circumstances is, to say the least, daring to the verge of rashness. But, if I do not, the world will lose its chance of another great poet! Make yourself easy ; the world will get on perfectly well. Nobody is so great in politics, but that society could struggle along its path of development without him ; nor so great in song, but that somehow the emotions of the world will find some channel of utterance. Death—to our ignorance at least—is like a dark power stalking through the world, striking left and right at random, crushing the happy and leaving the miserable, and destroying the genius as well as the fool. But his blow never strikes an individual with whom we could not dispense, Thought will continue to push along every line of development. The disappearance of one inquirer only transfers to another the discoveries which are held to confer immortality; the social prob- lem is being worked out by unconsciously co- operating millions, and they will find a leader to replace the old one; if one man is removed, pos- terity will have to inscribe the name of the im- mortal Jones in its pantheon instead of honoring the immortal Smith; the problem may be solved a day later or a day sooner, and there may be some differences in the terms of the answer; but the answer will be found, and must be the same in essence. The great man puts the clock on; he does not determine the direction of its move- ment. And it is equally true that when thoughts are fermenting in the mind of age, and new as- pects of Nature become conspicuous, and new emotional phases diminish utterance, people will be found to provide the imaginative symbols fitted for the embodiment; and the man who does at last will be regarded as the creator in- stead of the product. At any rate, it is quite needless for any man to fret himself about the fate of the universe. There are within this realm five hundred, probably five thousand, as good as he, and those will do best who leave the world and their fame to take their chance, and aim only at doing the work which lies next to hand. Leave the universe alone. When a regard for the interest of things in general is not hyp- ocritieal, it is the very madness of arrogance. Here, as in so many cases, it is the law, though it is an apparent paradox, that a man contributes GENIUS AND VANITY. 221 to an end most effectually by putting any direct reference to the end out of his mind. Here, in- deed, is a plainer, if not more powerful, consid- eration. Is not the supposed act of heroism 4 folly in any case? It requires courage to neglect one’s bread-and-butter in order to to win glory; but what if the neglect of bread-and-butter be the shortest way to wreck your genius as well as your prospects ? Good work, as a rule, is only done by people who have paid their bills. Why was Shakespeare so far ahead of all contemporary dramatists? Because Shakespeare had the good sense to make money, and was therefore able to command the market, and write his later works without undue pressure. Others could only write in a tavern, or to get out of a creditor’s clutches. Shakespeare’s mind was at ease by the conscious- ness of his comfortable investments at Stratford. “ Hamlet’ was written because Shakespeare was solvent. Pope was able to polish his verses because he judiciously made himself indepen- dent by his “ Homer.” Wordsworth, like Haydon, wished to shake the world ; but, unlike Haydon, he recognized and acted upon the truth that the first condition of such power is personal inde- pendence. Live for art, if you will; but first be sure that you have not to live by your art, other- wise the only harvest that you can reap will be that of the first reckless ebullitions, when the responsibility of life does not weigh upon the buoyancy of youth. Some good work has come out of Bohemia; but any one who sojourns per- manently in that seductive region is sure to lose his vigor as well as his money, and produces in the end mere scraps and outlines and rough indi- cations of what he might have done. When we are asked to consider how much may have been crushed in poets condemned to writing ledgers, we can only reply by pointing out how much has’ certainly been lost by poets who have run to seed in sponging-houses, From the days of Mar- lowe to those of the unhappy Edgar Poe, we have innumerable warnings that genius runs to waste when it does not condescend to be re- spectable. We have fallen upon a very commonplace and humble moral. It is none the worse for that, and certainly not the less often overlooked. The truth which it is really important to enforce more than ever is the simple one that all really good and permanent work is the expression, not of a single mood of passionate excitement or prurient desire for enjoyment, but of a mind fully developed, strengthened by conflict with the world, and enriched by reflection and ex-

Page 222

2 THE POPULAR SCIENCE ad 22 perience. The first condition of such a devel- opment is independence of spirit, which is sel- dom obtainable without independence of pocket. The first, though not the loftiest, duty of man is to pay his way; though it must, of course, be added that limitation of wants, rather than in- crease of means, is the legitimate mode of se- curing that object. If, like Wordsworth, you think that you can be a great man by living upon bread-and-water, you are certainly right in not aiming at the vulgar prizes of money and pre- ferment, But a career is honorable even if it | fails; and we may safely honor the man who limits himself to a modest livelihood in order to MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. devote himself to great work. The evil is, that most men want to have both advantages ; to live splendidly, and yet to stake their means of living upon literary fame ; to gain the praise of the world as well as the praise of posterity ; and, in short, to set about a campaign which can only be justified | by success without counting the cost beforehand, | That is why so many men of genius run to seed, and so many men of no genius fancy that they are acting nobly when they neglect their ordinary duties in search for glory, and fancy that the greatness of their ambition is an apology for the imperfection of their work. — Cornhill Magazine, CHRISTIANITY AND PATRIOTISM. By tue Rev. RICHARD F, LITTLEDALE. MONG the many objections alleged in the present day against the moral complete- ness of Christianity as an ethical code, that which is perhaps most frequently urged is that it gives no encouragement to the virtue of patri- otism, and that it is not only strictly incompati- ble therewith in theory, but has in fact usually tended to its depreciation, if not to its abandon- ment in practice. There is an element of truth in the indictment, though very much smaller than its advocates suppose, so that it is desirable to inquire into the details of the subject, under the following heads: 1, What circumstances in the origin and first | growth of Christianity were likely to influence * the mind of the Church on the matter ? 2. How far is patriotism really a virtue ? 8. What is the historical evidence as to the relations of Christianity and patriotism ? 4. What has given rise to the impression, so far as it has a basis of truth, of antagonism be- tween them ? Now, as regards the initial question, it is to be rem -mbered that patriotism, as a living senti- ment, was found in only one corner of the Ro- | man Empire at the time when Christianity began | to make itself felt as a social power, The all-em- | bracing tyranny of the conquering race had crushed out the spirit of local independence everywhere | that the legionaries could march, and from the time of the Social War it had gradually become | the fixed policy of the central power to substi- | | tute the idea of Roman citizenship, full or partial, for that of national life. This policy reached its climax under the Emperor Bassianus, by whom the freedom of Rome was conferred on every municipality within the state. The centralizing tendency of the government further impeded the growth of local feeling; and, though in the fre- quent struggles for the purple we find particular regions and provinces tending to split off under their favorite claimants into independent empires, as in the cases of Carausius and Allectus in this country, yet, if patriotism played any part at all in these civil wars, it was a wholly subordinate one. And when, later on, the empire broke up under the irruption of the Teutonic and allied races, the new invaders had, of course, no habits of attachment to the soil where they settled down | as occupants, nor any hereditary associations | with it. Their patriotism, if the word may be "used in such a collocation, was purely tribal, and it was to the Gothic, the Vandal, or the Burgun- | dian king, not to the territorial ruler of such | portion of Italy, Gaul, or Spain, that the warriors ‘of his race gave their allegiance. In a word, | Rome had killed patriotism, and the barbarians had not generated it at the time when the ten- | dencies of the Christian Church had not been | merely developed, but formulated. The senti- ment was not there to work on or be guided, and it will hardly be contended that it was in any sense the duty of Christian teachers to endeavor its revival. A very weighty reason most matt |

Page 223

is, that f living > world ort, to ehand. 0 seed, it they at the for the vartial, ed its every alizing ed the he fre- under ipires, in this at all dinate ke up allied habits down ations ay be 1, and rgun- such & rriors word, e ten- senti- i, and n any eavor rally operated the other way. The one exception to the general decay of patriotic feeling under the empire was the Jewish nation, and it cannot be said that patriotism, as interpreted either by the Pharisees of the Sanhedrim in Pilate’s days, by John of Giscala under Titus, or by Bar- Cochab in Hadrian’s reign, was at all likely to win admiring converts from outsiders. In fact, until Christianity rose against the narrow spirit of Hebrew nationality, and threw open the doors of the Church to all the Gentile world, it was practically a mere sect or school of opinion within Judaism, and could no more have affected the Ary- an races than the Essenes did. From the moment when Paul of Tarsus laid down the broad prin- ciple that in Christianity “there is neither Greek nor Jew, circumcision nor uncircumcision, bar- barian, Scythian, bond, nor free,” he proclaimed amore comprehensive citizenship than that of the Roman Empire itself (which, even within its own borders, included multitudes of unenfranchised peregrint and servi), one, in truth, coextensive with all humanity, an idea even less compatible with patriotism, as popularly understood, than the unifying process which the mistress of the world applied to her subjects. On the other hand, those Gentile converts who had left the narrow limits of Judaism behind were themselves ex- cluded from political life for nearly three centu- ries, Owing to the manner in which the state re- ligion permeated official acts, as completely as Protestants were unenfranchised in the Pontifi- cal states till the temporal power fell; and, there- fore, could not learn by experience the virtues of acknowledged citizenship in a secular domin- ion. It would seem, then, that as we feel here in England a certain tendency to contempt for that local attachment and sympathy which can- not pass beyond the limits of a single village or parish, and do not begin to treat it with any re- spect till it is at least conterminous with a shire or county, nor to look on it as a virtue till it em- braces the whole nation, deeper thought would lead us to recognize in the enthusiasm of human- ity at least as much nobler a sentiment than the Patriotism of nationality, as this in its turn is no- Uler than the mere politique du clocher. And so far as Christianity holds out the higher ideal, as it must wherever the Pauline principle has been fully acknowledged, this loftier conception sup- Plants, in the finest minds, the iaferior and local- wed one. This is, one would apprehend, a merit, hot a fault, in Christian ethics. Why it has as- sumed the semblance of a fault will be considered CHRISTIANITY AND PATRIOTISM. 223 a little later. At present a prior question needs to be discussed. Is patriotism, as popularly understood and acted on, a virtue at all? The historian and mor- alist can hardly give any reply save No. Indeed, the chief reason for hesitating at all upon the sub- ject, when fairly considered, proves to be the gla- mour which the intellectual brilliancy of Greece, or rather of Athens, and the political might of Rome, cast upon the imagination, enveloping in a golden haze ideas and actions which will not bear the daylight of pure morality or of social philosophy. It is difficult to estimate now the hurtful influence which the narrow civic patriot- ism of the ancient Greek commonwealths, con- stantly finding vent in wars of one petty state against another, must have exerted on the Hel- lenic race, and the quantity of sheer suffering which it must have occasioned; though we may get some insight into the matter by noting the mental barrenness of Sparta, and the evils of its hyper-military organization. But even in the ease of Athens itself, should we succeed in for- getting that it was no true commonwealth, but a civic oligarchy resting on a far larger population of slaves and serfs as a basis, an impartial inves- tigation of facts compels acknowledgment that zeal for the aggrandizement of the City of the Violet Crown proved incompatible with the dis- charge of higher duties toward the allied and de- pendent states, not to say of the race in general, | in respect of its struggle against the great Asiatic power. It is only necessary to refer to the mis- appropriation of revenues intended for national defense to the adornment of Athens with build- ings having no federal character, in order to rec- ognize the justice of the sentence by which her headship over Greece was lost, and to understand something of the truth. Nor is Athens alone to blame for this spirit. Four of the very noblest names in the records of patriotism that all the rest of Greece can produce, Epaminondas, Cleom- enes III., Aratus, and Philopeemen, all fail when tested by any other standard than that of local civism, despite the political combinations which made the careers of the three latter more nearly approach the ideal of modern statesmanship than | do those of any other among the eminent pub- | licists of Greece. Yet each and all of them sac- rificed that federalism which was their professed aim to schemes of local aggrandizement and ven- | geance, whose accomplishment in every instance not only defeated their national efforts, but has indelibly tarnished their memories. As for Rome, ‘itis only Prof. F. W. Newman who has in these

Page 224

224 latter days spoken as it deserves of her treach- erous, bloodthirsty, and tyrannous policy toward every foreign or allied state or tribe which seemed to so much as wish for the shadow of independence—a policy unchanged during the space of more than fifteen hundred years lying between the execution of the Samnite Pontius and the poisoning of Athanaric the Goth. The story of Boadicea is familiar enough to us here in England, thanks to Cowper’s verses, but only a few scholars realize how far from exceptional it was, or how typical the spirit which found vent in the famous words Delenda est Carthago was | of Roman patriotism, even in its best days and among its noblest examples. And consequently, THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. patriotism, seen close at hand, does not seem to be so much for the advantage of mankind in gen. eral, or of any portion of mankind belonging to other races, as to compel admiration. Nor can England be acquitted altogether in seeing how patriotism, so called, has affected ber dealings with foreign or dependent states. The Hundred Years’ War with France in mediaeval times; the manner of ruling Ireland and the American prov. inces in a far later eva; the principles on which the New-Zealanders and the Tasmanians have been dealt with only the other day in the interest of British colonists, will none of them bear ex. amination, even if the wholly exceptional cireum. stances under which our Indian Empire has grown when a school of teachers in the present day con- | trasts the passionate loyalty to the state of a | Roman of the republic with the much weaker | sense of civil obligations current in the ordinary | European state of modern times, one is tempted to doubt whether their scholarship be equal to their enthusiasm, or whether they really know what Roman patriotism practically meant to the unfortunate Samnites, Latins, Gauls, Cantabrians, Britons, Syrians, or Mauritanians, who happened to come into collision with that side of it which re- | garded the extension of the imperium Romanum, So very many of the popular commonplaces on patriotism are due to the influence of classical literature, that careful investigation of the actual up and is maintained take it out of the category of blame. Patriotism, then, in one very widely. accepted and popular view of it, which meets us alike in the oldest monuments of Egyptian and Assyrian conquerors in the hoary age of history, and in the editorial articles of modern newspa- pers, means, or at any rate involves, the deliber- ate sacrifice of the rights of other nations and countries to the glory of the one which claims te be patriotic, and which denounces as criminal rebellion, and chastises with fire and sword, that other patriotism which objects to be suppressed, That such a temper is entirely alien from the Christian ideas of brotherhood and justice, is doubtless true enough, but the reproach of hos working of that spirit in ancient times cannot fail seriously to modify opinions which have no more philosophical basis, especially as the travesty of } Greek and Roman virtue exhibited during the | mock classicism of the Terror cast doubts on the genuineness of even the original article, which doubts have survived to the present day. The newest reproduction of the old Greek spirit which | later times have seen, is the history of the Italian | commonwealths, from the beginning of the Lom- | bard League till the final disappearance of mu- nicipal liberty in the seventeenth century, and the lessons that it reads to all who are not con- tent to accept art instead of freedom, peace, mo- rality, and other social bneefits, is fraught with warnings as deep as Thebes’ or Sparta can yield. The Napoleonic war of aggression and con- quest at the beginning of this century, and the current Russian method of annexing fresh Asiatic provinces to an already unwieldy empire, which needs internal development in population and resources far more than extension of territory, serve in like manner to reproduce with sufficient likeness for instruction the principles of Roman advance. And here, too, French or Muscovite tile critics ought rather to be that Christianity has opposed such few and feeble barriers to con quest and aggressive wars, than that it has im any degree weakened the patriotism which is made their apology. If it could be shown that Christianity had in fact materially diminished the frequency, the area, and the fierceness of such wars, it would very considerably increase its claims on the allegiance of mankind. The com sideration of the manner in which Christian be lief of one kind or another has practically affected that patriotism of defense just mentioned, must be postponed to the inquiry into some other a® pects of the sentiment. For it will be naturally and reasonably alleged by those who bring the chatge of anti-patriotism against Christianity, that they do not in the least mean the lustof conquest and military glory, when they speak of the virtue they desire to see more widely and it telligently practised. They will urge that inter nal development and progress, and the steady achievement of wholesome reforms, constitute the truest aim of patriotism, and that the patriot whom they hold up for imitation is he who habit — ually postpones his private interests to the wel s ae EP

Page 225

eem to in gen- Or can ng how lealings ‘undred es; the Nn prow 1 which is have interest ear eX- CHRISTIANITY AND PATRIOTISM. 225 fare of the commonwealth, especially in that ac- | litical economist can doubt for a moment the in- tive embodiment of it which we are content to jury which erring patriotism of this kind works call, somewhat vaguely, the state. ' to the very persons whom it is intended to benc- It will be found, however, even under these | fit: and, indeed, the present collapse of industry restricted conditions, that appetite for conquest and a selfish desire to get advantages over neigh- bors are by no means absent, nay, that they form | | the most attractive part of the programme of pa- | triotism for the majority of so-called patriots. could hardly be otherwise, as must be seen when once the student of ethnology and of political sci- ence has mastered the facts which lie at the root of every birth of a people. There is not any instance known to history of a true nation (not even the Hebrews) having grown up in patriarchal fashion from the mere natural reproductiveness of a sin- gle family or tribe; far less of one which has been gradually and peacefully welded together by the voluntary confederation of all its original elements, without intrusion upon any separate rights during the process. In every case, the larger society has been constituted by the more or less violent absorption of smaller or weaker ones, with but little regard to their reluctance to merge their separate existence in a more pow- erful and numerous body—a rule which has held good from the first dawn of history down to such recent events as the War of the Sonderbund, the American civil conflict, and the struggle, scarce- ly eleven years ago, between Austria and Prussia for the headship of Germany. be held together, after it has once been fully de- veloped, without the suppression of a multitude of separate rights whose exercise might prove in any way inconvenient to the body politic—a fa- miliar example of which is afforded in this coun- try by the post office monopoly, whereby the car- riage of letters is forbidden to ordinary carriers, and indeed to the general public. It is not to be expected, consequently, that patriotic feeling, which is the ordinary corporate sentiment raised toa higher degree, will at any time be tender of rights which it may think likely to conflict with the interests of its state: and till the altruistic Proposition is mastered by politicians, that the welfare of each is best promoted by the welfare of all, selfish considerations, which are really hurtful by reaction, are almost certain to prevail in legislation. So far as commerce is concerned, this corporate selfishness displays itself most fre- quently in protective tariffs, which are not mere- ly enacted by a country against all foreign com- Petition, as in the United States, but actually by one colony of the same nation against other con- terminous colonies, as Australia proves. No po- 15 Nor can a nation | throughout the United States, which has left two mmillions of artisans unemployed, is almost exclu- sively due to the unnatural stimulus given to the mining and iron trades by high protective It duties, thereby bringing very many more hands into them than a normal state of the market re- guires, and, of course, turning them adrift on the first reaction. It is plain that the Christian teacher and the political economist are here at one, and that the notion that a foreign country, or an adjacent colony, is not a trade rival to be repelled or outwitted, but a potential member of exactly the same fellowship, whose free admission to traffic in open market is for the advantage of the whole community, however unpatriotic it may be thought at Washington or Melbourne, is sounder in science as well as in the purely re- ligious aspect of the matter. Nor are the moral results of certain forms of patriotism happier than the financial ones. That temper which is called chauvinisme in France, “spread-eagleism” in the United States, and “ John-Bullism ” among ourselves, is nothing but personal vanity expanded to national dimensions, and usually manifests itse]f in the simultaneous refusal to learn from others, and effort to impose the opinions of the hyper-nationalists on the whole state, if not to propagate them forcibly in other countries. The revolutionary propaganda of France at the close of the last century is an example in point of the last of these manifesta- tions, while Russia is at this moment suffering acutely from the too successful attempt of teach- ers of Alexander Herzen’s school to make purely Muscovite ideas absolutely dominant throughout the empire, to the exclusion of all lessons which might be learned from countries with an older civilization and a more advanced political and educational system. It is, in its degree, exactly the same distrust and hate of the foreigner which semi-barbarous China displays in its comprehen- sive grouping of all white men under the title of San-kwei, or “foreign devil.” It leads, more- over, far too often to unequal and oppressive legislation against domiciled aliens, itself a policy injurious to the nation which adopts it. For the temper in question is exceedingly apt to develop into positive hatred for those whose habits and institutions differ from such as are locally usual, and the bigotry of national custom proves quite as bitter and unreasoning as any theological

Page 226

226 THE POPULAR SCIENCE fanaticism can be, barring improvement and prompting injustice. Here, too, so far as Chris- tianity does inculcate the doctrine of a wider brotherhood than mere nationality, and strike at such patriotism as this, it is doing good service to mankind. But the truth is, that its efforts in this direction, especially among the nations which need amendment most, such as Russia and Spain, are unspeakably feeble, owing in no little meas- ure to lack of the higher culture among religious teachers. What is perhaps even more remark- able is the intense chauvinisme of the only seri- ous attempt which has been made in recent times to provide a new and improved creed to supplant Christianity. No one can attentively study the Positivist religion of humanity, as conceived and expounded by M. Auguste Comte, without recog- nizing through every disguise the Parisian cock- ney, whose one article of belief is, “Il n'y a qu’un Paris, et hors Paris il n'y a pas de salut pour les gens comme il faut.” A new Paul of Tarsus, to teach the neophytes of the new creed that it is not essential for them to become Frenchmen of the boulevards in their institu- tions and habits of thought before they can be ad- mitted to the Positivist equivalent for salvation, would be just as necessary as the first Paul was to rescue Christianity from the fetters of which the | Judaizing faction endeavored to impose upon it. This is the more noteworthy because Positivism, by declining to consider the possibility of a future life, and therefore concentrating all moral effort on the present world, might be thought exactly the system which would promote either a lofty form of patriotism, or an uncalculating recogni- tion of the universal brotherhood of man. But its primary condition of Frenchifying everything and everybody is clearly incompatible with ei- ther, because it is not content, as Christianity was and is, with laying down first principles, and let- ting the nations work them out according to their several bias and capacity. For it insists, like Islam, on providing all alike with the same ready- made code, and that with a permanent assump- tion of superiority for the nation where that code arose, which, to do Islam justice, it does not claim for the Arabs, since under it a negro con- vert is practically put ona social and religious level with the purest-blooded scion of the Beni- Ismael ; one reason, as Prof. Blyden has taught us, for its missionary success in Africa, as com- pared with the slow progress of Christianity. It will be again urged, by the champions of the proposition combated in this paper, that all that has heen said so far is still beside the ques- MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. tion, because the patriotism for whose praetice they are contending is not that national self-sugj. ciency which has borne so much bitter fruit, But if they choose—as they do choose for the most part—to state their objections to Christian. ity in a wholly unrestricted fashion, they must expect to have their costs taxed. It is not tobe disputed that the faulty ideas of patriotism cen. sured above have played, and do play, a far larger part in the history of nations than more defen. sible and philosophical notions have done, and it is reasonable to show that Christianity errs by defect, rather than by excess, in its resistance to such wide-spread and powerful errors, and to ask for a more precise definition of that salutary kind of patriotism which is assumed to be injuriously affected by theology. ; That some kind of patriotic feeling is neces. sary for the very existence and security of nations, and for their healthy development, no thinker will dispute. A country whose citizens are care. less of its dignity and its strength, courts and invites insult and invasion, hurtfully stimulates the lust of conquest in foreign states, and in directly occasions the commission of great crimes against humanity, almost as guiltily as if it em- barked itself into an unjust war of aggression, A country whose citizens are from habit or fae | tion indifferent to social improvement, will lag | behind in all that constitutes good government and national well-being; and the true patriot is he who will take active measures to secure for | his country the blessings of honorable peace | abroad, and of healthy administration at home. | It may be added that he will also strive to rectify | practices which militate against the honor and | reputation of his country, even when they seem | to make for its material interests. That little group of Englishmen who never rested till slave- holding and slave-trading were made unlawful for British citizens, were surcly patriotic in a very noble fashion ; and American and Spanish states men, who should have set themselves to resist the policy of financial repudiation, would have | done far more for the honor and the true advat: | tage of their countries than those did who caught | eagerly at the temporary gains of national die | honesty. And, in like manner, the truest friends | of their country will not shrink from urging the repeal of home measures, thought liberal and popular, if really hurtful to society (like the Divorce Act among ourselves), or from recom mending and adopting improvements from foreign institutions, even at the risk of being denounced as unpatriotic for such ec

Page 227

r fruit, for the iristian. *y must ot to be ~ Ld a There is certainly nothing in the spirit of Chris- tianity, as a moral code, which need operate against patriotism so understood and limited, for, on the one hand, its injunctions to protect the | weak and oppressed are clearly applicable to | nations as well as to individuals, and cover as | fully the organization of an army to avert foreign tyranny and domestic suffering as they do the championship of a single widow or orphan wronged by a private oppressor ; while, on the other hand, all the precepts which enjoin the doing justice impartially between man and man apply, without any strain or non-natural interpretation, to all that part of legislation and government which deals with the public and private rights of classes, persons, and things. It would be easy to show, were the digression necessary, that there are other systems, and notably Islam, under which this principle does not hold good, because all non-Moslems must be placed, in virtue of the teaching of the Koran, in a permanent state of political and social inferiority wherever Islam is the national code. If, then, it be true that in Christian countries the operation of theological influences is to di- minish the number of those citizens who are will- ing to busy themselves actively in the conduct of affairs, national or local, and to labor for the pro- motion of salutary reforms, it will be necessary to distinguish again, and to show that, just as there is a great deal of false and unwholesome patriotism, which Christianity ought to expose and resist, so it is not Christianity at large or abstractedly which withdraws men from the duties of citizenship, but merely some particular kind of adulterated and insalubrious quasi-Christian teaching, which should bear the blame alone, and hot be taken as compromising and discrediting the entire Christian system. Indeed, the whole indictment may be boldly traversed by an appeal to political experience. If it be true at all that Christianity, by directing attention to a future state, and treating this life 8 no more than preliminary, does necessarily weaken the practical interest of its disciples in the good government of this world, the principle must exhibit itself in action on the largest scale M national life. Exactly in proportion as an active participation in Christian belief, as distin- guished from languid hereditary assent, is found Prevalent among the laity, the area of political Activity, and the number of those who intelligent- take part in public affairs, or even in semi- public philanthropic labors, ought to be reduced. But, as a fact, the countries where the great lay CHRISTIANITY AND PATRIOTISM. 2297 | body is most actively interested in religious ques- tions, and is not content to leave them undis- | turbed in the custody of a professional class, are Great Britain and the United States; precisely those where the political philosopher recognizes, after all deductions, the largest measure of con- stitutional freedom, and the largest number of persons, not being government officials, who take a full and active share in the internal administra- tion of local and general laws. The lurtful abstention of the most cultured class of American citizens from the arena of poli- tics is due aitogether to social and political causes, having nothing whatever to do with re- ligious questions ; and so, conversely, the divorce of the lay intellect on the Continent from the ecclesiastical systems, whether Roman Catholic or Protestant, does not appear to have stimulated - political capacity, or trained in habits of self- government the nations most affected by it. The one apparent exception, that of Italy, has been so largely conditioned by constitutional and dy- nastic changes in the civil sphere, that it is diffi- cult to disentangle the strands of political and religious motive, especially from the additional complications introduced by the Roman ques- tion; but the remainder of Western Europe is quite enough to supply adequate matter of induc- tion. Nor is it true that the publicists of those countries where Christianity is in full and active lay operation are generally or principally recruit- ed from the ranks of secularism. It would be invidious to particularize, but no cabinet has held office in this country during the last forty years which has not contained several ministers whose interest in religious questions was active and per- sonal, sometimes even fervid; and nothing like the Depretis Government in Italy just now has been ever possible fora moment among us. The reason why one would antecedently expect Chris- tianity to foster patriotism in the true sense is, because it is a personal and historical creed, which, if given fair play, strengthens that sense of continuity with the past which is necessary to the higher forms of national life. Conversely, it is in countries where a mere philosophical system, like Vedantism, or an impersonal Pantheistic be- lief, whether Brahman or Buddhist in form, pre- vails, that patriotism and political history are weakest; whence it seems more than probable that there would be far less civil capacity dis- played than now, if Christianity were to be super- seded by Agnosticism or any non-historical be- lief. And this view receives strong confirmation from the definition of patriotism in time of peace,

Page 228

228 which Goethe, the chief poet of modern Panthe- ism, has given us. “In peace, patriotism proper- ly consists ouly in this—that each man sweeps in front of his own door, minds bis own business, also learns his own lesson, that it may go well with him at home.”—{“‘ Wahr. u. Dicht.”) Here we may note the total absence of any sense of public duty, or of the benefit of promoting cor- porate reform and improvement. Pure selfish- ness is lifted into an ideal, and political action, as distinguished from military effort, discouraged. These considerations naturally lead to a brief retrospective survey as to the geueral truth of the charge of anti-patriotism laid against Christi- anity. This charge is a very old one indeed, and coeval with the first beginnings of the infant Church. “If we let Him thus alone, the Romans will come and take away our place and nation,” was the view taken of the founder. “This man ceaseth not to speak blasphemous words against the holy place and the law, for we have heard him say that this Jesus of Nazareth shall destroy this place, and shall change the customs which Moses delivered us,” was the suborned indictment against the protomartyr; while the outcry against the passionately national Saul of Tarsus was: “Men of Israel, help; this is the man that teach- eth all men everywhere against the people, and the law, and this place.” Under the empire, disloyalty to the state was the stock accusation which could be always successfully leveled against Christians, especially such as were in any department of the public eervice, and, in particu- lar, the nucleus of solid fact which lies within the nebulous mass of Christian hagiology supplies us with many instances of Roman soldiers who had attested their loyalty and courage by valiant ser- vice in war, or who declared that prayers for the safety of the emperor and the welfare of the state made part of their daily devotions, nevertheless convicted and executed as traitors for refusing to take certain oaths, or to join in certain pagan observances. But the general charge is amply refuted by the noteworthy fact that the vast and rapidly-increasing numbers of the Christians, and their highly-organized scheme of intercommuni- cation, never once tempted them, even under the stress of the ten persecutions, one for each gen- eration in the three centuries from Tiberius till Constantine the Great, to try conclusions with the state by siding with any competitor for the pur- ple, or by rebellion and league with foreign ene- mies on the frontier, a policy which distinguishes them remarkably from all the leading Protestant sects of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. It was to Christian missionaries as statesmen that the gradual building up of the social fabrie and of the system of laws was mainly due after the irruption of the barbarians, when the fortified camps of wandering tribes began to develop into the kingdoms of settled populations, and it be came necessary to meet the exigencies of a more complex mode of existence by transforming inde. — terminate customary usages into fixed statutory enactments. To the monastic orders belongs the credit of reviving scientific agriculture, as science then was, and of leading the way in draining marshes and reclaiming wastes. To them also belongs the first attempt to supply primary edu. cation, and to stimulate higher culture, too, so far as they understood it, and the circumstances of the time allowed. Whether they did all these things well or ill is matter of reasonable de- bate, but that they did them somehow, and that such things are integral parts of any complete civil development, admits of no dispute, And, after this, it is not till comparatively modem times, say from the beginning of the sixteenth century, that the most eminent statesmen and publicists were other than ecclesiastics, from AL cuin and Suger, through such names as Stephen Langton, down to Ximenes and Wolsey. In fact, one of the minor grievances which precipitated. the Reformation was the constant occupation of the ablest prelates in diplomacy and the conduet of civil government, obliging them to depute the spiritual oversight of their dioceses to suflras gans and capitular bodies. This policy, again, may have been highly objectionable in itself, but it is at any rate quite incompatible with any ree ognized antagonism between Christianity and civil politics during the several centuries of its prevalence. Turning to another aspect of the question, it is to be observed that religious sentiment bas powerfully aided in supporting national life under most unfavorable circumstances. It was Christian belief of some kind, what ever judgment may be passed upon its quality; which prevented Russia from disappearing, 98 # nation, under the pressure of the Golden Horde} it was the same influence which preserved Greek and Roumanian nationality during the centuries of Turkish misrule and terrorism. It is precisely the religious question that has made those Polish provinces, which have been transferred to Russia, so much more intolerant of a foreign yoke tha their neighbors of Galicia and Lodomiria under Austrian rule, or of Posen under the Prussial) — crown, because no compulsory proselytism bas

Page 229

Pp inte it be. | more zinde- tutory, gs the m also ry edu. t00, 80 stances ] these le de- id that mplete modern. xteenth en and om Al In fact, ipitated. ation of conduct ute the: , again, elf, but. any rec ity and s of its stion, it ent bas fe under d, what; quality, ng, a8 & d Greek enturies e Polish ) Russia; oke tham ia under Prussiad tism bas been forced on the latter. Russia, Sweden, Bel- gium, Great Britain itself, all witness that the rule of a foreign dynasty, to the exclusion of a native one, may be cheerfully acquiesced in, and acquire the fullest prescription ; so that it is not the mere fact of being governed by strangers, mortifying as it often is to national pride, which makes one portion, and one portion only, of the Polish nation eager to assert itself, and to refuse, so far as it can, absorption into a vaster country of kindred stock. It is simply that a religious grievance has quickened their patriotism ; where- as, on the hypothesis we are considering, the grievance never would have arisen, because nei- ther the clergy nor their adherents would have interested themselves in politics so as to arouse the jealousy and the persecution of the conquer- ing power, to which, and not to the Russian cler- gy, is the forcible interference with Polish reli- gion, for political reasons, to be ascribed. It will hardly be alleged, even by the most daring broacher of paradox, that religion had no part in rousing the Dutch patriots against Philip IL.; that the interest which the Parliamentary party in our civil war took in politics was at all damped by their equally keen interest in theol- ogy; or that Cromwell’s powers as a statesman and sovereign were at all chilled or hampered by his religious belief; while the same remark holds good of the most gallant leaders of the South in the American conflict—Robert E. Lee, J. E. B. Stuart, Leonidas Polk, and Stonewall Jackson. And, to return for a moment to a period between these two, it was the ecclesiastical rather than the civil acts of James II. which led to the Rev- olution of 1688. There is nothing in all the sur- vey which favors the case for the prosecution ; nor, if attention be directed to countries where the clerical spirit is aggressive, such as Ireland, France, and Belgium, can it be alleged, with any truth, that abstention from political action is a mark of Ultramontanism. And yet the conten- tion seems to be not that the kind of policy fol- lowed by persons with strong religious opinions is inimical to the best interests of the state, for that would not differentiate it from mere party Politics on behalf of sectional interests of any kind ; but that all sense of duty toward the cate, all willingness to discharge the public fune- lions of citizenship, is fatally enfeebled by Chris- tianity, because it diverts attention almost exclu- sively to a future life. Now, so far as this is true at all, it is true only of a limited number of per- Sons under a specific kind of theological influ- ‘nee. The only epoch in history at which it CHRISTIANITY AND PATRIOTISM. 229 tended to become widely true, was in the great development of monachism in Egypt and Syria (perhaps, too, in Gaul) during the fourth and fifth centuries, a period too remote and isolated to be reasonably cited in evidence now. Even the sec- ond great impetus toward monachism during the twelfth century in the West was something very different in temper and working from the passive contemplativeness of Eastern asceticism ; and the leading spirit of the movement, St. Bernard, ri- valed in variety and activity of exertion the most diligent secular chiefs of his time. And, when it is remembered that monachism then ne- cessarily attracted and embraced the great ma- jority of men with no bent toward the occupa- tions of war, handicrafts, and agriculture, such as now would be authors, schoolmasters, professors, lawyers, physicians, scientists, and the like, it is at least doubtful whether it did not rather pro- vide a career for those who otherwise would have had none, than withdraw them from useful ser- vice to the state and society at large. In the present day, when we have most of us got our shoulders to the wheel, but when very few of us know whither we are shoving the cart, the ad- vantage of having a few peaceable resting-places where fuss is unknown, ought to be quite as great as it was in the stormy middle ages, not to speak of the gain to the celerity and quality of work, when there are not so many workers as to be in one another’s way. As a rule, the stamp of man whom his religion seems to make unprac- tical, takes little save the mere color of his indo- lence from his creed. The indolence itself is constitutional, and his abstinence from the con- duct of affairs is a gain to those who want them transacted promptly and effectively. Neverthe- less, it is quite true that when all these qualifi- cations and corrections of the original proposi- tion have been made, there remain examples of unpatriotism and anti-patriotism for which some kind of religious sentiment appears to be account- able. It may be fairly said, on the one hand, that the utter failure of the Reformation in France, after more encouraging beginnings than almost everywhere else, is due to the entirely anti-patri- otic attitude adopted from the first by the Hugue- nots. Unlike those English Roman Catholics who rallied round Elizabeth Tudor when the tidings of the Armada came, and who were so ill- requited for their loyalty, the Huguenot leaders from the first made common cause with the ene- mies of France, and from the revolt of Guienne under Henry II. in 1548, till the Peace of Alais

Page 230

230 under Louis XIII. in 1629, they were a constant element of national insecurity; while in particu- lar their exploits during their brief tide of suc- cess in 1562 amply account for, though they do not excuse, the St. Bartholomew ten years later, and help to explain the slightness of the impres- sion which their creed has produced on their nation. It is still France which supplies the chief ex- ample of anti-patriotism, only that now the Ultra- montane school, not the Huguenot, is mainly in fault. There is not only a profound conscious- ness that the clerical party is intriguing against the republic with every other political section by turns, beacause it believes that Legitimists, Bona- partists, and even Orleanists, would make larger concessions to its demands, but there is an equal- ly deep-seated belief that the disastrous war with Prussia was mainly due to clerical pressure at the Tuileries. And though there can be no reasonable doubt that the clergy were just as infected with chauvinisme as the rest of France, believing in the invincibility of the army, and viewing the campaign as a mere pleasure-excursion to end triumphantly at Berlin within a few weeks, yet the conviction that they were ready to plunge the country into the cost and suffering which even the most rapid and successful war must entail on victors as well as on vanquished, and that for purely professional and sectarian objects, will not be readily laid aside. Apart from this direct charge of anti- patriotism—which is also alleged in Germany, but with far less tangible evidence, and has formed the plea for the retrograde and intolerant Falk legislation—there is the minor count of un- patriotism, contained in almost the terms of the objection to Christianity we are here considering namely, that while the clericals themselves are superfluously active in politics, their best pupils, the very choicest of their flock, are trained into a dreamy, speculative, ascetic, and unpractical condition, which, while making them the ready dupes of every new vision, and devotees of every fresh cult, completely unfits them for the useful discharge of the ordinary duties of citizens. This indictment is strengthened by the acquiescence expressed in it by Cardinal Vitelleschi, as set forth in “Pomponio Leto.” There may be a demurrer put in here with some cogency, to the effect that, even if it be so, the French clergy are merely copying the example of the state, whose principle, ever since the days of Richelieu, has been the centralization of authority, the multipli- cation of government officials, the discourage- THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. ment of local action, and the exclusion, so far as | possible, of every one, not a member of the by reaucracy, from participation in the conduct of affairs, except by voting to order at elections, It is only a question of which master is to prescribe the course of action, the hierarchy or the ministry of the interior, for the principle is the same That is true enough, and no doubt shows that one kind of paternal government is nearly as mischiévous as another is checking true patriot. ism, by refusing the opportunity of political edu. cation, but it leaves the charge against Christian. ity just where it was, merely joining another name in the indictment. The plea, of course, is not a refutation, and indeed, so far as Ultramontanism is taken as the equivalent of Christianity, is a defiant acknowl edgment of the charge. The true vindication ig quite different, and may be very simply stated, It is this: Wherever we find the unpatriotie spirit, or the anti-patriotic spirit, prevalent, and in any degree traceable to religious influence, it will be found due to a fundamental misconcep- tion of the main function of Christianity. That function, as declared again and again in the most emphatic terms in the Gospels, and somewhat less vividly, but yet with no lack of emphasis, in the Epistles, is the regeneration of society; the diminution of sin, ignorance, and suffering, par ticularly the first, in the world ; the introduction of a new and higher moral code ; the supply of fresh and vigorous principles of personal and social action; the transformation, in short, whieh is expressed in the Apocalypse by the words, “The kingdoms of this world are become the kingdoms of our Lord and of his Christ.” Now, this process, even if advertised at the first by miracle, was carried on, so far as it has yet been carried, by intermediate agencies of an ordinary, and on the whole commonplace nature, involv ing much forethought and diligence on the part of those engaged. in it. Wherever it has been kept steadily in view, the amelioration of mam kind has gone with it, and patriotism has been reconciled with universal humanism by the com mon-sense principle that as a man’s first social duties are to those of his own immediate house hold and family, then to his closest neighbors and connections, and so on ina gradually-widen- ing circle, so the bounds of his native land are, as a general rule, the natural limits of his efforts, because differences of language, custom, and temperament, must make him less useful in® foreign country; though such instances a8 Jobm Howard teach us that no hard-and-fast lineof demarkation can be laid down to restrict philat —

Page 231

the bu duct of ms. It ninistry > same, ws that arly as patriot. cal edu. ristian- on, and 1 as the cknowl- ation is ‘ated, atriotie nt, and ence, it concep- he most mewhat rasis, in ty; the pply of thropic effort within national confines. A man who is interpenetrated with this view of life and duty will spend his labors chiefly on his country- men, not because he judges them the superiors of all mankind in right of their being his own connections, far less with the notion of giving them an advantage over other nations, but be- cause they are nearest to him, and have thus the first claim on his attention. When dogs are licking the sores of Lazarus at a rich man’s door, there is a duty at hand to be attended to before sending a subscription off to a Kirghiz tribe which has had a murrain among its sheep. But there are two entirely diverse conceptions of Christianity from that just mentioned, which, when inculeated and acted on, very naturally lead up to neglect of social duty, and that be- cause they are both non-historical in spirit. One is that which is chiefly, but not by any means peculiarly, embodied in Calvinism—namely, that Christianity is simply a contrivance for rescuing an infinitesimal minority of human beings from endless torture, and for lodging them in abodes of unending bliss, quite apart from moral consid- erations, balloting them, so to speak, into a most exclusive club, and blackballing the whole re- mainder of mankind. This kind of opinion has not frequently, on the whole, led to its logical conclusion of Antinomian license, but it has al- ways limited the area of real sympathy to the hypothetical elect, and very usually tended to the depreciation of such kinds of effort as imply an educational character in the present life. For example, though many very eminent scholars and theologians have been found in the ranks of its adherents, its current view has been that earthly learning is altogether superfluous for those who are destined to heavenly bliss in a life entirely disconnected from the present one, and having no relation of continuity with it whatever. In heaven we shall know, the argument runs, all that we want to know, and the wholly unlettered saint will rank along with, if not above, the most erudite; and so of all other distinctions notice- able here between man and man—wherefore the true Christian will make no account of them, nor busy himself in attaining them here, any more than a sensible youth who knew that his life was to be spent as an Indian official would devote his attention to the study of Scottish agriculture 48 4 preparation for his new career. As to the question of sympathy, its treatment is admirably summed up in the three famous resolutions of the Pilgrim Fathers, when they were preparing to take the lands of the red-men from them by vio- CHRISTIANITY AND PATRIOTISM. 231 lence: “ Resolved —1. That the earth is the Lord’s, and the fullness thereof. 2. That the Lord hath given the earth to the saints. 3. That we are the saints.” This principle, though rare- ly, if ever, expressed with such charming sim- plicity and directness, has yet been very general- ly acted on by those who accepted it, in the form of rigid intolerance when they were the ruling power, and of unscrupulous resistance to authori- ty when subjects; of which the crowning exam- ples are the Huguenot wars already referred to, and the invitation by the Hungarian Protestants, Tekeli and his friends, of that Turkish invasion which was crushed by the arms of King John So- bieski and of Charles of Lorraine under the walls of Vienna ; in each instance all social and politi- cal considerations being postponed to those of sectarian triumph and revenge. But whatever objections may be taken on such grounds as these to the practical working of such a system, the argument we are considering can derive no sup- port from it, for the threefold reason that the system itself, however evil its method or ends may have been at times, has by no means tended to generate political inertness and incapacity ; that it never at best assumed larger dimensions than those of a single section of Christianity, whose claims, moreover, were uniformly repudi- ated by the enormous majority of other Chris- tians, inclusive of the whole East, of Latin Chris- tendom, and of Lutheranism; and that its final collapse in our own time shows that it is not identical with Christianity, which is quite un- affected, otherwise than beneficially, by its fall. The Ultramontane form of Christianity, how- ever, does lend more color to the objection, though the vast system of which it is at pres- ent the most powerful living exponent seems at first sight, from its wide diffusion and long continuance, free from those strait bonds of sec- turianism and of mere nationalism which prove that the evil system just discussed is not, even theoretically, coextensive with the universal fel- lowship of Christians. The reason why Ultramontanism has failed in all civil relations everywhere is that it has nar- rowed, materialized, and coarsened the idea of a kingdom of Christ, a brotherhood of ransomed humanity, by identifying it with the papal mon- archy, treated all along, at any rate from the days of Nicolas I., as a temporal, much more than a spiritual domain. The consolidation and aggrandizement of this monarchy, rather than the promotion of righteousness, has been the

Page 232

232 consistent aim of its ablest servants for several centuries; a fact curiously illustrated by the great abundance of canonists and ecclesiastical lawyers produced by the local Church of Rome, contrasted with its almost complete barrenness of theologians of respectable mark, of whom it cannot cite one for each century of its exist- ence. But as the title-deeds of this monarchy will not stand the test of dispassionate inquiry, there has been, at any rate ever since the Coun- ter-Reformation, a necessity for encouraging in its subjects a temper averse from criticism or resistance, but finding religious expression and content almost exclusively in docility and devout- ness. No one who has given much attention to the copious stores of Roman Catholic theological literature, chiefly emotional, produced, mainly by the Jesuit Society, during the last two centuries, can have failed to notice that passive obedience and pious meditation are inculeated most sedulously, as comprising the whole scheme of Christian ethics necessary for | And just as the Cal- | the lay mind to assimilate. vinist learned that the elect alone had a claim on his good-will, so the practical lesson impressed on the Roman Catholic devotee similarly restricts his sympathies to his co-religionists, visible com- munion with the supreme pontiff taking the same | place in his conception of human fellowship as a supposed invisible communion with the heav- enly Church does in the rival system. No fair-minded person can question the sin- | cere conviction of the majority of Ultramontane teachers, that they are, in fact, promoting righ- teousness in the best, and indeed only feasible way, by exalting the prerogatives of the Holy See, and laboring for clerical ascendency in every country. There may be very pertinent questions asked as to the success of the method where it was longest or most thoroughly in operation, such as France under Louis XIV., Spain and Italy, and Spanish America; but that is not the point now at issue, which is as to its bearing on patriotism. pronounced, for the position of a Roman Catho- lic ecclesiastic in any country now, and in a less degree that of devout Roman Catholic laymen, may be compared to the view which George I. took of his position as King of England. In his mind the chief, and indeed only, value of that position to him personally, was as increasing his power as a German sovereign; and had he not been hampered by the very stringent constitu- tional checks due to that revolution which paved the way to his accession, there is no doubt that THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. which have been | Here no favorable judgment can be | he would not merely have flooded the English peerage, dignities, and offices of state, with hig countrymen, but have recklessly wasted the blood and treasure of his kingdom in promoting the local interests of his electorate. Now the reason why the attitude of Ultramontanes is like this, is because they are not engaged in propa gating a religious creed only, nor yet an ethical code, but a great political system, claiming abso | lute allegiance over every aspect of civil life which casuistical ingenuity can bring under the category of either faith or morals. Theirs must, therefore, be at best a divided allegiance; and where religious feeling is strong, national welfare and philanthropic considerations will have to give way, if they seem to conflict with clerical policy and domination, Then, as regards the laity, the tendency of the neo-Roman system, | despite such apparent exceptions as the Society of St. Vincent de Paul, is to exclude them not merely from an active voice in ecclesiastical af. fairs, but even from the subordinate task of car. tying out obediently the plans of their spiritual guides, save as voters at elections and in legisla- tive assemblies, That is to say, the tendency is | to officialize everything. Schools must be con- | ducted by members of a religious or monastic confraternity or sisterhood, such as Christian | Brothers, Ursulines, and Ladies of the Sacred | Heart. Almsgiving must pass through the chan- nels of Sisters of Charity, Hospitalers, and sim- ilar institutions; and so of other like matters, | No doubt this has its good side in method, ecom | omy, permanence, and general effectiveness; but it promotes, even in the domain of religion, that very inertness of the laity which amounts to w- patriotism in the sphere of civil life. In truth, | the view taken of the laity under Ultramontan ism is like that taken of the rank and file of am army by a governmert and its generals, What ever can stimulate its enthusiasm may be adopt ed, but no one in authority ever dreams of giving it a voice in deciding on the justice or injusticeof a quarrel, on the alternative of war and peace, OF on the conduct of a campaign. So far as their members reénforce the leaders and further theit aims, well and good; but purely lay and civil im terests are never consulted, as the history of Bourbon Naples may sufficiently testify. And therefore it is true that, wherever this type of religious teaching is dominant, it stunt F mental power and independent thought, and does >, so far unfit its adherents for civil life. sith: But here, too, the answer is obvious, that “7 system has been in working order for little — |

Page 233

welfare ave to clerical ds the system, Society em not tical af. of car- piritual legisla- lency is be con- ,onastic hristian Sacred e chan- nd sim- matters, d, econ ss; but on, that 's to UD- n truth, montane le of am What e adopt f giving usti peace, OF as their er their civil im story of it stunts and does #8 ‘) that this tle more 2 4j than two hundred years; has operated only over a certain area of Europe and America; has been combated with more or less success, till quite the other day, by a powerful school within the same communion; and can be shown by historical proof to be a mere unhealthy excrescence on Christianity, and no part of its essential and orig. inal constitution. Echoing the partisan watch- word, “I am of Cephas,” which St. Paul condemns as narrow and sectarian, it fails to grasp the idea of humanity, and is as obnoxious as the other system to the charge of treating Christianity as a mere agency for saving a few souls rather than as designed for the regeneration of the whole world, and of viewing the next life as dissociated so far from this that the cultivation of divinely-given faculties here can have no value as training for the unknown conditions of future existence: a theory which will not stand the test of deep spir- itual thought. Hence the conclusions to be drawn from a survey of the whole evidence are, that so far as SIR WALTER SCOT1I AND HIS DOGS. 233 Christianity is really in conflict with something called patriotism, that patriotism is not genuine and a virtue, but merely national selfishness and vanity ; and so far as patriotism is in conflict with something called Christianity, that Christianity is not genuine and divine, but a misleading and sec- tarian gloss; while true Christianity and true pa- triotism harmonize perfectly, the latter being simply the local expression of the former in its relation to civil life, into which it necessarily in- fuses that intensity of existence, that enforcement of duty as the first requisite of morality, and that quickened interest in the welfare of others, which distinguish Christianity, not merely from the clas- sical paganism which it supplanted, but from all later Pantheistic and Agnostic systems, and most of all from the serene selfishness of modern es- thetic Hedonism—a cult which may breed pigs for Epicurus’s sty, but will never rear citizens to save a nation in time of need; or guide it wisely and bravely at any time whatever.—Contempo- rary Review, SIR WALTER SCOTT AND HIS DOGS. By W. C. NE of my pleasant recollections is that of | larger than many a Newfoundland dog. It seeing Sir Walter Scott out on a stroll | walked freely into the house, and was regularly with his dogs ; the scene being in the neighbor- | fed from the boy’s hand. He soon learned to hood of Abbotsford, in the summer of 1824, | ride the little pony well, and often alarmed “ Aunt while as yet the gloom of misfortune had not Jenny” by cantering over the rough places in clouded the mind of the great man. was limping gayly along with his pet companions amid the rural scenes which he had toiled to se- cure and loved so dearly. Scott’s fondness for animals has perhaps never been sufficiently acknowledged. It was with him a kind of second nature, and appears to have been implanted when as a child he was sent on a Visit to the house of his grandfather, Robert Scott, at Sandyknowe, in the neighborhood of Dryburgh. Here, amid flocks of sheep and lambs, talked to and fondled by shepherds and ewe-milk- ers, and reveling with coilies, he was impressed with a degree of affectionate feeling for animals which lasted through life. At a subsequent visit to Sandyknowe, when his grandfather had passed away, and the farm operations were administered by “Uncle Thomas,” he was provided with a There he Shetland pony to ride upon. The pony was little the neighborhood. Such were the beginnings of Scott’s intercourse with animals. Growing up, there was something extraordinary in his attach- ment to his dogs, his horses, his ponies, and his cats; all of which were treated by him, each in its own sphere, as agreeable companions, and which were attached to him in return. There may have been something feudal and poetic in this kindly association with humble adherents, but there was also much of simple good-hearted- ness. Scott added nota little to the happiness of his existence by this genial intercourse with his domestic pets. From Lockhart’s “ Memoirs of Sir Walter” and other works we have occa- sionally bright glimpses of the great man’s fa- miliarity with his four-footed favorites. We can see that Scott did not, as is too often the case, treat them capriciously, as creatures to be made of at one time, and spoken to harshly when not

Page 234

234 THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. in the vein for amusement. On the contrary, they were elevated to the position of friends. They possessed rights to be respected, feelings which it would be scandalous to outrage. At all times he had a soothing word and a kind pat for every one of them. And that, surely, is the proper way to behave toward the beings who are dependent on us. Among Sir Walter’s favorite dogs we first hear of Camp, a large bull-terrier, that was taken with him when visiting the Ellises for a week at Sunninghill in 1803. Mr. and Mrs. Ellis having cordially sympathized in his fondness for this animal, Scott, at parting, promised to send one of Camp’s progeny in the course of the season to Sunninghill. As an officer in a troop of yeo- manry cavalry, Scott proved a good horseman, and we are led to know that he was much at- tached to the animal which he rode. In a letter to a friend written at this period (1803), he says: “T have, too, an hereditary attachment to the ani- mal—not, I flatter myself, of the common jocky cast, but because I regard him as the kindest and most generous of the subordinate animals. I hardly even except the dogs; at least, they are usually so much better treated that compassion for the steed should be thrown into the scale when we weigh their comparative merits.” For several years Camp was the constant par- lor-dog. He was handsome, intelligent, and fierce, but gentle as a lamb among the children, At the same time there were two greyhounds, Douglas and Percy, which were kept in the country for coursing. Scott kept one window of his study open, whatever might be the state of the weather, that Douglas and Percy might leap out and in as the fancy moved them. He always talked to Camp as if he understood what was said—and the animal certainly did understand not a little of it; in particular, it seemed as if he perfectly comprehended on all occasions that his master considered him a sensible and steady friend ; the greyhounds as volatile young creatures whose freaks must be borne with. William Laidlaw, the friend and amanuensis of Scott, mentions in the “ Abbotsford Notanda” a remarkable instance of Camp’s fidelity and at- tention. It was on the occasion of a party visit- ing a wild cataract in Dumfriesshire, known as the Gray Mare’s Tail. There was a rocky chasm to be ascended, up which Scott made his way with difficulty, on account of bis lameness. ‘‘ Camp attended anxiously on his master; and when the latter came to a difficult part of the rock, Camp would jump down, look up to his master’s face, then spring up, lick his master’s hand and cheek, jump down again, and look upward, as if to show him the way and encourage him. We were greatly interested with the scene.” The most charming part of Scott’s life was, as we think, that which he spent with his family at Ashestiel, from about 1804 to 1808, part of which time he was engaged in writing “ Marmion,” Ashestiel was a country mansion situated on the south bank of the Tweed, half-way between In. nerleithen and Galashiels, and in what would be called a solitary mountain district. There was the river for fishing, and the hills for coursing, and no other amusement. To enliven the scene literary friends came on short visits. There was an odd character in the immediate neighborhood, called from his parsimony Old Nippie, whose habits afforded some fun. When still at Ashes tiel in 1808, there is presented a pleasant picture by Lockhart of the way in which Scott passed the Sunday. The account of it is a perfect idyl. “On Sunday he never rode—at least not until his growing infirmity made his pony almost necessary for him—for it was his principle that all domestic animals have a full right to their Sabbath of rest; but, after he had read the Church service, he usually walked with his whole family, dogs included, to some favorite spot at a considerable distance from the house—most fre- quently the ruined tower of Elibank—and there dined with them in the open air on a basket of cold provisions, mixing his wine with the water of the brook beside which they were all grouped around him on the turf; and here, or at home, if the weather kept them from their ramble, his Sunday talk was just such a series of biblical les- sons as that preserved for the permanent use of the rising generation in his ‘Tales of a Grand father.’ He had his Bible, the Old Testament especially, by heart ; and on these days inwove the simple pathos or sublime enthusiasm of Scripture, in whatever story he was telling, with the same picturesque richness as he did, in bis week-day tales, the quaint Scotch of Pitscottie, or some rude romantic old rhyme from Barbour’s ‘Bruce’ or Blind Harry’s ‘ Wallace.’ ” Failing from old age, Camp was taken by the family to Edinburgh, and there he died about January, 1809. He was buried in a fine moo light night in the little garden behind the house, No. 89 Castle Street, immediately opposite the window where Scott usually sat writing. daughter, Mrs. Lockhart, remembered “ the Whole family standing round the grave as her father himself smoothed down the turf above Camp with g

Page 235

ras, a8 ily at which nion,” in the n In ld be e was rsing, e was whose ishes- icture erfect st not Imost » that d the whole tata t fre. cet of uped e, his the saddest expression of face she had ever seen in him. He had been engaged to dine abroad that day, but apologized on account of ‘the death of a dear old friend.’” A few months later, Scott says in one of his letters: “T have supplied the vacancy occasioned by the death of dear old Camp with a terrier-puppy of the old shaggy Celtic breed,” and which he named Wal- lace. This new companion was taken on an ex- cursion to the Hebrides in 1810, and in time partly compensated for the loss of Camp. There came, however, a fresh bereavement, in 1812, in the death of the greyhound Percy. Scott al- ludes to the fact in one of his letters. “ We are going on in the old way, only poor Percy is dead, lintend to have an old stone set up by his grave, with Cy gist li preux Percie” (Here lies the brave Percy); “and I hope future antiquaries will de- bate which hero of the house of Northumber- land has left his bones in Teviotdale.” The two favorite greyhounds are alluded to in the Intro- duction to the second canto of “ Marmion: ” “Remember'st thou my greyhounds true ? O’er holt or hill there never flew, From slip or leash there never sprang, More fleet of foot or sure of fang.” In a letter dated Abbotsford, 1816, written to Terry, with whom he communicated on literary and dramatic subjects, he says: “I have got from my friend Glengarry the noblest dog ever seen on the Border since Johnnie Armstrong's time. He is between the wolf and deer hound, about six feet long from the tip of the nose to the tail, and high and strong in proportion: he is quite gentle and a great favorite. Tell Will. Erskine he will eat off his plate without being at the trouble to put a paw on the table or chair. Ishewed him to Matthews, who dined one day in Castle Street before I came here.” The staghound so introduced was the famous Maida, which came upon the scene when the Wa- verley novels were beginning to set the world on fire. Maida was the crack dog of Scott's life, and figures at his feet in the well-known scul; t- ue by Steell. He did not quite supersede Wal- lace and the other dogs, but assumed among them the most distinguished place, and might be alled the canine major-domo of the establish- ment, On visiting Abbotsford in 1817, Washing- ton Irving enjoyed the pleasure of a ramble with Beott and his dogs. His description of the scene 18 . amusing that we can scarcely abate a jot: “As we sallied forth, every dog in the estab- lishment turned out to attend us. There was SIR WALTER SCOTT AND HIS DOGS. 235 the old staghound, Maida, that I have already mentioned, a noble animal; and Hamlet, the black greyhound, a wild, thoughtless youngster, not yet arrived at the years of discretion ; and Finette, a beautiful setter, with soft, silken hair, long, pendent ears, and a mild eye, the parlor favorite. When in front of the house, we were joined by a superannuated greyhound, who came from the kitchen wagging his tail; and was cheered by Scott as an old friend and comrade. In our walks he would frequently pause in con- versation to notice his dogs, and speak to them as if rational companions; and, indeed, there appears to be a vast deal of rationality in these faithful attendants on man, derived from their close intimacy with him. Maida deported him- self with a gravity becoming his age and size, an seemed to consider himself called upon to preserve a great degree of dignity and decorum in our so- ciety. As he jogged along a little distance ahead of us, the young dogs would gambol about him, leap on his neck, worry at his ears, and endeavor to tease him intoa gambol. The old dog would keep on for a long time with imperturbable solem- nity, now and then seeming to rebuke the wanton- ness of his young companions. At length he would make a sudden turn, seize one of them, and tumble him in the dust, then giving a glance at us, as much as to say, ‘ You see, gentlemen, I can’t help giving way to this nonsense,’ would resume his gravity, and jog on as before. Scott amused himself with these peculiarities. ‘I make no doubt,’ said he, ‘when Maida is alone with these young dogs, he throws gravity aside, and plays the boy as much as any of them ; but he is ashamed to do so in our company, and seems to say: “ Ha’ done with your nonsense, young- sters; what will the laird and that other gentle- man think of me if I give way to such foolery ?”’ “ Scott amused himself with the peculiarities of another of his dogs, a little shamefaced terrier, with large, glassy eyes, one of the most sensitive little bodies to insult and indignity in the world. ‘If ever he whipped him,’ he said, ‘ the little fellow would sneak off and hide himself from the light of day in a lumber-garret, whence there was no drawing him forth but by the sound of the chopping-knife, as if chopping up his victuals, when he would steal forth with humili- ated and downcast look, but would skulk away | again if any one regarded him.’ “ While we were discussing the humors and peculiarities of our canine companions, some ob- ject provoked their spleen, and produced a sharp and petulant barking from the smaller fry ; but

Page 236

236 it was some time before Maida was sufficiently roused to ramp forward two or three bounds, and join the chorus with a deep-mouthed bow-wow. It was but a transient outbreak, and he returned instantly, wagging his tail, and looking up dubi- ously in his master’s face, uncertain whether he would receive censure or applause. ‘ Ay, ay, old boy !’ cried Scott, ‘ you have done wonders ; you have shaken the Eildon hills with your roaring, you may now lay by your artillery for the rest of the day.—Maida,’ continued he, ‘ is like the great gun at Constantinople ; it takes so long to get it ready, that the smaller guns can fire off a dozen times first.’ ” Maida accompanied his master to town, where he occupied the place of the lamented Camp. In The sanctum at Castle Street, Maida lay on the hearth-rug, ready when called on to lay his head across his master’s knees, and to be caressed and fondled. On the ton step of a ladder for reach- ing down the books from a higher shelf sat a sleek and venerable tomeat, which Scott face- tiously called by the German name Hinse of Hins_ feldt. Lockhart mentions that Hinse, “no longer very locomotive, usually lay watching the pro- | ceedings of his master and Maida with an air of dignified equanimity. When Maida chose to leave the party, he signified his inclinations by beating the door with his huge paw; Scott rose and opened it for him with courteous alacrity—and then Hinse came down purring from his perch, and mounted guard by the footstool, vice Maida absent on furlough. Whatever discourse might be passing was broken, every now and then, by some affectionate apostrophe to these four-footed friends. Dogs and cats, like children, have some infallible tact for discovering who is, and who is not, really fond of their company ; and, I venture to say, Scott was never five minutes in any room before the little pets of the family, whether dumb or lisping, had found out his kindness for all their generation.” In letters to his eldest son, Scott seldom fails to tell him how things are going on with the do- mesticated animals. For example: “ Hamlet had an inflammatory attack, and I began to think he was going mad, after the example of his great namesake; but Willie Laidlaw bled him, and he recovered. Pussy is very well.” Next letter: “ Dogs all well—cat sick—supposed with eating birds in their feathers.” Shortly afterward: “ All here send love. Dogs and cat are well. I dare say you have heard from some ether correspondent that poor Lady Wallace” (a | favorite pony) “died of an inflammation after two THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. | the general cheers. days’ illness. Trout” (a favorite pointer) “has te, turned here several times, poor fellow, and seems to look for you; but Henry Scott is very kind to him.” count of an accident to Maida: “On Sunday, Maida walked with us, and in jumping the paling at the Greentongue park contrived to hang him. self up by the hind-leg. He howled at first, but seeing us making toward him, he stopped crying, and waved his tail, by way of signal, it was sup. posed, for assistance. He sustained no material injury, though his leg was strangely twisted into the bars, and he was nearly hanging byit. He showed great gratitude, in his way, to his de liverers.” At Abbotsford, in the autumn of 1820, when a large party, including Sir Humphry Davy, Dr, Wollaston, and Henry Mackenzie, were sallying out—Scott on his pony Sybyl Grey, with Maids gamboling about him—there was some comme tion and laughter when it was discovered that a little black pig was frisking about and apparently resolved to be one of the party for the day. Scott tried to look stern, and cracked his whip at the creature, but was in a moment obliged to join in Poor piggy was sent home. “This pig,” says Lockhart, “ had taken, nobody could tell how, a most sentimental attachment to Scott, and was constantly urging his pretensions to be admitted a regular member of his tail along with the grerhounds and terriers; but, indeed, ! . . I remember him suffering another summer ur der the same sort of pertinacity on the part of an affectionate hen. I leave the explanation for philosophers—but such were the facts.” Mr. Adolphus, a visitor to Abbotsford in 188 when the health of the great writer was breaking down under his honorable and terribly imposed taskwork, gives us not the least striking instance of Scott’s wonderful considerateness toward ani mals, “In the morning’s drive we crossed se¥ eral fords, and, after the rain, they were wide and deep. A little, long, wise-looking, rough terrier, named Spice, which ran after us, had a cough, and as often as we came to a water, Spice, by the special order of his master, was let into the carriage till we had crossed. His tenderness t0 his brute dependents was a striking point im the benignity of his character. He seemed to consult not only their bodily welfare, but their feelings, in the human sense. to his dogs.” When too roughly frolicsome, he rebuked them gently, so as not to mortify or spoil the natural buoyancy of their character, — 2 We could extend these memorabilia, but In a succeeding letter we have the ag He was a gentleman evel “4 Perea ese ese eee OUmelcelUC rOlUCUr rhrlUC SlCr CU

Page 237

ry, Dr. at the ent to nsions | along ndeed, er un art of ion for perbaps, said enough. Maida died in October, 1824, and is commemorated in a sculptured figure at the doorway of Abbotsford. His attached master wrote an epitaph on him in Latin, whick he thus Englished : “Beneath the sculptured form which late you wore, Sleep soundly, Maida, at your master’s door.” It was a sad pang for Scott, when quitting -THE SOUL AND FUTURE LIFE. 237 home to seek for health abroad, and which he did not find, to legve the pet dogs which survived Maida. His last orders were, that they should be taken care of. We may be permitted to join in the noble eulogium pronounced on Scott by Willie Laidlaw, who lived to mourn his loss, that kindness of heart was positively the reigning quality of Sir Walter's character !—Chambers’s Journal, THE SOUL AND FUTURE LIFE. By FREDERIC HARRISON, OW many men and women continue to give | eses and evasive tropes ? a mechanical acquiescence to the creeds, long after they have parted with all definite the- ology, out of mere clinging to some hope of a future life, in however dim and inarticulate a way! And how many, whose own faith is too evanescent to be put into words, profess a sov- ereign pity for the practical philosophy wherein there is no place for their particular yearning for a heaven tocome! They imagine themselves to be, by virtue of this very yearning, beings of a superior order, and, as if they inhabited some higher zone amid the clouds, they flout sober thought as it toils in the plain below ; they coun- sel it to drown itself in sheer despair or take to evil living; they rebuke it with some sonorous household word from the Bible or the poets— “Eat, drink, for to-morrow ye die”—“ Were it hot better not to be?’”? And they assume the question closed when they have murmured tri- unphantly, “ Behind the veil—behind the veil.” They are right, and they are wrong: right to cling to a hope of something that shall endure beyond the grave; wrong in their rebukes to men who in a different spirit cling to this hope a8 earnestly as they. We too turn our thoughts to that which is behind the veil. We strive to Pierce its secret with eyes, we trust, as eager and as fearless; and even it may be more patient in searching for the realities beyond the gloom, That which shall come after is no less solemn to ws than to you. We ask you, therefore: What do you know of it? Tell us; we will tell you What we hope. Let us reason together in sober and precise prose. Why should this great end, Staring at all of us along the vista of each human life, be forever a matter for dithyrambic hypoth- What in the language of clear sense does any one of us hope for after death: what precise kind of life, and on what grounds? It is too great a thing to be trusted to poetic ejaculations, to be made a field for Pharisaic scorn. At least be it acknowledged that a man may think of the soul and of death and of future life in ways strictly positive (that is, without ever quitting the region of evidence), and yet may make the world beyond the grave the centre to himself of moral life. He will give the spiritual life a place as high, and will dwell upon the promises of that which is after death as confidently as the believers in a celestial resur- rection. And he can do this without trusting his ° all to a perhaps so vague that a spasm of doubt can wreck it, but trusting, rather, to a mass of solid knowledge, which no man of any school denies to be true so far as it goes. i. THERE ought to be no misunderstanding at the outset as to what we who trust in positive meth- ods mean by the word “soul,” or by the words “ spiritual,” “ materialist,” and “ future life.” We certainly would use tbat ancient and beautie ful word soul, provided there be no misconcep- tion involved in its use. We assert as fully as any theologian the supreme importance of spirit ual life. We agree with the theologians that there is current a great deal of real materialism, deadening to our higher feeling. And we deplore the too common indifference to the world beyond the grave. And yet we find the centre of our religion and our philosophy in man and man’s earth. To follow out this use of old words, and to

Page 238

238 see that there is no paradox in thus using them, we must go back a little to general principles. The matter turns altogether upon habits of thought. What seems to you so shocking will often seem to us so ennobling, and what seems to us flimsy wil! often seem to you sublime, simply because our minds have been trained in different logical methods ; and hence you will call that a beautiful truth which strikes us as nothing but a random guess. It is idle, of course, to dis- pute about our respective logical methods, or to pit this habit of mind in a combat with that. But we may understand each other better if we can agree to follow out the moral and religious temper, and learn that it is quite compatible with this or that mental procedure. It may teach us again that ancient truth, how much human nature there is in men; what fellowship there is in our common aspirations and moral forces; how we all live the same spiritual life; while the philoso- phies are but the ceaseless toil of the intellect seeking again and again to explain more clearly that spiritual life, and to furnish it with reasons for the faith that is in it. This would be no place to expound or to de- fend the positive method of thought. The ques- tion before us is simply, if this positive method has a place in the spiritual world or has any- thing to say about a future beyond the grave. Suffice it that we mean by the positive method of thought (and we will now use the term in a sense not limited to the social construction of Comte) that method which would base life and conduct, as well as knowledge, upon such evidence as can be referred to logical canons of proof, which would place all that occupies man in a homo- geneous system of Jaw. On the other hand, this method turns aside from hypotheses not to be tested by any known logical canon familiar to science, whether the hypothesis claim support from intuition, aspiration, or general plausibility. And, again, this method turns aside from ideal standards which avow themselves to be Jawless, which profess to transcend the field of law. We say, life and conduct shall stand for us wholly on a basis of law, and must rest entirely in that re- gion of scierice (not physical but moral and social science) where we are free to use our intelligence in the methods known to us as intelligible logic, methods which the intellect can analyze. When you confront us with hypotheses, however sub- lime and however affecting, if they cannot be stated in terms of the rest of our knowledge, if they are disparate to that world of sequence and sensation which to us is the ultimate base of all | ard self-knowledge. THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. our real knowledge, then we shake our heads ang turn aside. I say, turn aside; and I do not say, dispute. We cannot disprove the suggestion that there are higher channels to knowledge in on aspirations or our presentiments, as there might be in our dreams by night as well as by day; we courteously salute the hypotheses, as we might love our pleasant dreams; we seek to prove no negatives. We do not pretend there are no mysteries; we do not frown on the poetic splen. dors of the fancy. There is a world of beauty and of pathos in the vast ether of the Unknown in which this solid ball hangs like a speck. Let all who list, who have true imagination and not mere paltering with a loose fancy—let them in. dulge their gift, and tell us what their soaring has unfolded. Only let us not waste life in crude dreaming, or loosen the knees of action. For life and conduct, and the great emotions which react on life and conduct, we can place nowhere but in the same sphere of knowledge, under the same canons of proof, to which we intrust all parts of our life. We will ask the same philoso phy which teaches us the lessons of civilization to guide our lives as responsible men ; and we gv again to the same philosophy which orders our lives to explain to us the lessons of death. We crave to have the supreme hours of our existence’ lighted up by thoughts and motives such as we can measure beside the common acts of our daily existence, so that each hour of our life up to the grave may be linked to the life beyond the grave as one continuous whole, “ bound each to each by natural piety.” And so, wasting no sighs over the incommensurable possibilities of the fancy, we will march on with a firm step till we knock at the gates of death; bearing always the same human temper, in the same reasonable be liefs, and with the same earthly hopes of pre longed activity among our fellows, with which we set out gayly in the morning of life. When we come to the problem of the humar soul, we simply treat man as man, and we study him in accordance with our human experience, Man is a marvelous and complex being, we may fairly say of complexity past any hope of final analysis of ours, fearfully and wonderfully made to the point of being mysterious. But incredible progress has been won in reading this complexity, in reducing this mystery to order. Who can say that man shall ever be anything but an object of awe and of unfathomable pondering to himself? Yet he would be false to all that is great in bim if he decried what he already has achieved to Man has probed his ow# a > ¢

Page 239

ds and mn that in our iy; we ve no nd not ywhere er the corporeal and animal life, and is each day ar- ranging it in more accurate adjustment with the immense procession of animal life around him. He has grouped the intellectual powers, he has traced to their relations the functions of mind, and ordered the laws of thought into a logic of a regular kind. He has analyzed and grouped the capacities of action, the moral faculties, the in- stincts and emotiors. And not only is the analy- sis of these tolerably clear, but the associations and correlations of each with the other are fairly made manifest. At the lowest, we are all assured that every single faculty of man is capable of sci- THE SOUL AND FUTURE LIFE. 239 him vomit. A lancet will restore him from de- lirium to clear thought. Excess of thought will waste his sinews. Excess of muscular exercise will deaden thought. An emotion will double the strength of his muscles. And at last the prick of a needle or a grain of mineral will in an instant lay to rest forever his body and its unity, and all the spontaneous activities of intelligence, feeling, and action, with which that compound organism was charged. These are the obvious and ancient observa- tions about the human organism. But modern philosophy and science have carried these hints entific study. Philosophy simply means, that ; into complete explanations, By a vast accumula- every part of human nature acts upon a method, and does not act chaotically, inscrutably, or in mere caprice. But then we find throughout man’s knowl- edge of himself signs of a common type. There is organic unity in the whole. These laws of the separate functions, of body, mind, or feeling, have visible relations to each other, are inextricably woven in with each other, act and react, depend and interdepend, one on the other. There is no such thing as an isolated phenomenon, nothing sui generis, in our entire scrutiny of human na- ture. Whatever the complexities of it, there is through the whole a solidarity of a single unit, Touch the smallest fibre of the corporeal man, and in some infinitesimal way we may watch the effect in the moral man, and we may trace this effect up into the highest pinnacles of the spirit- ual life. On the other hand, when we rouse, chords of the most glorious ecstasy of the soul, we may see the vibration of them visibly thrilling upon the skin. The very animals about us can perceive the emotion. Suppose a martyr nerved to the last sacrifice, or a saint in the act of re- lieving a sufferer, the sacred passion within them is stamped in the eye, or plays about the mouth, with a connection as visible as when we see a muscle acting on a bone, or the brain affected by the supply of blood. Thus from the summit of spiritual life to the base of corporeal life, whether We pass up or down the gamut of human forces, there runs one organic correlation and sympathy of parts. Man is one, however compound, Fire his conscience, and he blushes. Check his circu- lation, and he thinks wildly, or thinks not at all. Impair his secretions, and moral sense is dulled, discolored, or depraved; his aspirations flag, his hope, love, faith reel, Impair them still more, and he becomes a brute. A cup of drink de- grades his moral nature below that of a swine. Again, a violent emotion of pity or horror makes | | tion of proof positive, thought at last has estab- lished a distinct correspondence between every process of thought or of feeling and some corpo- real phenomenon. Even when we cannot explain the precise relation, we can show that definite cor- relations exist. To positive methods, every fact of thinking reveals itself as having functional re- lation with molecular change. Every fact of will or of feeling is in similar relation with kindred molecular facts. And all these facts, again, have some relation to each other. Hence we have es- tablished an organic correspondence in all mani- festations of human life. To think implies a corresponding adjustment of molecular activity. To feel emotion implies nervous organs of feeling. To will implies vital cerebral hemispheres. Ob- servation, reflection, memory, imagination, judg- ment, have all been analyzed out, till they stand forth as functions of living organs in given condi- tions of the organism, that is in a particular environment. The whole range of man’s powers, from the finest spiritual sensibility down to a mere automatic contraction, falls into one co- herent scheme: being all the multiform functions of a living organism in presence of its encircling conditions. But, complex as it is, there is no confusion in this whole when conceived by positive methods. No rational thinker now pretends that imagina- tion is simply the vibration of a particular fibre. No man can explain volition by purely anatomical study. While keeping in view the due relations between moral and corporeal facts, we distinguish moral from biologic facts, moral science from biology. Moral science is based upon biological science; but it is not comprised in it; it has its own special facts and its own special methods, though always in the sphere of law. Just so, the mechanism of the body is based upon mechanics, would be unintelligible but for mechanics, but could not be explained by mechanics alone, or by’

Page 240

240 THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. anything but a complete anatomy and biology. | should a “principle,” or an entity, be more cape To explain the activity of the intellect as included in the activity of the body, is as idle as to explain the activity of the body as included in the motion of solid bodies. And it is equally idle to explain the activity of the will, or the emotions, as in- cluded in the theory of the intellect. All the | child—merely gua human organism—unlesg her spheres of human life are logically separable, though they are organically interdependent. Now jcan a cat love her kittens—merely gua feline the combined activity of the human powers or- | organism—without an immaterial principle, or ganized around the highest of them we call the soul, The combination of intellectual and moral | principle to account for a tree growing, ore energy which is the source of religion, we call | thunder-storm roaring, and for every force of the spiritual life. The explaining the spiritual | Nature. Now this very supposition was made im side of life by physical instead of moral and ia way by the Greeks, and to some extent by spiritual reasoning, we call materialism. The consensus of the human faculties, which we call the soul, comprises all sides of human nature according to one homogeneous theory. But the intuitional methods ask us to insert into the midst of this harmonious system of parts, as an underlying explanation of it, an indescribable entity; and to this hypothesis, since the days of Descartes (or possibly of Aquinas), the good old word soul has been usually restricted. How and when this entity ever got into the organism, how it abides in it, what are its relations to it, how it acts on it, why and when it goes out of it—all is mystery. We ask for some evidence of the exist- ence of any such entity ; the answer is, we must imagine it in order to explain the organism. We ask what are its methods, its laws, its affinities; we are told that it simply has none, or none know- able. We ask for some description of it, of its course of development, for some single fact about it, statable in terms of the rest of our knowl- edge; the reply is—mystery, absence of every- thing so statable or cognizable, a line of poctry, or an ejaculation. It has no place, no matter, no modes, neither evolution nor decay ; it is with- out body, parts, or passions; a spiritual essence, incommensurable, incomparable, indescribable. Yet, with all this, it is, we are told, an entity, the most real and perfect of all entities short of the divine. If we ask why we are to assume the existence of something of which we have certainly no direct evidence, and which is so wrapped in mystery that for practical purposes it becomes a nonentity, we are told that we need to conceive it, because a mere organism cannot act as we see the human organism act. Why not? They say there must be a principle within as the cause of this life. But what do we gain by supposing a “ principle ?” The “ principle ” only adds a fresh difficulty. Why | ble of possessing these marvelous human powers than the human organism? Besides, we shalj have to imagine a “ principle” to explain not only why a man can feel affection, but also why a dog can feel affection. If a mother cannot love her love be a manifestation of an eternal soul, how soul? Nay, we shall have to go on to invents Aquinas, the authors of the vast substructure of anima underlying all Nature, of which our human soul is the fragment that alone survives. One by one the steps in this series of hypothesis have faded away. Greek and medieval philosophy imagined that every activity resulted not from the body which exhibited the activity, but from some mysterious entity inside it. If marble was hard, it had a “form” informing its hardness; if a blade of grass sprang up, it had a vegetative spirit mysteriously impelling it; if a dog obeyed his master, it had an animal spirit mysteriously controlling its organs. The medisval physicists, as Moliére reminds us, thought that opium im duced sleep guia est in eo virtus dormitiva, Nothing was allowed to act as it did by its own force or vitality. In every explanation of science we were told to postulate an intercalary hypoth esis, Of this huge mountain of figment, the notion of man’s imwaterial soul is the one feeble residuum, Orthodoxy has so long been accustomed to take itself for granted, that we are apt to forget how very short a period of human history this sublimated essence has been current. From Plato to Hegel the idea has been continually taking fresh shapes. There is not a trace of it in the Bible in its present sense, and nothing ia the least akin to it in the Old Testament. Till the time of Aquinas theories of a material soul, as a sort of gas, were never eliminated ; and until the time of Descartes, our present ideas of the antithesis of soul and body were never clearly defined. Thus the Bible, the Fathers, and the medieval Church, as was natural when philoe — ophy was in a state of flux, all represented the — soul in very different ways; and none of thes# — ways were those of a modern divine. It isa curious instance of the power of words that the P practical weight of the popular religion is Dow

Page 241

THE SOUL AND FUTURE LIFE. 241 hung on a metaphysical hypothesis, which itself has been in vogue for only a few centuries in the history of speculation, and which is now become to those trained in positive habits of thought a | mere juggle of ideas. | We have in all this sought only to state what | we mean by man’s soul, and what we do not mean. But we make no attempt to prove aj} negative, or to demonstrate the non-existence of the supposed entity. Our purpose now is a very | different one. We start out from this—that this | positive mode of treating man is in this, as in | other things, morally sufficient; that it leaves no | yoids and chasms in human life; that the moral | and religious sequelae which are sometimes as- signed to its teaching have no foundation in fact. We say that, on this basis, not only have we an entrance into the spiritual realm, but that we have a firmer hold on the spiritual life than on the basis of hypothesis. On this theory, the world beyond the grave is in closer and truer re- lation to conduct than on the spiritualist theory. We look on man as man, not as man plus a hete- rogeneous entity. And we think that we lose | nothing, but gain much thereby, in the religious | as well as in the moral world. We do not deny | the conceivable existence of the heterogeneous entity. But we believe that human nature is ade- quately equipped on human and natural grounds | without this disparate nondescript. Let us be careful to deseribe the method we | employ as that which looks on man as man, and repudiate the various labels, such as materialist, | physical, unspiritual methods, and the like, which | | are used as equivalent for the rational or positive method of treating man. The method of treat- ing man as man insists, at least as much as any other method, that man has a moral, emotional, religious life, different in kind from his material and practical life, but perfectly codrdinate with | that physical life, and to be studied on similar | scientific methods. The spiritual sympathies of | man are undoubtedly the highest part of human vature; and our method condemns as loudly as | any system physical explanations of spiritual life. We claim the right to use the terms “soul,” “spiritual,” and the like, in their natural mean- ing. In the same way, we think that there are | theories which are justly called “ materialist,” | that there are physical conceptions of human nature which are truly dangerous to morality, to goodness, and religion. It is sometimes thought | to be a sufficient proof of the reality of this | heterozeneous entity of the soul, that otherwise We must assume the most spiritual emotions of 16 man to be a secretion of cerebral matter, and that, whatever the difficulties of conceiving the union of soul and body, it is something less diffi- cult than the conceiving that the nerves think, or the tissues love. We repudiate such language as much as any one can, but there is another alternative. It is possible to invest with the highest dignity the spiritual life of mankind by treating it as an ultimate fact, without trying to find an explanation for it either in a perfectly unthinkable hypothesis or in an irrational and debasing physicism. We certainly do reject, as earnestly as any school can, that which is most fairly called mate- rialism, and we will second every word of those who cry out that civilization is in danger if the workings of the human spirit are to become questions of physiology, and if death is the end of a man, as it is the end of a sparrow. We not only assent to such protests, but we see very pressing need for making them, It is a corrupt- ing doctrine to open a brain, and to tell us that devotion is a definite molecular change in this and that convolution of gray pulp, and that if man is the first of living animals, he passes away after a short space like the beasts that perish. And all doctrines, more or less, do tend to this, which offer physical theories as explaining moral phenomena, which deny man a spiritual in addi- tion to a moral nature, which limit his moral life to the span of his bodily organism, and which have no place for “ religion” in the proper sense of the word. It is true that in this age, or rather in this country, we seldom hear the stupid and brutal materialism which pretends that the subtilties of thought and emotion are simply this or that agi- tation in some gray matter, to be ultimately ex- pounded by the professors of gray matter, But this is hardly the danger which besets our time. The true materialism to fear is the prevailing ten- dency of anatomical habits of mind or specialist habits of mind to intrude into the regions of religion and philosophy. A man whose whole thoughts are absorbed in cutting up dead monkeys and live frogs has no more business to dogmatize about religion than a mere chemist to improvise a zovlogy. Biological reasoning about spiritual things is as presumptuous as the theories of an electrician about the organic facts of nervous life. We live amid a constant and growing usurpa- tion of science in the province of philosophy ; of biology in the province of sociology; of physics in that of religion. Nothing is more common than the use of the term science, when what is

Page 242

242 meant is merely physical and physiological sci- ence, not social and moral science. The arrogant attempt to dispose of the deepest moral truths of human nature on a bare physical or physiological basis is almost enough to justify the insurrection of some impatient theologians against science it- self. It is impossible not to sympathize with men who at least are defending the paramount claim of the moral laws and the religious sentiment. The solution of the dispute is, of course, that physicists and theologians have each hold of a partial truth. As the latter insist, the grard THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. gians, that it is ridiculous to go to the scalpel for an adequate account of a mother’s love; but we do not think it is explained (any more than it jg by the scalpel) by an hypothesis for which not only is theré no shadow of evidence, but which cannot even be stated in philosophic language, We find the same absurdity in the notion that maternal love is a branch of the anatomy of the mamme, and in the notion that the phenomena of lactation are produced by an immaterial entity, Both are forms of the same fallacy, that of trying to reach ultimate causes instead of studying laws, problems of man’s life must be ever referred to | We certainly do find that maternal love and lace moral and social argument; but then, as the physicists insist, this moral and social argument can only be built up on a physical and physio- logical foundation. The physical part of sci- ence is, indeed, merely the vestibule to social, and thence to moral science; and of science in all its forms the philosophy of religion alone holds the key. The true materialism lies in the habit of scientific specialists to neglect all philosophical and religious synthesis. It is marked by the ignoring of religion, the passing by on the other side, and shutting the eyes to the spiritual history of mankind. The spiritual traditions of mankind, a supreme philosophy of life and thought, religion in the proper sense of the word, all these have to play a larger and ever larger part in human knowledge; not as we are so often told, and so commonly is assumed, a waning and vanishing part. And it is in this field, the field which has so long been abandoned to theology, that Posi- tivism is prepared to meet the theologians. We at any rate do not ask them to submit religion to the test of the scalpel or the electric battery. It is true that we base our theory of society and our theory of morals, and hence our religion itself, on a curriculum of physical and especially of biolo- gical science. It is true that our moral and so- cia) science is but a prolongation of these other sciences. But, then, we insist that it is not sci- ence in the narrow sense which can order our be- liefs, but philosophy; not science which can solve our problems of life, but religion. And religion demands for its understanding the reli- gious mind and the spiritual experience. Does it seem to any one a paradox to hold fuch language, and yet to have nothing to say about the immaterial entity which many assume to be the cause behind this spiritual life? The answer is, that we occupy ourselves with this spiritual life as an ultimate fact, and, consistently with the whole of our philosophy, we decline to assign a cause at all. We argue, with the theolo- | tation have close correspondences, and that both are phenomena of certain female organisms. And we say that to talk of maternal love being exbib- ited by an entity which not only is not a female organism, but is not an organism at all, is to use language which to us, at least, is unintelligible, The philosophy which treats man as man simply affirms that man loves, thinks, acts, not that the ganglia, or the sinuses, or any organ of man, loves and thinks and acts. The thoughts, aspirations, and impulses, are not secretions, and the science which teaches us about secretions will not teach us much about them ; our thoughis, aspirations, and impulses, are faculties of a man, Now, as a man implies a body, so we say these also imply a body. And to talk to us about a bodiless being thinking and loving is simply to talk about the thoughts and feelings of nothing. This fundamental position each one deter mines according to the whole bias of his intel lectual and moral nature. But on the positive, as on the theological, method there is ample scope for the spiritual life, for moral responsibility, for the world beyond the grave, its hopes and its duties ; which remain to us perfectly real with- out the unintelligible hypothesis. However much men cling to the hypothesis from old association, if they reflect, they will find that they do not use it to give them any actual knowledge about man’s spiritual life; that all their methodical reasoning about the moral world is exclusively based on the phenomena of this world, and not-on the phenom ena of any other world. And thus the absence of the hypothesis altogether does not make the serious difference which theologians suppose. To follow out this into particulars: of human aature shows us man with a great riety of faculties ; his moral powers are just a8 distinguishable as his intellectual powers; both are mentally separable from his physical powers. Moral and mental laws are reduced @ Z something like system by moral and mental ec &

Page 243

0e] for ut We 1 it is to use ; man’s ence, with or without the theological hypothesis. The most extreme form of materialism does not dispute that moral and mental science is for logi- cal purposes something more than physical sci- ence. So the most extreme form of spiritualism gets its mental and moral science by observation and argument from phenomena; it does not, or it does not any longer, build such science by ab- stract deduction from any proposition as to an immaterial entity. There have been, in ages past, attempts to do this. Plato, for instance, at- THE SOUL AND FUTURE LIFE. 243 as well entitled to analyze the intellectual facul- ties of man as the stoutest believer in the imma- terial entity. It would raise a smile nowadays to hear it said that such a one must be incom- petent to treat of the canons of inductive reason- ing, because he was unorthodox as to the immor- tality of the soul. And if, notwithstanding this unorthodoxy, he is thought competent to inves- tigate the laws of thought, why not the moral laws, the sentiments, and the emotions? As a fact, every moral faculty of man is recognized by tempted to found, not only his mental and moral | him just as much as by any transcendentalist. philosophy, but his general philosophy of the | He does not limit himself, any more than the universe, by deduction from a mere hypothesis. He imagined immaterial entities, the ideas, of things inorganic, as much as organic. opinions. If he imagined an idea, or soul, of a man, he imagined one also for a dog, for a tree, for a statue, for a chair. He fthought that a statue and a chair were what they are, by virtue of an immaterial entity which gave them form. The hypothesis did not add much to the art of statuary, or to that of the carpenter; nor, to do him justice, did Plato look for much practical result in these spheres. One form of the doctrine alone survives—that man is what he is by virtue of an immaterial entity temporarily indwelling in his body. But, though the hypothesis survives, it is in no sense any longer the basis of the science of human nature with any school. No school is But then | Plato was consistent and had the courage of his | now content to sit in its study and evolve its | knowledge of the moral qualities of man out of abstract deductions from the conception of an immaterial entity. All, without exception, pro- fess to get their knowledge of the moral qualities by observing the qualities which men actually do exhibit, or have exhibited. And those who are persuaded that man has, over and above his man’s nature, an immaterial entity, find themselves dis- cussing the laws of thought and of character on ’ common ground with those who regard man as man—i.e., who regard man’s nature as capable of being referred to an homogeneous system of law. Spiritualists and materialists, however much they may differ in their explanations of moral phenomena, describe their relations in the same language, the language of law, not of illu- Dinism, Those, therefore, who dispense with a tran- Scendental explanation are just as free as those who maintain it, to handle the spiritual and religious phenomena of human nature, treating them simply as phenomena. No one has ever Suggested that the former philosophy is not quite { theologian does, to mere morality. He is fully alive to the spiritual emotions in all their depth, purity, and beauty. He recognizes in man the yearning for a power outside his individual self which he may venerate, a love for the author of his chief good, the need for sympathy with some- thing greater than himself. All these are posi- tive facts which rest on observation, quite apart from any explanation of the hypothetical cause of these tendencies in man. There, at any rate, the scientific observer finds them; and he is at liberty to give them quite as high a place in his scheme of human nature as the most complete theologian. He may possibly give them a far higher place, and bind them far more truly into the entire tissue of his whole view of life, because they are built up for him on precisely the same ground of experience as all the rest of his knowl- edge, and have no element at all heterogeneous from the rest of life. With the language of spiritual emotion he is perfectly in unison. The spirit of devotion, of spiritual communion with an ever-present power, of sympathy and fellow- ship with the living world, of awe and submission toward the material world, the sense of adoration, love, resignation, mystery, are at least as potent with the one system as with the other. He can share the religious emotion of every age, and can eyter into the language of every truly religious heart. For myself, I believe that this is only done on a complete as well as a real basis in the religion of humanity, but we need not confine the present argument to that ground. I venture to believe that this spirit is truly shared by all, whatever their hypothesis about the human soul, who treat these highest emotions of man’s nature as facts of primary value, and who have any in- telligible theory whereby these emotions can be aroused, : All positive methods of treating man of a comprehensive kind adopt to the full all that has ever been said about the dignity of man’s moral

Page 244

THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. 244 and spiritual Jife, and treat these phenomena as | entering upon Biblical philology, it may be gaig distinct from the intellectual and the physical | that for one passage in the Bible in which the life. These methods also recognize the unity of | word “soul” can be forced to bear the meaning consciousness, the facts of conscience, the sense | of immaterial entity, there are ten texts in which of identity, and the longing for perpetuation of | it cannot possibly refer to anything but breath, that identity. They decline to explain these life, moral sense, or spiritual emotion. When the phenomena by the popular hypotheses; but they | Psalmist says, “Deliver my soul from death,” neither deny their existence, nor lessen their im- | “ Heal my soul, for I have sinned,” “ My soul is portance. Man, they argue, has a complex exist- | cast down within me,” “ Return unto my rest, 0 ence, made up of the phenomena of his physical | my soul,” he means by “soul” what we mean— organs, of his intellectual powers, of his moral | the conscious unity of our being culminating in faculties, crowned and harmonized ultimately by | its religious emotions; and until we find some his religious sympathies—love, gratitude, vener- | English word that better expresses this ides, ation, submission, toward the dominant force by we shall continue to use the phraseology of which he finds himself surrounded. I use words | David. which are not limited to a particular philosophy | It is not merely that we are denied the lan- or religion—I do not now confine my language | guage of religion, but we sometimes find attempts to the philosophy or religion of Comte—for this | to exclude us from the thing. There are some same conception of man is common to many phi- | who say that worship, spiritual life, and that ex losophies and many religions. It characterizes | altation of the sentiments which we call devotion, such systems as those of Spinoza or Shelley or | have no possible meaning unless applied to the Fichte as much as those of Confucius or Buddha. | special theology of the particular speaker, A lit In a word, the reality and the supremacy of the | tle attention to history, a single reflection on re- spiritual life have never been carried further than by men who have departed most widely from the } popular hypotheses of the immaterial entity. Many of these men, no doubt, have indulged in hypotheses of their own quite as arbitrary as those of theology. It is characteristic of the pos- | itive thought of our age that it stands upon a | firmer basis. Though not confounding the moral | facts with the physical, it will never lose sight of | the correspondence and censensus between all ligion as a whole, suffice to show the hollowness of this assumption. If devotion mean the sur- render of self to an adored Power, there has been devotion in creeds with many gods, with one God, with no gods; if spiritual life mean the cultiva- tion of this temper toward moral purification, there was spiritual life long before the notion of an immaterial entity inside the human being was excogitated; and as to worship, men have wor shiped, with intense and overwhelming passion, all kinds of objects, organic and inorganic, mate rial and spiritual, abstract ideas as well as visible forees. Is it implied that Confucius, and the countless millions who have followed him, had no sides of human life. Led by an enormous and complete array of evidences, it associates every fact of thought or of emotion with a fact of | physiology, with molecular change in the body. Without pretending to explain the first by the | idea of religion, as it is certain that they had second, it denies that the first can be explained | none of theology; that Buddha and the Budd without the second. But with this solid basis of | ists were incapable of spiritual emotion; that reality to work on, it gives their place of suprem- | the Fire-worsbipers and the Sun-worshipers never acy to the highest sensibilities of man, through practised worship; that the pantheists and the the heights and depths of the spiritual life. humanists, from Marcus Aurelius to Fichte, bad Nothing is more idle than a discussion about | the springs of spiritual life dried up in them for — words. But when some deny the use of the word | want of an Old or New Testament ? If this is im “soul” to those who mean by it this consensus, | tended, one can only wonder at the power of a and not any immaterial entity, we may remind self-complacent conformity to close men’s eyes them that our use of the word agrees with its ety- | the native dignity of man. Religion, and its ele mology and its history. It is the mode in which ments in emotion—attachment, veneration, love } it is used in the Bible, the well-spring of our true | —are as old exactly as human nature. They English speech. It may, indeed, be contended | moved the first men, and the first women. They that there is no instance in the Bible in which | have found a hundred objects to inspire them, — soul does mean an immaterial entity, the idea not | and have bowed to a great variety of power — having been familiar to any of the writers, with | They were in full force long before theology ¥#% — the doubtful exception of St. Paul. But without | and before the rise of Christianity; and it would — > : 4

Page 245

Fist 4 2 e5eiat Se Fe © 3.7 F Bek025 is seESS 3 Es ‘RERAEE THE DYING OUT OF THE POLYNESIAN RACES. 945 be strange indeed if they should cease with the | ship (that is ever fresh in the heart), but a clear- decline of either. It is not the emotional ele- | er vision of the power we should worship. Nay, ments of religion which fail us, For these, with | it is not we who are borrowing the privileges of the growing goodness of mankind, are gaining in | theology: rather it is theology which secks to purity and strength. Rather, it is the intellectu- | appropriate to itself the most universal privilege a! elements of religion which are conspicuously at | of man. fault. We need to-day, not the faculty of wor- | —Nineteenth Century. THE DYING OUT CF THE POLYNESIAN RACES—MAORIS AND KANAKAS. By Sm DAVID WEDDERBURN. N the quarter of the globe commonly known | has the destructive effect even of a peaceable as Polynesia the various influences, natural European invasion been so marked as in Polyne- and artificial, which are everywhere at work, | sia; uowhere have the robust invaders so rapidly tending to diminish the variety of existing or- | established themselves, to the extinction of fee- ganic types and to establi-h a general uniformity bler, if not inferior, breeds. The unequal nature in the aspect of Nature and of human society, | of the struggle between the highly-organized appear to operate at present with peculiar rapid- | types familiar to us here and those which have ity. We find there the remains of a submerged | been developed under a less severe competition, continent, planed down beneath the sea-level, | is most clearly exhibited in New Zealand, whose above which are visible only a few volcanic sum- | climate resembles that of Western Europe. The mits and a number of coral islets and reefs. The fauna and flora of a small insulated land-surface vast Pacific Ocean covers nearly half the earth’s | have in this case been brought into direct col- surface, and that portion of it called Polynesia, | lision with those of the great northern province, over which the “Many Islands” are scattered, | evolved as the survivors of many competing may be styled one of the four quarters of the | types. globe, to which in area it is approximately equal. The ultimate result might have been antici- Throughout this watery waste the only consid- | pated, but the rapidity with which it has been erable tract of land is the insular group of New | brought about is somewhat startling. In certain Zealand, exceeding somewhat in area the island | districts, settled a good many years ago, the na- of Great Britain. The next largest group is the | tive plants and animals have, with a few excep- Hawaiian, at the opposite extremity of Polynesia, | tions, already disappeared, and are replaced by containing eight inhabited islands, whose aggre- | those of Europe. In particular, the only con- gate area is not much greater than that of York- | spicuous flowers and birds are those which make shire. The remaining groups of Polynesia proper | gay our own fields and hedge-rows, while indige- consist of islets so insignificant in size that the | neus specimens must be sought for carefully if total agzregate of land in this ocean expanse is | they are to be found at all. Around Christchurch smaller than the United Kingdom of Great Brit- | and Nelson the air rings with the song of sky- ain and Ireland, All these fragments of a conti- | larks and blackbirds, and is redolent of the ent are inhabited by a kindred people ; they are | scent of hawthorn and sweetbrier. A few years known generally as “ Kanakas” (meaning simply | ago Dr. Haast, curator of the Canterbury Museum, “men”); but in New Zealand the natives style | visited a remote district in the Middle Island, themselves the “ Maori,” or pure race, in contra- | where he found some three hundred different spe- distinction to the “ Pakeha,” or stranger. Apart | cies of indigenous plants, about one-third of them from the general attractions of their character | being new to science. Quite recently he paid a and history, a special and tragic interest attaches | second visit to the same district, and could only ‘0 these Polynesians in all their branches, for | discover about ten per cent. of the species for- their annihilation, as a distinct race, appears to | merly seen; the rest had vanished before the be inevitable within a very few years. Nowhere | face of European settlers. The only gallinaceous

Page 246

246 bird indigenous in New Zealand is a species of quail, which was in many places very abundant a short time ago. It is now difficult to obtain a single living specimen, although the bird has un- dergone no severe persecution, and attempts have | even been made to preserve it by an ex-premier of New Zealand. Meanwhile the Californian quail has been introduced and flourishes, and Chinese pheasants have overspread the country. The native rat, the only terrestrial mammal found in New Zealand by European discoverers, has so completely disappeared, that many natu- ralists are skeptical as to its having ever existed, and the little island in Lake Taupo is said to be its only remaining habitat. On the other hand, the common brown rat, the faithful companion | of the white man in all his wanderings, has taken complete possession of a country where its in- THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. | readily adapted themselves to such peacefal changes as foreign civilization demands, Nevertheless, the Maori race, gallant, vigor. | ous, and intelligent, beyond any so-called Savages with whom we have ever been brought into egh. lision, seems doomed to the same fate which ig overtaking the feeble, short-winged birds charac. | teristic of the Polynesian fauna. Cfificial statis. tics confirm the universal impression, among cok onists and natives alike, that the Maoris are dy. ‘ing out. In 1849, Sir George Grey estimated their numbers at 120,000, and since then they have rapidly declined; in 1858 a native censug ‘resulted in a total of 56,000; and at the enw crease is restricted by no reptiles nor quadru- | peds, and few birds of prey, and is encountered far beyond any settlements of its human fellow. | colonists, close to the glaciers of the New Zea- land Alps. The honey-bee of Europe has estab- lished itself as a very successful settler in the southern hemisphere, and has not merely sup- pressed the feeble insect rivals which it found there, but also in some parts appears to have caused a marked reduction in the number of honey-sucking birds. The destruction of timber is so universally the result of colonization, that the denudation of New Zealand is exceptional only inasmuch as an exotic vegetation is already replacing the primeval forest, which cattle and fire rather than the axe have annihilated. Near Christchurch, in the Middle Island, where exten- sive plantations of English trees and shrubs give to the country an aspect like that of an English midland county, there remains one small patch only of the virgin forest a few acres in extent. With the utmost care this interesting relic has been preserved by one of the earliest settlers, and, thanks to him, his younger fellow-citizens -can still realize what sort of vegetation covered the Canterbury plains when he first landed in New Zealand. Indeed, it may be said that the indigenous meration of 1874 there were 45,470 Maoris in the whole colony, all except a couple of thousand being inhabitants of the North Island. If this rate of reduction continues the “‘ Maori difficulty” will soon solve itself, and there will be room in the North Island for many more cattle and sheep; but a brave, generous, intelligent race of men will disappear, and many, even of those who will inherit their territory, cannot regard this disap- ' pearance without regret. | When white men speak of those with dark | discussed by the colonists. skins whom they are subduing or supplanting, their language is not generally complimentary. It is therefore an agreeable surprise for a traveler in New Zealand to hear the tone of respect, even of admiration, in which the Maoris are habitually Such sentiments re- 'dound indeed to the credit of both races, for they are mainly due to the military prowess of | the Maoris, and prove that Englishmen bear n0 ' grudge against a gallant foe for stalwart blows” ‘ indomitable foes. taken in fair fight. Nay, our most formidable antagonists (the Sikhs, for example) appear al- ways to enjoy a certain popularity among our countrymen, and men who themselves took part in the struggle with such chiefs as Te Raupara or Te Kooti often have a good word to say for their It is at least impossible to ' feel contempt, and difficult not to feel admiration, | 'Ten thousand British troops, supported by animals and plants of New Zealand succumb | ' friendly natives, and supplied with powerfal a | tillery and arms of precision, were opposed to # without a struggle, whether to the domesticated varieties imported by the white man for his own benefit, or to those noxious creatures and weeds of which he is the involuntary introducer. Of the human aboriginals, however, this does not hold true: in no sense are they a helpless or a feeble folk ; to force they have never succumbed without a determined resistance, and they have Notwithstanding such great odds, the contest for men who held their own so long against 08, when every material advantage was on our side. f large contingent of colonial volunteers besides few hundred Maoris armed with fowling-piect® was bloody and protracted, owing to the com — bined courage and judgment with which OF — “savage” enemies availed themselves of the a natural defenses of their country, and to the

Page 247

avages to col. Lich ig harae. ng col ire dy. mated 1 they @ ent ris in If this culty” om in sheep; f men 10 will dark ar nO blows ° i skill displayed by them in military engineer- ing. A Maori pah in peaceful times is simply an inclosure surrounded by a shallow ditch, in front of which is a light palisade interlaced with “ sup- plejack” vines. When prepared to stand a siege these lines of defense were strengthened, multiplied, and flanked with rifle-pits, Shot and shell passed harmlessly through the tough, elastic palisade without effecting a breach, and when troops were led to the assault they were shot down at close quarters by invisible enemies, shel- tered in the ditch and firing through interstices in the palisade. If the outer line of defense be- came untenable, the defenders were able to take refuge behind a second inclosure, and open a purderous fire upon any assailants who might have penetrated within the first. At so short a range double-barreled smooth-bores, in the hands of cool, determined men, proved to be most effee- tive weapons, and the usual result of assaulting a pah was discomfiture with heavy loss. Sooner or later, from want of water or ammunition, the little fortress would be evacuated by the Maoris and occupied by our troops. When this occurred after the repulse from the gate-pah, it was found that the enemy had succored the British wound- ed and supplied them with water, an incident well attested, but certainly not characteristic of barbarous warfare. The Maori is, in truth, as near an approach to the ideal of a “ noble savage” as has ever ex- isted in modern times, and is a worthy rival of the imaginary Delawares of romance : “... . His valor, shown upon our crests, Hath taught us how to cherish such high deeds, Even in the bosom of our adversaries,” It would be easy to multiply authentic in- stances of daring and self-devotion on the part of the Maoris during the war, and difficult to give any of treachery or cowardice. Upon particular occasions they certainly were guilty of slaying non-combatants ; but such acts were in accord- ance with their own laws of warfare, and were hot regarded by them as wanton cruelty, any more than the burning of a defenseless village, or the bombardment of a city crowded with Women and children, might be so regarded by certain kinds of civilized commanders. Their worst enemies have not accused them of acting like the Turks in Bulgaria, or even the Versaillais in Paris; and, on the whole, the Maoris can teach no less than they can learn as to chivalrous usages in war, THE DYING OUT OF THE POLYNESIAN RACES. 247 The punctiliousness with which they give due notice of an intended outbreak or attack is almost Quixotic, and ends greatly to the comfort of those settlers who live on the borders of the “ Kingite” territory, a large tract extending from the west coast into the centre of the North Island. Here the natives still maintain their independence un- der a king of their own, and exclude the Pakehas rigorously, prohibiting the construction of roads or telegraphs. Human trespassers are warned off with polite firmness, cattle are driven back to their owners once or twice, and finally are con- fiscated. When I visited a friend settled upon the Up- per Waikato, a somewhat uneasy feeling was prevalent throughout that border district, owing to the construction of a railroad near the limits of the king’s territory. This undertaking was regarded by the Kingites as a menace to their independence, and not without reason; for they have observed that as roads, railways, and tele- graphs advance, the Pakehas increase in num- bers, while the Maoris diminish, and the land passes gradually out of the hands of its original possessors. It was apprehended that despair at the prospect of this peaceful conquest of their country might cause an outbreak of the inde- pendent natives, and international relations were in a state of considerable tension in the spring (October) of 1874. My friend’s house is on the very edge of the confiscation boundary; and as the farthest outlying station in that direction was completely exposed in case of an attack, I asked him, as we looked across the rushing current of the Waikato into what might at any moment be- come a hostile country, whether he did not feel any uneasiness at the prospect. His reply was: “ None whatever as to my per- sonal safety, for I sha!l be sure to receive two or three days’ warning from the Maoris, if they mean to attack us. I only wish that I could feel equal- ly easy about the safety of my farm.” He knew the natives well, and doubtless his confidence in their chivalry was not misplaced, however strangé it may appear to border-men whose experience has been acquired in other lands. While wan- dering through the interior of the North Island, I met not a few colonists who had associated much with the Maoris, who understood their lan- guage, and had many stories to tell of their gen- erosity and their intelligence, above all of their courage. Such stories, when told on the very scene of the events, and among the actors them- selves, may be relied upon as expressing the gen- uine belief and tradition of the locality, even

Page 248

248 THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. should there be inaccuracy or exaggeration as to | but he was equal to the occasion, and, standing details. | alone among angry foes, he had an apt reply for It must be recollected that it is not a Maori, | every one in turn. He told the Queenites that but a Pakeha, who tells the story of Orakau, “he could estimate the exact value of their at. where three hundred warriors displayed the spirit | _ tachment to the British queen: it was just equal of Leonidas, but experienced better luck. They | toa salary of six shillings a day, the amountof were surrounded by an overwhelming force of | | pay which they were then receiving. To the British troops, and honorable terms of capitula- officer, who asserted that the authorities had ak tion were offered, but the unanimous reply came | ways kept faith, he politely replied that such no back, “ We will never surrender.” A desperate | doubt was the experience of the rangatira (chief sortie from the pah resulted, to the astonishment | or gentleman) who had just spoken, but that his of all concerned, in the escape of most of the | own experience had hitherto been very different, Maoris, after cutting their way through the hos- , In conclusion, he said: “I and my people desire tile ranks, One warrior, who carried a child in | no quarrel with the government, but a certain a basket strapped to his forehead, was shot dead | payment has been promised to us for the ground during the fight. A comrade stooped down, cool- | on which the telegraph stands, and we insist on ly unfastened the basket amid a shower of bullets, | that payment being made. If this is not done and carried off the child in safety, not without a | we will cut down the telegraph-posts, if we are cheer from some of the soldiers who witnessed | attacked we will fight, and not a post shall be the gallant deed. ‘erected while one of us remains alive.” They The same courage and skill which were so | were paid. freely displayed against us during the Maori It is true that the colonial government, as @ wars, were also found among those natives who | rule, has treated the Maoris with remarkable fought on our side, and the officers of the Maori | fairness and consideration, but much of this bas contingent had good reason to be proud of their | been due to their being so well able to take their men. Without them, indeed, peace would have | own part if treated otherwise. The elements been hard to establish, and a hearty union of all | still exist in the country for one more Maori war, the native tribes might have taxed the resources but there is every reason now to hope that. this of the British Empire. Fortunately for us, cer- | will be altogether averted by a just and concilia tain tribes have always been our zealous allies, | tory policy on the part of the New Zealand Gow and the colony still employs the services of a | ernment. fine body, well armed and disciplined, and known | The “Queenite” natives, so called as being } | as the Native Constabulary. An officer of this | loyal subjects of Queen Victoria, in contradie force described to me, with just pride, how his | tinction to the adherents of the Maori king, ate men, at the siege of a formidable pah, went to | steadily developing into useful citizens ; they cub work with a couple of spades and a few pointed | tivate the soil, pay taxes, serve in the constabu- sticks, fairly sapping their way into the place, ' Jary, and take their share in public affairs as without any assistance from engineers or artil- | electors and as representatives.! Many of those lery. | who are so peaceful and law-abiding fought des When the electric telegraph was in process of | perately against our troops while the war lasted. construction through the centre of the North Isl- | 4 stout foe can be a firm friend, and a conspict and, near Orakeikorako, the natives, who consid- | oys example is the gallant chief Paurini of To-» ered that the authorities had not kept faith with | kanu. No Maori enjoys more thoroughly the them, intimated that the telegraph could not be | confidence and friendship of his white fellow-citt permitted to stand, and proceeded, after due no- | zens, and no Maori can give a warmer welcome tice, to cut down the posts. These were reérect-' to a white stranger; but the stalwart figure, ed, and again cut down, after which an armed | which his sole garment, a tartan kilt, exhibits @ force was sent up to overawe the natives. An | | no small advantage, is literally riddled with the eye-witness described to me the interview which | puyllets of the Pakeha. took place between the officer in command and As for the “Kingites,” it will not be possible — F the Macri envoy. Ona very rainy day a naked for them within their limited territory to moin- warrior marched into the camp, and asked to see | tain much longer their present policy of isolation, the officer commanding the troops. He was re- | and the only doubt is whether the collapse of the ES ceived with as great a display of force as pos- | ‘There are now two Maoris in the Legislative sible, many “ Queenite”’ natives being present; | cil, and four in the House of Representatives. aes

Page 249

nding ly for ~ > that ir at unt of o the ad al. ch no (chief at his erent, desire ist on e are all be , as 8 is has > their little independent monarchy will come about in a peaceable or a warlike manner. Two years ago there seemed to be a risk of war, but it has not yet broken out, and the mere lapse of time is in every way favorable to peace. When in the neighborhood I was very anxious to avail myself of a missive for a Kingite chief, in order to reach, if possible, Tokangamutu, the capital vil- lage of the Maori king. After consulting a num- ber of friends who were well informed upon the question, and one of whom had married the | | serious Maori difficulty since the imperial troops daughter of a great Maori chief, I resolved to abandon the attempt, as they all agreed in dis- suading me, although each adviser gave different reasons for his advice. Most of them considered | that the risk of personal violence was small, ex- | cept, perhaps, from the Hau-hau fanatics, the rise | THLE DYING OUT OF THE POLYNESIAN RACES. 249 its future maintenance depends upon the action of the colonial government. The Maoris are able to realize more fully from day to day the utterly hopeless character of an armed struggle, and will hardly provoke one unless goaded on by a sense of oppression and injustice. On the other hand, an aggressive policy finds little favor now with the colonists, who no longer have the im- perial exchequer available for war expenses, and must in future bear all such burdens upon their own shoulders. There has, in fact, been no were withdrawn from the colony. It may be fairly assumed that the colonists will continue to act toward the Maoris with jus- tice and moderation, as they have usually done hitherto; but even with the best intentions it is of which sect has introduced a new element into | often impossible to avoid arousing a genuine ! Maori affairs. trusting to Maori honor, was perfectly safe in any part of the country, but now there are indi- | viduals who believe that in slaying any Pakeha | they would be doing a pious deed. All were at one in saying that if I went at all I must not | carry arms of any sort. The most serious ob- | jections urged were to this effect: | “Your visit, as the bearer of a letter from an ex-governor, will havean apparent political signifi- cance altogether foreign to its real object, and may | produce complications, Sir George Grey’s intro- duction will of course secure the good-will of the chief to whom it is addressed, and even of the authorities generally; but the railroad works are approaching the boundary, and miatters are in acritical condition, while a number of persons in the king’s country, including certain mean whites, | are interested in getting up a disturbance. In particular the refugees from the Maori territory | lately contiscated entertain the wild hope that in a general scrimmage they may regain their land, | and feel that now or never is their chance. The king and his advisers probably do not share these feelings, but a European of any consequence runs the risk of being made the victim in some mode or other of these Adullamites, in order that the Kingites may be embroiled with the Pakehas. Under these circumstances, the better your intro- duction, the greater will be the risk.” The chance of seeing the last scene of inde- pendent Maori life was a great temptation, but these considerations satisfied me that I should exercise a wise discretion in letting the Kingites alone. Matters at Tokangamutu have under- gone no very material change during the short ‘nterval which has elapsed since I left New Zea- land, but peace has been hitherto maintained, and Formerly, an unarmed stranger, | sense of wrong, owing to the radical differences of law and custom between the two races, espe- cially with regard to land. When a transfer of land from a native to a white man takes place, it is usually quite fair and straightforward accord- ing to European notions, whether by sale, by gift, or by confiscation after war. The settler performs what he believes to be all the neces- sary legal formalities, and pays the purchase- money agreed upon, but finds his possession of the land disputed, perhaps by an individual, per- haps by a whole tribe. The validity of the trans- action is frequently denied upon the ground that the seller had no right to sell, and that tribal rights have been ignored. According to Maori usage the objections may be quite bona fide, and would probably receive effect from colonial judges if urged at the proper time and place. But the na- tives are unwilling to admit the jurisdiction of the | colonial courts in such cases, and refuse to plead | in them, regarding the entire legal procedure as an organization to defraud: them of their land. Thus the tenure of land is here, as elsewhere, the fruitful source of discord between inyaders and invaded, even when the former are desirous of acting justly according to their own ideas of jus- tice. Meanwhile the Maoris see only too clearly that the land is passing out of their hands, and they are daily becoming fewer and feebler as their white rivals increase in numbers, in riches, and in power. The majority accept this state of mat- ters as inevitable, and try to make the best of it, having actually in some places settled down into the position of landlords, living upon the rents paid to them by their white tenants. Within the Kingite limits, however, there are still many in- tractable spirits, not the least generous and

Page 250

250 patriotic of their nation, who “long but for one battle more, the stain of their shame to efface.” Religious fanaticism stimulates this hostile spirit, and if there ever again are serious trou- bles with the natives in New Zealand, we shall hear more of the “‘ Hau-haus,” who have lapsed from Christianity back to their original heathen- ism, upon which they have engrafted some of the darker rites and tenets to be found in the pages of the Old Testament. . How far the missionaries have made any deep or lasting impression upon the life and character of the Polynesians, whom they so rapidly per- suaded to accept the forms of Christianity, is a point very difficult to decide, A strong reaction from their influence and teaching has undoubt- edly taken place in many parts of New Zealand, where deserted mission-stations are pointed out embowered amid choice fruit-trees, in situations the amenity of which does the highest credit to the taste of the reverend founders. In a remote village of the interior there lies on the ground a very large bell, too heavy to be swung in any building of native construction. It is the only visible token of Christianity, and bears a Maori inscription to the effect that it is a gift, bestowed in 1853 upon the believers of Tokanu by “ cer- tain good women of Kotirana,” the nearest ap- proach to the name of Scotland which the Maori alphabet permits. A good woman of the locality, on our asking what it all meant, replied with a laugh and the Maori equivalent for “ soft-saw- der!” The handsome gift is evidently not looked upon with the respect due to its intrinsic value, to the motives which actuated the donors, and to the difficulties overcome in conveying it into the heart of a country at that time entirely devoid of roads. During the twenty years that have elapsed since this great bell was rolled in a barrel over the fern-clad hills around Lake Taupo, many con- verts have either joined the Hau-haus or lapsed into utter.irdifference, and are pagans so far as any religious faith is concerned. But not the less on that account have the Christian missionaries deserved well of the natives. Throughout Poly- nesia it is entirely due to them that the natives are an educated people in the strictest sense of the word, for it is difficult to find anywhere within reach of mission influence a Polynesian, old or young, who cannot read and write. The missionaries began by creating a written language, simple as to orthography, and invariable as to pronunciation. Having reduced to writing dialects which existed formerly as mere sounds, THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. _by overstrained their influence. and indolent savages into lettered scholars, a}. though many of their pupils had already attained a mature age. An achievement such as this re. flects credit upon teachers and pupils alike, It must be admitted that the missionaries have been too severe in their condemnation of native customs and amusements, and have there. The burdeng laid upon recent converts have been too heavy for them to bear, and a certain amount of reac. tion has necessarily followed. The “haka” and the “ huia-hula” are not perhaps the most elegant or decorous of dances, but it would have been - wiser to reform than to prohibit, although some Christian denominations can fairly boast of their consistent opposition to dancing of any sort, and may assert with some show of reason that waltzes and reels are not greatly superior in decorum to the native dances of Polynesia. The joyous na ture of the islanders is not easily suppressed, and they are more likely to become hypocrites than ascetics; but the outburst in New Zealand of the Pai Marire or Hau-hau religion, a few years ago, proved that the stern theology of the Old Testa ment is not without attraction for the fiercer spirits ameng them. In Hawaii the awe enter tained by the natives for the missionaries is en- hanced by their influence with the government, which has always been considerable. Even the presence of a man-of-war “ Pelekani” (British), and the popularity of the cfficers, will not avail to produce a “ hula-hula” on Sunday in a Hawai ian village. The answer to all persuasions is, “The missionaries and the police "—the latter being in this merely the agents of the former, Where missionaries have the ear of the authori ties, as in Polynesia, they need not expect to be regarded as “protectors of the poor,” a title freely conceded to them in India, where many of the unconverted natives regard them as their best friends, able and willing to plead their cause | even in disputes with government officials. 4 distinct antagonism usually exists, throughout Polynesia, between the missionary and the casual white settler, and the opinions of a stranger are apt to be colored according to the class among which he happens to be thrown. Speaking for myself, the good work of education appears to cover the other failures of the missionaries, and compensate amply the islanders for all that they have given up, whether in land, in pecuniary co tributions, or in amusement. Partly owing #@* — diminished population, partly also to dimi i religious zeal, church accommodation is DoW in they ere long succeeded in converting warlike | excess of the requirements of the natives, more

Page 251

8, al us Te- especially in Hawaii, and the staring white build- ings which stud the coast are often little used, except as landmarks for vessels at sea. In attempting to account for the depopulation of Polynesia, various causes are assigned by those who have considered the question: intem- perance, immorality, infantile epidemics, and pul- monary diseases. Some persons lay stress upon one evil, some upon another, the most careful ob- servers being the least ready with an answer. Some suggestions seem fanciful enough: the women ride too much upon horseback ; wearing clothes produces susceptibility to sudden chills ; and the peaceable habits of modern times cause more accessible but less healthy localities to be inhabited. Although these may all be true causes of diminished population, all combined appear in- adequate to account for the result. Disease and intemperance of all sorts, combined with bad ventilation, insufficient food, and a severe climate, do not prevent the population of our large cities from increasing. Why, then, should the Polyne- sians succumb, whose climate is equable, whose food is abundant, and who breathe the fresh breezes from mountain and sea? They are not dispossessed of their lands or driven from their hunting-grounds like the red Indians and Aus- tralian blacks. They own large tracts of fertile soil, and foreigners are eager to pay good wages to those who will work, scarcity of labor being the main difficulty of sugar-cultivation in the Sandwich Islands. The marked deficiency of women among the Polynesians does not seem to be due to female infanticide, and is of course un- favorable to population; but they are by no means sterile, and pretty little brown children usually swarm around the native dwellings, which occur at distant intervals on the coast, or in the interior. Why, then, is it that many of these dwellings have been deserted, and that luxuriant plantations of cocoanut-palms and bread-fruit trees remain neglected? The means of subsistence are there, but those who should have gathered them have vanished. The climate and products are those of Ceylon, but where are the irrigated rice- terraces, and populous villages hidden in a jungle of fruit-bearing trees? One is reminded rather of the barren glens of Sutherland, where bright- Breen patches on the brown hill-sides mark the site of what are still called “towns.” _ Thus much is clear, however, that “ civiliza- tion” has introduced into Polynesia causes of destruction more than counterbalancing the ad- Yantages of education and good government 80 far as the natives are concerned. They are un- THE DYING OUT OF THE POLYNESIAN RACES. 951 able, even under the most favorable conditions, to resist evils which hardly affect the vitality and fecundity of the Indo-European or Mongolian, and those vices and diseases which merely scourge the individual of the stronger race annihilate the less prolific breed. When they are all gone there will be addi- tional space in the world for a few Caucasians and a good many Mongolians, of whom there seem to be quite enough already, and, no doubt, the negro also would flourish and multiply in the tropical islands, On the whole, humanity will not profit greatly by the change. In frugality and industry the Kanaka is far inferior to the Chinaman, but not to the negro; while courtesy, courage, docility, and generosity, are not such common qualities that we can witness without regret the extinction of the Polynesians, who exhibit them in so marked a degree. Depopula- tion is not limited to Polynesia proper, but goes on all over the southern hemisphere as rapidly as in the kingdom of Hawaii, the only important insular group lying north of the equator in the Pacific Ocean. In the Feejees, since their annexa- tion, the mortality has been appalling, but these islands are inhabited by Melanesians, a black race, very different to the brown Kanakas. The Tasmanian “ black-fellow” is gone already, and his Australian brother ig rapidly following him. We may pity even such irreclaimable savages as these are, and regret the mode of their extermi- nation, but we must admit that for them there is no room within the pale of a truly civilized com- munity, and that they are interesting only as ethnological curiosities, exhibiting in recent times a very early stage of human development. It will not take long to write their epitaph, although, in their keen love of sport and their invincible dis- like of steady work, they bear a certain resem- blance to some of the most exalted and bighly- favored classes of mankind. With the polished Hawaiian and the chival- rous Maori it is different, and the loss caused to humanity by their disappearance is real, Of course, they are not without failings, and contact with unworthy Europeans has not tended to di- minish some of these, but they have learned, on the other hand, from our people good lessons of industry and thrift. Naturally, they have so lit- tle notion of saving as to give away, or even destroy, tkeir surplus with reckless extrava- gance ; but now a Maori capitalist is by no means unknown, and I have seen in the interior of Hawkes Bay and Wellington Provinces Maori farms which would do credit to any white settler.

Page 252

252 THE POPULAR SCIENCE Occasionally, however, the original nature asserts itself, and at one of these very farms the native agriculturist deliberately burned the whole of his straw because he experienced some trouble in obtaining what he considered to be its proper price. Another distinguished chief had some turkeys to dispose of, and, as the first person to | whom they were offered for sale objected to the exorbitant sum asked, he gave them all away to a Pakeha friend. When the Polynesian is ac. | cused of being idle and thriftless, of having very lax notions as to female virtue, and a weakness for intoxicating liquors, the case against him has | been pretty nearly summed up, and it can only | be added that his failings are injurious to him- self rather than to others. That those who can speak the language of Maoris or Kanakas, and who are in constant association with them, either | officially or socially, like them well enough to tell many stories in their favor and few to their dis- credit, is a fact with which a passing traveler can hardly fail to be impressed, and my own ex. | perience, as far as it went, confirmed the favor- able views of those better qualified to speak upon the subject. A ride of a few days through a district so little frequented by Europeans that we only met one white man—a trooper of the armed constab- ulary—-afforded an opportunity of realizing the kindly disposition and honesty of the more un- sophisticated among the New-Zealanders. They could not do much for us, certainly, and one chief apologized for apparent remissness by asking, “How can I show you kindness when I have only potatoes and cabbage?” They did what they could, however, with a friendly politeness which was very gratifying. On one occasion I arrived with my guide at a Hau-hau village after dark, and found it deserted for the time being by all its inhabitants, except one very aged crone, too feeble to travel. Following the custom in such cases, we selected the most comfortable wharé, and made ourselves at home. This wharé was a hut built of reeds, fern-stalks and native flax, closely interwoven and perfectly weather-tight. Clean mats were the only furniture, but so great was the confidence reposed by the owner in his countrymen and visitors, that he bad left in this open hut his most precious possession—a pair of double-barreled guns, which had probably in their day done service against the British troops. It is illegal to sell fire-arms to the natives in New Zealand, and even a revolver and a few car- | tridges cannot be landed without purchasing a permit to introduce “arms, ammunition, and | in complete European fashion—a practice not’ MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. sf & | warlike stores,” so that these two old fowling, pieces were of priceless value to the owner; yep — he evidently entertained no fears for their safety, They were tapu (sacred), no doubt, to all good Hau-haus, and our absent host was justified ip | his apparent carelessness. We could make him no return for his hospitality, beyond fetching | water for the poor old lady and giving her a few of our provisions. My guide was well known. and popular with the natives, which insured ug | a welcome anywhere; but an unlucky white pe | destrian who preceded us paid the penalty of the misconduct of others. Arriving at a small vik lage, weary and foot-sore, he asked for shelter; but the men were absent, and the women did not like his looks, so one of them advised him t push on a mile or two for an imaginary settle. ment. There are no habitations for the next twenty-five miles, and as my experienced guide lost his way upon the trackless plain, there was some reason to apprehend that the poor “sum downer ” never succeeded in making his way | across. If he really did come to an untimely end, his was a hard case; but the behavior of. mean whites under similar circumstances was the cause, if not the excuse, for the faisehood told by the unprotected wahine (woman) of Tiraw) She evidently felt compunction in confessing to ‘us this breach of hospitality, in order that we might look out for him, and the incident ap ' peared to me at least as unfavorable to the char acter of white men in general as to that of this | native woman in particular. Had the rangatira | been at home, nothing of the scrt would have occurred. In Polynesia, as is usually the case where women are in a minority, they are treated with some consideration, and take part in nearly all, /amusements and occupations along with men They are very fond of riding, many Maori lacie using side-saddles and riding-habits, while those of Hawaii invariably ride @ la Duchesse de Berrt on Spanish saddles ; and most picturesque objects they are on horseback, in their brilliant, flowing ‘robes, adorned with coronets and garlands of: flowers. Tattooing is no longer in fashion with | the youths and maidens ; but in New Zealand the senior chiefs are decorated with most elaborate: patterns of spirals and volutes, and the elder | women have their lips and chins tattooed like — the Maronites of the Lebanon. As usual among ~ uncivilized races, the women are not £0 are looking as the men, and in New Zealand they do — not scorn a short clay pipe, even when d

Page 253

or of. calculated to improve their appearance. A good many white men have married Maori wives, and ' are known as “ Pakeha-Maoris ;” the half-breeds appear to be a fine, vigorous race. There is an analogy between our present po- sition in the North Island and that of the French in Algeria: the law is obeyed by all, roads and bridges are constructed, and an unarmed traveler can pass safely through the interior, The na- tives are treated with respect and consideration, which they have earned by their courage and good faith, No one affects to despise the Maoris any more than the Kabyles, and they enjoy, when- ever they choose to claim it, complete social equality in hotels, public conveyances, and places of resort. At the same time there is, in certain districts of the island, a feeling of insecurity ‘among the colonists similar to that which per- vades Algeria, where religious fanaticism and love of independence may slumber, indeed, but are by no means dead in the hearts of the “ én- digénes.” The social position accorded to the Maoris by the whites is altogether different from that of any other dark-skinned race throughout the British dominions, but is completely justified by the readiness and ease with which they adapt them- selves to the manners of good society. “Is that person a gentleman? Has he never dined with the governor before?’ was the inquiry of a chief who was for the first time a guest at Government House, and observed that one of his Pakeha companions, unlike himself, was ill at ease and puzzled how to bahave. A Maori member of the Iegislative Council, being asked whether he had had a pleasant dinner-party, is said to have re- plied: “Oh, yes, very much so. We were all gentlemen; no Lower House members present.” This story, however, has somewhat the appear- ance of having been made up at the expense of the popular branch of the Legislature. At the opening of the Hawaiian Parliament in 1850, the king, in his address to the “nobles and representatives” of the people, assured them that the policy of the Government was “ essen- tially protective to the Hawaiian or native race, to the intent that the question of their capability of civilization may be fully solved.” For a quar- ter of a century the attempt to carry out such a Policy has been honestly made, under singularly favorable conditions and with very encouraging results, were it not for the well-grounded appre- hension that the Hawaiian race, as it becomes sivilized, is doomed to become extinct. No one THE DYING OUT OF THE POLYNESIAN RACES. 253 who has passed any time among these happy lotos-eaters can contemplate without sincere re- gret this consummation of so promising a politi- cal experiment. The statistics are, however, only too conclusive ; and, as in the case of the Maoris, the diminution in numbers is so steady that a limit at no remote date may be calculated beyond which the Hawaiian race will not survive. With- out taking into account the large estimate of the population given by Captain Cook, we find that the Sandwich Islands, in 1823, contained 142,000 inhabitants, and in 1832 only 130,000; four years later they were reduced to 108,500, and in 1849 to 80,600—their annual death-rate being then about eight per cent. In 1866 the native population was 58,765, and in 1872 (the date of the last cen- sus) 51,531, including half-castes. The excess of males over females was then no less than 8,216, and the annual decrease was estimated to be from 1,200 to 2,000. There was at the same time a small annual increase in the number of half-castes, as well as in that of the whites and Chinese. The cause of this depopulation is certainly not political misgovernment. The independence of Hawaii has been recognized by all the great maritime nations, and the form of government is a constitutional monarchy. The Legisla- ture is composed of twenty chiefs or nobles nominated by the crown, and a number (not ex- ceeding forty) of representatives elected bien- nially. There is a considerable property qualifi- cation for representatives, and a smaller one for electors. The legislators are paid, and all sit and vote in one assembly. The king himself is of the ancient royal race, but his cabinet (com- posed of three ministers besides the attorney- general) contains no Hawaiian except the minis- ter of the interior. The leading foreign mer- chants—one of whom has married the king’s sister —are members of the Privy Council, and a prepon- | derating influence is exercised by the enlightened | white community of Honolulu. The theoretical | excellence of this Constitution has not been be- ' lied by its practical working. Government schools have been everywhere established, 87 per cent. of the children of school age are act- | ually receiving instruction, and a Hawaiian un- able to read and write is rarely to be found. The sale of intoxicating liquors to natives is for- bidden by law, and the legal penalties are strictly | enforced. Indeed, so energetic and efficient are the magistrates, both native and foreign, that the number of criminal convictions assumes an alarming magnitude for a small community ; but

Page 254

254 it is reassuring to find that some of the offenses are not very heinous in their nature. In two years there were no less than sixty-one convic- tions for violating the Sabbath. The political hardships of the Hawaiians, in fact, consist merely in being too much governed. Life and property are secure; the laws are just, and are well administered ; the guanti/y, not the quality, of the government is in fault. The po- litical machinery, with king, Privy Council, gov- ernors, judges, salaried ministers, and legislators, is ludicrously in excess of the requirements of the dwindling population—less than 60,000, in- cluding all the foreigners. The military outlay, indeed, is not great, ex- cept upon music and upon gunpowder for salutes. The last item consumes a most undue proportion of the national resources, as the principal foreign mits, powers are represented by commissioners as well as by consuls, and the tariff of guns allotted to each is two in excess of what is customary else- | thanks to the northeast trades where. Men-of-war of various nations, British | and American in particular, are constantly visit- THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. ent royal race can no longer furnish it with, king, it may imitate its Amerivan neighbors, and proclaim the republic. A prosperous future is before it, situated jg mid-ocean between America, Asia, and Australg. sia, with a productive soil, and an equable dh mate which would be perfection did it not rendep all exertion alike superfluous and distasteful, at Honolulu, in 21° 18’ north latitude, and 159° west longitude, the barometer has been observed to vary during the year only from 30.24 inches to 29.70, while the range of the thermometer at the same time was between 86° and 62°, with a mean temperature of 75°. This agreeable but enervat. ing climate prevails only at the sea-level; ats greater elevation a temperate region is fount, | and in the island of Hawaii the mountain-sum. rising to more than 13,000 feet, are frequently capped with snow. The windward coast of Hawaii, ever verdant and well watered, , is admirably de scribed by the poet-laureate as the land of the lotos-eaters : ing Honolulu; and the islanders flatter them- | a A land of streams! some, like a downward smoke, selves that the United Kingdom and the United States are alike prepared to use any amount of force or fraud in order to effect annexation. The various commissioners, on their side, watch one another with as much jealous distrust as do the embassadors to the Sublime Porte; each regards the success of his policy as essential to the wel- fare of his own country as well as that of Hawaii. At present no pretext could easily be found for | foreign interference in the affairs of such a peace- able and well-conducted state, and Hawaii may hope for a season to enjoy the political inde- pendence which she owes partly to her geograph- ical isolation, planted as she is far from any other land in the centre of the vast Pacific. But what will be the fate of the Sandwich Islands when there are no more Hawaiians ? Among foreign elements the American prepon- derates, especially as regards commercial inter- changes, and these islands naturally gravitate | toward the United States; but, oddly enough, that great maritime nation appears to despise in- sular possessions, even when, like St. Thomas, they constitute important mercantile entrepots. On the other hand, Great Britain, the universal annexer of islands, has once already relinquished possession of the Sandwich group, where the French and the Russian colors have also been hoisted, only to be again hauled down. It seems, therefore, as if this little archipelago were des- tined to remain unarnexed; and, when the pres- Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn did go; And some through wavering lights and shadows broke, Rolling a slumb’rous sheet of foam below, . . Far off, three mountain-tops, Three silent pinnacles of aged snow, Stood sunset-flushed: and, dewed with showery drops, Up-clomb the shadowy palm above the woven copse.” There is nothing melancholy about these mild eyed lotos-eaters, except the knowledge that they will have no share in the future prosperity which white capital and Chinese labor seem likely to produce in the Sandwich Islands. During the last quarter of a century, while these “ bappy isles ” have enjoyed such political as well as nat ural advantages that the population ought to have doubled itself, it has diminished by nearly one-third. The Hawaiians have proved in a most remarkable instance their appreciation of a sani- tary policy, which places the welfare of the com- munity above the prejudices and even the affec- tions of the individual. A considerable and ap- parently-increasing proportion of the Hawaiians is afflicted with the terrible disease known #8 leprosy, which has defied all available medical science, and is regarded as absolutely incurable How far it is contagious in the ordinary sense a pears to be doubtful, for the natives have habitu- ally neglected all precautions in associating with ¥ lepers, and yet the disease is not known to have — affected above two per cent. of the population. On the other hand, it is clearly liable to be trans phe from parent to offspring, and is regarded asin

Page 255

THE DYING OUT OF THE POLYNESIAN RACES. 255 fectious by competent authorities. To prevent | nationality, and in the course of eight years more all risk of infection, and to stamp out the heredi- tary taint, which threatened to spread through the whole community, the Hawaiian Legislature about ten years ago took up the question ina spirit at once patriotic and scientific. Under the auspices of a Board of Health a leper settlement was established in a secluded valley on the small island of Molokai, to which all persons known to be affected with leprosy were transported by of- ficials appointed for the purpose. Considerable difficulty was experienced at first in discovering the unfortunate creatures, who were concealed by their friends, and a more painful duty could hardly be imposed upon a kindly Kanaka than to surrender a companion to pass the remainder of his days a hopeless exile in a lazaretto. But the sternness of the law did not prevent the Hawaiians from realizing its expediency, and the necessity for its strict enforcement in the interest of the public. Examples of self-devotion were not wanting on the part of persons whose ex- ternal symptoms of leprosy were so slight as to escape detection, but who surrendered themselves spontaneously in obedience to the law. Nothing can well be more touching than the story told by Miss Bird, in her book on the Hawaiian Archi- pelago, of poor “ Bill Ragsdale,” whose generous self-immolation savors rather of the antique Ro- man than of the Kanaka. This talented half- white, who had filled among other honorable of- fices that of interpreter to the Hawaiian Legisla- ture, avowed himself to be a leper before any visible symptom betrayed him, and passed amid universal lamentation from the joyous society of Hilo to a living death at Kalawao. In that dis- mal valley of Molokai he is now a ruler, by virtue of his abilities; but perhaps, since the Odyssey was composed the well-known words have never been so applicable to any living mortal : “Bovao‘uny x’ émapovpos éinv Onrevéwev &AAw, Avbpi wap’ axArjpw, & ui Bioros moAis ein, "H ragw vexvegor xatapOiuévorow avagcew.” Certainly the hardest life that a slave can lead elsewhere seems preferable to that of Governor Ragsdale, who now rules with beneficent and almost absolute authority over seven hundred lepers in every Stage of a lingering put fatal dis- cane, The last effort of his eloquence, when bid- ding farewell to his weeping friends, was to urge submission to the stringent measures taken by the Government for the purpose of stamping out y. The law for the seclusion of lepers has been enforced without distinction of rank or | than eleven hundred persons have been trans- ported to Molokai; of these a large proportion died within a short time of their arrival, but in 1874 there remained alive more than seven hun- dred Although all hope must be abandoned by those who enter Kalawao, the natural cheerful- ness of the Kanakas seems not to desert them even there, and a visit from the king and queen caused no little rejoicing among the lepers. The support of these unfortunate exiles entails a heavy burden on a small community like Hawaii, with a diminishing revenue and an increasing expendi- ture. The burden, however, will soon be removed by the hand of death, and no item in an annual outlay of some $600,000 is less worthy of being expunged than the cost of the leper settlement. The courage and liberality displayed in grappling with this national curse are worthy of the emula- tion of advanced European governments. In explanation of the disinclination to steady labor which characterizes the Polynesian, and dis- tinguishes him in so marked a manner from the Chinese, it must be borne in mind that the islands of the Pacific are very much under-peopled, and that almost all of them lie between the tropics, and enjoy a climate in which existence is happi- ness and exertion is pain, As for the natives of New Zealand, whose.climate may be compared to that of Italy, they are, indeed, more energetic and warlike than the gentle Kanakas of the tropi- eal islands, but their close resemblance in charac- ter, appearance, and language, indicates a very recent separation from their northern cousins. The Maoris themselves affirm that their original home was a country named Hawaiiki, in the far north, and at Roto Iti is still exhibited an elabo- rately-carved canoe with fifteen benches, in which the ancestors of the Arawa tribe are said to have crossed the ocean. “Te Arawa” is the largest native craft which I saw in New Zealand, and it is about as seaworthy as a university eight-oar. On board European vessels the Maoris prove themselves to be bold and skillful seamen, but in naval architecture they are inferior even to the black islanders of Melanesia. The seas around New Zealand are swept by gales very different from the soft trade-winds of the tropical Pacific, and the transport of provisions and water suffi- cient for a long voyage in a canoe across these seas seems to be an impossibility. On the map the islands of Polynesia appear to be thickly sprinkled, but in reality they are so few and so small as to occupy a space almost inappreciable

Page 256

6 : 2 upon the immense expanse of water. Most of | in the water as they are upon land, treating il them are coral islets, which are raised so litile above the sea-surface as to be invisible at a short distance. During a voyage of three weeks through the heart of the galaxy we only sighted two coral islets, and a lofty volcanic island in the Naviga- tors’ group. It may be said that the Pacific is an area of subsidence, and at a period geologi- | cally recent the land-surface must have been very much larger than it now is, but all evidence seems to indicate that the Maoris have colonized New Zealand at a period which is recent in a very different sense of the word. Eminent naturalists are even of opinion that the moa, a bird whose feathers are still found in perfect preservation, | and whose remains are imbedded in the newest i] | alluvial deposits, waa extinct before the arrival | ' knowledge, however, affords only a modified de of the Maoris. They hardly succeeded in ex- plaining, however, what agency, except that of THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. man, could have destroyed a creature so power- | . ° ! ful and so abundant, in a country without beasts , | boat-building. Occasionally fatal accidents oceur of prey, aud where no important geological change has occurred since the time when it flourished. How and when the Maoris reached New Zea- | | women orly were saved, the men behaving with | great self-devotion in endeavoring to assist the weaker and more helpless. land will in all probability never be accurately determined, but their tropical origin is clear enough. They have never really peopled the South (or Middle) Island, the largest and most | productive of the group, but have lingered in the | balmy climate of the north, and have planted | many of their most important settlements around the numerous hot springs of the voleanic districts. Thanks to these natural supplies of heat, they can dispense almost entirely with fuel, and in some villages the inhabitants, like those of a fashionable spa, spend a considerable portion of the twenty-four hours in bathing. From long habit they enjoy a temperature which would al- most scald a European, and will tumble heels over head into natural caldrons apparently at the boiling-point, and into which I could not bear to dip my hand. At sunset, the whole population of a village, men, women, and children, may be seen disporting themselves in the tepid depths, or seated, with the water up to their necks, on the smooth enameled sides of these natural therm. Infants in arms bathe along with the walk, and perched on the shoulders of their tat- | tooed grandfathers, they regard with astonished | black eyes the bleached Pakeha, whose bloodless appearance contrasts most unfavorably with the wholesome brown of the Maori. Laughing, talk- ing, floundering, and splashing, the natives do not forget their good manners, and are as polite | |

stranger with marked consideration. It is need. less to say that they are perfect swimmers, the < women no less than the men; in the popular Maori legend it is Hero, not Leander, who pen forms the feat of swimming over to the island of Mokoia. In a country of lakes and rivers, where the only canoes are long, cranky “ dug-outs,” fash. ioned of a wood almost equal in specific gravity to water, and propelled with short, feeble paddles, it is necessary to bea good swimmer. Whe two or three miles from the shore, with a stiff head breeze rendering it neecssary that half the crew should use their paddles for baling, you know that your native companions, encumbered only with a light kilt, will prebably reach the land in safety if the canoe is swamped or upset. This gree of comfort to a Pakeha, clad probably im water-proof and riding-boots, and rouses his wrath against conservatism displayed by the Maoris in even to natives, and not long ago two canoes full of people were swamped in Lake Rotorua; two Even now, when steamers ply regularly be tween Aucklund and Honolulu, there is little or no intercourse between the Polynesians of the southern temperature and the northern tropical latitudes ; and it is astonishing, after passing over so many thousand miles of sea, to find one’s self among people who in features and complexion, in frank and courteous bearing, and even in such small details as their mode of decoration with flowers or feathers, secm to be identical with those that one has quitted. It is, however, im” language that the substantial identity shows ik self most distinetly, as, after allowing for certain differences of pronunciation, it will be found that almost all the words in common use are the same in the Maori and Kanaka dialects, These ame precisely the words which could not have beet recently borrowed by one dialect from the other; and as neither possessed until quite recently any literature, or even an alphabet, it is remarkable that so very little divergence should have takep

place. Great as are the charms of scenery and ¢lir i) mate— a “Where the golden Pacific round islands of pare dise rolls—”’ the chief interest and romance of these are due to their aboriginal inhabitants, and

a

Page 257

ing « bg BES vi rs, the Opular D pers ind of where fash. ravity \ddles, When a stiff ilf the z, you rbered e land ed de bly in wrath oris in 3 occur es full a: two ist the rly bes ittle or of the ng over e’s self \lexion, in such n with al with ever, i ows ik nd that 1e Same ese are re been : other; \tly any BEER, AND THE TEMPERANCE PROBLEM. 257 pass away with them. A country newly occupied | scenery, of architecture, of costume, of social and by white settlers is neither romantic nor pictu- | political institutions, of fauna and flora, so charm- resque when the primeval forest has been reduced | ing at the present moment, is tending to become to charred stumps, and a long interval must elapse before the undefaced glories of the wilderness can be replaced by the cultivated beauty of an old and prosperous land, In time the fern-land and bush of New Zealand will be converted into a populous and productive country; but the peo- ple and the products will be English, and not Maori. Thus the world becomes more prosperous and wealthy, but less interesting and varied, and the inducements to travel diminish as the facilities a thing of the past, and will be vainly sought for by the travelers of another generation. An East- ern dragoman once said to me, while we were gazing in admiration at a crumbling Saracenic edifice, “‘ We see these things, but our sons will not be able to see them.” The feeling to which his words gave expression was constantly in my mind when among the Maoris and Kanakas, whose “tenakoe” and “aloha,” their friendly greetings to the passing stanger, have all the pathos of an increase. Even in older countries the variety of | eternal adieu.—Forinighily Review. BEER, AND THE TEMPERANCE PROBLEM. By CHARLES GRAHAM. HE magnitude of the consumption of beer | trade. and spirits by our laboring-classes, and the great and certainly not diminishing abuse of these alcoholic stimulants, combine to render the sub- ject of the following article one of deep interest to all anxious to combat a wide-spread and in- creasing source of injury to the public welfare. Though the majority of the nation is opposed to the views of Sir Wilfrid Lawson and others of his school, yet all must feel deeply concerned at con- templating the vast suns of money spent by the nation on beer and spirits, and the great amount of misery and crime caused by the excessive use of these beverages. The records of our criminal courts, the oft-expressed statements of our judges and magistrates, the opinions of medical authori- ties, indeed the experience of all, testify to this great and growing evil. Hence the efforts, for many years past, of those who would, if they could, prohibit the use of all alcoholic beverages so as to get rid of the evils arising from the abuse of them. Our recent leg- islation, though conceived in a spirit contrary to the views of the Alliance party, has yet assumed that the evil might be lessened by limiting the number of public-houses; a process ineffectual for the purpose of reducing the consumption, and fraught with danger, because it is building up 4 gigantic monopoly, which year by year will root itself deeper, until at last its abrogation by the substitution of a better system will cost the Ration many millions in compensation to the 17 The supporters of the Liverpool experi- ment may at least claim for it the merit of being in accord with free-trade principles, and that under such a system it would be impossible for a vast monopoly to grow up to bar the way to fu- ture legislation. ‘ All attempts, however, to reduce or to abol- ish the consumption of the so-called intoxicating beverages, whether conceived in the spirit of Mr. Chamberlain's enthusiastic attempt to introduce a modification of the Géthenburg system, or in that of the Permissive Bill party, are based on- insufficient knowledge not only of the articles consumed but also of the consumers. They can- not, or will not, distinguish between good and bad products ; nor between use and abuse—in- deed, they hold the one to be the necessary con- sequence of the other; and, lastly, they utterly ignore, with the willful blindness common to the holders of extreme views, the chief cause of the excessive consumption of alcoholic liquids. Hence their efforts are doomed, in the future as in the past, to failure; or, if they are appar- ently successful, as in Maine, secret and illicit drinking, with all its vices of law-breaking, de- ceit, and hypocrisy, will replace the present drinking system, which, bad though it be, has at least the merits of being open and legal. Though opposed to all such propositions as being an unjustifiable interference with the lib- erty of the subject, and as being utterly worth- less as a remedy for the disease, one must yet

Page 258

258 . THE POPULAR SCIENCE give the compulsory abstinence party, as well as those who are not prepared to go so far in limit- ing our liberty, the credit at least of good inten- tions. Their object has been good, though the means advocated for securing it have been bad. ’ It is not by such drastic treatment that the av- erage Englishman is to be cured of his abuse of alcoholic drinks, but by offering him a better and a pleasanter place of social meeting than a pub- lic-house bar; by allowing him the right and privilege which the rich man enjoys at his club— | MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. a i % from the licenses to brewers, distillers, and deal. ers, may be put down as being about £24,000. 000. This of course does not include the rey. enue derived from the wine and spirits imported; these, however, concern rich men rather than | poor, who rarely drink wine or brandy of foreign | manufacture. Let us now briefly examine the process of manufacture, the first stage of which consists in ' converting barley into malt. Ground barley, wheat, or any other cereal, the right to drink alcoholic or other beverages | when infused with warm water, slowly undergoes or not, as it suits him, and the privilege of social a change by which the insoluble starch im the intercourse without being compelled to drink to grain is gradually converted into soluble sugars excess solely for the benefit of the house; and | or allied substances. The activity of the albumi- by securing to him good beer. | noid ferments in ground grain is, however, too I propose, in the first place, to describe briefly | slow for the brewers’ purpose, and hence re the manufacture of beer, and to point out some | course is had to the process of malting.—i, e, of the shortcomings of the English process and | germination of the grain—which converts some the injurious influence of our obstructive fiscal | of the inert albuminoid bodies into active agents system in retarding improvement, especially in the direction of a cheaper and less intoxicating beer ; and having seen how good beer, whether of the English alcoholic character or of the German less alcoholic and more dextrinous character, is produced, I will venture to suggest a means whereby the working-man may be led, without interfering with his liberty of action, to the tem- perate use of them. Before describing the process of manufact- ure, it will not be without interest to quote some statistics on the development of the trade, given in a recent publication on brewing and distilling.' In 1873, excluding malt exported or used in dis- tilleries, no less than 59,174,089 bushels of malt | of change, grouped under the general term dia» tase, With this view the maltster steeps the grain in water for a period of about fifty hours, vary: | ing, however, according to the time of year and | the kind of barley employed. So soon as the | grain has absorbed a sufficiency of water to carry ‘on the subsequent germination, it is removed from the cistern, and is spread on the flocr of the 'malt-house. Oxygen is absorbed, the tempera ture rises, and germination commences, and is allowed to proceed until a sufficient development of the young plumule has been obtained, the growth of the plumule being coincident with the swelling noticed at the back and under the testa, were manufactured into beer, producing a reve- | This secured, the grain is then dried on the floor nue of £8,027,408 in the form of malt-tax. In | of a kiln heated by a fire beneath. This process the year ending March, 1873, there were 144,- | stops all further development, and produces em 425 dealers and retailers of beer in the United | pyreumatic products, so important to the flavor Kingdom. Thus much regarding the magnitude | and keeping qualities of the beer. When dry, of the beer-trade. As regards spirits, we find | the malt is then fit for the brewer's or distiller's that 30,644,750 gallons of spirits were made dur- | use. The malt thus made is then crushed be ing the year ending March 31, 1875, and the tween rollers and mixed in the mash-tun—the revenue derived from this source amounted to | vessel wherein the infusior! process is conducted, £14,895,769. Allowing for a smal! portion used | —with about twice its weight of water, the pr in the arts, there were retained for consumption as a beverage 29,821,574 gallons; or about one gallon for each man, woman, and child, in the United Kingdom, The number of licenses grant- ed in the same year to persons dealing in and retailing spirits was 138,845. In round numbers we see that beer yields some £8,000,000, and spirits some £15,000,000 to the revenue; the two together, if we include the revenue derived 1 “British Manutacturing Industries,” Stanford, 1876. | portion varying with the method of infusion | adopted and the strength of the beer to be pre — | duced, the temperature of the water being such . ‘that after the intermixture the contents’ of the : | mash-tun range from 63° C. to 67°C. In the ~ | mashing or infusion process which now — mences, the diastase is the agent by which water 3 | is absorbed, and dextrine and various sugar — | the hydration products of the reaction—are tained. The infusion product of the

Page 259

nd deal- ‘4 24,000,- the rey. ported; rer than f foreign msists in BEER, AND THE TEMPERANCE PROBLEM. 259 brewer’s process is rich in sugars and allied | back into the tun, the temperature of the whole bodies, readily convertible into alcohol and car- | mash being thereby raised to about 50° C. After bonic acid in the subsequent process of fermen- | a time another thick mash (Dickmaisch) is drawn tation. Though the English brewer is permitted | off and boiled, and again run into the tun, the by law to use cane-sugar, and sugar made from | temperature of the contents being now raised to maize, rice, or other starch-yielding materials, he | 60° C. The next process is to draw off a thin js yet forbidden the use of unmalted grain, | mash (Lautermaisch), which is boiled and re- whether highly dried on the kiln or not, and is | placed in the mash-tun, the temperature of the therefore unable to employ materials yielding a | whole contents of which is thereby raised to 75° greater proportion of dextrine than he can obtain | C. Without pursuing this interesting technical from malt. It is true that the law allows the | process further, and without noticing the various conversion of raw grain into dextrine, dextrine- | modifications followed in Bavaria, in Bohemia, maltose, and grape-sugar, but the brewer is for- | and in North Germany, it will suffice to state bidden such latitude of manufacture, and, as the ; that by this method of boiling a portion of the chief expense of the process consists in evapo- | malt some of the diastase is destroyed as a fer- rating the dilute saccharine liquid so as to render | ment at each repetition of the process, and hence -it solid, it follows that the brewer in purchasing | the final product is richer in dextrine-sugars than such starch-sugars, and in again dissolving them | the corresponding product of the English infusion in water is put to a great and wasteful expendi- | system. This method of obtaining a highly-dex- ture in undoing what the excise laws have caused | trinous infusion was invented by the Bavarians to be done. long ago, and consequently before our present The brewers of England must associate them- | chemical knowledge was at the brewer’s com- selves together in order to obtain the repeal of | mand. It is needlessly laborious and expensive, the present antiquated laws regulating the de- | nor are the dextrine-sugars obtained of so stable tails of manufacture, and in place of a tax on | a character as may be produced by methods malt they should propose that the tax should be | based on our existing scientific knowledge ; the levied on the weight of saccharine or amylaceous application of which knowledge, however, is for- materials employed in the tun. Thus free to use | bidden to the English brewer. the materials at their command to the best ad- Reverting to the English brewery, let us fol- vantage, they would be enabled to employ, in | low the remaining stages of the manufacture of conjunction with malt, barleys which are unfit | beer. The infusion process being finished, the for the malting process. These could readily be | wort—as the liquid containing the infusion prod- converted by simple chemical means into dex- | ucts of the malt is termed—is then drawn off trine-sugars or into glucose, or by simple torre- | from the insoluble residue, or grains, and boiled faction into dextrine, as in the process for pre- | in another vessel with hops, the quantity of this paring British gum. By such an alteration in | valuable agent of preservation depending on the the law not only would the farmer benefit, by be- | character of the ale, and on the length of time ing able to grow barley on heavy land, but also | it is to be kept before consumption. Simple by being enabled to produce malt for his cattle— | boiling produces the coagulation of some of the & benefit, however, which I am bound to ac- | albuminous matters, a further portion being pre- knowledge to be problematical. The great gain- | cipitated by the tannin of the hops. The boiled er, however, would be the working-man, inasmuch | wort is afterward cooled and placed in the fer- as he would obtain a cheaper and more dextri- menting vessels, and yeast added. The English nous ale. | brewer commences the fermentation at a tem- The German brewer is allowed to use unmalt- | perature varying from 14° C. to 18° C., and as d grain, and is thus enabled to prepare a more | the decomposition of the sugar by the yeast or- dextrinous beer. The chief method employed in | ganism is attended with the production of heat, Germany to obtain such dextrinous beer is, how- | the temperature rises rapidly unless precautions ever, by the system of mashing. The Bavarian | be taken to prevent this, Some English brewers brewer mixes malt and water at a temperature | allow the temperature to rise to 25° C., and even of $7° C., and allows the infusion process to go | higher, with great gain so far as rapidity of pro- - for a short time. A portion of the solid and | duction is concerned, but to the serious loss of liquid contents of the tun is then pumped into flavor, soundness, and wholesomeness, of the prod- the boiler, where the mixture, not unlike gruel, | uct. Now, high and rapid fermentation not 8 boiled for half an hour, after which it is run | merely produces an inferior product as regards

Page 260

260 flavor, but it favors the formation of the poison- ous alcohols grouped together under the general term of fusel-oils, The distiller produces even more of these poisonous alcohols, because he uses large quantities of raw grain with his malt, and as he desires to convert as much as possible of the original starch into alcohol, he makes thin infusions, and employs a high temperature in the fermentation process. He sacrifices delicacy of flavor and wholesomeness for the gain of more alcohol; and though he attempts by fractional distillation and other means to eliminate the poi- sonous alcohols—the fusel-oils—he only partially succeeds in his object ; hence, unless submitted to the slow oxidation of years through the pores of the cask, the unfortunate consumer suffers for the improper fermentation employed. It is beside our present purpose to pursue the remaining technical operations of cleansing and racking, but we will assume that the final product is in the hands of the consumer. It may be one of England’s best products, a dry alcoholic beer, or it may be a badly-fermented beer ; in all cases, however, it is rather to be considered an article to be consumed with food than as a summer bev- erage, or as a pleasant, slightly exhilarating stim- ulus to conversation. Having seen how the Bavarian prepares his wort, let us examine the method of fermentation. Instead of cooling the wort, after the boiling pro- cess with hops, down to the ordinary tempera- ture of the atmosphere, or such a temperature as cold water will produce, as is general in England, he refrigerates it by the aid of ice to a tempera- ture of 5° C. or 6° C., and by the liberal employ- ment of ice he succeeds in producing a very slow fermentation, throughout which he never permits the temperature to rise above 8° C. The yeast sinks to the bottom in place of rising to the top, as in the English process, and some twelve to sixteen days, and even more, elapse before the first stage of the fermentation process is com- pleted. The beer is then removed from the fer- menting-vessel and placed in store-vessels, where- in during weeks and months the fermentation slowly continues until the beer is required for consumption. Throughout this long period of secondary fermentation the beer is kept below 8° C. by being surrounded by large masses of ice; in the larger breweries many thousand tons being employed to effect the object in view. The process for preparing lager, or store becr, is therefore expensive, not merely in consequence of the masses of ice consumed, but also on ac- count of the slowness of the fermentation, which THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. necessitates a greater amount of room and of x vessels employed. : Though this be so, yet the very dextrinouy character of the beer enables the Bavarian brew: _ er to be very liberal in the use of water, without producing thinness, and hence, while the mann. facturing process is more expensive than that pursued in England, beer is cheaper in Germany than with us. It will be seen from this brief exposition of the methods followed by the English and Baya: rian brewers respectively that the essential points of difference are that the German aims at obtain. ing infusion products rich in dextrine, so as to secure a substance which does not readily undergo alcoholic fermentation, and which therefore me mains in the beer, giving a fullness in the mouth — not attained by English ales having the same ore ginal gravity—or strength—of the wort. The Bavarian beer is consequently less alcoholic and ¥ less intoxicating ; indeed, it requires much im dustry on the part of the German beer-drinker to get beyond the stage of pleasant animation ; and, as a matter of fact, the German workman runs — no risk of intoxication so long as he refrains ~ from drinking the poisonous rye-schnapps. This | dextrinous and less alcoholic character of the foreign product is, moreover, not the only advam tage which it possesses over English ales: owing to the low temperature employed and the nece® sarily slow progress of the fermentation, there is produced but little of those poisonous alcohols already referred to. In England, as before stated, — some English brewers employ rapid fermentation, and all, or nearly all, distillers use still higher temperatures. This it is which causes the crude” and bad spirits sold throughout England and Germany to be so intoxicating in their effect® — Thus our ill-fed workman, who consumes some a bad beer and finishes with still worse spirilé, even though the actual amount of alcohol taken — be not great, becomes intoxicated—poisoned, ite deed—and is maddened, to the danger of those — around him; or becomes utterly stupid, until roused next day with fever, a parched akin, a a racking brain. Knowing that the amount com sumed was vastly incommensurate with the evil effect produced, he maintains that the beer and spirits were drugged. In some cases he may be right, yet in many the publican may be innocent — of having contravened the Adulteration of Food end Drugs Act beyond the addition of common — # | water, and in some instances of a little molasse The act takes no note of injurious substane et | produced by ignorance or by neglect in the

Page 261

BEER, AND THE TEMPERANCE PROBLEM. facture of any article, though the effect is the same as if such had been added; the magistrate therefore punishes the accused, even though he may have reason to think that there is some truth in his statement. It becomes, then, not only desirable to pro- duce a dextrinous and slightly alcoholic ale for conversation purposes, but it is equally to be de- sired that the brewer in the English process should commence his fermentation at 13° C. to 14° C., and should avoid allowing the tempera- ture during the process to rise above 20° C, to 21°C. Such temperatures are already employed by many English brewers, whose particular trade may require that the beer shall keep sound for weeks in the cellar of the middle or upper class consumer, or be capable of exportation abroad. “Much of the beer consumed by the working- classts is, however, not so carefully prepared, and may, before they consume it, have been manipu- lated by the greed of the publican. Though it is desirable that Bavarian beer should be brewed in England, steam-power being employed to pro- duce the necessary low temperature, we need not require that our brewers generally should follow the process employed abroad. As a stimulant, or with food, the carefully- prepared alcoholic Burton ales, and those of similar character, are unsurpassed. All we need require is, that the same careful attention given to low temperature in their production shall be given to the manufact- ure of a more dextrinous and less alcoholic ale. Leaving the consideration of the manufacture, it will be admitted by all, except the Alliance party, that good beer and good spirits are less injurious than bad products when consumed largely; yet even these, when taken in excess, not only waste the poor man’s earnings, but also produce injurious effects, moral and physical. The question here naturally presents itself: Zo what is excessive drinking due? I care net to discuss the extreme views and dogmatic assertions of the advocates of total abstinence, nor the rem- edy proposed by them, since they are equally out- side of all practical discussion and legislation ; but inasmuch as we find that the German or the Frenchman is able to take beer or wine in mod- eration without becoming a drunkard, and as every one’s experience in our own country substan- tially confirms this—even though there be sad exceptions—we must seek for some explanation other than that so confidently presented to us by the earnest and well-meaning haters of moderation. The answer to our question may doubtless be partly found in the statement often made by medi- 261 cal authorities, that the strain produced by mo- notonous labor and anxiety on the brain is such, that stimulants are resorted to in order to ob- tain momentary forgetfulness. This explanation, though in some cases true, is yet greatly inade- quate to account for the wide-spread and general use and abuse of alcoholic stimulants, The French or German workman is equally liable to distress, equally the subject of monotonous me- chanical toil. Again, difference of race and of climate helps us but little to solve the problem before us. These and other supposed causes— especially bad air, bad water, and bad lodging— have some basis of truth in them, but they are vastly inadequate as a sufficient explanation. We must seek elsewhere for the chief cause, and this we shall find in comparing the respective features of a public-house in a large town in Eng- land, and a restaurant-café or Bierkeller or Bier- garten abroad. In the former the guest must generally stand at a bar—the exigencies of the trade having gradually abolished the miserable accommodation of a narrow bench, which former- ly was conceded to the customer—and he has to drink without being distracted by the games which are played in a similar house of public en- tertainment abroad. Of late years parlors have been given up because they do not pay; and thus the working-men can no Jonger get the accommo- dation of a fire to cook their food at, and utensils to consumeit. In short, an English public-house, es- pecially of late years in large towns, is usually ar- ranged solely for drinking-purposes, the bever- ages being too often limited to bad beer and worse spirits. Abroad, on the contrary, one finds a pleasant room, with tables at which to sit, furnished with newspapers, and games of cards and dominoes and other amusements going on; and not only alcoholic beverages, but coffee and other non-alcoholic drinks, with simple and inex- pensive food of various kinds, are being served. Our excessive drinking is, I maintain, chiefly due to the universal desire of conversation and social intercourse, only obtained in England un- der unfavorable conditions, and under influences which lead to the consumption of bad spirits. The rich man asks a friend whom he desires to see either to meet him at home, or, if that be in- convenient, at his club. For the working-man, generally, it is impossible to meet his friend at his home, consisting, as it but too often does, of one or it may be two rooms; and in the evening it is especially inconvenient to his wife and chil- dren. Often, indeed, the home is of such a kind that he not only cannot ask a friend to call on

Page 262

262 THE POPULAR SCIENCE him there, but is even too glad to go elsewhere himself. That elsewhere is not like the rich man’s club, where he can order or not what he likes; but an English public-house, arranged ex- clusively for drinking beer and spirits, and where, in consequence of the monopoly price paid for the good-will by the tenant, drinking immoderately and rapidly is the understood and enforced rule. Hence the working-man is driven to drink more than he ought; and, once under the influence of a slight excess, it too often happens that he continues until he is more or less intoxicated. So long as he is quiet and attentive to the interest of | the house, the publican plies him with more of his baneful wares, until he is too noisy or too stupid to drink more; he is then put outside the door, if need be with the policeman’s aid. true that some men go to a public-house in order to get drunk, and they would be ill satisfied if a moderate quantity of beer and of spirits failed to produce the desired effect. These men, however, form fortunately but a very small proportion of those who frequent public-bouses because they have no other place of social meeting. The great mass of our working-classes, who chiefly use our public-houses, go there for conversation and social intercourse, and for business purposes connected with their various benefit and trade societies, | without having any intention or desire to overstep the limits of moderation. Such views are not in accordance with the desires of the publican, whose sole aim, as I have said, is to recoup himself rapidly for the heavy payment too often made for » the business. I maintain, then, that a very nat- ural desire for social intercourse and amusement, coupled with the fact, sadly too common, that these are not always to be had at home, is the chief cause for the general use of public-houses. Once there, the workman must either continue to drink, and that not too slowly, or then he is made to understand that if he requires no more he had better make room for others. Now, it is a notori- ous fact that, in our large towns, even the rudest sitting accommodation is being refused, since drinking goes on faster and more profitably when the customers are kept standing around a bar. Working-men’s clubs, as established in some towns by well-meaning phi‘lanthropists, are no doubt of some use, especially to those who are members of the Good Templars’ Society ; in such clubs beer and spirits are forbidden, and books | legislation has already in many important i> and papers of a fitting kind are carefully selected { stances been adopted, and to this principle, for } by the earnest clergyman or committee who man- age the club. Such attempts, however, cannot | reach the masses; the average English workman It is | MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. is very much like the average member of the middle or upper classes, and equally opposed to having his social intercourse and relaxation mam aged on goody principles. It may be sad to | think that a working-man prefers beer to sody water, the Weekly Dispatch to the British Work. | man ; but in this he resembles those who are richer: and those who desire to succeed in reagh. ing and benefiting the masses must take other | measures than py offering them entertainment based on the assumption that working-men are but children, who will be content with sugar-and. water and good books. The true remedy to overcome the too great consumption of alcoholie liquids is to place within the working-man’s reach a place of public entertainment such as a works man in a French or German town can go to, In a German town, for example, the workman finds la pleasant room wherein to meet his fellows and ' others somewhat above him in the social scale, | Here he sits and amuses himself for one, two, or ' even three hours with conversation, newspapers, | and games, and consumes his two or three Sehop pen of beer, costing some fourpence. He cam | also obtain a simple supper of sausage or cheese and bread at a cost of twopence or threepenes, The French workman finds similar cheap places of entertainment; in the centre and south of France the cheap wines of the district being sub stituted for beer. Every one who has lived or traveled much abroad knows the small amountof. | money spent even in a three hours’ sitting by the | frequenters of such places. The landlord’s im | terest even there is, of course, to sell as much a | possible ; to him, however, it is a matter of indif | ference whether it be coffee or beer, and as he | pays but little for the good-will—I am not now | describing a fashionable café in Paris—he eam | afford to allow his customers to sit without com ! pelling them to drink rapidly for the benefit of | his trade. I would urge with some confidence= | derived from several years’ residence abroad, and from a considerable experience of the working: classes there and at home—upon our statesmea, our magistrates, our philanthropists, and indeed upon all who desire to benefit the poorer classes in our own country, the advantages which would in time be derived from the establishment of places of public entertainment based on aims other than those of the gin-palace. Permissive | | | | | example, we are indebted for the efforts now be- ing made by many municipal bodies to improv — the dwellings of the poor. Better lodging, bee 2 e 2 &

Page 263

BEER, AND THE TEMPERANCE PROBLEM. ter air, and better water will, no doubt, aid much in improving the health of the poorer classes, and even aid in making them more temperate ; yet the good such improvements will effect in regard to excessive drinking will be slight unless the necessity be recognized of placing within the reach of the working-man good and wholesome drink, and a place of social meeting otber than a modern gin-palace, with its too often badly-fer- mented alcoholic beer, and its still worse rank and poisonous spirits. I venture, then, to propose that the Legisla- ture should empower local bodies to open one or more of these cafés or places of public enter- tainment, where the working-man should have all the advantages enjoyed by the rich man at his dub, the same freedom to order what he wishes, “and the same right to remain there without order- ing anything. It may, and doubtless will, be objected that such places would never pay, be- cause the profit derived from the small consump- tion would be insufficient to pay a moderate inter- est on the capital and the expenses of manage- ment. Those who entertain such fears I think might dismiss them were they to remember that the profif on drink is very great, and to realize the great difficulty there would be for some time to impress upon the working-classes that they could remain there for even two dor three hours without being repeatedly incited by the habits formed by their experience of public-houses to order more and more drink. But even were the total abstainers’ millennium to arise suddenly, and the working-classes generally to abjure alcohol in all its forms, there would still be ample profit on non-alcoholic substitutes. Others may fear that many would avail themselves of the accommoda- tion of well-ventilated and well-lit rooms, and of the advantages of reading newspapers and peri- odicals, without payment in one shape or another ; but this dread may readily be dismissed since admission might be given by the purchase of a twopenny ticket, which should include not only the use of the establishment, but also two-penny- worth of the food and drink sold there. It may be objected, and doubtless will be by many not interested in the liquor-traffic, that such a scheme would be a gross and unjustifiable interference With established interests and with freedom of trade, It does not concern me here to discuss this argument, further than to suggest, in reply, that society has often, and will yet often, inter- fere in such matters, Nor am I concerned to discuss fully another charge which will doubtless be made, that I am proposing to convert local 263 bodies into dealers in food and drink. I frankly admit, however, that were all such places of public entertainment in the hands of municipal and other local authorities, grave inconveniences and even more serious consequences would, doubtless, arise socially and politically. I only suggest the establishment of one or more, according to the population, in order to show working-men the advantage of this system over the existing one. Public enterprise would gradually convert the present public-houses and gin-palaces into working-men’s cafés or clubs, the publicans themselves aiding in the change if the success of the system justified it. In small towns the association of a few phi- lanthropists would suffice to establish one such place of entertainment; in larger towns two or three such might be established, and they would be the more readily assisted by the licensing magistrates if a spirit-license were not required, This mode of action would certainly cause no in- jury to the political morality of local authorities ; and had I enough confidence in the sufficiency of philanthropic enterprise, I would be content to trust the scheme altogether to such action. Mere philanthropic effort is, however, too slow to fight rapidly and effectually with the wide- spread evil, to combat which the scheme is sug- gested ; the Peabody and other similar efforts to secure to the working -classes better lodging, though valuable as experiments, are yet vastly inferior in efficiency and rapidity to the beneficial powers given to corporations under Mr. Cross’s act. The powers conferred by it are tentative and limited as to time; so might it, with great advantage, be the case in the proposed effort to stem the evil influences of the gin-palace. Regarding the profits derived from the sale of food and drink, they will necessarily be small compared with those of public-houses; but it must not be forgotten that these latter are now, owing to the increasing monopoly, at exorbitant prices compared with houses of similar size. We must remember that there would be no good-will to pay for, and hence the capital required would be comparatively small. Well conducted, they would probably pay at least five per cent. on the capital invested, after the management expenses had been paid, and this even were the articles of food and drink sold as cheaply as in France or Germany. It would not, however, be advisable to sell under the usual trade-price, so as to avoid the antagonistic feelings which would arise among those already engaged in the trade. Greater ex- cellence in the articles sold, and vastly superior

Page 264

264 aecommodation, should be the guiding principles, rather than cheapness. Still, in spite of the bet- ter entertainment, there would be in most cases a profit left after the five per cent. on the capital had been paid. The poor-rate, or other local rete, should benefit by all such extra profit, not only in the case of such places of meeting being established by local authorities, but even when established by philanthropic action. In conclusion, while giving due weight to the causes assigned on various sides to account for the large consumption of alcohol in our country, I yet maintain that the natural desire of man to meet his fellow, and the fact that this can only be done by the working-man in a public-house or gin-palace established solely for the rapid con- sumption of beer and spirits, are the chief causes ; and that the true remedy is to put within the reach of the poorer classes a place of social meet- ing where good and simple food, and drink, non- alcoholic as well as alcoholic, shall be sold to him, and where he will not be compelled to over- step the bounds of moderation any more than the rich man in his club, Though not essential to the scheme, it will yet be wise to urge upon the Treasury the advan- tage of greater freedom in the manufacture of beer, so that the more enterprising of our brew- ers may be enabled to produce a more dextrinous and less alcoholic beverage than is now made— to brew a conversation-beer, rather than a highly- stimulating one, for purposes of social meeting. The managers of such places should not only take care that the articles sold should be the best of their kind, but should also discourage the consumption of spirits even when good, so far as they can without improper. interference with the liberty of the customer. This is not all: it will be well to encourage the presence of the whole family; an occasional evening in such cafés or elubs will relieve the dreary monotony of the dull and too often wretched home. Such meet- > ~ THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. ings, joined to the necessity that soon would be _ felt that all must be presentable in their dress and attentive to their persons, would go no smal} way to improve the lower portion of the working. classes. Abroad, the fact that the working-man must wash off the dust of the day’s toil before going to such places, is of itself no unimportant aid to his general improvement. There remains yet one more important use such places could be put to. At present in mest cases the benefit-clubs and trade-societies of the working-classes hold their meetings in public houses because they have no other choice, and because they are tempted by the apparent liber ality of the publican. The members of such clubs are not only subject to the bad influences of the. place, but must drink for the benefit of the land- lord. Those who are best acquainted with the working-classes know well the serious evil that attends such meetings in public -houses; the amount paid into the benefit society being too often but a trifle compared with that consumed in drink. The upper rooms in the café should therefore be devoted to such purposes, a charge being made for the accommodation, which could either be made for an hour, or a month, or® year, and without the pernicious system of be ing compelled to drink for the benefit of the house. Thus, not by the intolerant propositions of the Alliance party, nor by the costly and, I fear, strife-causing means of Mr. Chamberlain, but by the simple and safe influences of example to the working-classes and to the publicans, we may hope in time to see our poorer classes as moderate in their drinking-habits as their fellows in Ger many and France when meeting together in the evening. Though we shall not make all sober, we can yet remove the cause of insobriety in #0 many—the compulsion to drink, Time and bet+ ter influences must be left to do the rest.—Com temporary Review. | THE MYSTERY OF THE PYRAMIDS. By RICHARD A. PROCTOR. Ee’ subjects of inquiry have proved more perplexing than the question of the pur- pose for which the pyramids of Egypt were built. Even in the remotest ages of which we have his- torical record, nothing seems to have been known certainly on this point. For some reason OF other, the builders of the pyramids concealed the” — object of these structures, and this so successful- wg ly that not even a tradition has reached us - purports to have been handed down from the

Page 265

THE MYSTERY OF THE PYRAMIDS. epoch of the pyramids’ construction. We find, indeed, some explanations given by the earliest historians ; but they were professedly only hy- pothetical, like those advanced in more recent times. Including ancient and modern theories, we find a wide range of choice. Some have thought that these buildings were associated with the religion of the early Egyptians ; others have suggested that they were tombs; others, that they combined the purposes of tombs and | temples; that they were astronomical observa- tories; defenses against the sands of the Great Desert ; granaries like those made under Joseph's direction ; places of resort during excessive over- flows of the Nile; and many other uses have been suggested for them. But none of these ideas are found on close examination to be tena- ‘ble as representing the sole purpose of the pyra- mids, and few of them have strong claims to be regarded as presenting even a chief object of | _ these remarkable structures. The significant and perplexing history of the three oldest pyra- mids—the Great Pyramid of Cheops, Shofo, or Suphis, the pyramid of Chephren, and the pyra- mid of Mycerinus—and the most remarkable of all the facts known respecting the pyramids gen- erally, viz., the circumstance that one pyramid after another was built as though each had be- come useless soon after it was finished, are left entirely unexplained by all the theories above mentioned, save one only, the tomb theory, and that does not afford by any means a satisfactory explanation of the circumstances. I propose to give here a brief account of some of the most suggestive facts known respecting the pyramids, and, after considering the difficul- ties which beset the theories heretofore ad- vanced, to indicate a theory (new, so far as I know) which seems to me to correspond better with the facts than any heretofore advanced ; I Suggest it, however, rather for consideration than because I regard it as very convincingly support- ed by the evidence. In fact, to advance any theory at present with confident assurance of its Correctness would be simply to indicate a very limited acquaintance with the difficulties sur- rounding the subject. ' Let us first consider a few of the more strik- ing facts recorded by history or tradition, noting, ‘swe proceed, whatever ideas they may suggest 48 to the intended character of these struct- Ures, It is hardly necessary to say, perhaps, that the history of the Great Pyramid is of paramount mportance in this inquiry. Whatever purpose 265 pyramids were originally intended to subserve, must have been conceived by the builders of that pyramid, Few ideas may have been superadded by the builders of later pyramids, but it is un- likely that the original purpose can have been entirely abandoned. Some great purpose there was, which the rulers of ancient Egypt proposed to fulfill by building very massive pyramidal structures on a particular plan. It is by inquir- ing into the history of the first and most massive of these structures, and by examining its con- struction, that we shall have the best chance of finding out what that great purpose was. According to Herodotus, the kings who built the pyramids reigned not more than twenty-eight centuries ago; but there can be little doubt that Herodotus misunderstood the Egyptian priests from whom he derived his information, and that | the real antiquity of the Pyramid-kings was far greater. He tells us that, according to the Egyp- tian priests, “Cheops on ascending the throne plunged into all manner of wickedness. He | closed the temples, and forbade the Egyptians to | offer sacrifice, compelling them instead to labor one and all in his service; viz., in building the | Great Pyramid.” Still following his interpreta- | tion of the Egyptian account, we learn that 100,- | 000 men were employed for twenty years in build- ing the Great Pyramid, and that ten years were | occupied in constructing a causeway by which | to convey the stones to the place and in convey- | ing them there. “ Cheops reigned fifty years; and was succeeded by his brother Chephren, who | imitated the conduct of his predecessor, built a a pyramid—but smaller than his brother’s—and reigned fifty-six years. Thus, during one Hun- dred and six years, the temples were shut and never opened.” Moreover, Herodotus tells us that “the Egyptians so detested the memory of these kings that they do not much like even to mention their names. Hence they commonly call the pyramids after Philition, a shepherd, who at that time fed his flocks about the place.” “ After Chephren, Mycerinus, son of Cheops, as- cended the throne. He reopened the temples, and allowed the people to resume the practice of sac- rifice. He, too, left a pyramid, but much in_ ferior in size to his father’s. It is built, for half of its height, of the stone of Ethiopia,” or, as Prof. Smyth (whose extracts from Rawlinson’s translation I have here followed) adds, “ expen- sive red granite.” ‘“ After Mycerinus, Asychis as- cended the throne. He built the eastern gate. way of the temple of Vulcan (Phtha); and, be- ing desirous of eclipsing all his predecessors on

Page 266

266 the throne, left as a monument of his reign a ! That the welfare of his people was not consideneg : pyramid of brick,” This account is so suggestive, as will present- ly be shown, that it may be well to inquire wheth- er it can be relied on. Now, although there can be no doubt that Herodctus misunderstood the Egyptians in some matters, and in particular as to the chronological order of the dynasties, plac- ing the Pyramid-kings far too late, yet in other respects he seems not only to have understood them correctly, but also to have received a cor- rect account from them. The order of the kings above named corresponds with the sequence given by Manetho, and also found in monumental and hieroglyphic records. Manetho gives the names | Suphis I., Suphis IL, and Mencheres, instead cf Cheops, Chephren, and Mycerinus; wiile, accord- ing to the modern Egyptologists, Herodotus's Cheops was Shofo, Shufu, or Koufou ; Chephren was Shafre, while he was also called Nou-Shofo or Noum-Shufu as the brother of Shofo; and Mycerinus was Menhere or Menkerre. But the identity of these kings is not questioned. As to the true dates, there is much doubt, and it is probable that the question will long continue open; but the determination of the exact epochs when the several pyramids were built is not very important in connection with our present inquiry. We may, on tle whole, fairly take the points quoted above from Herodotus, and proceed to consider the significance of the narrative, with sufficient confidence that in all essential respects it is trustworthy. There are several very strange features in the account. In the first place, it is manifest that Cheops (to call the first king by the name most familiar to the general reader) attached great importance to the building of his pyramid. It has been said, and perhaps justly, that it would be more inter- esting to know the plan of the architect who de- vised the pyramid than the purpose of the king who built it. But the two things are closely con- nected. The architect must have satisfied the king that some highly-important purpose, in which the king himself was interested, would be subserved by the structure. Whether the king was persuaded to undertake the work asa matter of duty, or only to advance his own interests, may not be so clear. But that the king was most thoroughly in earnest about the work is cer- tain. A monarch in those times would assuredly not have devoted an enormous amount of labor and material to such a scheme unless he was thoroughly convinced of its great importance. THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. * by Cheops in building the Great Pyramid iggh _ | most equally certain. He might, indeed, haye | had a scheme for their good which either he did not care to explain to them or which they could not understand. But the most natural im ference from the narrative is that his purpose had no reference whatever to their welfare, For though one could understand his own subjects hating him while he was all the time working for | their good, it is obvious that his memory would — | not have been hated if some important good had eventually been gained from his scheme, a far-seeing ruler has been hated while livingon account#f the very work for which his memory hes been revered. But the memory of Cheops and his successors was held in detestation, May we, however, suppose that, though Che ops had not the welfare of his own people in his thoughts, his purpose was nevertheless not selfish, but intended in some way to promote the welfare ; of the human race? I say his purpose, because, whoever originated the scheme, Cheops carried ‘it out; it was by means of his wealth and through his power that the pyramid was built | This is the view adopted by Prof. Piazzi Smyth * and others, in our own time, and first suggested by John Taylor. “ Whereas other writers,” says | Smyth, “have generally esteemed that the my& | terious persons who directed the building of the Great Pyramid (and to whom the Egyptians, ia their traditions, and for ages afterward, gave al immoral and even abominable character) must therefore have been very bad indeed, so that the world at large has always been fond of standing on, kicking, and insulting that dead lion, whom they really knew not: he, Mr. John Taylor, see ing how religiously bad the Egyptians themselves were, was led to conclude, on the contrary, that those they hated (and could never sufficiently abuse) might, perhaps, have been preéminently good ; or were, at all events, of different religiot faith from themselves. ... Combining this with certain unmistakable historical facts,” Mr, Taylat deduced reasons for believing that the directorsof the building designed to record in its proportions and in its interior features, certain important 1 ligious and scientific truths, not for the people then living, but for men who were to come four thousand years or so after. Although I do not propose to discuss bert the evidence on which this strange theory rest there are certain matters connecting it with tt above narrative that must here be m SS | The mention of the shepherd Philition, whe ab

Page 267

THE MYSTERY OF .THE PYRAMIDS. his focks about the place where the Great Pyra- wid was built, is a singular feature of Herodotus’s narrative. It reads like some strange misinter- pretation of the story related to him by the Egyp- tian priests. It is obvious that if the word Pbi- lition did not represent a people, but a person, this person must have been very eminent and distinguished—a shepherd-king, not a mere shep- herd. Rawlinson, in a note on this portion of the narrative of Herodotus, suggests that Philitis was probably a shepherd-prince from Palestine, perhaps of Philistine descent, “but so powerful end domineering that it may be traditions of his oppressions in that earlier age which, mixed up afterward in the minds of later Egyptians with the evils inflicted on their country by the subse- quent shepherds of better-known dynasties, lent go much fear to their religious hate of Shepherd times and that name.” Smyth, somewhat modi- fying this view, and considering certain remarks of Manetho respecting an alleged invasion of Egypt by shepherd-kings, “ men of an ignoble race” (from the Egyptian point of view) “who had the confidence to invade our country, and easily sub- dued it to their power without a battle,” comes to the conclusion that some Shemite prince, “a contemporary of, but rather older than, the pa- triarch Abraham,” visited Egypt at this time, and obtained such influence over the mind of Cheops as to persuade him to erect the pyramid. According to Smyth, the prince was no other than Melchizedek, King of Salem, and the influ- ence he exerted was supernatural, With such developments of the theory we need not trouble ourselves. It seems tolerably clear that certain shepherd-chiefs who came to Egypt during Che- ops’s reign were connected in some way with the designing of the Great Pyramid. It is clear also that they were men of a different religion from the Egyptians, and persuaded Cheops to abandon the religion of his people. Taylor, Smyth, and the Pyramidalists generally, consider this suffi- cient to prove that the pyramid was erected for some purpose connected with religion. ‘“ The pyramid, in fine,” says Smyth, “‘ was charged by God's inspired shepherd-prince, in the beginning of human time, to keep a certain message secret and inviolable for four thousand years, and it has done so; and in the next thousand years it was to enunciate that message to all men, with more than traditional foree, more than all the authen- ticity of copied manuscripts or reputed history ; and that part of the pyramid’s usefulness is now ning.” There are many very obvious difficulties sur- 267 rounding this theory ; as, for example—1. The ab- surd waste of power in setting supernatural ma- chinery at work four thousand years ago, with cumbrous devices to record its object, when the same machinery, much more simply ewployed now, would effect the alleged purpose far more thoroughly ; 2. The enormous amount of human misery and its attendant hatreds brought about by this alleged divine scheme; and, 3. The fu- tility of an arrangement by which the pyramid was only to subserve its purpose when it had lost that perfection of shape on which its entire sig- nificance depended, according to the theory itself. But, apart from these, there is a difficulty, no- where noticed by Smyth or his followers, which is fatal, I conceive, to this theory of the pyramid’s purpose. The second pyramid, though slightly inferior to the first in size, and probably far in- ferior in quality of masonry, is still a structure of enormous dimensions, which must have re- quired many ycars of labor from tens of thousands of workmen. Now, it seems impossible to ex. plain why Chephren built this second pyramid, if we adopt Smyth’s theory respecting the first pyramid. For either Chephren knew the purpose for which the Great Pyramid was built, or he did not know it. If he knew that purpose, and it was that indicated by Smyth, then he also knew that no second pyramid was wanted. On that hypothesis, all the labor bestowed on the second pyramid was wittingly and willfully wasted. This, of course, is incredible. But, on the other hand, if Chephren did not know what was the purpose for which the Great Pyramid was built, what reason could Chephren have had for building a pyramid at all? The only answer to this ques- tion seems to be that Chephren built the second pyramid in hopes of finding out why his brother had built the first, and this answer is simply ab- surd. It is clear enough that, whatever purpose Cheops had in building the first pyramid, Che- phren must have had a similar purpose in building the second ; and we require a theory which shall at least explain why the first pyramid did not subserve for Chephren the purpose which it sub- served, or was meant to subserve, for Cheops. The same reasoning may be extended to the third pyramid, to the fourth, and, in fine, to all the pyramids, forty or so in number, included under the general designation of the Pyramids of Ghizeh or Jeezeh. The extension of the principle to pyramids later than the second is especially im- portant, as showing that the difference of religion insisted on by Smyth has no direct bearing on the question of the purpose for which the Great

Page 268

268 THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. illustrious dead. Nothing is more natura] , men than to commemorate the spot where ress the ashes of those whose memory they ¢ whether it be, as in the infancy of the race, by simple mounds of earth, or, in later periods, by the towering height of the tumulus, Those of Pyramid itself was constructed. For Mycerinus either never left or else returned to the religion of the Egyptians. Yet he also built a pyramid, which, though far inferior in size to the pyramids built by his father and uncle, was still a massive structure, and relatively more costly even than theirs, because built of expensive granite. The | the Chinese and of Thibet have only a few pyramid built by Asychis, though smaller still, | of elevation. Farther to the west the dimensions, was remarkable as built of brick ; in fact, we are i increase; the tumulus of the king Abyattes, fa. expressly told that Asychis desired to eclipse all | ther of Creesus, in Lydia, was six stadia, and that his predecessors in such labors, and accordingly | of Ninus was more than ten stadia in diameter, left this brick pyramid as a monument of his | In the north of Europe the sepulchre of the Scam. reign. dinavian king Gormus and the queen Daneboda, ’ We are forced, in fact, to believe that there | covered with mounds of earth, are three hundred was some special relation between the pyramid | metres broad, and more than thirty high.” and its builder, seeing that each one of these | But while we have abundant reason for be. kings wanted a pyramid of his own, This ap- | lieving that in Egypt, even in the days of Cheops plies to the Great Pyramid quite as much as to | and Chephren, extreme importance was attached the others, despite the superior excellence of that | to the character of the place of burial for dig. structure. Or rather, the argument derives its | tinguished persons, there is nothing in what is chief force from the superiority of the Great | | known respecting earlier Egyptian ideas to sug. Pyramid. If Chephren, no longer perhaps having gest the probability that any monarch would have the assistance of the shepherd-architects in plan- | devoted many years of his subjects’ labor, and ning and superintending the work, was unable to | vast stores of material, to erect a mass of masonry construct a pyramid so perfect and so stately as | his brother's, the very fact that he nevertheless | built a prramid shows that the Great Pyramid | did not fulfill for Chephren the purpose which it fulfilled for Cheops. But, if Smyth’s theory were | true, the Great Pyramid would have fuifilled | finally, and for all men, the purpose for which it was built. Since this was manifestly not the case, that theory is, I submit, demonstrably er- roneous. It was probably the consideration of this point, viz., that each king had a pyramid con- structed for himself, which led to the theory that the pyramids were intended to serve as tombs. This theory was once very generally entertained. Thus we find Humboldt, in his remarks on Ameri- can pyramids, referring to the tomb theory of the Egyptian pyramids as though it were open to no question. ‘“ When we consider,” he says, “the pyramidical monuments of Egypt, of Asia, and of the New Continent, from the same point of view, we see that, though their form is alike, their destination was altogether different. The group of pyramids of Ghizeh and at Sakhara in Egypt; the triangular pyramid of the queen of the Scythians, Zarina, which was a stadium high and three in circumference, and which was deco- rated with a colossal figure ; the fourteen Etruscan pyramids, which are said to have been inclosed in the labyrinth of the king Porsenna, at Clusium —were reared to serve as the sepulchres of the | like the Great Pyramid, solely to receive his own body after death. Far less have we ary reason | for supposing that many monarchs in succession | would do this, each having a separate tomb built | for him. It might have been conceivable, had only the Great Pyramid been erected, that the | structure had been raised as a mausoleum for all the kings and princes of the dynasty. But it seems utterly incredible that such a building a the Great Pyramid should have been erected for one king's body only—and that not in the way described by Humboldt, when he speaks of men commemorating the spot where rest the remains of those whose memory they cherish, but ai the expense of the king himself whose body was @ be there deposited. Besides, the first praia the one whose history must be regarded as significant of the true purpose of these bai was not built by an Egyptian holding in favor the special religious ideas of his pie by one who had adopted other views, and not belonging, so far as can be seen, to & : holding sepulchral rites in exceptional regards. A still stronger objection against ree sively tombic theory resides in the fact that this theory gives no account whatever of characteristic features of the pyramids selves. These buildings are all, without tion, built on special astronomical prif Their square bases are so placed as to have t## sides lying east and west, and two lying

Page 269

THE MYSTERY OF THE PYRAMIDS. and south, or, in other words, so that their four faces front the four cardinal points. One can imagine no reason why a tomb should have such a position. It is not, indeed, easy to understand why any building at all, except an astronomical observatory, should have such a position, A temple perhaps devoted to sun-worship, and gen- erally to the worship of the heavenly bodies, might be built in that way. For it is to be no- ticed that the peculiar figure and position of the pyramids would bring about the following rela- tions: When the sun rose and set south of the east and west points, or (speaking generaily) be- tween the autumn and the spring equinoxes, the rays of the rising and setting sun illuminated the southern face of the pyramid; whereas during the rest of the year, that is, during the six months between the spring and autumn equinoxes, the rays of the rising and setting sun illuminated the northern fave. Again, all the year round the sun’s rays passed from the eastern to the west- ern face at solar noon. And, lastly, during seven months and a half of each year, namely, for three months and three-quarters before and after mid- summer, the noon rays of the sun fell on all four faces of the pyramid, or, according to a Peruvian expression (so Smyth avers), the sun shone on the pyramid “ with all his rays.” Such condi- tions as these might have been regarded as very suitable for a temple devoted to sun-worship. Yet the temple theory is as untenable as the tomb theory. For, in the first place, the pyramid form —as the pyramids were originally built, with per- feetly smooth slant-faces, not terraced into steps as now, through the loss of the casing-stones— was entirely unsuited for all the ordinary require- ments ofa temple of worship. And further, this theory gives no explanation of the fact that each king built a pyramid, and each king only one. Similar difficulties oppose the theory that the pyramids were intended to serve as astronomical observatories. For, while their original figure, however manifestly astronomical in its relations, Was quite unsuited for observatory-work, it is manifest that if such had been the purpose of pyramid-building, so soon as the Great Pyramid had once been built, no other would be needed. Certainly none of the pyramids built afterward could have subserved any astronomical purpose Which the first did not subserve, or have sub- served nearly so well as the Great Pyramid those Purposes (and they are but few) which that build- ing may be supposed to have fulfilled as an as- tronomical observato ry. Of the other theories mentioned at the begin- 269 ning of this paper none seem to merit special notice, except perhaps the theory that the pyr- amids were made to receive the royal treasures, and this theory rather because of the attention it received from Arabian Jiterati, during the ninth and tenth centuries, than because of any strong reasons which can be suggested in its favor. “Emulating,” says Prof. Smyth, “ the enchanted tales of Bagdad,” the court poets of Al-Mamoun (son of the far-famed Haroun-al-Raschid) “ drew gorgeous pictures of the contents of the pyramid’s interior. . . . All the treasures of Sheddad Ben Ad, the great antediluvian king of the earth, with all his medicines and all his sciences, they declared were there, told over and over again, Others, though, were positive that the founder- king was no other than Saurid Ibn Salhouk, a far greater one than the other; and these last gave many more minute particulars, some of which are at least interesting to us in the present day, as proving that, among the Egypto-Arabians of more than a thousand years ago, the Jeezeh pyr- amids, headed by the grand one, enjoyed a pre- eminence of fame vastly before all the other pyr- amids of Egypt put together; and that if any other is alluded to after the Great Pyramid (which has always been the notable and favorite one, and chiefly was known then as the East Pyramid), it is either the, second one at Jeezeh, under the name of the West Pyramid; or the third one, distinguished as the Colored Pyramid, in allusion to itsred granite, compared with the white limestone casings of the other two (which, moreover, from their more near, but by no means exact, equality of size, went frequently under the affectionate designation of ‘the pair’).” The report of Ibn Abd Alkohm, as to what was to be found in each of these three pyramids, or rather of what, according to him, was put into them originally by King Saurid, runs as follows: “Tn the Western Pyramid, thirty treasuries filled with store of riches and utensils, and with signa- tures made of precious stones, and with instru- ments of iron and vessels of earth, and with arms which rust not, and with glass which might be bended and yet not broken, and with strange spells, and with several kinds of alakakirs (magi- cal precious stones) single and double, and with deadly poisons, and with other things besides. He made also in the East” (the Great Pyramid) “divers celestial spheres and stars, and what they severally operate in their aspects, and the perfumes which are to be used to them, and the books which treat of these matters. He put also into the Colored Pyramid the commentaries of

Page 270

270 THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. the priests in chests of black marble, and with of any of the most stringent difficulties encoun. every priest a book, in which the wonders of his | tered in dealing with other theories. ‘Ther profession and of his actions and of his nature could be no reason why strangers from the Bast were written, and what was done in his time, and | should be at special pains to instruct an Egyptian what is and what shall be from the beginning of | monarch how to hide and guard his treasures time to the end of it.” The rest of this worthy’s | Nor, if the Great Pyramid had been intended to report relates to certain treasurers placed within receive the treasures of Cheops, would Chephren these three pyramids to guard their contents, and | have built another for his own treasures, which (like all or most of what I have already quoted) | must have included those gathered by Cheopg was a work of imagination. Ibn Abd Alkohm, | But, apart from this, how inconceivably vast in fact, was a romancist of the first water. must a treasure-hoard be supposed to be, ‘the Perhaps the strongest argument against the | safe guarding of which would have repaid thé theory that the pyramids were intended as | enormous cost of the Great Pyramid in laborand strongholds for the concealment of treasure re- material! And then, why should a mere treag sides in the fact that, search being made, no | ure-house have the characteristics of an astra: treasure has been discovered. When the work- | nomical observatory? Manifestly, if the pyre. men employed by Caliph Al-Mamoun, after en- | mids were used at all to receive treasures, it‘cap countering manifold difficulties, at length broke | only have been as an entirely subordinate though their way into the great ascending passage lead- | perhaps convenient means of utilizing these git ing to the so-called King’s Chamber, they found | gantic structures. r “a right noble apartment, thirty-four feet long, Having thus gone through all the suggested seventeen broad, and nineteen high, of polished | purposes of the pyramids save two or threg red granite throughout, walls, floor, and ceiling, | which clearly do not possess any claim to serious in blocks squared and true, and put together | consideration, and having found none which ap with such exquisite skill that the joints are bare- | pear to give any sufficient account of the history ly discernible to the closest inspection. But ‘and principal features of these buildings; we where is the treasure—the silver and the gold, | must either abandon the inquiry or seek for the jewels, medicines, and arms? These fanatics some explanation quite different from any yet look wildly around them, but cah see nothing, | suggested. Let us consider what are the prime not a single dirhem anywhere. They trim their | pal points of which the true theory of the pym torches, and carry them again and again to every ; mids should give an account. ; part of that red-walled, flinty hall, but without | In the first place, the history of the pyramids any better success. Naught but pure polished | shows that the erection of the first great pyramid red granite, in mighty slabs, looks upon them | was in all probability either suggested to Cheope from every side. The room is clean, garnished , by wise men who visited Egypt from the East, ar too, as it were, and, according to the ideas of | else some important information conveyed to bia its founders, complete and perfectly ready for by such visitors caused him to conceive the idew its visitors so long expected, so long delayed. ' of building the pyramid. In either case we may But the gross minds who occupy it now, find it | suppose, as the history indeed suggests, that all barren, and declare that there is nothing | these learned men, whoever they may have beemy whatever for them, in the whole extent of the | remained in Egypt to superintend the erection apartment from one end to another; nothing ex- | of the structure. It may be that the archited® cept an empty stone chest without a lid.” | ural work was not under their supervision; itt It is, however, to be noted that we have no | fact, it seems altogether unlikely that shepherds means of learning what had happened between the | rulers would have much to teach the Egyptiaat time when the pyramid was built and when Caliph | in the matter of architecture. But the ast Al-Mamoun’s workmen broke their way into the nomical peculiarities which form so significant ® King’s Chamber. The place may, after all, have feature of the Great Pyramid were probably pre contained treasures of some kind; nor, indeed, | vided for entirely under the instructions of the is it incompatible with other theories of the pyra- | shepherd-chiefs who had exerted so strange mid to suppose that it was used as a safe recep- | influence upon the mind of King Cheops. tacle for treasures. It is certain, however, that | Next, it seems clear that self-interest this cannot have been the special purpose for | have been the predominant reason in the which the pyramids were designed. We should | the Egyptian king for undertaking this find in such a purpose no explanation whatever | dous work. It is true that his change

Page 271

seek for any yet 1e prinel- THE MYSTERY OF THE PYRAMIDS. ligion implies that some higher cause influenced him. Buta ruler who could inflict such griev- ous burdens on his people in carrying out his purpose, that for ages afterward his name was held in utter detestation, cannot have been sole- ly or even chiefly influenced by religious mo- tives. It affords an ample explanation of the behavior of Cheops in closing the temples and forsaking the religion of his country, to suppose that the advantages which he hoped to secure by building the pyramid depended in some way on bis adopting this course. The visitors from the East may have refused to give their assistance on any other terms, or may have assured bim that the expected benefit could not be obtained ifthe pyramid were erected by idolaters, It is certain, in any case, that they were opposed to idolatry ; and we have thus some means of in- ferring who they were and whence they came. We know that one particular branch of one par- ticular race in the East was characterized by a most marked hatred of idolatry in all its forms. Terah and his family, or probably a sect or divis- ion of the Chaldean people, went forth from Ur of the Chaldees, to go into the land of Canaan— and the reason why they went forth we learn from a book of considerable historical interest (the book of Judith) to have been because “they would not worship the gods of their fa- thers who were in the land of the Chaldeans.” And the Bible record shows that members of this branch of the Chaldean people visited Egvpt from time to time. They were shepherds, too, which accords well with the account of Herod- otus above quoted. We can well understand that persons of this family would haved’ resisted all endeavors to secure their acquiescence in any scheme associated with idolatrous rites. Neither promises nor threats would have had much influ- enceon them. It was a distinguished member of the family, the patriarch Abraham, who said, “I have lift up mine hand unto the Lord, the most high God, the possessor of heaven and earth, that I will not take from a thread even to ashoe-latchet, and that I will not take anything that is thine, lest thou shouldest say, I have made Abram rich.” Vain would all the prom- ses and all the threats of Cheops have been to — of this spirit. Such men might help him in his plans, Suggested, as the history shows, by teachings of their own, but it must be on their own conditions, and those conditions would most certainly include the utter rejection of idolatrous worship by the king in whose behalf they worked, %8 well as by all who shared in their labors. It 271 seems probable that they convinced both Cheops and Chephren that, unless these kings gave up idolatry, the purpose, whatever it was, whidh the pyramid was erected to promote, would not be fulfilled. The mere fact that the Great Pyramid was built either directly at the suggestion of these visitors, or because they had persuaded Cheops of the truth of some important doctrine, shows that they must have gained great influence over his mind. Rather, we may say, that he must have been so convinced of their knowledge and power as to bave accepted with unquestion- ing confidence all that they told him respecting the particular subject over which they seemed to possess so perfect a mastery. But having formed the opinion, on grounds sufficiently assured, that the strangers who visit- ed Egypt and superintended the building of the Great Pyramid were kinsmen of the patriarch Abraham, it is not very difficult to decide what was the subject respecting which they had such exact information. They or their parents had come from the land of the Chaldeans, and they were doubtless learned in all the wisdom of their Chaldean kinsmen. They were masters, in fact, of the astronomy of their day, a science for which the Chaldeans had shown from the earli- est ages the most remarkable aptitude. What the actual extent of their astronomical knowl- edge may have been it would be difficult to say. But it is certain, from the exact knowledge which later Chaldeans possessed respecting long as- tronomical cycles, that astronomical observations must have been carried on continuously by that people for many hundreds of years. It is highly probable that the astronomical knowledge of the Chaldeans in the days of Terah and Abraham was much more accurate than that possessed by the Greeks even after the time of Hipparchus.! We see, indeed, in the accurate astronomical ad- justment of the Great Pyramid that the archi- tects must have been skillful astronomers and mathematicians ; and I may note here, in pass- ing, how strongly this circumstance confirms the opinion that the visitors were kinsmen of Terab 1 It has been remarked that, though Hipparchus had the enormous advantage of being able to compare his own observations with those recorded by the Chaldeans, he estimated the length of the year less correctly than the Chaldeans. It has been thought by some that the Chal- deans were acquainted with the true system of the uni- verse, but I do not know that there are sufficient grounds for this supposition. Diodorus Siculus and Apollonius Mynidius mention, however, that they were able to pre- dict the return of comets. and this implies that their ob- servations had been continued for many centuries with great care and exactness.

Page 272

272 and Abraham. All we know from Herodotus and Manetho, all the evidence from the circum- stances connected with the religion of the pyra- mid-kings, and the astronomical evidence given by the pyramids themselves, tends to assure us that members of that particular branch of the Chaldean family which went out from Ur of the Chaldees Because they would not worship the gods of the Chaldeans, extended their wander- ings to Egypt, and eventually superintended the erection of the Great Pyramid so far as astronom- ical aud mathematical relations were concerned. But not only have we already decided that the pyramids were not intended solely or chiefly to subserve the purpose of astronomical observa- tories, but it is certain that Cheops would not have been personally much interested in any as- tronomical information which these visitors might be able to communicate, Unless he saw clearly that something was to be gained from the lore of his visitors, he would not have undertaken to erect any astronomical buildings at their sugges- tion, even if he had cared enough for their knowledge to pay any attention to them whatev- er. Most probably the reply Cheops would have made to any communications respecting mere astronomy would have run much in the style of the reply made by the Turkish cadi, Imaum Ali Zadé, to a friend of Layard’s who had apparent- ly bored him about double stars and comets: “0 my soul! O my lamb!” said Ali Zadé, “ seek not after the things which concern thee not. Thou camest unto us, and we welcomed thee: go in peace. Of a truth thou hast spoken many words ; and there is no harm done, for the speak- er is one and the listener is another. After the fashion of thy people, thou hast wandered from one place to another until thou art happy and content in none. Listen,O my son! There is no wisdom equal unto the belief in God! He created the world; and shall we liken ourselves unto him in seeking to penetrate into the mys- teries of his creation? Shall we say, ‘ Behold this star spinneth round that star, and this other star with a tail goeth and cometh in so many years?’ Let it go! He from whose hand it came will guide and direct it. But thou wilt say unto me, ‘Stand aside, O man! for I am more learned than thou art, and have seen more things.’ If thou thinkest that thou art in this respect better than I am, thou art welcome. I praise God that I seek not that which I require not. Thou art learned in the things I care not for; and, as for that which thou hast seen, I defile it. Will much knowledge create thee a double belly, or THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. wilt thou seek paradise with thine eyes ?” Such, omitting the references to the Creator, would probably have been the reply of Cheops to his visitors, had they only had astronomical facts to present him with. Or, in the plenitude of hig kingly power, he might have more decisively re. jected their teaching by removing their heads, But the shepherd-astronomers had knowledge more attractive to offer than a mere series of ag. tronomical discoveries. ‘Their ancestors had— “ Watched from the centres of their sleeping flocks Those radiant Mercuries, that seemed to move Carrying through ether in perpetual round Decrees and resolutions of the gods ;” and, though the visitors of King Cheops bad themselves rejected the Sabaistic polytheism of their kinsmen, they had not rejected the doctrine that the stars in their courses affect the fortunes of men. We know that among the Jews, prob- ably the direct descendants of the shepherd: chiefs who visited Cheops, and certainly close kinsmen of theirs, and akin to them also in their monotheism, the belief in astrology was never regarded as a superstition. In fact, we can trace very clearly in the books relating to this people that they believed confidently in the influences of the heavenly bodies. Doubtless the visitors of King Cheops shared the belief of their Chal dean kinsmen that astrology is a true science, “founded,” indeed (as Bacon expresses their views), “not in reason and physical contempla- tions, but in the direct experience and observa tion of past ages.” Josephus records the Jew- ish tradition (though not as a tradition, but as & fact) that “ our first father, Adam, was instructed in astrology by divine inspiration,” and that Seth so excelled in the science that, “ foreseeing the Flood and the destruction of the world thereby, he engraved the fundamental principles of his art (astrology) in hieroglyphical emblems, for the benefit of after-ages, on two pillars of brick and stone.” He says, farther on, that the patriarch” Abraham, “having learned the art in Chaldes, when he journeyed into Egypt taught the Egyp tians the sciences of arithmetic and astrology.” Indeed, the stranger called Philitis by Herodotus may, for aught that appears, have been Abraham, himself; for it is generally agreed that the word Philitis indicated the race and country of the visitors, regarded by the Egyptians as of tine descent and arriving from Palestine. How. ever, I am in no way concerned to show that the — : shepherd - astronomers who induced Cheops #@® build the Great Pyramid were even contemport r ries of Abraham and Melchizedek. What a

Page 273

7) Such, . » Would — 8 to his facts to e of his ively re. reads, owledge s of as. had— ops had cism of fortunes 8, prob- \epherd- is never an trace Ss people fluences visitors oir Chal- sufficiently obvious is all that I care to maintain —namely, that these shepherd-astronomers were of Chaldean birth and training, and therefore astrologers, though, unlike their Chaldean kins- men, they rejected Sabaism or star-worship, and taught the belief in one only Deity. Now, if these visitors were astrologers, who persuaded Cheops, and were honestly convinced themselves, that they could predict the events of any man’s life by the Chaldean method of cast- ing nativities, we can readily understand many circumstances connected with the pyramids which have hitherto seemed inexplicable. The pyramid built by a king would no longer be regarded as having reference to his death and burial, but to his birth and life, though after kis death it might receive his body. Each king would require to have his own nativity-pyramid, built with due symbolical reference to the special celestial influ- ences affecting his fortunes. Every portion of the work would have to be carried out under special conditions, determined according to the mysterious influences ascribed to the different planets and their varying positions— *.... now high, now low, then hid, Progressive, retrograde, or standing still.” If the work had been intended only to afford the means of predicting the king’s future, the labor would have been regarded by the monarch as well bestowed. But astrology involved much more than the mere prediction of future events. Astrolozy claimed to possess the power of ruling the planets—that is, of course, not of ruling the motions of those bodies, but of providing against evil influences or strengthening good influences which they supposed the celestial orbs to exert in particular aspects. Thus we can understand THE MYSTERY OF THE PYRAMIDS. 273 eastern side faced the Ascendant, the southern faced the Mid-heaven, the western faced the De- scendant, and the northern faced the Imum Ceeli. Again, we can understand that the architects would have made a circuit of the base correspond in length with the number of days in the year— a relation which, according to Prof. P. Smyth, is fulfilled in this manner, that the four sides con- tain one hundred times as many pyramid-inches as there are days inthe year. The pyramid-inch, again, is itself mystically connected with astro- nomical relations, for its length is equal to the five hundred millionth part of the earth's diame- ter, to a degree of exactness corresponding well with what we might expect Chaldean astrono- mers to attain. Prof. Smyth, indeed, believes that it was exactly equal to that proportion of the earth’s polar diameter—a view which would correspond with his theory that the architects of the Great Pyramid were assisted by divine in- spiration ; but what is certainly known about the sacred cubit, which contained twenty-five of these inches, corresponds better with the diameter which the Chaldean astronomers, if they worked very carefully, would have deduced from observa- tions made in their own country, on the suppo- sition which they would naturally have made that the earth is a perfect globe, not compressed at the poles. It is not indeed at all certain that the sacred cubit bore any reference to the earth’s dimensions; but this seems tojgrably well made out—that the sacred cubit was about twenty-five inches in length, and that the circuit of the pyra- mid’s base contained a hundred inches for every day of the year. Relations such as these are pre- derived from the astrology of the oldest times, may here be quoted. (It certainly was not invented to give support that while the mere basement layers of the pyra- mid would have served for the process of casting the royal nativity, with due mystic observances, the further progress of building the pyramid would supply the necessary means and indica- tions for ruling the planets most potent in their influence upon the royal career. Remembering the mysterious influence which astrologers ascribed to special numbers, figures, Positions, and so forth, the care with which the Great Pyramid was so proportioned as to indi- cate particular astronomical and mathematical re- lations is at once explained. The four sides of the Suare base were carefully placed with reference 0 the cardinal points precisely like the four sides of the ordinary square scheme of nativity.'_ The * The language of the modern Zadkiels and Raphaels, though —_—— and absurd in itself, y¢, as assuredly | 1 to the theory I am at present advocating.) Thus runs the jargon of the tribe: “In order to illustrate plainly to the reader what astrologers mean by the * houses of heaven, it is proper for him to bear in mind the four cardinal points. The eastern, facing the rising sun, has at its cen- tre the first grand angle or first house, termed the Horo- scope or ascendant. The northern, opposite the region where the sun is at midnight, or the cusp of the lower heaven or nadir, is the Imum Ceeli, and has at its centre the fourth house. The western, facing the setting sun, has at its centre the third grand angle or seventh house or de- scendant. And lastly. the southern, facing the noonday sun, has at its centre the astrologer’s tenth house, or Mid- heaven, the most powerful angle or house of honor.” “And although,” proceeds the modern astrologer, “we cannot in the ethereal blue discern these lines or termi- nating divisions, both reason and experience assure us that they certainly exist; therefore the astrologer has certain grounds for the choice of his four angular houses” (out of twelve in all), “ which, resembling the palpable demonstra- tion they afford, are in the astral science esteemed the most powerful of the whole."—(Rsraaz.’s “ Manual of Astrology.)

Page 274

274 cisely what we might expect to find in buildings having an astrological significance. Similarly, it would correspond well with the mysticism of as- trology that the pyramid should be so propor- tioned as to make the height be the radius of a circle whose circumference would equal the cir- cuit of the pyramid’s base. Again, that long slant tunnel, leading downward from the pyramid’s northern face, would at once find a meaning in this astrological theory. The slant tunnel pointed to the pole-star of Cheeps’s time, when due north below the true pole of the heavens. This cir- cumstance had no observational utility. It could afford no indication of time, because a pole-star moves very slowly, and the pole-star of Cheops’s day must have been in view through that tunnel for more than an hour at a time. But, apart from the mystical significance which an astrolo- ger would attribute to such a relation, it may be shown that this slant tunnel is precisely what the astrologer would require in order to get the horo- scope correctly. Another consideration remains to be men- tioned, which, while strengthening the astrologi- cal theory of the pyramids, may bring us even nearer to the true aim of those who planned and built these structures. It is known also that the Chaldeans from the earliest times pursued the study of alchemy in connection with astrology, not hoping to discover the philosopher’gstone by chemical investigations alone, but by carrying out such investigations un- der special celestial influence. The hope of achiev- ing this discovery, by which he would at once have had the means of acquiring illimitable wealth, would of itself account for the fact that Cheops expended so munch labor and material in the erection of the Great Pyramid, secing that, of necessity, success in the search for the philoso. pher’s stone would be a main feature of his for- tunes, and would therefore be astrologically indi- cated in his nativity-pyramid, or perhaps even be secured by following mystical observances proper for ruling his planets. The elixir of life may also have been among the objects which the builders of the pyramids hoped to discover. It may be noticed, as a somewhat significant circumstance, that, in the account given by Ibn Abd Alkohm of the contents of the various pyra_ mids, those assigned to the Great Pyramid relate entirely to astrology and associated mysteries. It is, of course, clear that Abd Alkohm drew largely on his imagination. Yet it seems proba- ble that there was also some basis of tradition for | THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. | with the astrological (and alchemical) theory, his ideas. And certainly one would suppose that, as he assigned a treasurer to the East Pyra. mid (“‘a statue of black agate, his eyes open and shining, sitting on a throne with a lance ”), he would have credited the building with treagure also, had not some tradition taught otherwise, But he says that King Saurid placed in the Bast Pyramid, not treasures, but “divers celestial spheres and stars, and what they severally oper. ate in their aspects, and the perfumes which are to be used to them, and the books which treatof these matters.” ! But, after all, it must be admitted that the strongest evidence in favor of the astrological (and alchemical) theory of the pyramids is tobe found in the circumstance that all other theories seem untenable. The pyramids were undoubted. ly erected for some purpose which was regarded by their builders as most important. This pur pose certainly related to the personal fortunes of the kingly builders. It was worth an enormous outlay cf money, labor, and material, This pup pose was such, furthermore, that each king re quired to have his own pyramid. It was in some way associated with astronomy, for the pyramids are built with most accurate reference to celestial aspects. It also had its mathematical and mys tical bearings, seeing that the pyramids exhibit mathematical and symbolical peculiarities not be longing to their essentially structural require ments. And, lastly, the erection of the pyramids was in some way connected with the arrival of certain learned persons from Palestine, and pre sumably of Chaldean origin. All these circum stances accord well with the theory I have aé vanced ; while only some of them, and these net the most characteristic, accord with any of the other theories. Moreover, no fact known respect. ing the pyramids or their builders is inconsistest 1 Arabian writers give the following account of Egyp tian progress in astrology and the mystical arts: Nam wasch, the progenitor of Misraim, was the first Egyptitt prince, and the first of the magicians who excelled ima® trology and enchantment. Retiring into Egypt with family of eighty persons, he built Essous, the most . city of Egypt, and commenced the first dynasty of Mir raimitish princes, who excelled as cabalists, diviners, in the mystic arts generally. The most celebrated of race were Naerasch, who first represented by images twelve signs of the zodiac ; Gharnak, who openly 4 the arts before kept secret; Hersall, who first idols; Sehlouk, who worshiped the sun ; Saurid (King Saurid of Ibn Abd Alkohm’s account), who = first pyramids and invented the magic mirror; and Phe raoh, the last king of the dynasty, whose name was #° ward taken as a kingly title, as Cwsar later became #6 eral imperial title. s Ba af,

Page 275

IS THE MOON DEAD? On the whole, then, if it cannot be regarded as demonstrated (in its general bearing, of course, for we cannot expect any theory about the pyra- mids to be established in minute details), the as- 275 trological theory may fairly be described as hav- ing a greater degree of probability in its favor than any hitherto advanced. — Belgravia. IS THE MOON DEAD? HE idea generally prevailing among astron- omers respecting the moon’s condition is that she is a dead planet, an orb which circles around the sun like her companion planet the earth; but is not, like the earth, the abode of living creatures of any sort. Formerly, indeed, other views were entertained. It was thought that the dark regions were seas, the bright re- gions continents—a view embodied by Kepler in the saying, “‘ Do maculas esse maria, do lucidas esse terras.” But the telescope soon satisfied astronomers that there are no seas upon the moon. It has been noted that in two well-known passages of the “ Paradise Lost,” in which Milton touches on the work of Galileo with the tele- scope, he speaks of lands, mountains, rivers, and regions, but not of oceans or seas, upon the moon, Thus, in describing the shield of Satan, he compares it to “... . the moon, whose orb Through optic glass the Tuscan artist views At evening from the top of Fesole, Or in Val d’Arno, to desery new lands, Rivers, or mountains, on her spotty globe.” While again, in the fifth book, Raphael views the earth— “.. +. as when by night the glass Of Galileo, less assured, observes Imagined lands and regions in the moon.” We may well believe that had Galileo, in his in- terviews' with Milton, described appearances which (with his telescopic power) resembled seas or oceans, the poet would not have used so vague ‘word us “ regions” in the third line of the last | quoted passage, where the word “ oceans ” would | ‘oobviously have suggested itself. From the very beginning of the telescopic observation of our satellite, it became clear that no seas or oceans exist upon her surface. And as telescopic power has increased, and the minute details of the | moon's surface have been more searchingly scru- Mized, it has been seen that there are no smaller ‘aler-regions, no lakes, or rivers, not even any Ponds, or rivulets, or brooks. * See Milton's “ Areopagitica.” But, indeed, while the close telescopic scrutiny of the moon was thus showing that there are no water-surfaces there, it was becoming also clear that no water could remain there under the sun’s rays—that is, on the parts of the moon which are illuminated. For it was found that the moon has an atmosphere so rare that water would boil away at a very low temperature indeed. How rare the lunar atmosphere is we do not certainly know ; but a number of phenomena show that it must be very rare indeed. Some of these have been already considered, along with other lunar phe- nomena, in an article which appeared in the Corn- hill Magazine for August, 1873; and for this reason (especially as that article has since been republished) we do not here enter into this por- tion of the evidence, our object being to discuss here certain relations which were not dealt with in that earlier paper. . But now that astronomers have almost by unanimous consent accepted the doctrine of the development of our system, which involves the belief that the whole mass of each member of the system was formerly gaseous with intensity of heat, they can no longer doubt that the moon once had seas and an atmosphere of considerable density. The moon has, in fact, passed through the same changes as our own earth, though not necessarily in the same exact way. She was once vaporous, as was our earth, though not at the same time nor for so long a time. She was once glowing with intensity of heat, though this stage also must have continued for a much shorter time than the corresponding stage of our earth’s history. Must we not conclude that after passing through that stage the moon was for a time a habitable world as our earth is now? The great masses of vapor and of cloud which had girt our moon’s whole globe, even as in the youth of our earth her seas enwrapped her in cloud-form, must at length have taken their place as seas upon her surface, The atmosphere which had supported those waters must at first have been dense by comparison with the present lunar atmosphere, perhaps even by comparison with the present at-

Page 276

276 mosphere of our earth. Then the glowing surface | of the moon gradually cooled, until at length the | But | moon must have been a fit abode for life. whether, when thus swept and garnished into fit- ness for habitation, the moon actually became an inhabited world, is a question which will be vari- ously answered according to our views respecting the economy of Nature in this respect. who hold that Nature makes nothing in vain will need only to ask whether the support of life is the one sole purpose which a planet can subserve ; if that should appear probable, they would at once decide that the moon must during its habi- table stage have been inhabited. Others who, looking around at the workings of Nature as known to us, perceive, or think they percive, that there is much which resembles waste in Nature, will be less confident on this point. They may reason that, as, of many seeds which fall upon the ground, scarce one subserves the one purpose for which seeds can be supposed to have been pri- marily intended, as many younglings among ani- mals perish untimely, as even many races and types fail of their apparent primary purpose, so our moon, and possibly many such worlds, may never have subserved and never come to subserve that one chief purpose for which the orbs peopling space can be supposed to have been formed, if purpose indeed reigns throughout the universe. But we are not here concerned to inquire carefully whether the moon ever was inhabited ; we care only to show the probability, the all but certainty, that the moon during one stage of her existence was a habitable body, leaving the ques- tions whether she ever actually had inhabitants, and what (if she had) their nature may have been, to the imagination of the reader. Most certainly there is little reason for believing that on this point men will ever have any real information for their guidance. Combining together several considerations— viz., first that the moon must have been fashioned as a planet many millions of years before the | earth, that her original heat must have been | greatly less than that of the earth (corresponding to a reduction of many millions of years in the time required for cooling down to the habitable condition), that each stage of the moon’s cooling must have lasted less by many millions of years than the corresponding stage for the earth’s cool- ing, and that, lunar gravity being so much less than terrestrial gravity, the moon’s vulcanian vi- tality must have lasted for a much shorter time than the earth’s—we perceive that the moon must have passed that stage of her history which THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. Those | corresponded to that through which our earth is now passing, many, many millions of years ago. It would probably be no exaggeration whatever: of the truth to say that more than a thousapg | millions of years have passed since the moon wag a habitable world. But we may quite confidently | assert that fully a hundred millions of years have passed since that era of her history. And as the | changes which she has undergone since then have occurred at a much more rapid rate thay those by which the earth is now passing on, and will continue to pass on for ages yet to come, tow. ard planetary decrepitude, we may assert with equal confidence that the moon is passing through a stage of planetary existence which the earth | will not reach for many hundreds of millions of | years yet to come. The moon, thus regarded, | presents to us a most interesting subject of study, because she illustrates, in general respects if not perhaps in details, the condition which our earth will attain in the remote future, 1 Let us, then, examine the principal features of the moon—those which may be regardedas characteristic, which, at any rate, distinguish he from the earth—and consider how far it is prob able that our earth will one day present similar features. We can also inquire how far the moon’s present condition may be regarded @ that of a dead world, in this sense that she eal neither now be, nor (under any conceivable ei | cumstances) hereafter become, once agains habi- | table world as formerly she presumably was. ~ There is one very remarkable feature of the moon's motions which is commonly not explained | as we are about to explain it, but in a way whidi | would correspond better with the general view indicated in this article than the interpretation which seems to us preferable. We refer tothe circumstance that the moon’s rotation on her takes place in precisely the same time as her | olution around the earth. This is, in reali very strange feature, though it is often di as if there were nothing very remarkable it. In whatever way the arrangement was about, it is absolutely certain that the earth her share in the work; and, again, no what explanation or set of explanations we 8 cept, we find most interesting evidence as to the moon’s past condition. ; According to one account, the moon ™% originally set spinning at a rate closely Comm sponding to her present rotation rate, earth, having by her attractive power § elongated the moon toward herself, acted on not-perfectly round body in such sort a8 gF

Page 277

IS THE MOON DEAD? 277 jy to coerce its motion of rotation into exact | checking the earth’s motion of rotation, for the agreement with its motion of revolution. It is | wave travels so as to meet the motion of rotation, known that this would necessarily happen if the | which therefore to some slight degree it opposes. original approach to agreement between these | This will go on, until at length the rotation has \00N Was motions had been sufficiently close. If we | been so reduced that the tidal-wave no longer nfidently adopted this view, we should find ourselves in | affects it; or, in other words, until the earth’s ars have presence of the somewhat remarkable fact that | period of rotation corresponds with the period ad as the the small moon was in the beginning set rotating | of the tidal-wave, viz., with the lunar month. nce then go slowly that its day lasted as long as a lunar | Hundreds of millions of years will pass before ate than month. Such a rotation, as the result of some | that happens; but then we have seen that the z on, and process of systematic evolution, could be readily | moon may fairly be regarded as illustrating the ome, tow. accepted ; but that this motion, which presents earth’s condition hundreds of millions of years sert with no recognizable advantages, and many most man- | hence. Accordingly, there is nothing absolutely ¢ through ifest inconveniences (for creatures living in the | incredible in the theory that during the remote the earth moon), should have been specially communicated | ages when the moon had seas the tidal-wave illions ‘of. to the moon by the creative hand, would not be | which traversed them, continually retarding the regarded, an acceptable theory, even if we were not forced moon's motion of rotation, gradually coerced it , of study, by overwhelming evidence to throw special crea- | into absolute agreement with her motion of rev- cts if not tive acts very much farther back (to say the | olution around the earth. Still it must be ad- our earth least) than the formation of our moon, or of any | mitted that the theory is not very easily to be i part of the solar system. accepted as it stands. The seas of the moon were 1 features Another explanation which has been offered | probably less in relative extent, even when at garded as runs as follows: When the moon had oceans, | their largest, than those of Mars now are, and iguish ber the earth must have acted cn those oceans in the | such seas could have no tidal-waves which even it is probe same way as the moon now acts on the oceans | in thousands of millions of years could reduce nt similar of our earth. In one respect the earth must | the moon's rate of rotation in any considerable y far the have acted more energetically, in another less, | degree; and, as we shall presently see, the dura- garded af Being very much (eighty-one times) more massive | tion of the era when the moon had seas can 1t she call than the moon, the earth necessarily exerts much | hardly have been measured by periods so vast. ivable eit more force on the moon's substance than the | On the whole, while we may admit the probability ain a habe moon exerts on hers.! On the other hand, the | that at some very distant time in the past the y was,” relative difference between the pull on the nearest | earth may have exerted influences on lunar seas ure of the and remotest parts of the globe is less in the case | resembling those which the moon now exerts on explained of the earth drawing the waters of the moon (in | our seas, it does not appear to us probable that way which old times) than in the case of the moon drawing | the peculiar feature we are now considering can neral views the waters of the earth ; for the moon is a much | be attributed either wholly or in very large de- erpretation smaller globe than the earth; and this difference | gree to the retarding influence of tidal-waves efer to the is the really effective force in the production of | upon the moon. on her tides, Also it is probable that the moon never One other theory remains which seems to as her? had a relatively large ocean-surface, as will pres- | have more in its favor than either of those n reality, ently be shown, and small seas (probably discon- | hitherto considered. Before the moon became a n dist nected) could not be swept by a great tide-wave. | separate planet her frame, then vaporous, must cable abou Still we may suppose that there was once a tidal- | have been enwrapped in the vaporous frame of vas brougit Wave, greater or less, sweeping athwart the lunar ; the earth. While this continued the moon was e earth . seas much in the manner of our own tidal-wave. | necessarily compelled to move as a portion of the no matte Now, our tidal-wave is beyond doubt slowly | earth's outer envelope, and therefore, of course, jons we - a | turned upon her axis in the same time that that e suggest Be agp = moon puils the earth just as strong- | exterior portion of the earth revolved. So soon pulls the moon. for gravity is not a force | ° ’ 4 Which one body exerts on another solely, but a mutual | the contraction of the earth’s vaporous frame moon fre. But what mathematicians call the moving force | left the moon outside, she was free, if she could, terted by the earth on the moon is eighty-one times | to change her rate of rotation; that is to say, the pam ene force exerted by the moon | earth’s enwrapping vapor-masses no longer pre- ; for the mutual attraction between these | hangi i bodies has in the former case to move the moon, wheres | wanted Ge meen Som ¢ sil On. th the latter it has to move the much larger mass of the | Fate, And there were two ca ot work, either earth. | of which, if in action alone, would have markedly

Page 278

- changed the moon’s rate of turning on her axis. One was the gradual contraction of the moon’s frame in cooling. This would have made her turn more quickly on her axis. Zhe other was the continually gathering-in of meteoric matter from without, which was a process taking place probably far more rapidly then than now, seeing that the meteoric systems now remaining are the merest residue of a residue compared with those existing hundreds of millions of years ago. This process would tend to make the moon turn more slowly upon her axis. Ilowever, the former pro- cess would probably operate far more effective- ly, and thus the moon would on the whole have acquired a more rapid rate of rotation, and the coincidence between rotation and revolution existing when she first had separate existence would have disappeared. But there was all the time a force at work to check the tendency to change in this respect. The earth was there, ex- erting that very force which we have already de- scribed in considering another theory—a force competent, we may infer, to check the tendency to a slow increase in the moon's rate of rotation, and to preserve that relation which existed when the moon was first formed. We say that the competence of this force may be inferred—mean- ing that the observed coincidence between the moon’s rate of turning round upon her axis and her rate of revolution around the earth shows that the force was sufficient for that purpose. A similar force exerted by the sun upon the earth since she was first separately formed has not proved competent, as we know, to make the earth turn on her axis in the same time exactly that she travels round the sun; that is, in a year. Nor have any of the planets been forced to behave in this way. But we can readily un- derstand that a great difference should exist between the formation of a planet which, hav- ing an enormously high temperature when first formed, would have an enormous amount of con- traction to undergo; and the formation of a sub- ordinate orb like the moon, which, though no doubt intensely hot when first thrown off! by the contracting earth, cannot have been nearly so hot as a planet at the corresponding stage of its existence. On the whole, there are (so it seems to us) good reasons for believing that that peculiar law of the moon's motion which causes the same lunar hemisphere to be constantly 1 We here use the words “ thrown off” as equivalent to “left behind.” The theory that the moon was thrown off by the earth, or the earth by the sun, is altogether in- consistent with mechanical possibilities. 278 THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. turned earthward had its origin during the birth itself of our satellite. We may, indeed, find jg that peculiarity one of the strongest arguments in favor of the theory that our solar system reached its present condition by a process of development, since on no other theory can 9 satisfactory solution be obtained of the mogt striking peculiarity of the moon’s motions, But the inhabitants of earth are more direetly interested—not for their own sake, but for the sake of their remote descendants—in the subject of the moon’s present airless and waterless con. dition, regarded as the result of systematic pro. cesses of change. If we can ascertain what those processes may have been, and if we should find that similar processes are taking place, however slowly, on the earth, then the moon’s present condition has in a sense the same sort of interest for us that a man in the full vigor of life might be supposed to find in the study of the condition ef aged persons, if through some strange chance he had never had an opportunity of observing earlier the effects of old age upon the human frame, The inhabitant of earth who contemplates the moon's present wretched condition may be disposed— like Lydia van den Bosch when she saw Madame Bernstein’s shaky hands and hobbling gait—to hope we “sha’n’t be like her when we're old, anyhow ;” but the probabilities are in favor of young world following in the same path which those now old have followed, and so reaching the same condition, If the moon is really a much older world than the earth—and we have seen that in all probability she is—then she presents to us a picture of the condition which our earth will hereafter attain. We had occasion in the article on the Moos, referred to above, to notice the theory advanced by Frankland in this country respecting the way in which the lunar air and seas have been to disappear ; but we did not then enter into aay very careful discussion of that theory, our par pose leading us to consider other matters. But in this place the theory must occupy o larget share of our attention. In passing, we may i mark that the originator of the theory was See- man, the German geologist; but it was inde pendently advanced by Frankland in England, Stanislas Meunier in France, and Sterry Hunt in America, In the first place, it is to be noted that 20 other theory seems available. Of three others which have been advanced, only one, Hi according to which the seas and a the moon have been drawn by lunar evi

Page 279

he birth , find in guments ~ system ocess of y can a he most ns, > direetly | for the e subject less con atic pro- hat those ould find however 3 present f interest might be dition of chance he ing earlier ame. The he moon's isposed— y Madame | z gait—to we're old, favor of & ath which aching the ly & much have seen e presents our earth the Moon, ; advanced ng the way een er into any y, our pur ters. But the farther or unseen hemisphere of the moon, needs serious refutation. (The other two are Whiston’s theory, that a comet carried off the jar seas and air; and the the@ry—whose au- thor is unknown to us—that the lunar seas, and later the lunar atmosphere, have been frozen through the intensity of cold to which, in the long lunar nights, the moon is exposed.) But this theory is no longer entertained by astron- omers, simply because it has been shown that the peculiarity of the moon’s shape which had suggested the theory has been found, first, to have poreal existence; and, secondly, to be incapable, if it existed, of exercising the supposed effect.” ! The theory independently advanced by the four students of science named above is simply this, that seas formerly existing on the surface of the moon have been gradually withdrawn into the moon’s interior, and that a similar process, but chemical rather than mechanical, has led to the withdrawal of the greater portion of the air which formerly enveloped the moon’s frame. It may be well, first, to inquire whether the moon is likely to have had originally an atmos- phere of considerable density and oceans of con- 1 The idea was that the moon, though nearly spherical, is somewhat egg-shaped, the smaller end of the egg- shaped figure being directed toward our earth. Now, while it is perfectly clear that on this supposition the greater part of the moon's visible half would be of the na- ture of a gigantie elevation sbove the mean level, and would therefore be denuded (or might be denuded) of its seas and the denser parts of the air formerly: covering it, yet it is equally clear that all round the base of this monstrous lunar elevation the seas would be gathered to- gether, and the air would be at its densest. But it is precisely round the base of this part of the moon, or, in other words, round the border of the visible lunar hemi- sphere, that we should have the best chance of perceiving the effects of air and seas, if any really existed; and it is because of the absolute absence of all evidence of the kind that astronomers regard the moon as having no seas and very little air, It is worthy of notice that Hansen's theory was anticipated by the author of that dever little pamphlet called “The Lunar Hoax,” who places the human inhabitants (the Bat-men) in the regions Rear the edge of the lunar disk, on the strength of some such views as Hansen advanced a quarter of a century liter. Recently the Chicago Times published several ‘lumns of lunar-hoax matter, purporting to be an account of observations made in France with a new and exceed- ingly powerful reflecting telescope. The observations made with this instrument showed a number of lunar lks, whose movements rendered it manifest that they Were prisoners undergoing some kind of penal servi- tude, the visible lunar hemisphere being a sort of Botany Bay or Cayenne for lunar offenders, while the other hemi- where is a comfortable place of abode for good moon People. But what an unhappy state of things is here Siggested! Conceive a world, one half of whose surface brequired as an abode for its malefactors! IS THE MOON DEAD? 279 siderable extent. Supposing, for the sake of ar- gument, that the materials of the moon’s mass (including air and water) were originally propor- tioned as to quantity very much like those of our earth’s mass, it is easily seen that the quantity of air above each square mile, of the moon’s sur- face, at the time when the moon had reached the stage of planetary development through which our earth is now passing, must have been very much less than the quantity of air now existing above each square mile of the earth’s surface, For, the moon’s mass beirg about an eighty-first part of the earth’s, the mass of the lunar air must have been about an eighty-first part of the mass of our present atmosphere, But the moon’s surface bears a much greater proportion to the earth's, being about a thirteenth. Whence it fol- lows that, on the assumptions we have made, the quantity of air above each square mile of the moon’s surface would be only about one-sixth part of the quantity above each square mile of the earth’s surface. And this air being drawn downward only by lunar gravity, which has but about a sixth part of the energy of our terrestrial gravity, would be less compressed in the same degree on this account. One-sixth of the quan- tity of air being thus compressed with one-sixth the amount of force, it is clear that the density of the lunar air in that stage of the moon's exist- ence would onty be about one thirty-sixth of the density of our air. Similar reasoning applies to the water, except as to the compression under lunar gravity. The average quantity of water to each square mile of the moon's surface would be but about one-sixth part of the quantity there is for each square mile of the earth’s surface. The relative extent of the lunar oceans would not be less in precisely the same degree, however. For, speaking generally, the bed of the ocean slopes downward from the shore-line in such a way that more than half, or a third, or a fourth, or so on, would have to be removed to diminish the surface by a half, a third, or a fourth, or so on, respec- tively. We may illustrate our meaning here by considering the relation between the quantity of water in a wineglass (supposed to be cone-shaped) and the surface of the water. Suppose the wine- glass full at first, and the circular surface of the water to be three square inches, then if five- sixths of the water are thrown out, so that only one-sixth remains, the surface will not be reduced to one-sixth its former extent—that is, to one- half of a square inch, but will be about nine- tenths of a square inch. It is clear that in the case of an ocean having a bottom very steeply

Page 280

sloping near the shore-line, and nearly level else- where, a large proportion of the water might be drawn off, and the ocean-surface still remain al- most as great as before. We may assume as a mean and sufficiently probable hypothesis that the lunar oceans had a relative surface equal to between one-half and one third of the present relative surface of the terrestrial oceans. Thatis to say, our oceans covering about 72 hundredths of the entire surface of the earth, we may assume that the lunar oceans covered between 36 and 24 hundredths of the entire surface of the moon. It will be seen presently that some importance attaches to this question of the probable surface of the seas on the moon, a portion of the evidence for the theory we are examining depending on this relation. Let us next consider in what way the with- drawal of the lunar oceans into the moon’s inte- rior probably took place. On this point, Frank- land’s presentation of the theory is undoubtedly defective. In fact, it has been the weakness of the theory in this respect, as presented in Eng. land, which has in all probability prevented it from receiving the attention here which it fairly deserves. “The cooling of the moon’s mass must,” said Frankland, “in accordance with all analogy, have been attended with contraction, which can scarcely be conceived as occurring without the development of a cavernous structure in the interior. Much of the cavernous structure would doubtless communicate, by means of fis- sures, with the surface, and thus there would be provided an internal receptacle for the ocean, from the depths of which even the burning sun of the long lunar day would be totally unable to dislodge more than traces of its vapor.” And he proceeds thus to analyze the amount of space which would be rendered available for the re- treat of the lunar oceans: “ Assuming the solid mass of the moon to contract on cooling at the same rate as granite, its refrigeration through only 180° of the Fahrenheit thermometer (the difference between the boiling and the freez- ing points) would create cellular space equal to nearly 14,500,000 cubic miles, which would be more than sufficient to ingulf the whole of the lunar oceans, supposing them to bear the same proportion to the mass of the moon as our own oceans bear to that of the earth.” But in reality no such cavernous structure could possibly be developed in the interior of a planet like the moon. Frankland’s mistake, here, is similar to that made by Brewster and others, 280 THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. who have suggested that possibly the small mean density of the outer planets might be due to the existence of great void spaces in the interj. or of those bodies. So soon, however, as we make the roughest calculation of the pressures existing in the interior of even a small planet like the moon, we perceive that there could be no cavities. The most solid materials—steel, ad. amant, platinum—become plastic under pressures far less than those brouglit into action by the at. tractive energy of a planet’s mass upon all parts of its interior, except those not far from the sun face. Be it noticed that it is not, as some seem to suppose who have written on this subject, the force of gravity at different depths which has te be considered. hat diminishes as the centre of the planet is approached. What we have really to consider is the pressure produced by the weight of the superincumbent mass above any given level, and this of course becomes greater and greater as the depth below the surface im creases. If the rigidity of the solid substances forming the solid crust of a planet were such that any amount of pressure could be borne with out impairing it, then of course the various lays ers of the crust would form a series of arches, stronger and stronger with approach to the cen tre, because of the increased compression, and therefore the increased density of their substance. There is no a priori reason, perhaps, why this should not be so. Compression, for example might increase the rigidity or force-resisting power of the materials of the earth’s substance in such sort that mines might be dug to any depth, and horizontal tunneling carried out from the lowest parts of any mine. But experiment shows thet the fact is otherwise. Under great pressures the most solid substances become — plastic. Steel behaved like a liquid in Tree ca’s experiments, affording the most conclusive evidence that at a depth of ten or twelve miles no steel walls, however massive, could defend s cavernous space from the surrounding pressures, which would simply crush in the steel untihi formed one solid mass without interstices=#t least with no interstices which could be seen if the” steel were afterward brought up from that depth — to be cut open and examined. It will be readily — understood that at the depth of ten or twel® miles there can be no caverns into which the water of the oceans could be bodily withdrawm, Extending similar considerations to the f we perceive that there can be no caverns in moon’s interior at a greater depth than 60 oF or at the utmost 100 miles. Now, 100 less than the twentieth part of the moon's:

Page 281

IS THE MOON DEAD? 981 eter, and the entire mass of the moon exceeds ' time, then, the crust would be contracting upon the mass of the outermost layer (to a depth of | the nucleus—a process which would leave no 100 miles) in about the proportion of four to one. | cavernous spaces between the crust and the nu- So that, even on the assumption that all the ex- | cleus for the waters to retreat to. From time to ternal parts of the moon, to the depth of 100 | time the contracting crust would give way, ex- miles, contracted in such a way as to leave cay- | actly as a non-contracting crust would give way ernous spaces in the manner conceived by Frank- | under the pressure of an expanding nucleus. The land, there would not be nearly enough space | scene of such a catastrophe would be marked for the lunar oceans, supposing them to bear the | thereafter by a great crater at the place where same proportion to the moon’s mass which our ocean bears to the mass of the earth. | But, though cavernous spaces would not form | throughout the interior of a planet, room would yet be found, even to the degree conceived by | Frankland, for the waters of the planet. The | greatest possible pressure to which the most | solid rock can be exposed would not fill the cap- | illary spaces which exist throughout the material | of the rock, while the pressure on the water at | great depths would force it into even minuter | than capillary spaces. This has been conclusively shown during experiments entered upon for an- other purpose—viz., to determine the compres- sibility of water. For when, in 1661, Florentine academicians tried to compress water which had been inclosed within a globular shell of gold, | they found that the water under great pressure forced its way through the pores of the gold, and stood on the outside of the globe like dew; and since that time the experiment has been repeated | with globes of other metals, a similar result being | obtained. It follows from these considerations that, as | a planet cools, more and more space is formed for the retreat of the planet’s seas; and that in | all probability in the extreme old age of a planet, when its whole frame to the very centre has been | sufficiently cooled, space enough is thus formed | to hold all the water which had once adorned the | planet's surface. If we consider the whole history of the moon’s cooling, partly as indicated by her actual aspect, partly by the evidence given by the aspect of other planets, and partly as justly inferable from the laws of physics, we shall find abundant rea- | son for believing that her seas at any rate might | thus have been withdrawn. During the earlier | Stages of a planet’s history, considered in the essay entitled “When the Seas were young” (Cornhill for August and October last), the seas ' | { | | the crust first gave way, and a series of radiating streaks marking the places where the crust was split open all around that spot. The signs of | events such as these in the moon’s earlier history are very manifest. There is the great lunar cra- ter Tycho, which is clearly visible to the naked eye, near the lower part of the disk of the moon ; and from this as a centre radiations extend in all directions, some of which run right across the visible lunar hemisphere, and probably extend right round the moon. These also can be seen with the naked gyre; and they are so well marked | in photographs of the moon that some supposed the earlier photographs by Draper and Ruther- furd in America, and by De la Rue in this country, | were in reality only photographs of a peeled orange, the crater Tycho representing one end of the core, and the radiations corresponding to divisions between the sections of the orange. Besides this most remarkable case, there are six others, centres of radiating streaks on the moon’s visible hemisphere, and doubtless others upon the unseen hemisphere. We have here clear evidence of the tremendous nature of the forces which were at work throughout the moon’s frame in the earlier stages of her history, the disturb- ance in particular by which the radiations from Tycho were made having apparently wracked the whole frame of the moon. Directly, indeed, these considerations do not affect the theory we are considering, because no large portion of the lunar seas can by any possibility have retreated beneath the surface during this stage of her ex- istence. But as showing the enormous store of heat which existed at that time (by far the larger part of which must have remained unex- hausted when the next stage began) the consid- eration of these amazing evidences of disturb- ance has an important though indirect bearing on our subject. After the crust had parted with the greater are floating in the form of cloud and vapor above | portion of the heat which it had possessed when the planet's surface. In the next stage, when | first formed, it would cool, and therefore would the crust is still hot, but not too hot for the | contract but slowly. The nucleus, on the other Waters to rest upon it, the process of cooling hand, which had before contracted more slowly Must take place more rapidly in the crust of the than the crust, would now contract more rapidly, Planet than in the planet's interior. All this , leaving spaces between itself and thecrust. And

Page 282

‘ 282 THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. then two things would happen. One would be the manifestation of vulcanian energy in conse- quence of the heat generated by the crust as it crushed its way downward upon the retreating nucleus. The other would be the influx of water wherever it found access to the cavernous spaces between the crust and the nucleus. It is prob- able that before this vulcanian era of the moon’s history was completed a considerable portion of the Junar waters had taken its place permanently beneath the crust. It should be noticed that this era corresponds with a part of the earth’s exist- ence which is as yet far from being completed, even if it can be regarded as much more than be- gun. It is far from unlikely that the era during which a planet’s crust is thus kept in constant activity by the retreating motion of the nucleus synchronizes with the period during which life exists on the planet’s surface. During all this period, which may have lasted tens of millions of years, not only were portions of the waters of the moon gradually taking up their place in cavernous spaces between the crust and the retreating nu- cleus, but another process must have been at work to exhaust the lunar seas. When water falls upon a large land-surface in the form of rain, so that the surface is thoroughly drenched, a portion probably disappears permanently from the water- circulation of the globe. Of course, the greater portion is conveyed into the sea in the form of running water. Then, again, the drying of the surface means that the water which had moist- ened it is taken into the air again in the form of aqueous vapor, And this eventually assumes the form of visible cloud, and after sundry changes (during which it may many times in turn appear as cloud or disappear as vapor) it falls again in rain, and may be either restored in this way di- rectly to the sea from which it came, or so fall on land-surface as to run into some stream commn- nicating by brook, rivulet, river, and estuary, with the ocean. And some portion of the water which falls on land-surfaces, passing below the surface, feeds internal streams, and eventually appears again in the form of spring-water. But it cannot be doubted that a portion of the water which falls on dry land soaks its way downward, very slow- ly, perhaps, but steadily and continuously, thus removing itself from sight, and pro tanto dimin- ishing the planet’s surface-waters. How much of the water would be removed by these causes, before the last stage of all began (at least the last change of a planet's existence as a body undergoing change) is not easily deter- mined. Probably a quarter or a third of the wa- ter forming the original oceans of a planet might be withdrawn in one or other of these ways, leay. ing the rest to be removed during the refrigerg. tion of the nucleus itself—a process requiring many millions, possibly hundreds of millions, of years for its completion. In whatever way the withdrawal of the lunar seas was accomplished, it is certain that every particle of water has disappeared from the sur. face of the moon; and as there ‘are clear signs of the former existence of extensive lunar seas, apart from the strong a@ priori considerations showing that the moon must once have had water on her surface, we have little choice but to admit that the waters of the moon have been withdrawn by such gradual processes as have been described above, and consequently that the era of the moon’s existence as a habitable world is really removed from the present epoch by the enormous time- intervals required for the completion of those processes. In fact, we can see clearly pictured on the moon’s face the evidence which shows that she has passed through all the stages of planetary life, from the time when her whole frame was glowing with intensity of heat, down to the period when she had reached the condition which our earth in the remote future must attain —that of a cold, dead orb, neither living itself (regarding physical changes as corresponding with Vitality) nor capable of being the abode of living creatures. Extending the range of our survey, we find in the giant planets, Jupiter and Saturn, the evidence of an earlier stage than any of whieh the moon’s present aspect affords direct evidence. The sun presents a yet earlier stage, while the gaseous nebule or masses of luminous star-vapor scattered through the immensity of space illus- trate the earliest of all stages of cosmical exist- ence of which we have any direct evidence. Qn - the other hand, we see in Mars, with his small ocean-surface and rare atmosphere, the pictureof a stage intermediate between that through which the earth is now passing, and the decrepit or death-like condition of the moon. Mercury, if we could examine his condition more satisfac torily than is the case, would probably illustrate a stage somewhat nearer to the moon's present condition. Venus, on the other hand, so far as can be judged, though a somewhat smaller planet than the earth, is in a somewhat earlier stage of planetary existence. Although the moon may be regarded as to all intents and purposes dead, it must not be sep: posed that no changes whatever take place upo® her surface, On the contrary, some of the pect liarities of the moon’s condition must tend to : cause even more rapid changes of certain oF " oe oe a ee. ae a oe

Page 283

illus- exist- ure of which vit oF ry, if ders than take place in the case of our own earth. Thus the great length of the lunar day, and the moon’s waterless condition and rare atmosphere, must help to cause a comparatively rapid crumbling of the moon's surface. During the long and intensely hot luvar day the rock- substance of the moon's surface must expand considerably, for it is raised to a degree of heat exceeding that of boiling water. During the long junar night the surface is exposed to a degree of refrigeration far exceeding that of the bitterest winter in the arctic regions, and must contract correspondingly. This alternate expansion and contraction must gradually crumble away all the loftiest and steepest portions of the moon’s sur- face, and will doubtless, in the long-run—that is, some few hundreds of millions of years hence— destroy all the most marked irregularities of the moo7’s surface. The cases of change which have been recog- nized by telescopists who have carefully studied the moon’s surface may all, without exception, be referred to this process of gradual but steady disintegration. The most remarkable case hith- erto known, for example, the disappearance of the lunar crater Linné, is far better explained in this way than as the result of volcanic outburst. This case has recently been described as fol- lows, by the present writer: In the lunar Sea of Serenity there was once a deep crater, nearly seven miles across, a very distinct and obvious feature, even with the small telescope (less than four inches in aperture) used by Beer and Miid- ler in forming their celebrated chart. But, ten years ago, the astronomer Schmidt, a selenogra- pher of selenographers (who has in fact given the best energies of his life to moon-gazing), found this crater missing. When he announced the fact to the scientific world, other astronomers, armed with very powerful instruments, looked for the crater which had been so clearly seen with Midler’s small telescope; but though they found a crater, it was nothing like the crater described by Miidler. The present crater is scarcely two miles in diameter, and only just visible with powerful telescopes; all around it there is a shallow depression, occupying a region about as large as the whole crater had been be- fore. It seems impossible to doubt that a great change has taken place here, and the question arises whether the change has been produced by Voleanie activity or otherwise. Sir John Her- schel pronounced somewhat confidently in favor of the former hypothesis. “ Thg most plausible conjecture,” said he, “as to the fause of this dis- appearance, seems to be the filling up of the IS THE MOON DEAD? 283 crater from beneath, by an effusion of viscous lava, which, overflowing the rim on all sides, may have so flowed down the outer slope as to efface its ruggedness, and convert it into a grad- ual declivity casting no stray shadows.” “ But how tremendous the voleanic energy,” we note in the passage referred to, “required to fill with lava a crater nearly seven miles in diameter, and more than half a mile deep! The volcanic hypothesis seems on this account utterly incredi- ble, for if such energy resided in the moon's interior we should find her whole surface con- tinually changing. Far more probable seems the idea that the wall of this crater has simply fallen in, scattering its fragments over what had once been the floor of the crater. The forces at work on the moon are quite competent to throw down steep crater-walls like those which seem formerly to have girt about this deep cavity.” * That the kind of vitality evidenced by such changes as these still exists in the moon’s frame, is not merely probable but certain. Other changes, however, which were once supposed to have been observed, must be dismissed as having » had no real existence. The effects of various kinds of illusion have to be taken into account in considering such phenomena. Thus the theory that a process of monthly change, due perhaps to vegetaticn, affects the floor of the large lunar erater Plato (called by Hevelius the greater Black Lake), is now rejected, because the sup- posed change has been shown to be a mere effect of contrast. The apparent change is of this nature: As the sun first begins to rise above the floor of the crater—or, in other words, as the light of the filling moon gradually flows oyer the crater—the floor appears bright, getting brighter and brighter as 4he sun rises higher and higher, up to a certain point. But afterward the floor | darkens, becoming darkest toward lunar mid- day. Lastly, as the lunar afternoon progresses, the floor of Plato gets gradually lighter again. The mid-day darkening was attributed to some process of vegetation or else to chemical changes. It has no real existence, however, but is due simply to the effect of contrast with the great brightness of the crater-wali all around, which is formed of some very white substance, and looks peculiarly bright and lustrous at the time of lunar mid-day, so that contrasted with it the floor looks | peculiarly dark. On the other hand, during the morning and evening hours, the black shadow of the crater-wall is thrown across the floor, which by contrast looks brighter thanit reallyis This | explanation has indeed oeen denied very con ' The present writer, in the Spectator for June 24, 1876.

Page 284

’ 284 fidentiy by some who formerly advocated the theory that lunar vegetation causes the darken- ing of the floor; but there can be no doubt of its justice, for no one (not prejudiced in favor of a theory) who has tested the matter experimental- ly, eliminating the effects of contrast, has failed to find that there is no real darkening of the floor of Plato. It seems as certain as any matter not admit- ting of actual demonstration can be that the moon is, to all intents and purposes, dead. Her frame is, indeed, still undergoing processes of material change, but these afford no more evi- dence of real planetary life than the changes af- fecting a dead body are sigus of still lingering vitality. Again, it seems certain that the pro- cesses through which the moon has passed in her progress toward planetary death must be passed through in turn by all the members of the solar system, and finally by the sun himself. Every one of these orbs is constantly radiating its heat into space, not indeed to be actually lost, but still in such sort as to reduce all to the same dead level of temperature, whereas vitality depends on dif- ferences of temperature. Every orb in space, then, is tending steadily onward toward cosmical death. And, so far as our power of understand- ing or even of conceiving the universe is con- cerned, it seems as though this tendency of every individual body in the universe toward death in- volved the tendency toward death of the universe itself. It may indeed be said that since the uni- verse is of necessity infinite, whereas we are finite, we cannot reason in this way from what we can understand, or conceive, to conclusions respecting the universe, which we cannot even conceive, far less understand. Still it must be admitted that, so far as our reasoning powers can be relied upon at all, the inference, from what we know, appears a just one, that the life of the uni- verse will have practically departed when the largest and therefore longest-lived of all the orbs peopling space has passed on to the stage of cos- mical death. So far as we know, there is but one way of escape from this seemingly demon- strated, but in reality incredible, conclusion. May it not be that as men have erred in former times in regarding the earth as the centre of the universe, as they have erred in regarding this period of time through which the earth is now passing as though it were central in all time, so possibly they may have erred in regarding the universe we live in, and can alone comprehend, as though it were the only universe. May there not be a higher order of universe than ours, to THE POPULAR. SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. which ours bears some such relation as the ether of space bears to the matter of our universe? and may there not, above that high order, be higher and higher orders of universe, absolutely without limit? And, in like manner, may not the ether of space, of which we know only indi. rectly though very certainly, be the material ‘sub. stance of a universe next below ours,! while be low that are lower and lower orders of universe absolutely without limit ? And, as the seemingly wasted energies of our universe are poured into the universe next below ours, may it not well be that our universe receives the supplies of energy wasted (in seeming) from the universe next in or der above it? So that, instead of the absqlute beginning and the absolute end which we had seemed to recognize, there may be in reality but a continual interchange between the various or. ders of universe constituting the true universe, these orders being infinite in number even as each one of them is infinite in extent. We find our- selves lost, no doubt, in the contemplation of these multiplied infinities; but we are equally lost in the contemplation of the unquestioned in finities of space and time amid which our little lives are cast, while the mystery of infinite waste, which seems so inscrutable when we consider the universe as we know it, finds a possible interpre tation when we admit the existence of other or- ders of universe than the order to which our lives belong. Thus should we find a new argument for the teaching of the poet who has said : “*Tet knowledge grow from more to more, But more of reverence in us dwell, That, mind and soul according well, May make our music as before, But vaster ;” a new significance in the vision of him who said: “See all things with each other blending, Each to all its being lending, All on each in tarn depending; Heavenly ministers descending, And again to heaven uptending, Floating, mingling, interweaving, Rising, sinking, and receiving— Each from each, while each is giving On to each, and each relieving Each—the pails of gold; the living Current through the air is heaving; Breathing blessings see them bending, Balanced worlds from change defending, While everywhere diffused is harmony unending.” — Cornhill Magazine. 1 The work called “ The Unseen Universe” presents 8 portion of the evidence to this effect, but unfortunately the style of that work is not sufficiently lucid to bring ite reasoning vithin p° range of the general reader.

Page 285

COOL ADVICE. COOL ADVICE. NE of the oddest ideas of the confused Brit- ish mind is that it is slightly feeble to mind great heat, at least if the heat be European, and slightly effeminate or over-luxurious to use elabo- rate means for its reduction. We are all devoted to comfort, or at least foreigners think so; but the very men who will spend money, and devote time, and use their whole intelligence, to raise a low thermometer, who put up elaborate and rath- er dangerous systems of hot-water pipes in their houses, and edge doors with gutta-percha, and regulate fires by thermometers and never-ending scoldings, think it slightly ridiculous to mind a degree of heat which inflicts as much discomfort as a frost, and would smile depreciatively if they heard that a neighbor slept with ice-blocks in his room. They will indeed provide for fresh air, because for ventilation they have the excuse of health ; but heat they think it right to accept as an evil, only properly to be encountered by queru- lous endurance. We confess we do not see the sense of the distinction. country respectable people seldom drop down dead from heat and glare, though soldiers, reap- ers, and carters, frequently do, but neither do they drop down dead from cold ; and if it is right to avoid the one sort of discomfort, so it is the other, and with the observatory at Greenwich recording a temperature of 92° in the shade—the highest, according to one newspaper, recorded since the observatory opened its register—and London as hot by night as by day, and the glare continuing unbroken for weeks on end, heat be- comes to many constitutions a serious danger, and to all a disability quite as well worth pre- venting as the disability which arises from cold. It is pitiable to see the misery of people who are at once fat and xanthous, even though we may know that they in particular, being “ ready sweat- ers,” are almost exempt from the serious conse- quences of heat; and there are temperaments, more especially among children and sickly wom- én, which are liable to serious injury. It is not sybaritic to avert sea-sickness; and with men and women of the constitution which resents heat —4 peculiarity dependent partly on the state of the lungs and partly on that of the skin—no short fit of sea-sickness will inflict more positive suffering than two or three consecutive nights of sleeplessness from heat. It is quite worth while, then, to mention the | It is true that in this. two or three preventives of great heat, especially at night, which in tropical climates Europeans have been taught by long and varied experience to adopt, and which only seem absurd to English- men at home from ignorance of the whole sub- ject. The first and foremost of these is to keep quietly at home out of the sun and its tempo- rarily injurious light. Englishmen in the West or East Indies, or in China, would be considered simply crazy if they walked about with the ther- mometer marking 100° in the sun, with their necks unprotected, as Londoners have been doing all this week. Experienced residents would tell them that no change of dress, no attention to diet, no carefulness about cleanliness, will give them half the serenity and comfort they wiil obtain from stopping at home; that when the thermometer ranges above 80° in the shade, the impact of the sun’s rays is positively and directly injurious to the constitution, producing physical deteriorations which may affect them for life. Not only are the effects of a sunstroke permanent, and liable to re- appear on hot days even in cold climates, but the effects of exposure to the sun, though not pro- ducing sunstroke, are often recognizable for years, producing, among other well-ascertained conse- quences, a distinctly separate liability to be af- feeted by any form of alcohol—the key, we be- lieve, to the extraordinary mischief drink works among the southern races, and the key also, most fortunately for them, of their instinctive aversion to liquor. It is not the heat, but the light of the sun, which produces these consequences, for a good umbrella prevents them; and the man who must be abroad in the light of days like last Tuesday should carry one as carefully as he does when he is only afraid of spoiling his hat. Two seconds will sametimes do the mischief, and he had much better bear being told that he is careful of a bad complexion than incur a permanent lia- bility to suffer whenever he takes a glass with a friend. Next to keeping quiet, and as much out of the glare as possible, is the use of cool water in profusion, and that not only to drink, though water-drinking is probably beneficial. Nature makes very few blunders, and the dislike of re- peated draughts of water, which is shared, we believe, even by some physicians, fs as irrational as would be a dislike of stokers to put on fuel where fire is needed. All the tropical races in summer drink hard of water—even the Bengalese,

Page 286

282 then two things would happen. One would be the manifestation of vulcanian energy in conse- quence of the heat generated by the crust as it crushed its way downward upon the retreating nucleus. The other would be the influx of water wherever it found access to the cavernous spaces between the crust and the nucleus. It is prob- able that before this vulcanian era of the moon's history was completed a considerable portion of the lunar waters had taken its place permanently beneath the crust. It should be noticed that this era corresponds with a part of the earth’s exist- ence which is as yet far from being completed, even if it can be regarded as much more than be- gun. It is far from unlikely that the era during which a planet’s crust is thus kept in constant activity by the retreating motion of the nucleus synchronizes with the period during which life exists on the planet’s surface. During all this period, which may have lasted tens of millions of years, not only were portions of the waters of the moon gradually taking up their place in cavernous spaces between the crust and the retreating nu- cleus, but another process must have been at work to exhaust the lunar seas. When water falls upon a large land-surface in the form of rain, so that the surface is thoroughly drenched, a portion probably disappears permanently from the water- circulation of the globe. Of course, the greater portion is conveyed into the sea in the form of running water. Then, again, the drying of the surface means that the water which had moist- ened it is taken into the air again in the form of aqueous vapor, And this eventually assumes the form of visible cloud, and after sundry changes (during which it may many times in turn appear as cloud or disappear as vapor) it falls again in rain, and may be either restored in this way di- rectly to the sea from which it came, or so fall on land-surface as to run into some stream commn- nicating by brook, rivulet, river, and estuary, with the ocean. And some portion of the water which falls on land-surfaces, passing below the surface, feeds internal streams, and eventually appears again in the form of spring-water. But it cannot be doubted that a portion of the water which falls on dry land soaks its way downward, very slow- ly, perhaps, but steadily and continuously, thus removing itself from sight, and pro tanto dimin- ishing the planet’s surface-waters. How much of the water would be removed by these causes, before the last stage of all began (at least the last change of a planet's existence as a body undergoing change) is not easily deter- mined. Probably a quarter or a third of the wa- ter forming the original oceans of a planet might THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. be withdrawn in one or other of these ways, leay. | ing the rest to be removed during the refrigera. tion of the nucleus itself—a process requiring many millions, possibly hundreds of millions, of years for its completion. In whatever way the withdrawal of the lunar seas was accomplished, it is certain that every particle of water has disappeared from the gur. face of the moon; and as there ‘are clear signs of the former existence of extensive lunar seas, apart from the strong @ priori considerations showing that the moon must once have had water on her surface, we have little choice but to admit that the waters of the moon have been withdrawn by such gradual processes as have been described above, and consequently that the era of the moon’s existence as a habitable world is really removed from the present epoch by the enormous time. intervals required for the completion of those processes, In fact, we can see clearly pictured on the moon’s face the evidence which shows that she has passed through all the stages of planetary life, from the time when her whole frame was glowing with intensity of heat, down to the period when she had reached the condition which our earth in the remote future must attain —that of a cold, dead orb, neither living itself (regarding physical changes as corresponding with vitaiity) nor capable of being the abode of living creatures. Extending the range of our survey, we find in the giant planets, Jupiter and Saturn, the evidence of an earlier stage than any of which the moon’s present aspect affords direct evidence. The sun presents a yet earlier stage, while the gaseous nebule or masses of luminous star-vapor scattered through the immensity of space illus- trate the earliest of all stages of cosmical exist- ence of which we have any direct evidence. Qn » the other hand, we see in Mars, with his small ocean-surface and rare atmosphere, the pictureof a stage intermediate between that through which the earth is now passing, and the decrepit or death-like condition of the moon. Mercury, if we could examine his condition more satisiac torily than is the case, would probably illustrate a stage somewhat nearer to the moon’s present condition. Venus, on the other hand, so far as can be judged, though a somewhat smaller planet than the earth, is in a somewhat earlier stage of planetary existence. Although the moon may be regarded as to all intents and purposes dead, it must not be sap posed that no changes whatever take place upo® her surface. On the contrary, some of the pee — liavities of the moon's condition must tend 1 é. cause even more rapid changes of certaim OF Bs or

Page 287

sur- igns a8, rater - awn on’s oved ured lows s of hole lown RERES vey, tur, hich » the apor illus- ders than take place in the case of our own earth. Thus the great length of the lunar day, and the moon’s waterless condition and rare atmosphere, must help to cause a comparatively rapid crumbling of the moon’s surface. During the long and intensely hot lunar day the rock- substance of the moon's surface must expand considerably, for it is raised to a degree of heat ] | | | | IS THE MOON DEAD? 283 crater from beneath, by an effusion of viscous lava, which, overflowing the rim on all sides, may have so flowed down the outer slope as to efface its ruggedness, and convert it into a grad- ual declivity casting no stray shadows.” “ But how tremendous the voleanic energy,” we note in the passage referred to, ‘‘required to fill with lava a crater nearly seven miles in diameter, exceeding that of boiling water. During the long | and more than half a mile deep! The volcanic junar night the surface is exposed to a degree of | hypothesis seems on this account utterly incredi- refrigeration far exceeding that of the bitterest winter in the arctic regions, and must contract correspondingly. This alternate expansion and contraction must gradually crumble away all the loftiest and steepest portions of the moon’s sur- face, and will doubtless, in the long-ren—that is, some few hundreds of millions of years hence— destroy all the most marked irregularities of the moon’s surface. The cases of change which have been recog- nized by telescopists who have carefully studied the moon’s surface may all, without exception, be referred to this process of gradual but steady disintegration. The most remarkable case hith- erto known, for example, the disappearance of the lunar crater Linné, is far better explained in this way than as the result of volcanic outburst. This case has recently been described as fol- lows, by the present writer: In the lunar Sea of Serenity there was once a deep crater, nearly seven miles across, a very distinct and obvious feature, even with the small telescope (less than four inches in aperture) used by Beer and Miid- ler in forming their celebrated chart, But, ten years ago, the astronomer Schmidt, a selenogra- pher of selenographers (who has in fact given the best energies of his life to moon-gazing), found this crater missing. When he announced the fact to the scientific world, other astronomers, »had no real existence. ble, for if such energy resided in the moon's interior we should find her whole surface con- tinually changing. Far more probable seems the idea that the wall of this crater has simply fallen in, scattering its fragments over what had once been the floor of the crater. The forces at work on the moon are quite competent to throw down steep crater-walls like those which seem formerly to have girt about this deep cavity.” ? That the kind of vitality evidenced by such changes as these still exists in the moon’s frame, is not merely probable but certain. Other changes, however, which were once supposed to have been observed, must be dismissed as having The effects of various kinds of illusion have to be taken into account in considering such phenomena. Thus the theory that a process of monthly change, due perhaps to vegetaticn, affects the floor of the large lunar erater Plato (called by Hevelius the greater Black Lake), is now rejected, because the sup- posed change has been shown to be a mere effect of contrast. The apparent change is of this nature: As the sun first begins to rise above the floor of the crater—or, in other words, as the light of the filling moon gradually flows oyer the crater—the floor appears bright, getting brighter and brighter as ghe sun rises higher and higher, up to a certain point. But afterward the floor armed with very powerful instruments, looked | darkens, becoming darkest toward lunar mid- { for the crater which had been so clearly seen | day. Lastly, as the lunar afternoon progresses, with Miidler’s small telescope; but though they found a crater, it was nothing like the crater described by Midler. The present crater is scarcely two miles in diameter, and only just visible with powerful telescopes; all around it there is a shallow depression, occupying a region about as large as the whole crater had been be- fore. It seems impossible to doubt that a great change has taken place here, and the question the floor of Plato gets gradually lighter again. The mid-day darkening was attributed to some process of vegetation or else to chemical changes. It has no real existence, however, but is due simply to the effect of contrast with the great brightness of the crater-wali all around, which is formed of some very white substance, and looks peculiarly bright and lustrous at the time of lunar mid-day, so that contrasted with it the floor looks arises whether the change has been produced by | peculiarly dark. On the other hand, during the volcanic activity or otherwise. Sir John Her- schel pronounced somewhat confidently in favor morning and evening hours, the black shadow of the crater-wall is thrown across the floor, which of the former hypothesis. “The most plausible , by contrast looks brighter than it really is This conjecture,” said he, “as to the Cause of this dis- | explanation has indeed peen denied very con ' The present writer, in the Spectator tor June 24, 1876, appearance, seems to be the filling up of the | a:

Page 288

¢ 284 THE POPULAR. SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. fidently by some who formerly advocated the theory that lunar vegetation causes the darken- ing of the floor; but there can be no doubt of its justice, for no one (not prejudiced in favor of a theory) who has tested the matter experimental- ly, eliminating the effects of contrast, has failed to find that there is no real darkening of the floor of Plato. It seems as certain as any matter not admit- ting of actual demonstration can be that the moon is, to all intents and purposes, dead. Her frame is, indeed, still undergoing processes of material change, but these afford no more evi- dence of real planetary life than the changes af- fecting a dead body are signs of still lingering vitality. Again, it seems certain that the pro- cesses through which the moon has passed in her progress toward planetary death must be passed through in turn by all the members of the solar system, and finally by the sun himself. Every one of these orbs is constantly radiating its heat into space, not indeed to be actually lost, but still in such sort as to reduce a!l to the same dead level of temperature, whereas vitality depends on dif- ferences of temperature. Every orb in space, then, is tending steadily onward toward cosmical death. And, so far as our power of understand- ing or even of conceiving the universe is con- cerned, it seems as though this tendency of every individual body in the universe toward death in- volved the tendency toward death of the universe itself. It may indeed be said that since the uni- verse is of necessity infinite, whereas we are finite, we cannot reason in this way from what we can understand, or conceive, to conclusions respecting the universe, which we cannot even conceive, far less understand. Still it must be admitted that, so far as our reasgning powers can be relied upon at all, the inference, from what we know, appears a just one, that the life of the uni- verse will have practically departed when the largest and therefore longest-lived of all the orbs peopling space has passed on to the stage of cos- mical death. So far as we know, there is but one way of escape from this seemingly demon- strated, but in reality incredible, conclusion. May it not be that as men have erred in former times in regarding the earth as the centre of the universe, as they have erred in regarding this period of time through which the earth is now passing as though it were central in all time, so possibly they may have erred in regarding the universe we live in, and can alone comprehend, as though it were the only universe. May there not be a higher order of universe than ours, to which ours bears some such relation as the ether of space bears to the matter of our universe? and may there not, above that high order, be higher and higher orders of universe, absolutely without limit? And, in like manner, may not the ether of space, of which we know only indi, rectly though very certainly, be the material sub. stance of a universe next below ours,! while be low that are lower and lower orders of universe absolutely without limit ? And, as the seemingly wasted energies of our universe are poured into the universe next below ours, may it not well be that our universe receives the supplies of energy wasted (in seeming) from the universe next in or der above it? So that, instead of the absqlute beginning and the absolute end which we had seemed to recognize, there may be in reality but a continual interchange between the various or. ders of universe constituting the true universe, these orders being infinite in number even as each one of them is infinite in extent. We find our- selves lost, no doubt, in the contemplation of these multiplied infinities; Lut we are equally lost in the contemplation of the unquestioned in- finities of space and time amid which our little lives are cast, while the mystery of infinite waste, which seems so inscrutable when we consider the universe as we know it, finds a possible interpre. tation when we admit the existence of other or ders of universe than the order to which our lives belong. Thus should we find a new argument for the teaching of the poet who has said : **Let knowledge grow from more to more, But more of reverence in us dwell, That, mind and soul according well, May make our music as before, But vaster;” a new significance in the vision of him who said: “See all things with each other blending, Each to all its being lending, All on each in turn depending; Heavenly ministers descending, And again to heaven uptending, Floating, mingling, interweaving, Rising, sinking, and receiving— Each from each, while each is giving On to each, and each relieving Each—the pails of gold; the living Current through the air is heaving; Breathing blessings see them bending, Balanced worlds from change defending, While everywhere diffused is harmony unending.” — Cornhill Magazine, 1 The work called “ The Unseen Universe” presents 8 portion of the evidence to this effect, but unfortunately the style of that work is not sufficiently Incid to bring its reasoning vrithin p° range of the general reader.

Page 289

COOL ADVICE. COOL ADVICE. NE of the oddest ideas of the confused Brit- ish mind is that it is slightly feeble to mind great heat, at least if the heat be European, and slightly effeminate or over-luxurious to use elabo- rate means for its reduction. We are all devoted to comfort, or at least foreigners think so; but the very men who will spend money, and devote time, and use their whole intelligence, to raise a low thermometer, who put up elaborate and rath- er dangerous systems of hot-water pipes in their houses, and edge doors with gutta-percha, and regulate fires by thermometers and never-ending scoldings, think it slightly ridiculous to mind a degree of heat which inflicts as much discomfort as a frost, and would smile depreciatively if they heard that a neighbor slept with ice-blocks in his room. They will indeed provide for fresh air, because for ventilation they have the excuse of health ; but heat they think it right to accept as an evil, only properly to be encountered by queru- lous endurance. We confess we do not see the sense of the distinction. country respectable people seldom drop down dead from heat and glare, though soldiers, reap- ers, and carters, frequently do, but neither do they drop down dead from cold ; and if it is right to avoid the one sort of discomfort, so it is the other, and with the observatory at Greenwich recording a temperature of 92° in the shade—the highest, according to one newspaper, recorded since the observatory opened its register—and London as hot by night as by day, and the glare continuing unbroken for weeks on end, heat be- comes to many constitutions a serious danger, and to all a disability quite as well worth pre- venting as the disability which arises from cold. It is pitiable to see the misery of people who are at once fat and xanthous, even though we may know that they in particular, being “ready sweat- ers,” are almost exempt from the serious conse- quences of heat; and there are temperaments, more especially among children and sickly wom- en, which are liable to serious injury. It is not sybaritie to avert sea-sickness; and with men and women of the constitution which resents heat —4 peculiarity dependent partly on the state of the lungs and partly on that of the skin—no short fit of sea-sickness will inflict more positive suffering than two or three consecutive nights of sleeplessness from heat. It is quite worth while, then, to mention the | It is true that in this. two or three preventives of great heat, especially at night, which in tropical climates Europeans have been taught by long and varied experience to adopt, and which only seem absurd to English- men at home from ignorance of the whole sub- ject. The first and foremost of these is to keep quietly at home out of the sun and its tempo- rarily injurious light. Englishmen in the West or East Indies, or in China, would be considered simply crazy if they walked about with the ther- mometer marking 100° in the sun, with their necks unprotected, as Londoners have been doing all this week. Experienced residents would téll them that no change of dress, no attention to diet, no carefulness about cleanliness, will give them half the serenity and comfort they wiil obtain from stopping at home; that when the thermometer ranges above 80° in the shade, the impact of the sun’s rays is positively and directly injurious to the constitution, producing physical deteriorations which may affect them for life. Not only are the effects of a sunstroke permanent, and liable to re- appear on hot days even in cold climates, but the effects of exposure to the sun, though not pro- ducing sunstroke, are often recognizable for years, producing, among other well-ascertained conse- quences, a distinctly separate liability to be af- fected by any form of alcohol—the key, we be- lieve, to the extraordinary mischief drink works among the southern races, and the key also, most fortunately for them, of their instinctive aversion to liquor. It is not the heat, but the light of the sun, which produces these consequences, for a good umbrella prevents them; and the man who must be abroad in the light of days like last Tuesday should carry one as carefully as he does when he is only afraid of spoiling his hat. Two seconds will sametimes do the mischief, and he had much better bear being told that he is careful of a bad complexion than incur a permanent lia- bility to suffer whenever he takes a glass with a friend. Next to keeping quiet, and as much out of the glare as possible, is the use of cool water in profusion, and that not only to drink, though water-drinking is probably beneficial. Nature makes very few blunders, and the dislike of re- peated draughts of water, which is shared, we believe, even by some physicians, fs as irrational as would be a dislike of stokers to put on fuel where fire is needed. All the tropical races in summer drink hard of water—even the Bengalese,

Page 290

286 who, by pouring it straight into their throats, lose all its pleasant coolness in the mouth. The New York Times, we see, objects to iced-water, but the New York Times is only laughing at the teetotalers through a bizarre use of their alarm- ist phraseology. Water iced till it trembles on the verge of solidification, and taken after a full meal, may injure some weak stomachs; but wa- ter iced till it has the temperature of a cool spring will hurt nobody at any time or in any quantity whatever that an ordinary appetite is likely to crave. One would think, to hear some people talk, that thirst was in itself a good, instead of a symptom of exhaustion. But water has other qualities than the allaying of thirst. It has a permanent determination to evaporate, which Nature obeys, and, as it cannot evaporate with- out heat, it positively diminishes in the process the heat of our rooms. Pans of water, the cool- er the better, stationed about a bedroom will pos- itively reduce, not the sensation of heat, but the heat itself. Let anybody who doubts that have his tub, with its shallow depth and wide surface, filled with spring-water, or water with a good block of ice in it, and placed in his bedroom, and mark in half an hour how many degrees the thermometer has fallen. least, and will be 8° if he is not stingy with his ice, and the improvement, equivalent in comfort to a fire on a winter’s night, will last for hours. If that is still insufficient, let him throw up his bedroom windows, fasten an old blanket or trav- eling-rug across the space, and drench that well with water, and in five minutes the air in the room will be reduced to that water's temperature. Never mind about breeze. The air will seek the cooler place of itself, without being driven in from the outside, and the temperature will de- cline almost instantaneously to a reasonable point. Not one of those expedients necessitates any architectural improvements, or any change of habits, or any expense whatever, though of course It ought to be 6° at | THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. improvement more rapid, and in the case of a sick-room, or of any one who really suffers from heat—suffers as if in sickness, we mean—vwill be money well laid out. And so in the case of little children, especially, will a few shillings on the sheet of woven cane—we have unfortunately for. gotten the trade-name—which is used in the hot- test corners of the East Indies and China for pil- low-cases and sofa-covers, The silica with which this material is coated will not get warm, and every other covering for beds or pillows with which we are acquainted will. It keeps perfectly dry, can- not get dirty, and can be procured as soft as any covering that ever was placed upon a mattress, There is hardly any luxury like it in intense and stifling heat, and we have known sick people, half maddened with heat acting on exhausted frames, sleep on it when sleep seemed otherwise unprocurable. With plenty of wholesome water, wetted blankets for window-curtains, and a sheet of cane, no one in London ought to be rendered sleepless by heat, or indeed, unless he persists in gorging himself with the food which he needs only in cold weather, to suffer any appreciable discomfort. We may add one word about bathing. The tendency of human nature in hot weather is to bathe in cold water, and Nature, as we said be- fore, seldom blunders; but Nature sometimes provides rather for health than comfort, A bathed man can work or walk in hot weather much better than an unbathed man, because he will perspire more freely, which Nature, not hay- ing considered the question of clothes fully, in- tended him to do. But it is extremely doubtful whether bathing at night tends to produce sleep so much as rheumatism from chilled perspiration, The head is the better for sponging, but the body, more especially in an artificially-cooled root, is the better for being dry, with the blood as far from the surface as possible, and the whole man as quiescent and torpid as the heat will allow him a shilling or two laid out on ice will make the | to be.—Spectator. — 2 eel hee lUeeelUe Ol CU elUcelCUe Ce a

Page 291

btful body, 10, is as far Waste of Power at Niagara.—Dr. Siemens, in an address to the London Iron and Steel Insti- tute, referred to several instances of available power being lost, owing to the inadequacy of our present means of utilizing it. The falls of Nia- gara are, he said, a familiar example of this. The amount of water passing over this fall has been estimated at 100,000,000 tons per hour, and its perpendicular descent may be taken at 150 feet, without counting the rapids, which repre- sent a further fall of 150 feet. But the force represented by the principal fall alone amounts to,16,800,000 horse-power. In other words, all the coal raised throughout the world would bare- ly suffice to produce the amount of power that continually runs to waste at this one full. Much of this power might be turned to account on the spot by means of water-wheels, but the district around about is devoid of mineral wealth or other natural inducements for the establishment of factories. Dr. Siemens then mentions plans for carrying and utilizing water-power at a dis- tance of one or two miles. But the problem still remains, How shall power be carried to great dis- tances? Dr, Siemens suggests the electrical con- ductor. ‘ Suppose,” he says, “‘ water-power to be employed to give motion to a dynamo-electri- cal machine, a very powerful electrical current is the result. This may be carried to a great dis- tance, through a large metallic conductor, and there be made to impart motion to electro-mag- netic engines to ignite the ca: bon-points of elec- trie lamps, or to effect the separation of metals from their combinations. A copper rod of three inches in diameter would be capable of transmit- ting 1,000 horse-power a distance of say thirty miles, an amount sufficient to supply 225,000 can- dle-power, which would suffice to illuminate a moderately-sized town.” Do Birds hibernate?—In the course of a re- view of a work on “The Migration of Birds,” a Writer in Nature ridiculed the idea of birds “hibernating,” and asserted that there is abso- lutely no valid evidence in favor of the supposi- tion that birds ever lie dormant. But now comes ‘communication to the same journal from the Duke of Argyll, inclosing a letter from Sir Jubn McNeill, who very distinctly upholds the contrary opinion, namely, that birds do hibernate. Hav- ing, in company with Sir Henry Rawlinson, during BRIEF NOTES. BRIEF NOTES. a very severe frost, visited a place called Kenara- gird, near the Persian capital, for the purpose of duck-shooting, he came to a spot where, in the bank of a stream, there had been a small land- slip. On the ground between the detached por- tion and the perpendicular face from which it had broken off, he saw twenty or thirty swallows, all alive, but dormant. On the perpendicular face of the bank was visible a vast number of holes about the size of rat-holes, and in them were swallows in the dormant state, many of which Sir John pulled out. Each hole contained several swallows, all lying with their heads inward, each head touching the tail of the bird before it, How far these holes penetrated into the bank, or what number of swallows each contained, he did not ascertain ; but it is plain that the original entrance to these dormitories must have been in the external face of the portion that had slipped, which, in the middle, was from ten to twelve feet thick. The holes in the undisturbed portion may have been of equal or greater length; and if so the number of swallows hibernating here must have amounted to many hundreds, Sir William Grove on the Radiometer.—Sir William Grove, in two communications to the Philosophical Club, abstracts of which have ap- peared in Nature, describes some experiments made by him with a modification of Mr. Crookes’s radiometer, and the result of which appears to show that all the effects observed in this instru- ment are due to residual air. In the modified radiometer used in these experiments the four aluminium vanes, each blackened on one side, had metallic arms, and a metal point at their crossing that rested in a metal cup. The latter was united to a platinum wire passing through a glass tube and fused into it, the end of the wire protruding. Finally, the tube was fused inside the stem of the radiometer-bulb, the end of the platinum wire being exposed. Mr. Crookes pro- nounced the vacuum to be as perfect as in radi- ometers generally. With this instrument the fol- lowing results were obtained: 1. With the light of a lucifer-match, or of one or two candles, the vanes invariably turned in the opposite way to the normal, the polished surface being repelled ; with dark heat they turned in the normal way. 2. On electrizing the protruding platinum wire with a rubbed rod of glass or sealing-wax, the

Page 292

288 vanes rotated sometimes one way, sometimes the other. 3. On connecting the negative pole of a Ruhmkorf coil the results were uncertain, but the positive pole caused the vanes to rotate steadily. In the dark the effect was very beautiful, as the dark vanes moved through a phosphorescent glow. As the apparatus seemed in the course of these experiments to have leaked, it was reéxhausted. It now acted normally, the black faces of the vanes being repelled by heat and light. On electrizing the wire by a Ruhmkorf coil there was now no luminosity, nor did the current pass. But, though the current was incapable of travers- ing the one-tenth of an inch of distance between the vanes and the glass, induction acted across it as before. From this it is apparent that the effects of attenuation of air upon discharge and upon induction are not the same. When attenua- tion has commenced and is increasing, the dis- charge passes more and more rapidly, until it becomes a glow; but a further attenuation stops the discharge entirely. On tbe other hand, in- duction continues, and appears to be in no way | lessened byextreme attenuation. Nickeliferous Iron-Ores.—An analysis of some native iron from Brazil, made by M. Damour, shows an extraordinarily high proportion of nick- el, namely 38 per cent., or considerably above the ordinary proportion of nickel in meteoric iron. The metal, which has a very fine grain, and a lustre like that of steel, exhibits the so-called Widmanstattian figures when a polished surface of it is acted on by an acid. Strange to say, it resists for an indefinite length of time the com- bined action of air and water, without showing the least sign of oxidation. The results of Da- mour’s experiments with this iron having been laid before the Paris Academy of Sciences, Bous- singault remarked that, according to Berzelius, meteoric iron is not oxidizable by moist air. He also called attention to certain experiments he himself had formerly made with a view to render- ing iron unoxidizable by incorporating with it nickel, Having added successively 5, 10, and 15 THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. per cent. of nickel, he very unexpectedly found that the alloy waz more oxidizable than pure iron, But if 38 per cent. of nickel—the proportion found in the iron from Brazil—be added, the al. loy is absolutely unoxidizable. M. Stanislas Meu. nier, who reports the transactions of the Acad, emy for La Nature, hereupon observes that, if Berzelius’s proposition be true, then Boussip. gault’s explanation is insufficient, for in meteorie ‘irons the nickel is in the proportion of only® — | per cent., and of course they should be very ox. dizable. Some specimens of the Brazil iron were presented to the Academy by M. Daubrée. They | are of interest, owing to the intrusion of magnetie pyrites, or pyrrhotine, which they present. These specimens were broken off from great masses of the iron found in the province of Santa Catarina, The iron appears to be of terrestrial origin, Injurious Effects of High-heeled Shoes.—The remarks of Dr. Onimus, of Paris, upon the in jurious effects on women, of wearing shoes with high heels, are timely, and deserve to be seriously, considered. As the fashion goes, the heel of the boots is not only high, but narrow and inclined forward, so that the distance between the heel effect of this is to remove the weight of the body ground, becoming permanently flexed and pressed together; partly in consequence of the narrow- ness of the front part of the boot, partly in con- by the pain and irritation. sistence in this ridiculous fashion. and the point of the foot is lessened, and the foot appears to be smaller than it really is. The from its natural support, the prominence of the — os calcis, and project it forward on the plantar — arch. Hence often acute pain in the sole of the — foot, and serious injuries to the anterior jointy The toes, instead of the heel, first touch the ~ sequence of the over-action of the flexors of the — toes. Other muscles are also involved ; indeed all those which are concerned in maintaining the ~ erect attitude of the body. In nervous tempemie — ments hysterical symptoms have been produced” Grave constitutional — troubles are not infrequently the result of pe — —=- a —— Bwes:2 =

Page 293

THE BIBLE. THE BIBLE.’ By Prorgssorn W. ROBERTSON SMITH, or tHe University or ABERDEEN. I.—THE OLD HE word Bible, which in English, as in medieval Latin, is treated as a singular noun, is in its original Greek form a plural— ra BiBdia, the (sacred) books—correctly express- ing the fact that the sacred writings of Christen- dom are made up of a number of independent records, waich set before us the gradual devel- opment of the religion of revelation. The origin of each of these records forms a distinct criti- cal problem; and for the discussion of these questions of detail the reader is referred to the articles on separate Biblical books. The present article seeks to give a general account of the his- torical and literary conditions under which the unique literature of the Old and New Testaments sprang up, and of the way in which the Biblical books were brought together in a canonical col- lection, and handed down from age to age. The Biblical development is divided into two great periods by the manifestation and historical work of Christ. In its pre-Christian stage the religion of revelation is represented as a covenant between the spiritual God and his chosen people the Hebrews. In accordance with this, and in allu- sion to Jeremiah xxxi. 31, Jesus speaks of the new dispensation founded in his death as a new covenant (2 Corinthians xi. 25). Hence, as early as the second century of our era the two great divisions of the Bible were known as the books of the Old and of the New Covenant respectively. Among Latin-speaking Christians the Greek word for covenant was often incorrectly rendered testa- men', and thus Western Christendom still uses the names of the Old and New Testaments. Old Testament—Struggle and Progress of Spiritual Religion ; Priests, Prophets, ete.—The pre-Christian age of the Biblical religion falls into a period of religious productivity and a sub- Sequent period of stagnation and mainly conser- ative tradition. The period of productivity is ' This artic’e was contributed by Prof, Smith to the new edition of the ENcYCLOPADIA BRITANNICA, now in course of publication ; and for writing it the author has een suspended from the ministry by the Free Church “4 Scotland, and is to be tried for heresy. Part I.—Tar wd TgsTamentT—will appear in our next SUPPLE- 19 TESTAMENT. also a period of contest, during which the spir- itual principles of the religion of revelation were involved in continual struggle with polytheistic Nature-worship on the one hand, and, on the other hand, with an unspiritual conception of Jehovah as a God whose interest in Israel and care for his sanctuary were independent of moral conditions. In this long struggle, which began with the foundation of the theocracy in the work of Moses, and did not issue in conclusive victory until the time of Ezra, the spiritual faith was com- pelled to show constant powers of new develop- ment—working out into ever-clearer form the latent contrasts between true and false religion, proving itself fitter than any other belief to sup- ply all the religious needs of the people, and, above all, finding its evidence in the long provi- dential history, in which, from the great deliver- ance of the Exodus down to the Captivity and the Restoration, the reality.of Jehovah’s kingship over Israel, of his redeeming love, and of his moral government, were vindicated by the most indisputable proofs. As it was only the deliver- ance from Egypt and the theocratic covenant of Sinai that bound the Hebrew tribes into national unity, the worship of Jehovah was always acknowl- edged as the national religion of Israel. But from Joshua to Samuel national feeling was far weaker than tribal jealousy ; and in the political disintegra- tion of the people the religion of Jehovah seemed ready to be lost in local superstitions. During this period the chief centre of monotheism was the sanctuary and priesthood of the ark; and it was from the priestly circle that Samuel arose to reunite the nation by recalling it to the religion of Jehovah, and thus to prepare the way for the splendid age of David and Solomon. But though Samuel was by education a priest, it was not asa priest, but as a prophet, that he accomplished this work. In all ages a priesthood is conservative, not creative; and it was only as a growing and creative power that the still undeveloped spirit- ual religion could live. While it was the busi- ness of the priest faithfully to preserve religions traditions already acknowledged as true and ven- erable, the characteristic of the prophet is a

Page 294

290 faculty of spiritual intuition, not gained by hu- man reason, but coming to him as a word from God himself, wherein he apprehends religious truth in a new light, as bearing in a way not manifest to other men on the practical necessi- ties, the burning questions of the present. Un- like the priesthood, the prophets never formed a regular guild. It was an axiom that the gift of prophecy was bestowed by the inward and imme- diate call of Jehovah. But from the time of Samuel we find a regular succession of prophets working out the spiritual problems of the national faith with ever-increasing clearness, and gather- ering round them, sometimes in regularly-formed communities, a circle of disciples and sympa- thizers which, though never, perhaps, numeri- cally considerable, embraced the names of David and other leaders of Hebrew history, and im- pressed the stamp of prophetic influence on.every part of the national life. priests hold only the second place in the history of the Old Testament religion ; sometimes they even appear as the opponents of the prophetic party, whose progressive ideas are distasteful to their natural conservatism and aristocratic instincts. But, on the whole, the more enlightened minis ters of the central sanctuary continued to share THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. From this time the | traditional conception, is alone true to history, depends on a variety of arguments which cannot here be reproduced. That the religious ideas of the Old Testament were in a state of growth dur. ing the whole prophetic period became manifest as soon as the laws of grammatico-historical exe. gesis were fairly applied to the Hebrew Seript. ures, That the sacred ordinances were subject | to variation was less readily admitted, because | the admission involved a change of view as to | the authorship of the Pentateuch ; but here also | the facts are decisive. For example, the law in Exodus xx. 24, ff, contemplates the worship of | Jehovah on other altars than that of the central sanctuary (cf. Deuteronomy xxxiii, 19). This | practice, accordingly, was followed by Samuel, | and was fully approved by Elijah (1 Kings xix, | 14). But the worship of Jehovah on the high places or local sanctuaries was constantly ex- posed to superstitious corruption and heathen admixture, and so is frequently attacked by the prophets of the eighth century. It was undoubt- | edly under their influence that Hezekiah abol ished the high places. The abolition was not permanent; but in the reign of Josiah, the next | reforming king, we find that the principle of s | single sanctuary can claim the support not only | | with the prophets the task of upholding a lofty | of prophetic teaching, but of a written law-book religious tradition, and not unfrequently both ‘found in the temple, and acknowledged by the characters were united in one person. It was, | high-priest (2 Kings xxii. 23). The legislation in fact, only through the priests that the ideas | of this book corresponds not with the old law in of the prophets could receive public sanction in | Exodus, but with the book of Deuteronomy. But the ordinances of religion, as it was only through perhaps the clearest proof that during the period rulers like David, or Hezekiah, or Jehu, that they | of prophetic inspiration there was no doctrine of could influence the political conduct of affairs. finality with regard to the ritual law any more A just insight into the work of the prophetic | than with regard to religious ideas and doctrines, party in Israel was long rendered difficult by lies in the last chapters of Ezekiel, which sketch traditional prejudices. On the one hand the | at the very era of the Captivity an outline of s& predictive element in prophecy received undue | cred ordinances for the future restoration, From prominence, and withdrew attention from the | these and similar facts, it follows indisputably influence of the prophets on the religious life of | that the true and spiritual religion which the their own time; while, on the other hand, it was | prophets and like-minded priests maintained at assumed, in accordance with Jewish notions, that all the ordinances, and almost, if not quite, all the doctrines of the Jewish church in the post- canonical period, existed from the earliest days of the theocracy. The prophets, therefore, were conceived partly as inspired preachers of old truths, partly as predicting future events, but not as leaders of a great development, in which the religious ordinances as well as the religious be- liefs of the Old Covenant advanced from a rela- tively crude and imperfect to a relatively mature and adequate form. The proof that this latter view, and not the | once against heathenism and against unspiritual worship of Jehovah as a mere national deity without moral attributes, was not a finished but a growing system, not finally embodied in at thoritative documents, but propagated mainly by direct personal efforts. At the same time these personal efforts were accompanied and supported the priestly ordinances were mainly published by what is usually meant by the word law (Torah) no reasonable doubt that the priests pos by the gradual rise of a sacred literature. Though — Ge 2 Oe dee ike ~~ oral decisions of the priests, which are, in feet in writings earlier than the Captivity, there ca® e ; S&S gs w

Page 295

tory, as of ) dur. | exe. crpt ubject cause as to e also law in hip of amuel, ys xix. tly ex. eathen by the h abol- as not he next le of @ ot only w-book by the islation 1 law in ary. But trine of ny more octrines, n sketch e of 8a THE written legal collections of greater or less extent from the time of Moses downward. Again, the example of Ezekiel, and the obvious fact that the law-book found at the time of Josiah contained provisions which were not up to that time an ac- knowledged part of the law of the land, make it probable that legal provisions, which the prophets and their priestly allies felt to be neces- sary for the maintenance of the truth, were often embodied in legislative programmes, by which previous legal tradition was gradually modified. Then the prophets, especially when they failed to produce immediate reformation, began from the eighth century, if not still earlier, to commit their oracles to writing; and these written prophecies—circulating widely in a nation which had attained a high degree of literary culture, ind frequently cited by later seers—disseminated prophetic teaching in a permanent form. Long before this time music and song had been prac- tised in the prophetic circle of Samuel, and were introduced under David into the service of the sanctuary. Another important vehicle of relig- ious instruction was the written history of the nation, which could not fail to be generally set forth in the theocratic spirit in which all loftier Hebrew patriotism had its root. And, indeed, the literary diffusion of spiritual ideas was not confined to the direct efforts of priests and prophets. In spite of the crass and unspiritual character of the mass of the people, the noblest traditions of national life were entwined with re- ligious convictions, and the way in which a prophet, like Amos, could arise untrained from among the herdsmen of the wilderness of Judah, shows how deep and pure a current of spiritual faith flowed among the more thoughtful of the laity. Prophecy itself may, from one point of View, be regarded simply as the brightest efflo- rescence of the lay element in the religion of Israel, the same element which in subjective form underlies many of the Psalms, and in a shape less highly developed tinged the whole proverbial and popular literature of the nation; for in the He- brew commonwealth popular literature had not yet sunk to represent the lowest impulses of na- tional life. Close of the Old Testament Development— Formation of the Canon.—The struggle between spiritual and unspiritual religion was brought to ‘crisis when the prophetic predictions of judg- ment on national sin were fulfilled in the fall of the kingdom of Judah. The merely political vorship of Jehovah as the tutelary God of the BIBLE. 291 the covenant God was impossible except on the principles of spiritual belief. Nor did the resto- ration by Cyrus affect this result. No political future lay before the returning exiles, and con- tinued confidence in the destiny of the race was not separable from the religious ideas and Mes- sianic hopes of the prophets. To obey the law of Jehovah, and patiently to await the coming deliverer, was the only distinctive vocation of the community that gathered in the new Jerusalem ; and after a period of misfortune and failure, in which the whole nation seemed ready to collapse in despair, this vocation was clearly recognized and embodied in permanent institutions in the reformation of Ezra and Nehemiah (445 B. c.). But with this victory the spiritual religion passed into a stationary state. The spirit of prophecy, long decadent, expired with Malachi, the younger contemporary of Nehemiah; and the whole con- cern of the nation from this time downward was simply to preserve the sacred inheritance of the past. The exile had so utterly broken all con- tinuity of national life, that that inheritance could only be sought in the surviving monuments of sacred literature. To these, more than to the expiring voice of prophecy in their midst, the founders of the new theocracy turned for guid- ance. The books that had upheld the exile’s faith, when all outward ordinances of religion were lacking, were also the fittest teachers of the restored community. Previous reformers had been statesmen or prophets. Ezra is a scribe who comes to Jerusalem armed, not with a fresh message from the Lord, but with “ the book of the law of Moses.” This law-book was the Pen- tateuch, and the public recognition of it as the rule of the theocracy was the declaration that the religious ordinances of Israel had ceased to admit of development, and the first step toward the substitution of a canon or authoritative col- lection of scriptures for the living guidance of the prophetic voice. A second step in the same direction is ascribed to Nehemiah by a tradition intrinsically probable, though of no great exter- nal authority. He, it is said, collected a library which, besides documents of temporary impor- tance, embraced “ the books about the kings and prophets, and the writings of David” (2 Macca- bees ii. 13). Certainly a complete body of the re- mains of the prophets, with an authentic account of the history of the period of their activity, must soon have been felt to be scarcely second in im- portance to the law; and so Nehemiah may very well be supposed to have begun the collection state was now reduced to absurdity, Faith in which now forms the second part of the Hebrew

Page 296

292 Prophets, the historical books of Joshua, Judges, | Samuel, Kings (earlier Prophets), and the four | prophetic books of Isaiah, Jeremiah, Ezekiel, and of the twelve minor prophets (/atter Prophets). | The mention of the writings of David implies that | Nehemiah also began the formation of the third | and last part of the Hebrew canon, which com- | prises, under the title of Ketubim (Scriptures, Ha- giographa), the Psalms, Proverbs, Job, the five Megillot or rolls (Canticles, Ruth, Lamentations, | Ecclesiastes, Esther); and, finally, Daniel, Ezra, | Nehemiah, and Chronicles. It is certain, how- | ever, that this part of the collection was not com- | pleted till long after Nehemiah’s time; for to say | nothing of the disputed dates of Ecclesiastes and Daniel, the book of Chronicles contains genealo- | gies which go down at least to the close of the Persian period. The miscellaneous character of | the Ketubim seems, in fact, to show that, after the Law and the Prophets were closed, the third part of the canon was open to receive additions, recommended either by their religious and his- torical value, or by bearing an ancient and ven- erable name. And this was the more natural because the Hagiographa had not the same place in the synagogue service as was accorded to the Law and the Prophets. The time and manner in which the collection was absolutely closed is obscure. The threefold division of the sacred writings is referred to in the “ Prologue to the Wisdom of Sirach” (Eccle- siasticus) about 130 B. c., but Jewish tradition indicates that the full canonicity of several books, especially of Ecclesiastes, was not free from doubt till the time of the famous R. Akiba, who perished in the great national struggle of the Jews with the Emperor Hadrian (Mishna, Jadaim, 3 ; Edaiot, 5). The oldest list of canonical books, given by Josephus (c. Apion., 1. 8), is of somewhat earlier date. Josephus seems to have had quite our present canon; but he took Ruth along with Judges, and viewed Lamentations as part of the book of Jeremiah, thus counting twenty-two books instead of the twenty-four of the Talmudic enumeration, and of the present Hebrew Bible. There is other evidence that only twenty-two books were reckoned by the Jews of the first Christian century ; and it appears that this num- ber was accommodated to that of the letters of the Hebrew alphabet. Even in the time of Je- | | rome, Ruth and Lamentations were not uniform- ly reckoned apart. The expansion of the Talmu- dic twenty-four to the thirty-nine Old Testament books of the English version is effected by reck- THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. Bible, ewbracing, under the general title of the | oning the minor prophets one by one, by sepa. rating Ezra from Nehemiah, and by subdividing the long books of Samuel, Kings, and Chronicles, In this reckoning, and in the very different order of the books, we follow, in the main, the Alex. andrian Greek and Vulgate Latin versions, But the Alexandrian differed from the Hebrew canon in more important points. The line of distine. _ tion between inspired and human writings was not so sharply drawn, and the Greek Bible not only admitted additions to several of the Hagi- ographa, but contained other apocryphal books, of some of which Greek was the original tongue, while others were translations of Hebrew or Ara- maic writings. In turning now to a literary and critical sur. vey of the Old Testament books, we shall find it convenient to depart from the division of the He- brew canon in favor of a classification suggested by the order of the books followed in the English version and in most other transiations. The Old Testament literature is made up of historical, po- etico-didactic, and prophetic writings, and under these three heads we will arrange what remains to be said on the subject. Historical Books —These form two parallel series of sacred history. The books from Gene- sis to Kings give a continuous story (with some episodical additions) from the creation to the fall of the kingdom of Judah. The book of Chronicles covers the same ground on a narrower plan, con- tracting the early history into genealogical lists, and occupying itself almost entirely with the kingdom of Judah, and especially with matters connected with the temple and its worship. The narrative of the chronicler is continued in the books or, rather, book of Ezra and Nehemiah, which incorporates original memoirs of these two reformers, but otherwise is so exactly in the style of the Chronicles that critics are practically agreed in ascribing the whole to a single author, prob- ably a Levite, who, as we have already seen, cal not have written before the close of the Persian Empire. The questions that are raised as to the work of the chronicler belong less to the general history of Biblical literature than to special intro- duction ; we pass on, therefore, to the larger and more important series. The Pentateuch and the so-called earlier prophets form together @ single continuous narrative. It is plain, however, that the whole work is not the uniform produetion of one pen, but that, in some way, a variety of records of different ages and styles have been to form a single narrative. Accordingly, Jewish 3 tradition bears testimony that Moses wrote the

Page 297

Ba rder e825 ne fall nicles 1, COD | lists, h the atters in the se two Pentateuch, Joshua the book named after him, Samuel the book of Judges, and so forth. As all Hebrew history is anonymous—a sure proof that people had not yet learned to lay weight on ques- tions of authorship—it is not probable that this tradition rests on any surer ground than conject- ure; and, of course, a scribe who saw in the sa- cred books the whole outcome of Israel’s history would naturally leap to the conclusion that the father of the Law was the author of the Penta- teuch, and that the other leaders of Israel’s his- tory could not but be the writers of a great part of the Scriptures, A more careful view of the books themselves shows that the actual state of the case is not so simple. In the first place, the limits of the individual books are certainly not the limits of authorship. The Pentateuch, as a law-book, is complete without Joshua, but as a history it is so planned that the latter book is its necessary complement (cf., for example, Exodus xvi. 85; Joshua v. 12; Genesis i. 24, 25; Exo- dus xiii. 19; Joshua xxiv. 32). In truth, an au- thor who wrote after the occupation of Canaan could never have designed a history which should relate all God’s promises to Israel, and say noth- ing of their fulfillment. But, in its present shape, the Pentateuch is certainly subsequent to the oc- cupation, for it uses geographical names which arose after that time (Hebron, Dan), refers to the conquest as already accomplished (Deuteronomy ii, 12, ef. Numbers xv. 32 ; Genesis xii. 6), and even presupposes the existence of a kingship in Israel (Genesis xxxvi. 31). And with this it agrees that, though there are marked differences of style and language within the book of Joshua, each style finds its counterpart in some section ofthe Pentateuch. In the subsequent books we find quite similar phenomena. The last chapters of Judges cannot be separated from the book of Samuel, and the earlier chapters of Kings are obviously one with the foregoing narra- tive; while all three books contain passages strikingly akin to parts of the Pentateuch and Joshua (cf., for example, the book of Deuter- onomy with Joshua xxiii., 1 Samuel xii., 1 Kings vii,). Such phenomena not only prove the futility of any attempt to base a theory of au- thorship on the present division into books, but suggest that the history as we have it is not oe narrative carried on from age to age by suc- cessive additions, but a fusion of several narra- ives which partly covered the same ground and "ere combined into unity by an editor, This vew is supported by the fact, that even as it tow stands the history sometimes gives more THE BIBLE. 293 than one account of the same event, and that the Pentateuch often gives several laws on the same subject. Of the latter we have already had one example, but for our present argument the main point is not diversity of enactment, which may often be only apparent, but the ex- istence within the Pentateuch of distinct groups of laws partly taking up the same topics. Thus the legislation of Exodus xx.-xxiii. is partly re- peated in chapter xxxiv., and on the passover and feast of unleavened bread we have at least six laws, which, if not really discordant, are at least so divergent in form and conception that they cannot be all from the same pen (Exodus xii. 1 —28; xiii, 3-10; xxiii. 15; xxxiv. 18; Leviticus xxiii. 5-14; Deuteronomy xvi.). Of historical duplicates the most celebrated are the twofold history of the creation and the flood, to which we must recur presently. The same kind of thing is found in the later books; for example, in the account of the way in which Saul became king, where it is scarcely possible to avoid the conclusion that 1 Samuel xi. 1-11 should attach directly to chapter x. 16 (¢f. x. 7). But the ex- tent to which the historical books are mace up of parallel narratives which, though they cover the same period, do not necessarily record the same events, was first clearly seen after Astruc (1753 a. D.) observed that the respective uses of Jehovah (Lord) and Elohim (God) as the name of the Deity afford a criterion by which two documents can be dissected out of the book of Genesis. That the way in which the two names are used can only be due to difference of authorship is now generally admitted, for the alter- nation corresponds with such important duplicates as the two accounts of creation, and is regularly accompanied through a great part of the book by unmistakable peculiarities of language and thought, so that it is still possible to reconstruct at least the Elohim document with a complete- ness which makes its original independence and homogeneity matter of direct observation. The character of this narrative is annalistic; and, where other material fails, blanks are supplied by genealogical lists. Great weight is laid on orderly development, and the name Jehovah is avoided in the history of the patriarchs in order to give proper contrast to the Mosaic period (cf. Genesis xvii. 1; Exodus vi. 3); and, accordingly, we find that the unmistakable secondary marks of this author run through the whole Pentateuch and Joshua, though the exclusive use of Elohim ceases at Exodus vi. Of course the disappear- ance of this criterion makes it less easy to carry

Page 298

294 THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. on an exact reconstruction of the later parts of | as well as the beginning of Kings. To the mod. the document; but on many points there can be | ern mind this part of the narrative, which is rich no uncertainty, and it is clearly made out that | in color and detail, is by far the most interesting, the author has strong priestly tendencies, and | and it is with sincere regret that we pass at devotes a very large proportion of his space to | 1 Kings xi. to a division of the history for which liturgical matters. The separation of this docu- | the chief sources—cited as the Chronicles of the ment may justly be called the point of departure of positive criticism of the sources of the Old Testament; and present controversy turns main- ly on its relation to other parts of the Pentateuch. Of these the most important are—1. The Jeho- vistic narrative, which also begins with the cre- ation, and treats the early history more in the spirit of prophetic theology and idealism; con- | taining, for example, the narrative of the fall, and the parts of the history of Abrabam which | are most important for Old Testament theology. That this narrative is not a mere supplement to the other, but an independent whole, appears most plainly in the story of the flood, where two distinct accounts have certainly been interwoven by a third hand. 2. Many of the finest stories in Genesis, especially great part of the history of Joseph, agree with the Elohim document in the name of God, but are widely divergent in | Kings of Israel and Judah respectively — treat almost exclusively of the outer political life of the nation. In striking contrast to the uniform. | ity of this narrative are the interspersed his. | tories of Elijah and other northern prophets, These histories are very remarkable in style and | even in language; and, containing some of the noblest passages of the Old Testament, form one of many proofs of the unusual literary genius of the kingdom of Ephraim. But how are these various narratives related to each other? This | question is not easy to answer, In general, the third or lay element of the history seems to | Stand nearest to the events recorded, and even, | perhaps, to form the direct basis of the propheti- | eal matter; while, occasionally, old lists of names | and places, poetico-historical pieces, and the like, | form a still deeper stratum in the story (poetical pieces in the look of the wars of Jehovah, Num- | other respects, Since the researches of Hupfeld, a third author, belonging to northern Israel, and specially interested in the ancestors of the north- ern tribes, is generally postulated for these sec- tions. His literary individuality is, in truth, sharply marked, though the limits of his con- tributions to the Pentateuch are obscure. It will be remembered that we have already seen that three currents of influence run through the Old Testament development—the traditional lore of the priests, the teaching of the prophets, and the religious life of the more enlightened of | ics; but the Levitical or Elohistie history is the the people. Now, in the three main sections | subject of violent controversy, which, however, of the early history just enumerated we find the | turns mainly on the analysis of the legal parts of counterpart of each of these. The priestly nar- | the Pentateuch. These contain other elements rative of the Elohist, the prophetic delineation | besides those already enumerated, of which we of the Jehovist, the more picturesque and pop- | need only mention the brief code which follows ular story of the third author, embody three | the Decalogue in Exodus xx.—xxiii, and te tendencies, which are not merely personal but | great repetition of the law in a prophetic spirit national, and which constantly reappear in other | which occupies the major part of Deuteronomy. parts of Hebrew literature. Up to the book of ; Both these codes may be called popular in tone Joshua all three run side by side. But the | They are precepts not for the priests, but for the priestly interest found little scope in the subse- | whole people; and the former is the fundamental quent history; and from the time of the Judges | sketch of the whole theocratic constitution, we can generally distinguish only sections marked | which the latter develops and to some extent by prophetic pragmatism, and others which, | alters. Now, the book of Deuteronomy presents though distinctly religious and even theocratic, | a quite distinct type of style which, as has been are, so to speak, written from a layman’s stand- | already mentioned, recurs from time to time in point. The latter comprise a large part of | passages of the later books, and that in such & Judges, and by far the greatest part of Samuel, connection as to suggest to many critics since | bers xxi. 14; book of Jasher [the upright], Joshua | x. 13; 2 Samuel i. Lists like 2 Samuel xxiii), Whether the same hands or only the same ten- dencies as appear in the non-Levitical parts of Genesis run on as far as the book of Kings, is a question which, though answered in the affirma- tive by Schrader and others, cannot be viewed as decided. Even the date of these elements of the Pentateuch is obscure ; but, in the eighth cen- | tury Hosea refers quite clearly to passages of both. | Thus far there is tolerable agreement among crit- Fe 3

Page 299

8 rich sting, ss at which of the ife of iform- d his. phets, le and of the ™ one ius of al, the ms to even, »pheti- e like, _ Num- Joshua 1€ ten- arts of 8, is a viewed nts of th cen- if both.. ag crit- wever, Graf the idea that the Deuteronomic hand is the hand of the last editor of the whole history from Genesis to Kings, or, at least, of the non-Leviti- cal parts thereof. This conclusion is not strin- gent, for a good deal may be said in favor of the view that the Deuteronomic style, which is very capable of imitation, was adopted by writers of different periods. But even so it is difficult to suppose that the legislative part of Deuteronomy is as old as Moses. If the law of the kingdom in Deuteronomy xvii. was known in the time of THE BIBLE. 295 torical books uncertain. The Levitical laws give a graduated hierarchy of priests and Levites; Deuteronomy regards all Levites as at least pos- sible priests. Round this difference, and points allied to it, the whole discussion turns, We know, mainly from Ezekiel xliv., that before the Exile the strict hierarchical law was not in force, apparently never had been in force. But can we suppose that the very idea of such a hier- archy is the latest point of liturgical develop- ment? If so, the Levitical element is the latest the Judges, it is impossible to comprehend | thing in the Pentateuch, or, in truth, in the his- Judges viii. 23, and, above all, 1 Samuel viii. 7. That the law of high places given in this part of torical series to which the Pentateuch belongs ; or, on the opposite view, the hierarchic theory the Pentateuch was not acknowledged till the | existed as a legal programme long before the Ex- time of Josiah, and was not dreamed of by Sam- ile, though it was fully carried out only after Ezra. uel and Elijah, we have already seen. The Deu- As all the more elaborate symbolic observances teronomic law is fam:liar to Jeremiah, the young- er contemporary of Josiah, but is referred to by no prophet of earlier date. And the whole the- ological standpoint of the book agrees exactly with the period of prophetic literature, and gives the highest and most spiritual view of the law, to which our Lord himself directly attaches his teaching, and which cannot be placed at the be- ginning of the theocratic development without making the whole history unintelligible. Be- | | j of the ritual law are bound up with the hierar- chical ordinances, the solution of this problem has issues of the greatest importance for the theology as well as for the literary history of the Old Testament. And now a single word on the way in which these various elements, mirroring so many sides of the national life, and dating from so various ages, came to be fused into a single history, and yet retained so much of their own identity. The yond doubt the book is, as already hinted, a pro- | Semitic genius does not at all lie in the direction phetic legislative programme ; and, if the author put his work in the mouth of Moses instead of giving it, with Ezekiel, a directly prophetic form, he did so, not in pious fraud, but simply because his object was not to give a new law, but to ex- pound and develop Mosaic principles in relation to new needs. And, as ancient writers are not accustomed to distinguish historical data from historical deductions, he naturally presents his views in dramatic form in the mouth of Moses, If, then, the Deuteronomic legislation is not ear- seventh centuries, and, accordingly, is subsequent to the elements of the Pentateuchal history which we have seen to be known to Hosea, it is plain that the chronology of the composition of the Penta- teuch may be said to centre in the question wheth- er the Levitico-Elohistic document, which em- braces most of the laws in Leviticus with large parts of Exodus and Numbers, is earlier or later than Deuteronomy. The answer to this question turns almost wholly on archzological inquiries, for there is, perhaps, no quite conclusive reference to the Elohistic record in the prophets before the Exile, or in Deuteronomy itself. And here arises the great dispute which divides critics, and makes our whole construction of the origin of the his- : | of organic structure. In architecture, in poetry, in history, the Hebrew adds part to part instead of developing a single notion. The temple was an aggregation of small cells, the longest Psalm is an acrostic, and so the longest Biblical history is a stratification and not an organism. This process was facilitated by the habit of anony- mous writing, and the accompanying lack of all notion of anything like copyright. If a man copied a book it was his to add and modify as ; he pleased, and he was not in the least bound to lier than the prophetic period of the eighth and | distinguish the old from the new. If he had two books before him to which he attached equal worth, he took large extracts from both, and harmonized them by such additions or modi- fications as he felt to be necessary. But in default of a keen sense for organic unity very little harmony was sought in points of internal structure, though great skill was often shown, as in the book of Genesis, in throwing the whole material into a balanced scheme of external ar- rangement. On such principles minor narratives were fused together one after the other, and at length in exile a final rédacteur completed the great work, on the first part of which Ezra based his reformation, while the latter part was thrown into the second canon. The curious combina-

Page 300

296 THE POPULAR SCIENCE tion of the functions of copyist and author which is here presupposed did not wholly disap- pear till a pretty late date; and where, as in the books of Samuel, we have two recensions of the text, one in the Hebrew and one in the Septuagint translation, the discrepancies are of such a kind that criticism of the text and analysis of its sources are separated by a scarcely perceptible line. Poetical Books.—The origin of some leading | peculiarities of Hebrew poetry has been recently referred to by Assyriologists to Accadian models ; but, however this may be, the key to the whole development of the poetical literature of Israel is found in the same psychological character- | istics of the race which are impressed on the vocabulary and grammatical structure of the lan- guage. passionate, almost incapable of expressing an abstract idea, or depicting a complex whole with repose and symmetry of parts, but fit to set forth with great subtilty individual phases of Nature or feeling. It is the speech of a nation whose naturally quick perceptions minister to an emo- | tional temperament and an imperious will, which subordinates knowledge to action and desire, and habitually contemplates the universe through the medium of personal feeling or practical purpose. To speak with the philosophers, the Hebrew character is one of predominant subjectivity, eager to reduce everything to a personal stand- ard, swift to seize on all that touches the feelings or bears directly on practical wants, capable of intense effort and stubborn persistence where the motive to action is personal affection or desire, but indisposed to theoretical views, unfit for con- templation of things as they are in themselves apart from relation to the thinker. In the poetry of such a nation the leading current must neces- sarily be lyrical, for the lyric is the natural vehicle of intense and immediate personal feeling. The ear- liest Hebrew poems are brief, pregnant expressions of a single idea, full of the fire of passion, full, too, of keen insight into Nature, in her power to awake or sustain human emotion; but record- ing this insight not with the pictorial fullness of Western art, but in swift, half-formed outlines, in metaphor. piled on metaphor, without regard to any other principle of proportion or veri- similitude than the emotional harmony of each broken figure with the dominant feeling. Such a poetry could not but find its highest scope in the service of spiritual religion. The songs in Exodus xv. and Judges v. prove the early origin of a theocratic poetry; but the proper period : P | The Hebrew tongue is sensuous, mobile,

MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. | its history is practically the history of the Psalter, Here, as in the case of the historical books, we have to begin by questioning the tradition contained in the titles, which aseribe seventy-three Psalms to David, and besides him name as authors _ Asaph, the sons of Korah, Solomon, Moses, Heman, Ethan. Again the tendency is to refer as much ag possible to familiar names. There is no reason to believe that any title is as old as the Psalm to which it is prefixed, and some titles are certainly wrong; for example, the author of the elegy on Saul and Jonathan could not possibly have writ. ten Psalor lxxxvi., which is a mere cento of rem- iniscences from other poems. On the other hand, the titles are not purely arbitrary. They seem to supply useful hints as to the earlier collections from which our present Psalter was made up, The Korahite and Asaphite Psalms may probably ‘ have been derived from collections in the hands of these families of singers; and the so-called “Psalms of David” were very likely from col lections which really contained poems by David and other early singers. The assertion that no Psalm is certainly David's is hyper-skeptical, and few remains of ancient literature have an author. ship so well attested as the eighteenth or even _as the seventh Psalm. These, along with the in- | dubitably Davidic poems in the book of Samuel, give a sufficiently clear image of a very unique | genius, and make the ascription of several other poems to David extremely probable. So, too, a very strong argument claims Psalm ii, for Solo mon, and in later times we have sure landmarks in the Psalms of Habakkuk (Habakkuk iii.) and Hezekiah (Isaiah xxxviii.), But the greater part , of the lyrics of the Old Testament remain anony- ' mous, and we can only group the Psalms in broad masses, distinguished by diversity of historical ' situation and by varying degrees of freshness and personality. As a rule the older Psalms are the most personal, and are not written for the “congregation, but flow from a present necessity of individual (though not individualistic) spiritual life. This current of productive psalmody rans | apparently from David down to the Exile, losing | in the course of centuries something of its original | freshness and fire, but gaining a more chastened | pathos and a wider range of spiritual sympathy. Psalm li., obviously composed during the desola | tion of the temple, marks, perhaps, the last phase | of this development. The epoch of the returm | was still not without poetic freshness, as some | prove.

t if o the so-called “Songs of Degrees” (Pilgrim Songs?) But on the whole the Psalms of these" of Hebrew psalmody begins with David, and | ond temple are only reflections of od ideas, cast

or => =—— —-— «<« on -_ an a. _s

Page 301

ined aims hors ch as im to ainly 24is up. at no unony- torical shness ms are or the ly rans riginal stened t phase ome of | songs?) hee iy ve a THE BIBLL. 297 mainly in directly liturgical form, or at least em- ! (Judges ix. 8; 2 Kings xiv. 8), sometimes as the bodying the experience of the nation rather than natural vehicle of general moral teaching. The of the individual. The date of the latest Psalms greatest name in the early proverbial wisdom of Is- jsmuch disputed. Most lines of evidence suggest | rael is that of Solomon (1 Kings iv. 32), and, be- that the collection was complete before the latest yond doubt, many of his aphorisms are to be found books of the canon were written, but many exposi- inthe book of Proverbs. Yet this book is not all tors find in individual Psalms (xliv., Ixxiv., Ixxix., | Solomonic. The last two chapters are ascribed Ixxxiii., etc.) clear traces of the Maccabee age. ' to other names, and part of the collection was Through the whole period of Hebrew lyric po- | not put in shape till the time of Hezekiah (xxv. etry, represented not only by the Psalter, butbythe 1), who can have had no infallible criterion of Lamentations, traditionally ascribed to Jeremiah, | _ authorship by Solomon, and must not be credited and by various scattered pieces in Prophets (e.g., with critical intentions. In truth, the several Isaiah xii.) and in historical books (e. g., Num- | sections of the book are varied enough in color bers xxi. 17; 1 Samuel ii.), there is little change to make it plain that we have before us the es- in form and poetic structure. From first to last | sence of the wisdom of centuries, while the in- the rhythm consists not in a rise and fall of ac- ' troductory address in chapters i-ix. shows how cent or quantity of syllables, but in a pulsation a later age learned to develop the gnomic style, of sense, rising and falling through the parallel, | so as to fit it for longer compositions, The funda- antithetic, or otherwise balanced members of | mental type of Hebrew philosophy remains, how- each verse (so-called Hebrew parallelism ; better, ever, unchanged, even in the book of Ecclesiastes, sense-rhythm). Beyond this one law of rhythm, which bears every mark of a very late date, long which is itself less an artificial rule than anatural after the Exile. On the other hand a fresh and expression of the principle, that all poetic utter- | creative development, alike in point of form and ance must proceed in harmonious undulation, and | of thought, is found in the book of Job, which, not in the spasm of unmodulated passion, the in grandly dramatic construction, and with won- Hebrew poet was subject to no code of art, derful discrimination of character in the several though strophical arrangements, sometimes speakers, sums up the whole range of Hebrew marked by a refrain, are not uncommon; while | speculation on the burning question of Old Tes- poems of acrostic structure (alphabetic Psalms) tament religion, the relation of affliction to the are found not exclusively in the most recent lit- | justice and goodness of God and to the personal erature (Psalms ix., x., form a single undoubtedly | merit and demerit of the sufferer. Like the other old acrostic). The later are on the whole longer | noblest parts of the Old Testament, the book of than the earlier poems. But this is due not to | Job has a comparatively early date. It was increased constructive power, but to a diffuser | known to Jeremiah, and may be plausibly re- style, a less vigorous unity of feeling and thought, | ferred to the seventh century B. c. and a tendency to ring many variations on one In the book of Job we find poetical invention key. A wider range of artistic power appears in | of incidents, attached for didactic purposes to a the Song of Solomon, a lyrical drama, in which, | name apparently derived from old tradition. according to most critics, the pure love of the | There is no valid a priori reason for denying that Shulamite for her betrothed is exhibited as vic- | the Old Testament may contain other examples torious over the seductions of Solomon and his | of the same art. The book of Jonah is gener- harem. As the motive of the piece is political as | ally viewed as a case in point. Esther, too, has Well as ethical, it is most naturally assigned to | been viewed as a fiction by many who are not the early period of the northern kingdom. over-skeptical critics ; but, on this view, a book The remaining poetical books of the Old Tes- | which finds no recognition in the New Testament, tament belong to a different category. Unfit for _ and whose canonicity was long suspected by the abstract speculation, valuing no wisdom that is Christian, as well as by the Jewish Church, must hot practical, and treasuring up such wisdom in | sink to the rank of an apocryphal production. Sententious rhythmical form—enforced by symbol | In the poetical, as in the historical books, and metaphor, and warm with the breath of hu- anonymous writing is the rule; and, along with man interest—the Hebrew is a poet even in his | this, we observe great freedom on the part of Philosophy. Side by side with the ode the ear- | readers and copyists, who not only made verbal liest Hebrew literature shows us the Mashal, or | changes (cf. Psalm xiv. with Psalm liii.), but timilitude, sometimes in the form of biting epi- | composed new poems out of fragments of others gram (Numbers xxi, 27, J?) or sarcastic parable (Psalm cviii. with lvii. and Ix.). In a large part

Page 302

298 THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. of the Psalter a later hand has systematically | tles of the several prophecies of which they are substituted Elohim for Jehovah, and an imper- | made up. But is it safe to assume that every fect acrostic, like Psalms ix., x., cannot have pro- | anonymous prophecy in these books must be by ceeded in its present form from the first author. | the author of the next preceding prophecy which Still more remarkable is the case of the book of has a title? Certainly any such assumption can Job, in which the speeches of Elihu quite break only be provisional, and may be overthrown by the connection, and are almost universally as- internal evidence. But internal evidence of date, signed to a later hand. it is said, cannot apply to prophetic books in } | Prophetical Books —We have already seen | which the author looks in a supernatural way that the earliest prophecies of certain date are into the future. The value of this argument of the eighth century, though there is a proba- | must be tested by looking more closely at the bility that Joel flourished in the ninth century, in | actual contents of the prophetic books. The the reign of Joash of Judah, and that the open- | prophecies contain: 1. Reproof of present sin; ing verses of Amos are cited from his book. On | 2. Exhortation to present duty; 8. Encourage. the other hand, the old school of prophecy, whose | ment to the godly and threatening to the wicked, members, from Samuel to Elisha, were men of ac- | based on the certainty of God’s righteous pur. tion rather than of letters, was not likely to leave | pose. In this last connection prophecy is pre- behind it any written oracles. The prophets | dictive. It lays hold of the ideal elements of the generally spoke under the immediate influence of | theocratic conception, and depicts the way in the spirit or “hand of Jehovah.” What they | which, by God's grace, they shall be actually real- wrote was secondary, and was, no doubt, greatly | ized in a Messianic age, and in a nation purified by abridged. The most instructive account of the | judgment and mercy. But in all this the prophet literary activity of a prophet is given in Jeremiah | starts from present sin, present needs, present xxxvi. Jeremiah did not begin to write till he | historical situations, There is no reason to think had been more than twenty years a prophet. | that a prophet ever received a revelation which Some prophetic books, like that of Amos, seem | was not spoken directly and pointedly to his own to have been composed at one time and with | time. If we find, then, that, after the propheey unity of plan, Other prophets, like Isaiah, pub- | of Zechariah i.-viii., which is complete in itself, lished several books summing up portions of their ; there begins at chapter ix. a new oracle, quite ministry. In one or two cases, especially in that | distinct in subject and style, which speaks of am of Ezekiel, the prophet writes oracles which were | alliance between Judah and Israel as a thing sub- apparently never spoken. Before the Exile there | sisting in the prophet’s own time, which knows was circulation of individual prophetic books, | no oppressor later than Assyria and Egypt, and and earlier prophets quote from their predeces- | rebukes forms of idolatry that do not appear af sors. But the task of collecting and editing the | ter the Exile; if, in short, the whole prophecy be remains of the prophets was hardly undertaken | comes luminous when it is placed a little after till the commencement of the second canon ; and | the time of Hosea, and remains absolutely dark by this time, no doubt, many writings had been | if it is ascribed to Zechariah—we are surely enti- lost, others were more or less fragmentary, and | tled to let it speak for itself. When the prince the tradition of authorship was not always com. | ple is admitted, other applications follow, mainly plete. It was, indeed, more important to have | in the book of Isaiah, where the anonymous chap- an oracle authenticated by the name of its au- | ters xl.-Ixvi. cannot be understood in a natural thor than to know the writer of a history or a | and living way except by looking at them from psalm, and many prophets seem to have prefixed | the historical standpoint of the Exile. Thea their names to their works. But other prophe- | arises a further question whether all titles are cies are quite anonymous, and prophets who quote | certainly authentic and conclusive; and here, earlier oracles never give the author's name. | too, it is difficult to answer by an absolute af- (A famous case occurs, Isaiah xv., xvi, where in | firmative. For example, in Isaiah xxx. 6 the ti- xvi. 13, for since that time, read long ago.) Now, | tle, “The burden of the beasts of the south,” all the remains of prophecy, whether provided | interrupts the connection in a most violent way with titles or not, were ultimately arranged in , This is not a solitary instance, but, on the whole, four books, the fourth of which names, in sepa- | the titles are far more trustworthy in the rate titles, twelve authors; while the first three | cies than in the Psalms, and partly on this se books are named after Isaiah, Jeremiah, Ezekiel, count, but mainly from the direct historical beat and actually mention no other names in the ti- ing of prophetic teaching, we can frame & Come

Page 303

ey are every which yn can wn by f date, oks in il way ument at the it sin; yurage- vicked, 8 pur- is pre- 3 of the way in ly real- fied by prophet present ‘0 think | which his own ropheey n itself, e, quite s of an 1 knows ypt, and ypear af hecy be- tle after ely dark ely enti- olute af lent way- he whole, 1 this 8 ‘ical beat pe & Colle pleter history of written prophecy than of any other part of Old Testament literature. We have, on the one hand, a series of prophets— Amos, Hosea, and the anonymous author of Zechariah ix.-xi.—who preached in the northern kingdom, but are not descendants of the school of Elisha, which had so decayed under court fa- vor from the dynasty of Jehu that Amos had to be sent from the wilderness of Judah to take up again the forgotten Word of the Lord. In Ju- dah proper we have the great Assyrian prophets, Isaiah, with his younger contemporary Micah, the powerful supporters of the reformation of Heze- kiah, laboring, one in the capital, the other in the country district of the Philistine border. To the Assyrian period belongs also Nahum, who wrote, perhaps, in captivity, and foretold the fall of Nineveh. Then comes Zephaniah, about the time of the Scythian ravages, followed by the prophets of the Chaldean period, first Habakkuk, and then Jeremiah and Ezekiel, men of a heavier spirit and less glowing poetic fire than Isaiah, no longer upholding the courage of Judah in the struggle with the empire of the East, but predict- ing the utter dissolution of existing things, and finding hope only in a new covenant—a new theocracy. In the period of Exile more than one anonymous prophet raised his voice ; for not only the “ Great Unnamed ” of Isaiah xl.-Ixvi., but the authors of other Babylonian prophecies, are prob- ably to be assigned to this time. In the new hope of deliverance, the poetic genius, as well as the spiritual insight of prophecy, awakes to fresh life, and sets forth the mission of the new Israel to carry the knowledge of the Lord to all nations. But the spirit of the new Jerusalem had little in common with these aspirations ; and in Haggai, Zechariah, and Malachi, prophecy retains not much of its old power, except an uncompromis- ing moral earnestness. The noble poetry of the old prophets, which even in the time of Eze- kiel had begun to give way to plain prose, finds no counterpart in these latest oracles; and im- aginative power is shown, where it still exists, in the artificial structure of symbolic visions. No important new ideas are set forth, and even the tone of moral exhortation sometimes reminds us more of the rabbinical maxims of the fathers in the Mishna than of the prophetic teaching of the eighth century. And, as if the spirit of prophecy foresaw its own dissolution, Malachi looks not to the continued succession of prophets, but to the THE BIBLE. 299 of Daniel, which, whether composed in the early years of the Persian Empire, or, as modern critics hold, at the time of the Maccabee wars, presents 80 many points of diversity from ordinary prophe- cy as to require entirely separate treatment. It is in point of form the precursor of the apocalyp- tic books of post-canonical Judaism, though in its intrinsic qualities fur superior to these, and akin to the prophets proper. Further History of the Old Testament Canon in the Jewish Church.—Under this head we con- fine ourselves to points which lead up to the re- ception of the Old Testament by Christendom, These are mainly two: 1. The history of the Hebrew text, which we now possess only in the recension established by Jewish scribes at a time later than the Christian era; 2. The history of those versions which arose among Jews, but have influenced Christendom. The Text of the Old Testament.—Sewitic alpha- bets have no full provision for distinguishing vow- els ; and the oldest writing, before orthography became fixed, was negligent in the use even of such vowel-letters as exist. For a long time, then, not only during the use of the old Pheeni- cian character, but even after the more modern square or Babylonian letters were adopted, the written text of the Bible was consonantal only, leaving a certain scope for variety of pronuncia- tion and sense. But even the consonantal text was not absolutely fixed. The loose state of the laws of spelling, and the great similarity of sev- eral letters, made errors of copying frequent. The text of Micah, for example, is often unintelligible, and many hopeless errors are older than the old- est versions. But, up to the time of the Alexen- drian version, MSS. were in circulation which differed not merely by greater or less accuracy of transcription, but by presenting such differ- ences of recension as could not arise by accident. The Greek text of Jeremiah is vastly different from that of the Hebrew Bible, and it is not cer- tain that the latter is always best. In the books of Samuel the Greek enables us to correct many blunders of the Hebrew text, but shows at the same time that copyists used great freedom with details of the text. For the Pentateuch we have, in the copies of the Samaritans, a third recen- sion, often but not always closely allied to the Greek. The three recensions show important variations in the chronology of Genesis; and it is remarkable that the book of Jubilees,a Jewish return of Elijah, as the necessary preparation | treatise, which cannot be much older than the for the day of the Lord. In this sketch of the | Christian era, perhaps not much older than the Prophetic writings we find no place for the book | destruction of the Jewish state, sometimes agrees

Page 304

800 THE POPULAR SCIENCE with the Samaritan or with the Alexandrian re- cension. Up to this time, then, there was no ab- solutely received text. But soon after the Chris- tian era all this was changed, and, by a process which we cannot follow in detail, a single recen- cion became supreme. The change was, no doubt, connected with the rise of an overdrawn and fan- tastic system of interpretation, which found les. | sons in the smallest peculiarity of the text; but Lagarde has made it probable that no critical pro- cess was used to fix the standard recension, and that all existing MSS. are derived from a single archetype, which was followed even in its marks | of deletion and other accidental peculiarities (La. | garde, Anmerkungen zur griech. Uebersetzung der Prov., 1863, p. 1; ef. Néldeke in Hilgenfeld’s Zeitschr., 1873, p. 445). Then the received text became the object of further care, and the Mas- | orets, or “possessors of tradition,” with regard to the text, handed down a body of careful direc- tions as to the true orthography and pronuncia- tion. The latter was fixed by the gradual inven- tion of subsidiary marks for the vowels, etc., an | invention developed in slightly divergent forms in the Babylonian and Palestinian schools of Jewish scholarship. The vowel-points were not known to Jerome, but the system was complete before the ninth century, presumably several hundred years before that time. All printed Bibles follow the Western punctuation, but old Karaite MSS., with the Babylonian vowels, exist, and are now in course of publication. It is from the Masoretic text, with Masoretic punctuation, that the Eng- lish version and most Protestant translations are derived. Older Christian versions, so far as they | are based on the Hebrew at all (Jerome’s Latin, Syriac), at least follow pretty closely the received consonantal text. Jewish Versions.—Versions of the Old Testa- | ment became necessary partly because the Jews | of the Western Dispersion adopted the Greek language, partly because even in Palestine the Old Hebrew was gradually supplanted by Ara- maic. was in Egypt, and here arose the Alexandrian version, commonly known as the Septuagint or version of the LXX., from a fable that it was composed, with miraculous circumstances, by seventy-two Palestinian scholars summoned to Egypt by Ptolemy Philadelphus. In reality there can be no doubt that the version was gradually completed by several authors and at different times. The whole is probably older than the middle of the second century B.c. We have al- ready seen that the text that lay before the trans- The chief seat of the Hellenistic Jews | MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. lators was in many parts not that of the present _ Hebrew. The execution is by no means uniform, "and, though there are many good renderings, the defects are so numerous that the Greek-speaki Jews, as well as the large section of the Christian Church which long depended directly or indirect- ly on this version, were in many places quite shut out from a right understanding of the Old Testa. ment. Nevertheless, the authority of the version | Was very great, its inspiration was often asserted, ' and its interpretations exercised a great influence | on Jewish and Christian thought, though among | the Jews it was to a certain extent displaced by | the version of the proselyte Aquila (second cen- | tury of our era), which followed with slavish ex. actness the letter of the Hebrew text. Among the Jews who spoke Aramaic, trans. lations into the vernacular accompanied, instead of supplanting, the use of the original text, which was read and then orally paraphrased in the | Synagogues by interpreters or Methurgemanim, | who used great freedom of embellishment and application. This practice naturally led to the formation of written Targums, or Aramaic trans- ‘lations, which have not, however, reached us in ‘at all their earliest form. It used, indeed, to be supposed that the simple and literal Targum of Onkelos on the Pentateuch was earlier than the time of Christ. But recent inquirers have been led to see in it, and in the linguistically cognate Targum on the Prophets (Targum of Jonathan), products of the Babylonian schools, in which the freedom of the early paraphrastic method was carefully avoided. Upon this view the date of these Targums is some centuries after the Chris- ‘tian era. On the other hand, an older style of paraphrase is preserved in the Palestinian Tar | gums, which nevertheless contain in their present form elements later than the Babylonian versions, The Targum of Pseudo-Jonathan on the Penta- teuch is apparently the latest form of the free Palestinian version, full of legendary adornments ‘and other additions to the text. Other frag- ments of Palestinian translation, known as the Jerusalem Targum, and referring to individual passages of the Pentateuch and Prophets, prob- ably represent an earlier stage in the growth of ‘the Arameic versions. There are also Targums on the Hagiographa, which, however, have less importance, and do not seem to have had 80 _changeful a history. The Targums as a whole do not offer much to the textual critic. They are important, partly from the insight they give we “an early and in part pre-Christian exegesis, from their influence on later Jewish expositors, —

Page 305

form, 8, the aking lirect- e shut Testa- ersion erted, juence ed by d cen- sh ex- which in the at and ividual ve less hole do hey are ive into and through them on Christian versions and ex- positions. In some cases the literal or Babylo- nian Targums have a text differing from the Mas- oretic. But it is not unlikely that, if we hada ANOTHER LESSON FROM THE RADIOMETER. 301 satisfactory text of the Targums (toward which almost nothing has hitherto been done), these variations would find their explanation in the Eastern text and the Assyrian punctuation. ANOTHER LESSON FROM THE RADIOMETER. By WILLIAM CROOKES, F. R. 8. , pe great aim of the writer who criticises or popularizes scientific discoveries should be accuracy. He who misrepresents, and then re- futes, not what has been really advanced by the author, but what has been foisted upon him, lays himself open to the gravest censure. The business of the critic is to investigate, to digest, and then to describe, briefly perhaps, but so as not to lead astray. If there are before him errors of fact, let them be pointed out; if false conclusions, let them be refuted. No mistake in doctrine or method, in matter or manner, should be passed over. On the other hand, the critic should re- member that experimental research is necessa- rily and slowly progressive, and that the early provisional hypothesis has to be modified, ad- justed, perhaps altogether abandoned, in defer- ence to later observations. We do not censure the dawn for not being full daylight, nor should an author's more advanced researches be used to condemn and to discredit his first gropings after truth, In an “age of research ” it is of consequence, too, that the work of critical examination should be intrusted to competent hands. And who should interpret to the public the results of the investigator? There is but one answer to this question. The only fully competent authority is 4 specialist versed in the department he under- takes to criticise. He only is adequately alive to what has previously been done, and can best es- timate the difficulties that beset a complicated inquiry. He alone can pronounce most authori- tatively on the validity of the methods employed, can appreciate the solutions arrived at, and can point out the collateral issues opened up. There should be specialists and specialists, and a spe. cialist trained in one department is rarely fitted to Pronounce upon the work of a specialist in an- other and totally distinct department. The April number of the Nineteenth Century contains an article bearing the signature of Dr. W. B. Carpenter, and ostensibly treating of the “ Radiometer and its Lessons,” The description of the instrument itself and of its reception in scientific circles contains little perhaps openly or strikingly erroneous, but unfortunately Dr. Car- penter has endeavored to combine matters which have no possible connection with the radiome- ter; moreover, the omissions and inaccuracies which occur in his historical review of my experi- ments and published researches on the subject would seem to deprive his inferences and conclu- sions of any value which they otherwise might have possessed. We are told’ that when the theory of the ra- diometer was under discussion at the Royal So- ciety Prof. Stokes confined himself to the state- ment that “such mechanical action must lie out- side the undulatory theory, which deals only with light as light—i. e., as producing visual phenome- na.” The last four words are added by Dr. Car- penter to the observations of Prof. Stokes. That the undulatory theory gives no account of the phenomena of light, save so far as they are con- nected with the vision of man and animals, is, to say the least, a startling revelation. Again, we read * that when the movement of the radiometer was discussed “it was noticed by several as anomalous, that the black should be the “driving” side of the disks, since it might have been anticipated that the mechanical action of light would manifest itself in pushing away the surface from which its rays are reflected, and that the surface into which they are absorbed would move toward the source from which the rays emanate.” Dr. Carpenter here omits the explanation of this apparent anomaly given by me at the Royal Society, and accepted as satisfactory by the eminent physicists present, to the effect that the rays falling on the white surface are simply reflected off without doing any work ; but the rays falling on the black surface iP. 244. 2 Ibid.

Page 306

802 are absorbed, and their energy, disappearing in | its original form, reappears as mechanical mo- tion. Dr. Carpenter next affirms! that I committed | myself “ explicitly to the doctrine that the radi- ometer is driven by light.” Later on I am ac- | cused of showing some lingering unwillingness to surrender this position; and I am then gravely censured for not knowing that heat causes the movement of the radiometer. Now, what are the facts? Let my own written words speak for | me. In 1873 I published* the description of an | experiment proving that every ray of the spec- | trum produced repulsion: the maximum action being in the extreme red. In March, 1875, I wrote ; * Although I most frequently speak of repul- sion by heat, it must be clearly understood that these results are not confined to the heating rays of the spectrum, but that any ray, from the ultra- red to the ultra-violet, will produce repulsion in a vacuum.” So much for my earlier ideas on this subject. What are my later views regarding which, ac- cording to my critic, I still show “ seme lingering unwillingness to surrender my position ? ” In 1876 I wrote: “Ts the effect due to heat or light ? I cannot an- swer this question. The terms heat and light ere not definite enough. The physicist has no test for light independent of heat. Light and color are | physiological accidents, due to the fact that a small portion near the middle of the spectrum happens to be capable of affecting the retina of the human eye. There is no real distinction between heat and light; all we can take account of is difference of wave-length.” After describing experiments with a pure so- lar spectrum, and giving numerical values for the | motion-producing powers of the various colored | rays, I continue : ‘“ A comparison of these figures with those usual- | ly given in text-books to represent the distribution | of heat in the spectrum will be a sufficient proof | that the mechanical action of radiation is as much | a function of the luminous rays as it is of the dark heat-rays.”’ | Dr. Carpenter then accuses me of attributing | the movement of the radiometer to light. The | 2 Pp, 245. 2 “ Philosophical Transactions,” vol. clxiv., p. 518. 3 Ibid., vol. clxv., p. 526. # Ibid., vol. elxvi., pp. 360-362. THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. very contrary is the case. I have always sought to guard against this misconception, insisting that every ray of the spectrum, visible or inyig. ible, must cause motion. Hence I call the in. strument the radiometer—ray-measurer, Those who most persistently deny that light occasions the movements, curiously enough continue tn uge the term “ light-mill.” Dr. Carpenter introduces an account of an experiment I showed at the Royal Institution, on the evening of the 11th of February, 1876, with the words—“ This he called ‘ weighing a beam of light.’”” Now, my actual words at the lecture were ;! : “I want to ascertain the amount of pressure which radiation exerts on a blackened surface. I will put a ray of light on the pan of a balance, and give you its weight in grains. For J thinkin this institution and before this audience I may te allowed a scientific use of the imagination, and may speak of weighing that which is not affected by gravitation.” The italicized words render it evident that I was only speaking figuratively ; and not, as Dr, Carpenter wishes to make it appear, that I con- ceived light to bea material substance. Another misstatement follows on the next page, where Dr. Carpenter pronounces it “as pure an assumption on Mr. Crookes’s part to af firm that the mechanical action exerted by two flames of different kinds would measure their relative illuminating powers, as it would have been to say that their heating action would be proportional to their illuminating action, which we know perfectly well not to be the case—the gas-flame, as every one knows, having a much | greater heating power than the candle-flame, in proportion to the light it gives.” Once again Dr. Carpenter omits part of my explanation. I will assume that he has reads portion of the description of the photometric experiment he criticises, given by me in the “Proceedings of the Royal Society,” No. 167, 1876. Why did he not read the next sentence, beginning ?— “ By interposing screens of water or plates of alum, and so practically cutting off all the dark heat, the actual luminosity is measured.” Or perhaps he gained his information from my Royal Institution lecture.? In this case he must have read the following remarks : 1“ Proceedings of the Royal Institution,” February, 1876, and Quarterly Journal of Science, April, 1876> 250. 2 Loc. cit. on onde co a SE est >=» - Ss

Page 307

sting bvis- e in- : s10n8 . use of an n, on am of cture that I as Dr, I con- » next it “as vy two . their d have uld be which e—the much ‘om my ne must pruary 1, 1, 1876,P “ Before this instrument can be used as a pho- tometer or light-measurer, means must be taken to cut off from it all those rays coming from the can- dle or gas which are not actually luminous. A reference to the spectrum diagram (Fig. 5) will show that at each end of the colored rays there is a large space inactive, as far as the eye is con- cerned, but active in respect to the production of motion—strongly so at the red end, less strong at the violet end. Before the instrument can be used to measure luminosity, these rays must be cut off. We buy gas for the light that it gives, not for the heat it evolves on burning, and it would therefore never do to measure the heat and pay for it as light.” Dr. Carpenter either failed to remember this ex- plicit statement, or overlooked it. In referring to the kinetic theory of gases as explaining the movement of the radiometer, Dr. Carpenter seems to imply that the question is altogether settled. He might, however, have found that this view is by no means universally accepted. That the movement of the radiometer is due not to any direct action of the solar (or other) rays, but to their effect upon residual gases, is now, indeed, owing to my more recent researches, a matter of demonstration. That some such explanation was in my mind at the time of my first publication of the phenomena, as one of the probable causes of the repulsion resulting from radiation, is shown hy the follow- ing quotations : “TI object to the term perfect as applied to any vacuum at present known. “ That the residual gas in an air-pump vacuum is capable of exerting considerable mechanical ac- tion may be assumed by the phenomena attending the passage of meteontes through the upper re- gions of the atmosphere, their friction against the air at an average height of sixty-five miles above the earth’s surface raising them to incandescence.1 “ Whether the ethereal waves actually strike the substance moved, or whether at that mysterious boundary-surface separating solid from gaseous matter, there are intermediary layers of condensed gas which, taking up the blow, pass it on to the layer beneath, are problems the solution of which must be left to further research.” 2 My experiment on the movement of the glass case of a radiometer * is termed “ an ingenious ar- rangement first devised by Dr. Schuster and sub- sequently improved on by Mr. Crookes ;” where- ms during the discussion which followed the read- ing of Dr. Schuster’s paper at the Royal Society *“ Philosophical Transactions,” December 11, 1873, vol. dixiv., pr 507, 524, * Phuosophical Magazine, August, 1874. * Proceedings of the Royal Society,” No. 168, 1876. | ANOTHER LESSON FROM THE RADIOMETER. 803 on the 23d of March, 1876, I mentioned an ex- periment which I had tried some time before, bearing on his observations. I afterward tried my own experiment in a modified form: and, as the results were very decided, and appeared cal- culated to throw light on many disputed points in the theory of these obscure actions, I described the experiment, and showed the apparatus at work, at the next meeting of the Royal Society. Without wishing in the least to detract from the merits of Dr. Schuster, I may add that our two experiments are entirely different as to mode of arrangement and simplicity of exhibition. They doubtless both prove the same thing—the exist- ence of a reactionary force between the moving fly and the glass case ; but, while Dr. Schuster’s experiment requires special arrangement of lime- light, lantern, reflecting mirrors, torsion-threads, ete., and then temporarily demonstrates only the reactionary force, my experiment merely requires a radiometer floating in a basin of water, and a small magnet to fix the fly, when the case rotates steadily and continuously. While Dr. Carpenter was trying to prove from my papers that I was committed to a wrong the- ory which I was reluctant to abandon, how could he avoid reading the following sentences ?— ‘“‘ Throughout the course of these investigations I have endeavored to reniain unfettered by the hasty adoption of a theory which, in the early stages of an inquiry, must almost of necessity be erroneous. Some minds are so constituted that they seem impelled to form a theory on the slight- est experimental basis. There is then great dan- ger of their becoming advocates, and unconscious- ly favoring facts which seem to prove their pre- conceived ideas and neglecting others which might oppose their views. This is unfortunate, for the mind should always be free to exercise the judicial function, and give impartial weight to every phe- nomenon which is brought before it. Any theory will account for some facts; but only the true ex- planation will satisfy a7 the conditions of the problem, and this cannot be said of any theory which has yet come to my mind.1 “As there is much discussion at present re- specting the cause of these movements, and as some misunderstanding seems to prevail as to my own views on the theory of the repulsion resulting from radiation, I wish to take this opportunity of re- moving the impression that I hold opinions which are in antagonism to some strongly-urged explana- tions of these actions. I have on five or six occa- sions specially stated that I wish to keep free from theories.” ? 1 Quarterly Journal of Science, July, 1875. 2** Proceedings of the Royal Society,’ No. 168, 1876.

Page 308

304 Why, also, may I ask, has Dr. Carpenter, when speaking of the radiometer, attributed to me the words “ new force” and “new mode of force?”’ They are not my words, From which of my papers did he quote them ? The time for a mere popular preliminary sketch of the radiometer is gone by ; that for its thorough and exhaustive appreciation has not yet come. Dr. Carpenter gives neither, but de- THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. } | votes the remaining part of his paper to exhibit- | ing as a solitary “lesson” the contrast assumed counted for the result of his experiment, for what purpose was this experiment shown? Yet if this is what it was intended to prove, then it becomes absolutely certain that Dr. Carpenter could never have read Mr. Crgokes’s account of his experiments given in October last in the Quarterly Journal og | Science (for he would certainly not wilfully misrep. resent the experiment), and was, therefore in com plete ignorance of what he was attempting to dis- prove. For, will it be believed, Mr. Crookes ex- pressly states that, ‘ dipping the hand to the fullest extent into the water does not produce the least ap- to exist between Mr. Crookes, the physicist, in- ' preciable action on the balance,’ the reason of which vestigating the phenomena of the radiometer, and Mr. Crookes the “ spiritualist,” examining the manifestations of “ psychic force.” To use his own language, he brings ‘ into contrast with the admirable series of scientific investigations which led up to that invention, his” (Mr. Crookes’s) | “thoroughly unscientific course in relation to an- other doctrine of which he has put himself for- ward as the champion,” In order to prove what he terms the “ dual- ity” of my mental constitution, Dr. Carpenter contrasts my researches on the radiometer with some experiments I made six years ago, when I attempted to solve the mystery of the phenomena called spiritual, and he describes the apparatus I devised to test the alteration of the weight of suspended bodies in Mr. Home's presence, by mere contact, and without pressure. In a lecture delivered at Chelsea on the 19th of January, 1872, Dr. Carpenter referred to this experiment ; and whether his description was accurate will be seen by an extract from a letter by Mr. A. R. Wallace, dated February 15, 1872: “In the report of Dr. Carpenter’s lecture at Chelsea there occurs a passage so extraordinary and 80 entirely misleading that I must beg you, in the interests of truth, to allow me to make a few remarks upon it. Dr. Carpenter is stated to have said that he would grapple with Mr. Crookes’s ‘ Psychic Force ;’ and, in attempting to do so, exhibited an experiment tending to show (and which his audi- egce must have believed really did show) that Mr. Crookes was ignorant of the merest rudiments of mechanics, and was deluded by an experiment, the fallacy of which an intelligent schoolboy could have pointed out. Dr. Carpenter, it is said, ex- hibited a glass of water poised against an equal weight upon a balance, and showed that by dip- ping a finger in the water—that is, by pressing with a force exactly equal to the weight of the water displaced by the immersed finger—you in- creased the weight on that side of the balance. Now, unless the audience were intended to believe that Mr. Crookes was ignorant of this childishly simple fact, and, further, that it completely ac- | | | | | is sufficiently clear, for his woodcut shows, and his description tells us, that the vessel of water was not placed on the scale of a balance at all, but ona board exactly over its fulcrum or point of support at one end, while the distant end was suspended from a balance. Yet this balance showed a force of more than one pound exerted on it when Mr, Home merely dipped the tips of the fingers of one hand in the water!” I have no wish in this article to discuss Mr Ilome’s psychic powers. I simply wish to ask, has Dr. Carpenter described my test arrangements cor- rectly, and were these arrangements scientifically devised and employed, or were they, as Dr. Car- penter maintains, absurd, and even childish? Dr. Carpenter says, in the Nineteenth Century: “Nothing would have been easier than for Mr. Crookes, on the one hand, to carefully watch -Mr. Home, to precisely imitate his whole procedure, and to do his best to depress the board to the same degree by his own muscular effort; and, on the other hand, to devise an ‘in dicator’ for downward pressure, by which it could be at once determined whether Mr. Home could depress the lever-board without such muscular effort... . The fact was simply that the lever board went down when Mr. Home’s hands were | laid upon it; and the testimony of Mr. Crookes and his friends was quite sufficient to justify others in accepting it as such. On the other hand, Mr. Crookes’s assertion that the lever-board went down in obedience to some other force than that of Mr. Home’s muscular pressure was not a fact, but an inference drawn by Mr. Crookes; and this inference he had no scientific right to draw — until he had assured himself by every conceivable test that Mr. Home did not and could not 80 de- press it.” Dr. Carpenter also says that I have never published any proof obtained from these test experiments, although explicitly challenged t do so in the Quarterly Review, October, 1871. Dr. Carpenter must surely know that the ex periment to which he takes exception was the first of a series, Had he described the later : e

Page 309

experiments in full, the public could not have failed to perceive that the test which I am blamed for not trying would have been utterly useless. I will, therefore, briefly describe these experiments, which are given in detail, and illus- trated with woodcuts, in the Quarterly Journal of Science for July and October, 1871. To meet the foreseen objection, that while the attention of the observers was otherwise engaged, Mr. Home might possibly slide his fingers along the board, and thus obtain leverage, I placed a ves- sel of water with its centre exactly over the ful- crum of the board the extremity of which was attached to the weighing-machine. To prevent Mr. Home touching the bottom of the vessel, and to lessen the possibility of “ rhythmical agita- tion,’ a copper basin, with several perforations in its bottom, was supported on a retort-stand, so as to dip into the water in the first vessel. Into this basiti Mr. Home plunged his fingers. By this arrangement it was rendered impossible for Mr. Home to obtain leverage—that is, if the doctrine still holds good that water transmits pressure equally in all directions. Further, the copper vessel acting as a breakwater, any rhyth- mical agitation set up by Mr. Home would be much enfeebled before reaching the bottom of the outer vessel. Yet, in spite of these precau- tions, the depressions of the board were substan- tially the same as when Mr. Home placed his fin- gers on the wood. But I went still further. I caused Mr. Home to place his hands not on the board at all, but on the table on which the ful- crum rested, first near the end of the board, and then at distances gradually increasing to three feet. Still, the balance recorded great variations of pressure, Finally, while Mr. Home placed his hands in the position just mentioned, witnesses held both his hands and his feet. The result was still the same, the balance indicating ebbs and flows of pressure. I submit, therefore, that Dr. Carpenter's test would have been here a mere waste of time, and that I was fully justified in its omission. Indeed, it was as unnecessary as a determination of Mr. Home’s “ downward press- ure” on the chair on which he was sitting, or on his boots when standing. One most significant conclusion which might be drawn, and which must surely suggest itself to every man of science who reads the history of the radiometer, is the importance of residual phe- mmena, It is well known to chemists that of late years new elementary bodies, new interesting compounds, have often been discovered in resid- tal products, in slags, flue-dusts, and waste of 20 ANOTHER LESSON FROM THE RADIOMETER. 805 various kinds, In like manner, if we carefully scrutinize the processes either of the laboratory or of Nature, we may occasionally detect some slight anomaly, some excess or deficiency of ac- tion, some unanticipated phenomenon, which we cannot account for, and which, were received theories correct and sufficient, ought not to oc- cur. Such residual phenomena are hints which may lead the man of disciplined mind and of fin- ished manipulative skill to the discovery of new elements, of new laws, possibly even of new forces. Upon undrilied men these possibilities are simply thrown away. The untrained physi- cist or chemist fails to catch these suggestive glimpses. If they appear under his hands, he ignores them as the miners of old did the ores of cobalt and nickel. That in the experiments undertaken to determine the atomic weight of thallium I should at once detect a slight anomaly in the action of my very delicate balance, should consider it worthy of the most minute and pro- tracted investigation, and should follow up the clew for so many years, is surely sufficient to re- fute the charge of imperfect training advanced by Dr. Carpenter at the close of his article in the Nineteenth Century. The moral might have been pointed with additional force by a reference to my discovery of thallium itself, which was likewise the result of the careful and systematic” examination of a chemical residue, in which, when a mere boy, I had detected a chemical anomaly, and noted it for further investigation. This great lesson—the importance of residual phenomena—must be pronounced of the highest moment to the student, and interesting, surely, even to the multitude. Yet, Dr. Carpenter, ad- dressing a highly-cultivated class of readers, overlooks it altogether! He gives, indeed, an account of the “ origin of these researches,” and pronounces it “rather singular,” but the moral he desires to point is of a totally different nature. As I have said, Dr. Carpenter can draw but one lesson from the analysis of my scientific re- searches, and he insists that it is criminal to be “** possessed’ of any ideas, or class of ideas, that the common-sense of educated mankind pro- nounces to be irrational.” ! But the “ common- sense of educated mankind ” at one time denied the circulation of the blood, and pronounced the earth to be the immovable centre of the universe. At the present day it upholds errors and absurdities innumerable, and “ common-sense ’’ has been well characterized as the name under which men deify their own ignorance. Are scientific men never to 1 Page 256.

Page 310

306 step over arigid line, to refrain from investigation because it would clash with common-sense ideas ? How far should we have advanced in knowledge if scientific men had never made known new dis- coveries, never published the results of their re- searches for fear of outraging this “‘common- sense of educated mankind?” Take the very subject which suggests the text for Dr. Carpen- ter’s article. Can the wildest dreams of the spiritualist ask credence to anything more repug- nant to “common-sense” than the hypothesis imagined by Science and now held to account for the movements of the radiometer? In the glass bulb which has been exhausted to such a degree that “common-sense” would pronounce it to be quite empty, we must conceive there are innu- merable smooth elastic spheres, the molecules of the residual gas, dashing about in apparent con- fusion,with sixty times the velocity of an express- train, and hitting each other millions of times in crossed with the stag-hound, making him the handsomest animal I ever saw, standing very tall, with elegantly-curved neck and long, silky ears that one could pull down and meet under his chin. His whole head was a wonder of dog-beau- ty, with long nose and wondrously expressive eyes, which laughed or cried with you, always sympathizing whatever your mood might be; ready for a romp, or to come and press his nose through your arm, looking up with almost crying eyes, seeming to wish to show his sorrow at your grief. He had great tact, greater than many ku- man friends, never obtruding his sympathy; but lying quietly down, his nose between his paws, he would watch every changing expression of face, till the time came when he thought he could offer tangible sympathy; then he would get up and come to you, seeming to wish, by showing his own excessive love, to make amends for any short- comings on the part of the world. And in re- turn, having given his all, he wished the same, and could not put up with any division of affec- tion with any other animal, scarcely with a hu- man being ; and his intelligence aided his jealousy in gaining the point. He always accompanied my THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. asecond. Will the “common-sense of educated mankind ” consider this rational doctrine ? Again, both inside this empty space and outside it, be. tween the reader and the paper before him, be. tween the earth and the sun, occupying all the interplanetary space farther than the eye can reach or indeed the mind can conceive, there is as. sumed to be a something indefinitely more elastic and immeasurably more solid than tempered steel, a medium in which suns and worlds move without resistance. Is not such a doctrine utterly incredi- ble to the “‘ common-sense of educated mankind?” Yet the kinetic theory of gases and the undula. tory theory of light are accepted as true by nine- tenths of the scientific men of the present day; and doubtless in the processes of scientific evolu. tion in the coming times many a discovery will be brought to light to give a sharp shock to the “common-sense of educated mankind.”—Nine- teenth Century. CAP—A NEW ENGLAND DOG. By TIOMAS K. WILLIAMS. was the usual name of Captain; its own- | father to the office, which was at the head of a er being a large Newfoundland dog just | very long flight of stairs, and there spent most of the day, amusing himself indifferently with look- ing out of the window and with the people com- ing to and from the office. One warm day, the door being open, and being much bored and put to it as to how to spend his time, he spied a black- and-tan dog which belonged across the street: acting on the impulse, he went down and invited him up; which arrangement was very pleasing and satisfactory till, in the course of their play, Mr. Black-and-Tan jumped into a chair beside my father, who, attracted by the little thing, put out his hand and caressed him. Captain was very angry, and almost flew at the dog, then thought better of it, and bided his time. When Black- and-Tan got down, Cap was unusually amiable and frisky, playing with him round and round, always a little nearer and nearer the door, till, at the head of the stairs, he gave one great shove, and sent him flying to the bottom. And never was that little dog allowed over those stairs again. ’ When he saw him coming, or when he himsel wished for a play, he would go down and play in the hall below, or in the street, thus keeping aa 2 possession of his own domain. aa He had a remarkable memory, recognisiig, q

Page 311

t, be- ll the P can is ae. steel, ithout 1credi- ind?” y nine- t day; will be to the ~Nine- friends by face or voice, though perhaps for a year or two absent, and would run, wagging body and tail equally, to meet them. But this was not so astonishing as his memory for things. Like all Newfoundlands he was passionately fond of bathing, and had a certain stick which he always carried to the water, and on returning put in a particular place in our back-yard ; for, mind you, he had a bump for order. He put it away for the last time in October, the water being too cold to bathe later: snow came soon after, covering it up for months; and it was late in May before it was warm enough to swim again. My father said, “Cap! would you like to go to the water?” He jumped up, said “Yes” in his way, ran to the door, round the house, over the fence, had the stick and back again, panting with excitement. Some one coming just then, my father had to say, “Not to-day, Cap, to-morrow :” slowly and lin- geringly he walked back and deposited the stick. The next morning, however, on coming down, Cap was at the door, stick in mouth, apparently having perfectly understood the cause of delay, and determined to be in season to have no inter- ruptions this time. Of course he was taken to the water immediately and had a grand bath: singularly this was the only occasion he was ever known to take his stick from its place without a particular invitation, Certainly he understood. And he read character to a marvel, measuring each member of the household, understanding what he could, and what he could not, do with each, With those who could master him, he never held out uselessly, but yielded with a pecul- iar grace, quite his own; with those who could not, why he mastered them! Not overbearingly, but impudently ; and when requested by them to do anything disagreeable to him, would wag his tail as much as to say, “I’m not in a mind to, and I know you won’t make me.” They even laughed, and said he understood the Politics of the family, and from his amusing aver- sion to negroes one would suppose so, as he could never abide the sight of that African race. One night a colored man being sent to the house with tome ice-cream, shrieks and a general sound of tumpus brought us all to the kitchen, where Cap had half torn the clothes off the man, who, with rolling whites, now stood petrified and livid with fright ; Cap making fresh plunges, carrying off Pieces of clothing each time. Indeed, it was al- most impossible to take the dog off, so inveterate ¥as his hatred, The servants, on being ques- fioned, said the man had done nothing. But CAP—A NEW ENGLAND DOG. 307 never did he see one of this race, even in the street, without hot pursuit. This was in the war-time, when Fort Warren was hung over our heads—so much for his pluck and party principles ! Beggars he looked on with a suspicious eye, and always watched closely, but never molested. Little dogs were treated by him with con- tempt—not noticing their presence, or even in- sults, at first; but if too persistent and intoler- able, he would give them a sound shaking, and throwing them over, would look off into space— quite unconscious—an expression inimitable, I assure you. In general he did not affect dog- company ; carrying himself with a grand air and great dignity, he would look at them and pass on. Perhaps a sense of superior intelligence caused this hauteur, more probably family pride; for mark you, Cap was nephew to the Prince of Wales’s dog, the prince, while in this country, having had the finest specimen of a Newfound- land in the provinces presented to him. What- ever evolutions of thought Cap may have had, the fact is the same. When a child, I had a severe typhoid fever, and every morning Cap was sent with a note tied to his collar with tidings of my welfare to my grandmother. Nothing could distract him on such an errand ; but, when arrived at the house, he would go straight and lay his head in her lap till the note was untied. Then, considering his duty done, he would go to the kitchen, be fed, and inspect the dinner—to which he always returned, if to his mind; but if it was to be of poultry, or game of any kind, they saw him no more that day. My father bought Cap wher a pup for us chil- dren to play with, and great fun we had. As we grew older he came into the house with us, our constant companion, my own especial friend and confidant. I told him everything, and he never peached. Thus constantly with us, and talked to, he learned to understand all that was said, whether directly addressed to him or not; and the following story is strict!y true, incredible as it may seem. My father and mother were reading, and one of them, noticing an article about water standing . in a room overnight absorbing impure gases, and being unhealthy to drink, read it aloud, and re- marked, “If that’s the case, we must be sure and see that Cap’s water is changed every morning.” He had water always in mother’s dressing-room, where he went and drank when he liked. Cap lay on the floor, apparent!y unobservant. The

Page 312

308 asked for water; he had a peculiar way of ask- ing for different things, so that those who knew him could tell his wants. She went to the dress- ing-room, and there was plenty of water. Cap looked at it, languidly tasted, and then looked up, thinking something must be the matter; it was turned away, and fresh water given him, which he drank. The next day the same thing occurred, and the next after, so as to be remarked, and an explanation asked, when the foregoing conversa- tion was recalled; and never till the day of his death, three years later, did he touch a drop of water without having first seen it poured freshly out, though never before had he thought of ob- jecting. Captain slept in the house at night, on the broad, flat landing where the stairs turned, thus having full view and command of everything ; the doors were all left open, and every morn- ing at about five he would go and put his nose in my father’s hand and wake him up, appar- enily to tell him the night was safely past ; be- ing patted, and “ All right, Cap,” said, he would go down, having completed his vigil, to await the first appearance of a servant, to let him out for his morning walk, which was usually short. Just before going to bed he also took a walk, which was not so sure to be short if the night was pleasant—unless requested to return soon ; he would then come back almost immediately. Whenever my father went away, he would lie at the foot of my mother’s bed, realizing that there was a change, and that she needed protec- tion. He was essentially companionable, and could not tolerate being left alone—not that I think he had sins to think of that made him unhappy, but he loved company, and would follow me miles on a walk; and it was on one of these walks, when I was older, and, alas! he too, that his first signs of advancing age showed them- selves. The day was very warm, and Cap ac- companied me to take a lesson some distance out of town. During the lesson he asked for water, which when brought he could scarcely reach, his hind-legs being almost powerless. His _ endeavors to walk were most agonizing ; he look- ing to me uncomprehending the cause, and ask- ing for help. After a while he was better, and I started to walk home with him, there being no carriage or other conveyance obtainable in the place. We had gone but a short distance when Cap again wanted water, and I stopped at the country grocery-store to getsome They brought | him. He would follow me from bush to bush, ; THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. next day he went to a member of the family and j it from the back of the store, but he could not drink, and lay down quite overcome. My own misery was intense, for I thought him dying, There was the usual gathering of a corner store, who all tried to console me with accounts of their dogs. One voluble Yankee told of his; “The little black one with white spots, you knowed him, you know!” I suppose I looked a little blank, for he said, “ Anyhow, Jim did!” turning to the store-keeper for corroboration, “Wall, he got a-foula toad one day, and was just so. He'll come out on it all right.” Every one stopped who passed, till quite a crowd col- lected, each one with his own theory. In time a teamster with his dray loaded with lumber was passing, whom I hailed, told the necessities of the case, and he consented to unload his timber by the side of the road and take Cap home, The timber being taken off and Captain put in its place, the teamster started. Cap began to try to wriggle himself off the dray, not liking the distance between him and me on the sidewalk, He would have infallibly fallen off between the wheels, so the man stopped—it was no go. I then got on and he made no further objection, so we journeyed into town, I holding an um brella over his head, little thinking of the figure I cut! When arrived at home, the veterinary sur. geon was called, but not being able to attend immediately, father, thinking Cap poisoned, ap. plied all sorts of known antidotes. Among oth- ers, oil was poured down his throat, and in the resistance he bit my father—not viciously, but naturally, for who does not remember the days when some one held our noses, and another some one poured the detested castor-oil down, and what vigorous remonstrances we made? When the surgeon came he pronounced it a slight at tack of paralysis, and we knew we should not have Cap much longer. He recovered, though, and went about for a time as usual. The garden was a delight to him, filled with fruit and flowers. One would think he really had a sense of the beautiful to see him stop ats rose-bush and contemplate it. Indeed, he did his best to keep things in order by not running across-lots, but always in the paths with the ut most propriety. Fruit of all kinds he liked, & pecially gooseberries, which he picked for him. self with great care, holding up his lips and tum ing his head under the branch, then pulling them off one by one. But if any one wa in the garden, not he! That must be done for i: i te

Page 313

d not | Own lying. ts of his; » you ooked did!” ation, 1 was Every d col- n time er was ies of timber home. put in zan to ng the lewalk, en the go. I ection, n umM- ry sur. ed, ap» ng oth. | in the sly, but and, if by chance I was more greedy than he thought proper, would get up, nudge me, and lie down again, reminding me of his presence, and that he must have his share. In January of 1872 one evening Cap had gone for his walk ; my sister passing through the hail heard a faint rap, and, going to the door, Cap came in and up-stairs. Noticing something strange in his walk, she called father, who came out of the library and spoke. Cap hearing his THE SOUL AND FUTURE LIFE. 309 scend fell headlong, and only stopped at the land- ing. We all knew what was the matter. Going up-stairs my father put his arms under him, I behind, and we brought him down, There he lay, and could not bear to have us leave him, growing worse all the time, but responding to our caresses by a wag of the tail—less and less —till the very last, when only an inch moved, the rest of the body being quite stiff and rigid, and as the day left us, so did Captain —Macmil- voice, ran to the stairs, and on attempting to de- | /an’s Magazine. THE SOUL AND FUTURE LIFE. By FREDERIC HARRISON. II. HE rational view of the soul (we insisted in a previous paper) would remove us as far from a cynical materialism as from a fantastic spiritualism. It restores to their true supremacy in human life those religious emotions which materialism forgets; while it frees us from the idle figment which spiritualism would foist upon homan nature. We entirely agree with the theologians that our age is beset with a grievous danger of mate- rialism. There is a school of teachers abroad, and they have found an echo here, who dream that victorious vivisection will ultimately win them anatomical solutions of man’s moral and spiritual mysteries. Such unholy nightmares, it is true, are not likely to beguile many minds in a country like this, where social and moral prob- lems are still in their natural ascendant. But there is a subtiler kind of materialism, of which the dangers are real. It does not, indeed, put forth the bestial sophism that'the apex of philos- ophy is to be won by improved microscopes and new batteries, But, then, it has nothing to say about the spiritual life of man; it has no partic- ular religion ; it ignores the soul. It fills the air with peans to science; it is never weary of vaunting the scientific methods, the scientific triumphs. But it always means physical, not moral science; intellectual, not religious con- quests, It shirks the question of questions—to what human end is this knowledge ?—how shall man thereby order his life as a whole ?—where is he to find the object of his yearnings of spirit ? the spiritual history of mankind it knows as little, and thinks as little, as of any other sort of Asiatic devil-worship. At the spiritual aspira- tions of the men and women around us, ill at ease for want of some answer, it stares blankly, as it does at some spirit rapping epidemic. “ What is that to us ?—see thou to that "—is all that it can answer when men ask it for a religion, It is of the religion of all sensible men, the reli- gion which all sensible men never tell. With a smile or a shrug of the shoulders it passes by into the whirring workshops of science (that is, the physical prelude of science); and it leaves the spiritual life of the soul to the spiritualists, theo- logical or nonsensical as the case may be, wishing them both in heaven. This is the materialism to fear. The theologians and the vast sober mass of serious men and women who want simply to live rightly are quite right when they shun and fear a school that is so eager about cosmology and biol- ogy, while it leaves morality and religion to take care of themselves. And yet they know all the while that before the advancing line of positive thought they are fighting a forlorn hope; and they see their own line daily more and more de- moralized by the consciousness that they have no rational plan of campaign. They know that their own account of the soul, of the spiritual life, of Providence, of heaven, is daily shifting—is grow- - ing more vague, more inconsistent, more various. They hurry wildly from one untenable position to another, like a routed and disorganized army. In a religious discussion years ago we once asked one of the Broad Church, a disciple of one of its eminent founders, what he understood by the Third Person of the Trinity; and he said, doubt

Page 314

310 fully, that “he fancied there was a sort of a something.”” Since those days the process of disintegration and vaporization of belief has gone on rapidly; and now very religious minds, and men who think themselves to be religious, are ready to apply this “sort of a something” to all the verities in turn. They half hope that there is “a sort of a something ” fluttering about, or inside, their human frames, that there may turn out to be a “ something” somewhere after death, and that there must be a sort of a somebody or (as the theology of culture will have it) a sort of a something controlling and comprehending hu- man life. But the more thoughtful spirits, not being professionally engaged in a doctrine, most- ly limit themselves to a pious hope that there may be something in it, and that we shall know some day what it is. Now, theologians and religious people unat- tached must know that this will never serve— that this is paltering with the greatest of all things. What, then, is the only solution which can ultimately satisfy both the devotees of sci- ence and the believers in religion? Surely but this, to make religion scientific by placing religion under the methods of science. Let science come to see that religion, morality, life, are within its field, or, rather, are the main part of its field. Let religion come to see that it can be nothing but a prolongation of science, a rational and homogeneous result of cosmology and biology, not a matter of fantastic guessing. Then there will be no true science which does not aim at, and is not guided by, systematic religion. And there will be no religion which pretends to any other basis but positive knowledge and scientific logic. But for this science must consent to add spiritual phenomena to its curriculum, and reli- gion must consent to give up its vapid figments. Positivism in dealing with the soul discards the exploded errors of the materialists and spirit- ualists alike. On the one hand, it not only ad- mits into its studies the spiritual life of men, but it raises this life to be the essential business of all human knowledge. All the spiritual senti- ments of man, the aspirations of the conscious soul in all their purity and pathos, the vast reli- gious experience and potentialities of the human heart seen in the history of our spiritual life as a race—this is, we say, the principal subject of science and of philosophy. No philosophy, no morality, no polity, can rest on stable foundations if this be not its grand aim; if it have not a sys- tematic creed, a rational object of worship, and a definite discipline of life. But, then, we treat THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. | these spiritual functions of the soul, not as mys. tical enigmas, but as positive phenomena, and we satisfy them by philosophic and historic angwety and not by naked figments. And we think éhat the teaching of history and a true synthesis of seience bring us far closer to the heart of this spiritual life than do any spiritualist guesses, and do better equip us to read aright the higherse crets of the soul: meaning always by soul the consensus of the faculties which observation dis. covers in the human organism. On the other hand, without entering into an idle dispute with the spiritualist orthodoxy, we insist on regarding this organism as a perfectly homogeneous unit, to be studied from one end of it to the other by rational scientific methods, We pretend to give no sort of cause as lying be. hind the manifold powers of the organism. We say the immaterial entity is something which we cannot grasp, which explains nothing, for which we cannot have a shadow of evidence. We ar determined to treat man as a human organism, just as we treat a dog as a canine organism ; and we know no ground for saying, and no good to be got by pretending, that man is a human on ganism plus an indescribable entity. We say the human organism is a marvelous thing, stb lime if you will, of subtilest faculty and sensibil- ty ; but we, at any rate, can find nothing in man which is not an organic part of this organism; we find the faculties of mind, feeling, and will, direet- ly dependent on physical organs ; and to talk to us of mind, feeling, and will, continuing their functions in the absence of physical organs and visible organisms, is to use language which, to as at least, is pure nonsense, And now to turn to the great phenomenon of material organisms which we call Death. The human organism, like every other organism, ulti- mately loses that unstable equilibrium of its cor related forces which we name Life, and ceases t0 be an organism or system of organs, adjusting its internal relations to its external conditions. Thereupon the existence of the complex inde pendent entity to which we attribute conscious ness undoubtedly—i. e., for aught we know to the contrary—comes to an end. But the activi ties of this organism do not come to an end, cept so far as these activities need fresh sens tions and material organs, And a great part of these activities, and far the noblest part, only need fresh sensations and material organs in other similar organisms. While there is @ abundance of these in due relation, the activities ‘a go on ad infinitum, with increasing energy. —

Page 315

8 mye and we ik that sis of of this es, and her se yul the on dis. nto an xy, We orfectly end of ethods, 1. We lich we > which We are n; and h, to us have not the slightest reason to suppose that the consciousness of the organism continues, for we mean by consciousness the sum of sensations of a particular organism, and the particular organism being dissolved, we have nothing left whereto to attribute consciousness, and the proposal strikes us like a proposal to regard infinity as conscious. So, of course, with the sensations separately, and with them the power of accumulating knowledge, of feeling, thinking, or of modifying the existence in correspondence with the outward environment. Life, in the technical sense of the word, is at an end, but the activities of which that life is the source were never so potent. Our age is familiar enough with the truth of the persistence of ener- gy, and no one supposes that with the dissolution of the body the forces of its material elements are lost. They only pass into new combinations and continue to work elsewhere. Far less is the energy of the activities lost. The earth, and every country, every farmstead, and every city on it, are standing witnesses that the physical activi- ties are not lost. As century rolls after century, we see in every age more potent fruits of the labor which raised the pyramids, or won Holland from the sea, or carved the Theseus out of mar- ble. The bodily organisms which wrought them have passed into gases and earths, but the activ- ity they displayed is producing the precise results designed on a far grander scale in each genera- tion. Much more do the intellectual and moral energies work unceasingly. Not a single mani- festation of thought or feeling is without some result so soon as it is communicated to a similar organism. It passes into the sum of his mental and moral being. But there is about the persistence of the moral energies this special phenomenon. It marks the vast interval between physical and moral science. The energies of material elements, so far as we see, disperse, or for the most part disperse. The energies of an intellectual and moral kind are very largely continued in their organic unities. The consensus of the mental, of the moral, of the emotional powers may go on, working as a whole, producing precisely the same results, with the same individuality, whether the material organ- ism, the source and original base of these powers, bein physical function or not. The mental and moral powers do not, it is true, increase and krow, develop or vary, within themselves. Nor do they in their special individuality produce Visible results, for they are no longer in direct relations with their special material organisms. But the mental and moral powers are not dis- THE SOUL AND FUTURE LIFE. 811 persed like gases. They retain their unity, they retain their organic character, and they retain the whole of their power of passing into and stimulating the brains of living men; and in these they carry on their activity precisely as they did, while the bodies in which they were formed ab- sorbed and exhaled material substance. Nay, more: the individuality and true activ- ity of these mental and moral forces is often not manifest, and sometimes is not complete, so long as the organism continues its physical functions. Newton, we may suppose, has accomplished his great researches. They are destined to trans- form half the philosophy of mankind. But he is old, and incapable of fresh achievements. We will say he is feeble, secluded, silent, and lives shut up in his rooms. The activity of his mighty intellectual nature is being borne over the world on the wings of Thought, and works a revolution at every stroke. But otherwise the man Newton is not essentially distinguishable from the nearest infirm pauper, and has as few aad as feeble rela- tions with mankind. At last the man Newton dies—that is, the body is dispersed into gas and dust. But the world, which is affected enormous- ly by his intellect, is not in the smallest degree affected by his death. His activity continues the same ; if it were worth while to conceal the fact of his death, no one of the millions who are so greatly affected by his thoughts would perceive it or know it. If he had discovered some means of prolonging a torpid existence till this hour, he might be living now, and it would not signify to us in the slightest degree whether his body breathed in the walls of his lodging or mouldered in the vaults of the Abbey. It may be said that, if it does not signify much to us, it signifies a great deal to Isaac Newton. But is this true? He no longer eats and sleeps, a burden to himself; he no longer is destroying his great name by feeble theology or querulous pettiness. But if the small weaknesses and wants of the flesh are ended for him, all that makes Newton (and he had always lived for his posthumous, not his immediate fame) rises into greater activity and purer uses. We make no mystical or fanciful divinity of Death ; we do not deny its terrors or its evils. We are not respon- sible for it, and should welcome any reasonable prospect of eliminating or postponing this fatal- ity, that waits upon all organic Nature. But it is no answer to philosophy or science to retort that Death is so terrible, therefore man must be designed to escape it. There are savages who persistently deny that men do die at all, either

Page 316

312 their bodies or their souls, asserting that the visi- ble consequences of death are either an illusion or an artfully-contrived piece of acting on the part of their friends, who have really decamped to the happy hunting-fields. This seems on the whole a more rational theory than that of imma- terial souls flying about space, as the spontaneous fancies of savages are sometimes more rational than the elaborate hypotheses of metaphysics. But though we do not presume to apologize for death, it is easy to see that many of the great- est moral and intellectual results of life are only possible, can only begin, when the claims of the animal life are satisfied ; when the stormy, com- plex, and checkered career is over, and the higher tops of the intellectual or moral nature alone stand forth in the distance of time. What was the blind old harper of Scio to his contemporaries, or the querulous refugee from Florence, or even the boon-companion and retired playwright of Stratford, or the blind and stern old malignant of Bunbill Fields? The true work of Socrates and his life only began with his resplendent death, to say nothing of yet greater religious teachers, whose names I refrain from citing ; and as to those whose lives have been cast in conflicts —the Cwsars, the Alfreds, the Hildebrands, the Cromwells, the Fredericks—it is only after death, ofienest in ages after death, that they cease to be combatants, and become creators. It is not merely that they are only recognized in after- ages ; the truth is, that their activity only begins when the surging of passion and sense ends, and turmoil dies away. Great intellects and great characters are necessarily in advance of their age; the care of the father and the mother be- gins to tell most truly in the ripe manhood of their children, when the parents are often in the grave, and not in the infancy which they see and are confronted with. The great must always feel with Kepler, “It is enough, as yet, if I have a hearer new and then in a century.” John Brown’s body lies a-mouldering in the grave, but his soul is marching along. We can trace this truth best in the case of great men; but it is not confined to the great. Not a single act of thought or character ends with itself. Nay, more; not a single nature in its entirety but leaves its influence for good or for evil. As a fact the good prevail; but all act, all continue to act indefinitely, often in ever- widening circles. Physicists amuse us by tracing for us the infinite fortunes of some wave set in motion by force, its circles and its repercussions perpetually transmitted in new complications. THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMEN T. But the career of a single intellect and character is a far more real force wken it meets with suita. ble intellects and characters into whose action it is incorporated. Every life more or less forms another life, and lives in another life. Civilizg. tion, nation, city, imply this fact. There is neither mysticism nor hyperbole, but simple ob. servation in the belief, that the career of every human being in society does not end with the death of its body. In some sort its higher aw tivities and potency can only begin truly when change is no longer possible for it. The worthy gain in influence and in range at each generation, just as the founders of some populous race gain a greater fatherhood at each succeeding growth of their descendants. And, in some infinitesimal degree, the humblest life that ever turned a sed - sends a wave—no, more than a wave, a life— through the ever-growing harmony of human so ciety. Not a soldier died at Marathon or Sala mis, but did a stroke by which our thought is en- larged and our standard of duty formed to this day. f Be it remembered that this is not hypothesis, but something perfectly real—we may fairly say undeniable. We are not inventing an imaginary world, and saying it must be real because it is 60 pleasant to think of ; we are only repeating truths on which our notion of history and society is based. The idea, no doubt, is usually limited to the famous, and to the great revolutions in civili- zation. But no one who thinks it out carefully can deny that it is true of every human being if society in some lesser degree. The idea has not been, or is no longer, systematically enforeed, in- vested with poetry and dignity, and deepened by the solemnity of religion. But why is that? Be cause theological hypotheses of a new and het erogeneous existence have deadened our interest in the realities, the grandeur, and the perpetuity of our earthly life. In the best days of Rome even without a theory of history or a science of society, it was a living faith, the true religion of that majestic race. It is the real sentiment of all societies where the theological hypothesis has dis+ appeared. It is no doubt now in England the great motive of virtue and energy. _ There have been few seasons in the world’s history when the sense of moral responsibility and moral after death was more exalted and more vigorous than with the companions of Vergniaud and Dam ton, to whom the dreams of theology were hardly intelligible. As we read the calm and humane words of Condorcet on the very edge of his yaw® ing grave, we learn how the conviction of pose

Page 317

suita- ‘ion it forms re is le ob- every h the er at when vorthy humous activity (not of posthumous fame), how the consciousness of a coming incorporation with the glorious future of his race, can give a patience and a happiness equal to that of any martyr of theology. It would be an endless inquiry to trace the means whereby this sense of posthumous partici- pation in the life of our fellows can be extended to the mass, as it certainly affects already the thoughtful and the refined. Without an educa- tion, ‘a new social opinion, without a religion—I mean an organized religion, not a vague meta- physic—it is doubtless impossible that it should become universal and capable of overcoming self- ishness. But make it at once the basis of philos- ophy, the standard of right and wrong, and the centre of a religion, and this will prove, perhaps, ‘an easier task than that of teaching Greeks and Romans, Syrians and Moors, to look forward to a future life of ceaseless psalmody in an immaterial heaven. The astonishing feat was performed ; and, perhaps, it may be easier to fashion a new public opinion, requiring merely that an accepted truth of philosophy should be popularized, which is already the deepest hope of some thoughtful spirits, and which does not take the suicidal course of trying to cast out the devil of selfish- ness by a direct appeal to the personal self. It is here that the strength of the human fu- ture over the celestial future is so clearly pre- eminent. Make the future hope a social activity, and we give to the present life a social ideal. Make the future hope personal beatitude, and personality is stamped deeper on every act of our daily life. Now we make the future hope, in the truest sense, social, inasmuch as our future is simply an active existence prolonged by society. And our future hope rests not in any vague yearn- ing, of which we have as little evidence as we have definite conception : it rests on a perfectly certain truth, accepted by all thoughtful minds, the truth that the actions, feelings, thoughts, of every one of us—our minds, our characters, our souls, as organic wholes—do marvelously influ- ence and mould each other; that the highest part of ourselves, the abiding part of us, passes into other lives and continues to live in other lives. Can we conceive a more potent stimulus to rectitude, to daily and hourly striving after a true life, than this ever-present sense that we are indeed immortal; not that we have an immortal something within us, but that in very truth we ourselves, our thinking, feeling, acting personali- Nes, are immortal; nay, cannot die, but must , ever continue what we make them, working and | THE SOUL AND FUTURE LIFE. 313 doing, if no longer receiving and enjoying? And not merely we ourselves, in our personal identity, are immortal, but each act, thought, and feeling, is immortal; and this immortality is not some ecstatic and indescribable condition in space, but activity on earth in the real and known work of life, in the welfare of those whom we have loved, and in the happiness of those who come after us. And can it be difficult to idealize and give currency to a faith which is a certain and undis- puted fact of common-sense as well as of philos- ophy? As we live for others in life, so we live in others after death, as others have lived in us, and all for the common race. How deeply does such a belief as this bring home to each moment of life the mysterious perpetuity of ourselves! For good, for evil, we cannot die; we cannot shake ourselves free from this eternity of our faculties, There is here no promise, it is true, of eternal sensations, enjoyments, meditations, There is no promise, be it plainly said, of anything but an immortality of influence, of spiritual work, of glorified activity. We cannot even say that we shall continue to love; but we know that we shall be loved. It may well be that we shall conscious- ly know no hope ourselves; but we shall inspire hopes. It may be that we shall not think; but others will think our thoughts, and enshrine our minds. If no sympathies shall thrill along our nerves, we shall be the spring of sympathy in distant generations; and that, though we be the humblest and the least of all the soidiers in the human host, the least celebrated and the worst remembered. For our lives live when we are most forgotten; and not a cup of water that we may have given to an unknown sufferer, or a wise word spoken in season to a child, but has added (whether we remember it, whether others remem- ber it or not) a streak of happiness and strength to the world. Our earthly frames, like the grain of wheat, may be laid in the earth—and this image of our great spiritual Master is more fit for the social than for the celestial future—but the grain shall bear spiritual fruit, and multiply in kindred natures and in other selves. It is a merely verbal question if this be the life of the Soul when the Soul means the sum of the activities, or if there be any immortality where there is no consciousness. It is enough for us that we can trust to a real prélongation of our highest activity in the sensible lives of others, even though our own forces can gain nothing new, and are not reflected in a sensitive body. We do not get rid of Death, but we trans- figure Death. Does any religion profess to do

Page 318

814 more? It is enough for any creed that it can teach non omnis moriar ; it would be gross ex- travagance to say omnis non moriar, no part of me shall die. Death is the one inevitable law of Life. The business of religion is to show us what are its compensations, The spiritualist ortho- doxy, like every other creed, is willing to allow that death robs us of a great deal, that very much of us does die; nay, it teaches that this dies utterly, forever, leaving no trace but dust. And thus the spiritualist orthodoxy exaggerates death, and adds a fresh terror to its power. We, on the contrary, would seek to show that much of us, and that the best of us, does not die, or at least does not end, And the difference between our faith and that of the orthodox is this: we look to the permanence of the activities which give others happiness; they look to the perma- nence of the consciousness which can enjoy hap- piness. Which is the nobler? What need we then to promise or to hope more than an eternity of spiritual influence? Yet, after all, ’tis no question as to what kind of eternity man would prefer to select. We have no evidence that he has any choice before him. If we were creating a universe of our own and a human race on an ideal mould, it might be ra- tional to discuss what kind of eternity was the most desirable, and it might then become a ques- tion if we should not begin by eliminating death. But as we are, with death in the world, and man as we know him submitting to the fatality of his nature, the rational inquiry is this—how best to order his life, and to use the eternity that he has. And an immortality of prolonged activity on earth he has as certainly as he has civilization, or progress, or society. And the wise man in the evening of life may be well content to say: “I have worked and thought, and have been con- scious in the flesh; I have done with the flesh, and therewith with the toil of thought and the troubles of sensation; I am ready to pass into the spiritual community of human souls, and when this man’s flesh wastes away from me, may I be found worthy to beeome part of the influence of humanity itself, and so Toinaan join the choir invisible Whose music is the gladness of the world.’” That the doctrine of the celestial future appeals to the essence of self appears very strongly in its special rebuke to the doctrine of the social fu- ture. It repeats: “We agree with all vou say about the prolonged activity of man after death, we see of course that the solid achievements of life are carried on, and we grant you that it sig- THE POPULAR SOIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. nifies nothing to those who profit by his work that the man no longer breathes in the flesh: but what is all that to the man, to you, and to me? we shall not feel our work, we shall not have the indescribable satisfaction which our souls now have in living, in effecting our work, and profit. ing by others. What is the good of mankind-to me, when I am mouldering unconscious?” Thig is the true materialism; here is the physical theory of another life; this is the unspiritual denial of the soul, the binding it down to the clay of the body. We say, “All that is great in you shall not end, but carry on its activity pen petually and in a purer way;” and you reply; “What care I for what is great in me, and its possible work in this vale of tears? I want to feel life, I want to enjoy, I want my personality” —in other words, “I want my senses, I want my body.” Keep your body and keep your senses in any way that you know. We can only wonder and say, with Frederick to his runaway soldiers, “Wollt ihr immer leben?” But we, who know that a higher form of activity is only to be reached by a subjective life in society, will continue to regard a perpetuity of sensation as the true hell, for we feel that the perpetual worth of our lives is the one thing precious to care for, and nota vacuous eternity of consciousness. It is not merely that this eternity of the tabor is so gross, so sensual, so indolent, so selfish a creed; but its worst evil is that it paralyzes practical life, and throws it into discord. A life of vanity in a vale of tears to be followed by an infinity of celestial rapture, is necessarily a life which is of infinitesimal importance. The im congruity of the attempts to connect the two, and to make the vale of tears the antechamber or the judgment-dock of heaven, grows greater and not less as ages roll on. The more we think and learn, and the higher rises our social phi- losophy and our insight into human destiny, the more the reality and importance of the social future impresses us, while the fancy of the celestial future grows unreal and incongruous As we get to know what thinking means, and feeling means, and the more truly we understand what life means, the more completely do the promises of the celestial transcendentalism fail to interest us. We have come to see that continue to live is to carry on a series of core lated sensations, and to set in motion a series of corresponding forces; to think is to marshal 8 set of observed perceptions with a view to ee tain observed phenomena ; to feel implies some thing of which we have a real assurance affect

Page 319

ty pers and its rant to nality” ant my wonder o know -eached inue to ue hell, ur lives i nota e tabor d by an ing our own consensus within. The whole set of positive thoughts compels us to believe that it is an infinite apathy to which your heaven would consign us, without objects, without relations, without change, without growth, without action, an absolute nothingness, a nirvdna of impotence —this is not life; it is not consciousness ; it is not happiness. So far as we can grasp the hy- pothesis, it seems equally ludicrous and repulsive. You may call it paradise; but we call it con- scious annihilation. You may long for it, if you have been so taught; just as if you had been taught to cherish such hopes, you might be now yearning for the moment when you might become the immaterial principle of a comet, or as you might tell me that you really were the ether, and were about to take your place in space. This is how these sublimities affect us. But we know that to many this future is one of spiritual de- velopment, a life of growth and continual up- soaring of still higher affection. It may be so; but to our mind these are contradictions in terms. We cannot understand what life and affection can mean, where you postulate the ab- sence of every condition by which life and affec- tion are possible. Can there be development DRIFTING LIGHT-WAVES. 315 where there is no law, thought or affection where object and subject are confused into one essence ? How can that be existence, where everything of which we have experience, and everything which we can define, is presumed to be unable to enter? To us these things are all incoherences; and in the midst of practical realities and the solid duties of life, sheer impertinences. The field is full; each human life has a perfectly real and a vast future to look forward to; these hyperbolic enigmas disturb our grave duties and our solid hopes, No wonder, then, while they are still so rife, that men are dull to the moral responsibility which, in its awfulness, begins only at the grave; that they are so little influenced by the futurity which will judge them; that they are blind to the dignity and beauty of death, and shuffle off the dead life and the dead body with such cruel disrespect. The fumes of the celestial immor- tality still confuse them. It is only when an earthly future is the fulfillment of a worthy earth- ly life, that we can see all the majesty as well as the glory of the world beyond the grave; and then only will it fulfill its moral and religious pur- pose as the great guide of human conduct.— Nineteenth Century. DRIFTING LIGHT-WAVES. By RICHARD A. PROCTOR, B. A. HE method of measuring the motion of very swiftly-traveling bodies by noting changes in the light-waves which reach us from them, one of the most remarkable methods of observation, ever yet devised by man, has recently been placed upon its trial, so to speak, with results exceed- ingly satisfactory to the students of science who had accepted the facts established by it. The method will not be unfamiliar to many readers of these pages, The principle involved was first noted by M. Doppler, but not in a form which promised any useful results. The method actu- ally applied appears to have occurred simul- taneously to several persons, as well theorists as observers, Thus Secchi claimed in March, 1868, to have applied it, though unsuccessfully ; Hug- gins, in April, 1868, described his successful use of the method. I, myself, wholly unaware that tither of these observers was endeavoring to measure celestial motions by its means, described the method, in words which I shall presently quote, in the number of Fraser’s Magazine for January, 1868, two months before the earliest enunciation of its nature by the physicists just named. It will be well briefly to describe the principle of this interesting method, before considering the attack to which it has been recently subjected, and its triumphant acquittal from defects charged against it. This brief description will not only be useful to those readers who chance not to be acquainted with the metbod, but may serve to remove objections which suggest themselves, I notice, to many who have had the principle of the method imperfectly explained to them. Light travels from every self-luminous body in waves which sweep through the ether of space at the rate of 185,000 miles per second. As I have elsewhere pointed out, “the whole of that region of space over which astronomers have extended their survey, and, doubtless, a region many millions of millions of times more extended,

Page 320

316 may be compared to a wave-tossed sea, only that, instead of a wave-tossed surface, there is wave- tossed space.” At every point, through every point, along every line, athwart every line, myri- ads of light-waves are at all times rushing with the inconceivable velocity just mentioned. It is from such waves that we have learned all we know about the universe outside our own earth. They bring to our shores news from other worlds, though the news is not always easy to decipher. Now, seeing that we are thus immersed in an ocean, athwart which infinite series of waves are continually rushing, and, moreover, that we our- selves, and every one of the bodies whence the the waves proceed either directly or after reflec- tion, are traveling with enormous velocity through this ocean, the idea naturally presents itself that we may learn something about these motions (as well as about the bodies themselves whence they proceed), by studying the aspect of the waves which flow in upon us in all directions. Suppose a strong swimmer who knew that, were he at rest, a certain series of waves would cross him at a particular rate—ten, for instance, in a minute— were to notice that, when he was swimming di- rectly facing them, eleven passed him in a minute —he would be able at once to compare his rate of swimming with the rate of the waves’ motion. He would know that while ten waves had passed him on account of the waves’ motion, he had by his own motion caused yet another wave to pass THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. a minute later, instead of having to travel the same distance, would have to travel this distance diminished by the space over which the ship had passed in one minute (which the wave itself passes over in the tenth of a minute) ; instead, then, of reaching the observer one minute after the other, it would reach him in nine-tenths ofa minute after the first. Thus it would seem to him as though the waves were coming in faster than when the ship was at rest, in the proportion of ten to nine, though in reality they would be traveling at the same rate as before, only arriy. ing in quicker succession, because of the contin. ual shortening of the distance they had to travel, on account of the ship’s approach. If he knew precisely how fast they would arrive if the ship were at rest, and determined precisely how fast they did arrive, he would be able to determine at once the rate of the ship’s approach, at least the proportion between her rate and the rate of the wave’s motion. Similarly if, owing to the ship's recession, the apparent rate of the waves’ motion were reduced, it is obvious that the actual change in the wave-motion would not be a difference of rate; but, in the case of the approaching ship, the breadth from crest to crest would be reduced, while in the case of a receding ship the distance, from crest to crest would be increased. If the above explanation should still seem to require closer attention than the general reader ' may be disposed to give, the following, suggested him, or, in other words, had traversed the dis- | tance from one wave-crest to the next. Thus he would know that his rate was one-tenth that | of the waves. Similarly if, traveling the same way as the waves, he found that only nine passed him in a minute, instead of ten. Again, it is not difficult to see that, if an observer were at rest, and a body in the water, which by certain mo- tions produced waves, were approaching or re- ceding from the observer, the waves would come in faster in the former case, slower in the latter, than if the body were at rest. Suppose, for in- stance, that some machinery at the bows of a ship raised waves which, if the ship were at rest, would travel along at the rate of ten a minute past the observer's station. Then, clearly, if the ship approached him, each successive wave would have a shorter distance to travel, and so would reach him sooner than it otherwise would have done. Suppose, for instance, the ship traveled one-tenth as fast as the waves, and consider ten waves proceeding from her bows — the first would have to travel a certain distance be- fore reaching the observer; the tenth, starting | would have been if the observer had been by a friend of mine—a very skillful mathematician —will be found still’ simpler: Suppose a stream to flow quite uniformly, and that at one place on its banks an observer is stationed, while at an- ' other higher up a person throws corks into the water at regular intervals, say ten corks per min- ute: then these will float down and pass the other observer, wherever he may be, at the rate of ten per minute, if the cork-thrower is at rest, But if he saunters either up-stream or down-stream, the corks will no longer float past the other at the exact rate of ten per minute. If the thrower is sauntering down-stream, then, between throwing any cork and the next, he has walked a certain way down, and the tenth cork, instead of having to travel the same distance as the first before reaching the observer, has a shorter distance to travel, and so reaches that observer sooner. OF, in fact, which some may find easier to see, this cork will be nearer to the first cork than it would have been if the thrower had remained still. The corks will lie at equal distances from each other, but these equal distances will be less than they

Page 321

el the ‘tance ip had stead, > after is of a em to faster ortion uld be ontin- travel, e ship w fast — nine at ast the of the » ship's motion change nce of z ship, duced, istance, atician ‘the number of corks passing the observer per rest. If, on the contrary, the cork-thrower saun- ters up-stream, the corks will be somewhat far- ther apart than if he had remained at rest. And, supposing the observer to know beforehand that the corks would be thrown in at the rate of ten a minute, he would know, if they passed him at agreater rate than ten a minute (or, in other words, at a less distance from each other than the stream traversed in the tenth of a minute), that the cork-thrower was traveling down-stream or approaching him; whereas if fewer than ten a minute passed him, he would know that the cork-thrower was traveling away from him, or upstream. But also, if the cork-thrower were at rest, and the observer moved up-stream— that is, toward him—the corks would pass him ata greater rate than ten a minute; whereas if the observer were traveling down-stream, or from the thrower, they would pass him at a slower rate. If both were moving, it is easily seen that if their movement brought them nearer together, minute would be increased; whereas if their movements set them farther apart, the number passing him per minute would be diminished. These illustrations, derived from the motions of water, suffice in reality for our purpose. The waves which are emitted by luminous bodies in space travel onward like the water-waves or the corks of the preceding illustrations. If the body which emits them is rapidly approaching us the waves are set closer together or narrowed, where- as if the body is receding they are thrown far- ther apart or broadened. And, if we can in any way recognize such narrowing or broadening of the light-waves, we know just as certainly that the source of light is approaching us or receding from us as the case may be, as our observer in the second illustration would know from the dis- tance between the corks whether his friend the cork-thrower was drawing nearer to him or trav- eling away from him. But it may be convenient to give another illustration, drawn from waves which, like those of light, are not themselves discernible by our senses—I refer to those aérial waves of com- Pression and rarefaction which produce what we tall sound. These waves are not only in this respect better suited than water-waves to illus- trate our subject, but also because they travel in all directions through aérial space, not merely tlong a surface. The waves which produce a certain note, that is, which excite in our minds, through the auditory nerve, the impression cor- DRIFTING LIGHT-WAVES. Tesponding to a certain tone, have a definite | 317 length. So long as the observer, and a source of sound vibrating in one particular period, re- main both in the same place, the note is un- changed in tone, though it may grow louder or fainter according as the vibrations increase or diminish in amplitude. But if the source of sound is approaching the hearer, the waves are thrown closer together and the sound is rendered more acute (the longer waves giving the deeper sound) ; and, on the other hand, if the source of sound is receding from the hearer, the waves are thrown farther apart, and the sound is rendered graver. The rationale of these changes is precisely the same as that of the changes described in the preceding illustrations. It might, perhaps, ap- pear that in so saying we were dismissing the il- lustration from sound, at least as an independent one, because we are explaining the illustration by preceding illustrations. But in reality, while there is absolutely nothing new to be said re- specting the increase and diminution of distances (as between the waves and corks of the preced- ing illustration), the illustration from sound has the immense advantage of admitting readily of experimental tests. It is necessary only that the rate of approach or recession should bear an ap- preciable proportion to the rate at which sound travels. For waves are shortened or lengthened by approach or recession by an amount which bears to the entire length of the wave the same proportion which the rate of approach or reces- sion bears to the rate of the wave's advance. Now, it is not very difficult to obtain rates of ap- proach or recession fairly comparable with the velocity of sound—about 364 yards per second, An express-train at full speed travels, let us say, about 1,800 yards per minute, or 30 yards per second, Such a velocity would suffice to reduce all the sound-waves proceeding from a bell or whistle upon the engine by about one-twelfth part for an observer at rest on a station-platform approached by the engine. On the contrary, af- ter the engine had passed him, the sound-waves proceeding from the same bell or whistle would be lengthened by one-twelfth. The difference be- tween the two tones would be almost exactly three semitones. If the hearer, instead of being on a platform, were in a train carried past the other at the same rate, the difference between the tone of the bell in approaching and its tone in receding would be about three tones. It would not be at all difficult so to arrange matters that, while two bells were sounding the same note— mi, let us say—one bell on one engine, the other on the other, a traveler by one should hear his

Page 322

318 own engine’s bell, the bell of the approaching engine, and the bell of the same engine reced- ing, as the three notes, do, mi, sol, whose wave- lengths are as the numbers 15, 12, and 10, We have here differences very easily to be recog- nized even by those who are not musicians, Every one who travels much by train must have noticed how the tone of a whistle changes as the engine sounding it travels past. The change is not quite sharp, but very rapid, because the other engine does not approach with a certain velocity up to a definite moment and then recede with the same velocity. It could only do this by rushing through the hearer, which would render the ex- periment theoretically more exact but practically unsatisfactory. As it rushes past, instead of through him, there is a brief time during which the rate of approach is rapidly being reduced to | nothing, followed by a similarly brief time dur- ing which the rate of recession gradually in- creases from nothing up to the actual rate of the engines’ velocities added together. The change of tone may be thus illustrated :? A B A Cc D A B representing the sound of the approaching whistle, B C representing the rapid degradation of sound as the engine rushes close past the hearer, and C D representing the sound of the receding whistle. Where a bell is sounded on the engine, as in America, the effect is better recognized, as I had repeated occasion to notice during my travels in that country. Probably this is because the tone of a bell is in any case much more clearly recognized than the tone of a rail- way-whistle. The change of tone, as a clanging bell is carried swiftly past (by the combined mo- tions of both trains), is not at all of such a na- ture as to require close attention for its detec- tion. However, the apparent variation of sound produced by rapid approach or recession has been tested by exact experiments. On a railway uniting Utrecht and Maarsen “ were placed,” the late Prof.- Nichol wrote, “at intervals of some- thing upward of a thousand yards, three groups of musicians, who remained motionless during 1 Even this statement is not mathematically exact If the rails are straight and parallel, the ratio of approach and recession of an engine on one line toward or from an engine on the other is never quite equal to the engines velocities added together; but the difference amounts practically to nothing, except when the engines are near each other. THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. the requisite period. Another musician om the railway sounded at intervals one uniform note; and its effect on the ears of the stationary mus, cians have been fully published. From these, certainly—from the recorded changes betweeq grave and the more acute, and vice versa—eom. firming, even numerically, what the relative te locities might bave enabled one to predict, it appears justifiable to conclude that the general theory is correct; and that the note of any sound may be greatly modified, if not wholly changed, by the velocity of the individual hearing it; ” or, he should have added, by the velocity of the source of sound: perhaps more correct thas either is the statement that the note may be ab tered by the approach or recession of the souree of sound, whether that be caused by the motion of the sounding body, or of the hearer himself or of both. It is difficult, indeed, to understand how doubt can exist in the mind of any one competent to form an opinion on the matter, though, as we shall presently see, some students of science and one or two mathematicians have raised doubts as to the validity of the reasoning by which itis shown that a change should occur. That the reasoning is sound cannot, in reality, be ques tioned, and after careful examination of the arge ments urged against it by one or two mathem® ticians, I can form no other opinion than that these arguments amount really but to an expres sion of inability to understand the matter. This may seem astonishing, but is explained when we remember that some mathematicians, by devoting their attention too particularly to special depart ments, lose, to a surprising degree, the powerof dealing with subjects (even mathematical ones) outside their department. Apart from the sound- ness of the reasoning, the facts are unmistakably in accordance with the conclusion to which the reasoning pvints. Yet some few still entertain doubts, a circumstance which may prove a coune of consolation to any who find themselves unable to follow the reasoning on which the effect of approach or recession on wave-lengths depends Let such remember, however, that experimentia the case of the aérial waves producing sound accords perfectly with theory, and that the waves which produce light are perfectly analogous(s far as this particular point is concerned) withthe waves producing sound, 7 Ordinary white light, and many kinds of ek ored light, may be compared with noz with a multitude of intermixed sounds, » Bat light of one pure color may be comfy =

Page 323

DRIFTING LIGHT-WAVES. sound of one determinate note. As the aérial waves producing the effect of one definite tone are all of one length, so the ethereal waves pro- ducing light of one definite color are all of one length. ‘Therefore, if we approach or recede from a source of light emitting such waves, effects will result corresponding with what has been described above for the case of water-waves and sound-waves. If we approach the source of light, or if it approaches us, the waves will be shortened; if we recede from it, or if it recedes from us, the waves will be lengthened. But the color of light depends on its wave-length pre- cisely as the tone of sound depends on its wave- length. The waves producing red light are longer than those producing orange light, these are Jonger than the waves producing yellow light; and so the length-waves shorten down from yel- low to green, thence to blue, to indigo, and finally to violet. Thus if light shining in reality with a pure green color approached the observer with a velocity comparable with that of light, it would seem blue, indigo, or violet, according to the rate of approach; whereas if it rapidly re- ceded, it would seem yellow, orange, or red, ac- cording to the rate of recession. Unfortunately in one sense, though very for- tunately in many much more important respects, the rates of motion among the celestiul bodies are not comparable with the velocity of light, but are always so much less as to be almost rest by comparison. The velocity of light is about 187,000 miles per second, or, according to the measures of the solar system at present in vogue (which will shortly have to give place to some- what larger measures, the result of observations made upon the recent transit of Venus), about 185,000 miles per second. The swiftest celestial motion of which we have ever had direct evi- dence was that of the comet of the year 1848, Which, at the time of its nearest approach to the sun, was traveling at the rate of about 350 miles per second. This, compared with the velocity of light, is as the motion of a person taking six steps a minute, each less than half a yard long, to the rush of the swiftest express-train. No body within our solar system can travel faster than this, the motion of a body falling upon the tun from an infinite distance being only about 870 miles per second when it reaches his sur- face. And though swifter motions probably exist among the bodies traveling around more mas- sive suns than ours, yet of such motions we can never become cognizant. ll the motions taking Place among the stars themselves would appear | 819 to be very much less in amount. The most swiftly moving sun seems to travel but at the rate of about 50 or 60 miles per second. Now let us consider how far a motion of 100 miles per second might be expected to modify the color of pure green light—selecting green as the middid color of the spectrum. The waves producing green light are of such a length, that 47,000 of them scarcely equal in length a single inch. Draw on paper an inch and divide it care- fully into ten equal parts, or take such parts from a well-divided rule; divide one of these tenths into ten equal parts, as nearly as the eye will permit you to judge; then one of these parts, or about half the thickness of an average pin, would contain 475 of the waves of pure green light. The same length would equal the length of 440 waves of pure yellow light, and of 511 waves of pure blue light. (The green, yel- low, and blue, here spoken of, are understood to be of the precise color of the middle of the green, yellow, and blue parts of the spectrum.) Thus the green waves must be increased in the proportion of 475 to 440 to give yellow light, or reduced in the proportion of 511 to 475 to give blue light. For the first purpose, the velocity of recession must bear to the velocity of light the proportion which 80 bears to 475, or must be equal to rather more than one-sixteenth part of the velocity of light—say 11,600 miles per second. For the second purpose, the velocity of approach must bear to the velocity of light the proportion which 86 bears to 475, or must be nearly equal to one-thirteenth part of the ve- locity of light—say 14,300 miles per second, But the motions of the stars and other celes- tial bodies, and also the motions of matter in the sun, and so forth, are very much less than these. Except in the case of one or two comets (and always dismissing from consid- eration the amazing apparent velocities with which comets’ tails seem to be formed), we may take 100 miles per second as the extreme limit of velocity with which we have to deal in con- sidering the application of our theory to the mo- tions of recession and approach of celestial bod- ies. Thus, in the case of recession the greatest possible change of color in pure green light would be equivalent to the difference between the me- dium green of the spectrum, and the color y+; part of the way from medium green to medium yellow ; and in the case of approach, the change would correspond to the difference between the medium green and the color +}; part of the way from medium green to medium blue. Let any

Page 324

820 one look at a spectrum of fair length, or even at a correctly-tinted painting of the solar spectrum, and note how utterly unrecognizable to ordinary vision is the difference of tint for even the twen- tieth part of the distance between medium green and medium yellow on one side, or medium blue on the other, and he will recognize how: utterly hopeless it would be to attempt to appreciate the change of color due to the approach or recession of a luminous body shining with pure green light and moving at the tremendous rate of 100 miles per second. It would be hopeless, even though we had the medium green color and the changed color, either toward yellow or toward blue, placed side by side for comparison—how much more when the changed color would have to be com- pared with the observer's recollection of the me- dium color, as seen on some other occasion ! But this is the least important of the difficul- ties affecting the application of this method by noting change of color, as Doppler originally pro- posed. Another difficulty, which seems some- how to have wholly escaped Doppler’s attention, renders the color-test altogether unavailable. We do not get pure light from any of the celestial bodies except certain gaseous clouds of nebule. From every sun we get, as from our own sun, all the colors of the rainbow. There may be an ex- cess of some colors and a deficiency of others in any star, so as to give the star a tint, or even a very decided color. But even a blood-red star, or a deep blue or violet star, does not shine with pure red light, for the spectroscope shows that the star has other colors than those producing the prevailing tint, and it is only the great excess of red rays (all kinds of red, too) or of blue rays (of all kinds), and so on, which makes the star appear red, or blue, and so on, to the eye. By far the greater number of stars or suns show all the colors of the rainbow nearly equally distrib- uted, as in the case of our own sun. Now, imag- ine for a moment a white sun, which had been at rest, to begin suddenly to approach us so rap- idly (traveling more than 10,000 miles per sec- ond) that the red rays became orange, the orange became yellow, the yellow green, the green blue, the blue indigo, the indigo violet, and that the violet waves became too short to affect the sense of sight. Then, if that were all, that sun, being deprived of the red part of its light, would shine with a slightly-bluish tinge, owing to the relative superabundance of rays from the violet end of the spectrum. We should be able to recognize such a change, yet not nearly so distinctly as if that sun had been shining with a pure green light, THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. and, suddenly beginning to approach us at the enormous rate just mentioned, changed in color to full blue. hough, if that sun were all the time approaching us at the enormous rate im. agined, we should be quite unable to tell whether its slightly-bluish tinge were due to such mo tion of approach or to some inhereut blueness in the light emitted by the star. Similarly, ifs white sun suddenly began to recede so rapidly that its violet rays were turned to indigo, indigo to blue, and so on, the orange rays turning to red, and the red rays disappearing altogether, then, if that were all, its light would become slightly reddish, owing to the relative super abundance of light from the red end of the spec trum ; and we might distinguish the change, yet not so readily as if a sun shining with pure green light began to recede at the same enormous rate, and so shone with pure yellow light. hough, if that sun were all the time receding at that enor. mous rate, we should be quite unable to tell whether its slightly-reddish hue were due to such motion of recession or to some inherent redness in its own lustre. But in neither case would that be all. In the former, the red rays would indeed become orange; but the rays beyond the red, which produce no effect upon vision, would be converted into red rays, and fill up the part of the spectrum deserted by the rays originally red. In the latter, the violet rays would indeed be - come indigo; but the rays beyond the violet, om dinarily producing no effect, would be converted into violet rays, and fill up the part of the spec trum deserted by the rays originally violet. Thus, despite the enormous velocity of approach in one case and of recession in the other, there would be no change whatever in the color of the sun ia either case. All the colors of the rainbow would still be present in the sun’s light, and it would, therefore, still be a white sun. Doppler’s method would thus fail utterly, evem though the stars were traveling hither and thith er with motions a hundred times greater than the greatest known stellar motions. This objection to Doppler’s theory, as orig nally proposed, was considered by me in an arti- cle on “Colored Suns” in Fraser's Magazine for January, 1868. His theory, indeed, was origi- nally promulgated, not as affording a means of measuring stellar motions, but as a way of ae counting for the colors of double stars. It was thus presented by Prof. Nichol, in a chapter of his “ Architecture of the Heavens,” on this Be cial subject : “The rapid motion of light reaches antl ik ogee ef we =m ushCU

Page 325

at the | color all the te im. hether ‘h mo- 1e8s in y, ifa rapidly ing to gether, super- 1e Spec. age, yet e green us rate, ough, if at enor- to such uld that 1 indeed he red, ould be » rt of the ly red. leed be- iolet, Or ynverted h in one of those numbers which reason owns, while imagi- nation ceases to comprehend them ; but it is also true that the swiftness with which certain individ- uals of the double stars sweep past their perihelia, or rather their periasters, is amazing; and, in this matter of colors, it must be recollected that the question solely regards the difference between the velocity of the waves constituent of colors, at those different stellar positions. Still it isa bold—evena magnificent idea; and if it can be reconciled with the permanent colors of the multitude of stars sur- rounding us—stars which too are moving in great orbits with immense velocities—it may be hailed almost as a positive discovery. It must obtain confirmation, or otherwise, so soon as we can com- pare with certainty the observed colorific changes of separate systems with the known fluctuations of their orbital motions.”’ That was written a quarter of a century ago, when spectroscopic analysis, as we now know it, had no existence. Accordingly, while the fatal objection to Doppler’s original theory is over- looked on the one hand, the means of applying the principle underlying the theory, in a much more exact manner than Doppler could have hoped for, is overlooked on the other. Both points are noted in the article above referred to, in the same paragraph. “We may dismiss,” I there stated, “the theory started some years ago by the French astronomer, M. Doppler.” But, I presently added, “It is quite clear that the effects of a motion rapid enough to produce such a change” (i. e., a change of tint in a pure color) “would shift the position of the whole spectrum—and this change would be readily detected by a reference to the spectral lines.” This is true, even to the word “readily.” Velocities which would produce an appreciable change of tint would produce “read- ily” detectible changes in the position of the spectral lines; the velocities actually existing among the star-motions would produce changes in the position of these lines detectible only with extreme difficulty, or perhaps in the majerity of instances not detectible at all. It has been in this way that the spectroscopic method has actually been applied. It is easy to perceive the essential difference between this way of applying the method and | the actual results of the application of this method that depending on the attempted recognition of changes of color. A dark line in the spectrum DRIFTING LIGHT-WAVES. 32% the spectrum, toward the red end for recession, toward the violet end for approach; and, of course, the dark space between is shifted along with them. One may say that the missing tint is changed. For in reality that is precisely what would happen. If the light of a star at rest gave every tint of the spectrum, for instance, except mid-green alone, and that star approached or receded so swiftly that its motion would change pure green light to pure yellow in one case, or pure blue in the other, then the effect on the spec- trum of such a star would be to throw the dark line from the middle of the green part of the spectrum to the middle of the yellow part in one case, or to the middle of the blue part in the other. The dark line would be quite notably shifted in either case. With the actual stellar motions, though all the lines are more or less shifted, the displacement is always exceedingly minute, and it becomes a task of extreme diffi- culty to recognize, and still more to measure, such displacement. When I first indicated publicly (January, 1868) the way in which Doppler’s principle could alone be applied, two physicists, Huggins in Eng- land and Secchi in Italy, were actually endeavor- ing, with the excellent spectroscopes in their pos- session, to apply this method. In March, 1868, Secchi gave up the effort as useless, publicly an- nouncing the plan on which he had proceeded, and his failure to obtain any results except negative ones, A month later Huggins also publicly an- | nounced the plan on which he had been working, but was also able to state that in one case, that | of the bright star Sirius, he had succeeded in measuring a motion in the line of sight, having | discovered that Sirius was receding from the earth | at the rate of 41.4 miles per second. I say was receding, because a part of the recession at the | time of observation was due to the earth’s orbi- | tal motion around the sun. I had, at his request, supplied Huggins with the formula for calculat- | ing the correction due to this cause, and, apply- ing it, he found that Sirius is receding from the | sun at the rate of about 29} miles per second, _ or some 930,000,000 miles per annum. I am not here specially concerned to consider since the time of Huggins’s first success; but the marks in reality the place of a missing tint. The | next chapter of the history of the method is one tints hext to it on either side are present, but the tint between them is wanting. They are changed color—very slightly, in fact quite inapprecia- bly—by motion of recession or approach, or, in other words, they are shifted in position along 21 tempted briefly to refer to details. so interesting to myself personally that I feel So soon as I had heard of Huggins’s success with Sirius, and that an instrument was being prepared for him | wherewith he might hope to extend the method

Page 326

€22 THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. to other stars, I ventured to make a prediction | to measure the rate of solar hurricanes ag well” as to the result which he would obtain whenso- | as the velocities of the up-rush and down-rush of ever he should apply it to five stars of the seven | vaporous matter in the atmosphere of. the gu forming the so-called Plough. I had found rea- | Another spectroscopic method had enabled ag son to feel assured that these five form a system | tronomers to watch the rush of glowing matte drifting all together amid stellar space. Satisfied | from the edge of the sun, by observing the egL for my own part as to the validity of the evidence, | ored flames and their motions; but by the ney I submitted it to Sir J. Herschel, who was struck | method it was possible to determine whether by its force. The apparent drift of those stars | the flames at the edge were swept by solar ey. was, of course, a thwart-drift; but if they really | clones carrying them from or toward the eye'¢f were drifting in space, then their motions in the | the terrestrial observer, and also to determing line of sight must of necessity be alike. My predic- | whether glowing vapors over the middle of the | tion, then, was that whensoever Mr. Huggins ap- | visible disk were subject to motion of up-ragh, — plied to those stars the new method he would find which of course would carry them toward the eye, them either all receding at the same rate, or all | or of down-rush, which would carry them from _ approaching at the same rate, or else that all | _the eye. The result of observations directed alike failed to give any evidence at all either of | | this end was to show that at least during the recession or approach. I had indicated the five | time when the sun is most spotted, solar hurm in the first edition of my “Other Worlds”—to | canes of tremendous violence take place, while wit, the stars of the Plough, omitting the nearest | the up-rushing and down-rushing motions of solar “pointer” to the pole and the star marking the | matter sometimes attain a velocity of more than third horse (or the tip of the Great Bear’s tail). | 100 miles per second. So soon as Huggins’s new telescope and its spee- | It was this success on the part of an vai troscopic adjuncts were in working order, he re- | spectroscopist which caused the attack on the examined Sirius, determined the motions of other | | new method against which it has but stars, and, at last, on one suitable evening he | been successfully defended, at least in wa tested the stars of the Plough. He began with | of those who are satisfied only by experimental the nearest pointer, and found that star swiftly | tests of the validity of a process, The approaching the earth. He turned to the other Secchi had failed, as we have seen, to recogni pointer, and found it rapidly receding from the | motions of recession and approach among the earth. Being under the impression that my five | stars by the new method. But he had take included both pointers, he concluded that my pre- | solar observation by spectroscopic methods wide diction had utterly failed, and so went on with his | his special charge, and therefore when the new observations altogether unprejudiced in its favor, | results reached his ears he felt bound to confit to say the least. The next star of the seven he | or invalidate them. He believed that the appar found to be receding at the same rate as the sec- | ent displacement of dark lines in the solar spe ond pointer ; the next at the same rate; the next, | trum might be due to the heat of the sun causing and the next, receding still at the same rate, and | changes in the delicate adjustments of the instr lastly the seventh receding at a different rate. | ment—a cause of error against which precautions Here, then, were five stars, all receding at a com- | are certainly very necessary. He satisfied him mon rate, and of the other two one receding at | self that when sufficient precautions are I a different rate, the other swiftly approaching. | displacements take place such as Lockyer, Yi Turning next to the work containing my predic- | and others, claimed to have seen. But he tion, Huggins found that the five stars thus re- | mitted the matter to a further test. As thes § ceding at a common rate were the five whose | is spinning swiftly on his axis, his mighty eae community of motion I had indicated two years | tor, more than 2,500,000 miles in girth, before. Thus the first prediction ever made re- | once round in about twenty-four days, it is specting the motions of the so-called fixed stars | that on one side the sun’s surface is was not wanting in success. I would venture to | moving toward, and on the other side as add that the theory of star-drift, on the strength | moving from, the observer. By some of which the prediction was made, was effectively | miscalculation Secchi made the rate of this confirmed by the result. | tion twenty miles per second, so that the The next application of the new method was | the two motions in opposite directions one of singular interest. I believe it was Mr. | equal forty miles per second. He com Lockyer who first thought of applying the method | that he ought to be able by the new Beeewns2®ecsce fe

Page 327

DRIFTING LIGHT-WAVES. 328 the new method is trustworthy at all, to recog- nize this marked difference between the state of the sun’s eastern and western edges ; found on trial that he could not do so; and accordingly expressed his opinion that the new method is not trustworthy, and that the arguments urged in its favor are invalid. The weak point in his reasoning resided in the circumstance that the solar equator is only moving at the rate of about one and a quarter mile per second, so that instead of a difference of forty miles per second between the two edges, which should be appreciable, the actual differ- ence (that is, the sum of the two equal motions in opposite directions) amounts only to two and a half miles per second, which certainly Secchi could not hope to recognize with the spectro- scopic power at his disposal. Nevertheless, when theerror in his reasoning was pointed out, though he admitted that error, he maintained the justice of his conclusion ; just as Cassini, having mis- takenly reasoned that the degrees of latitude should diminish toward the pole instead of in- creasing, and having next mistakenly found, as | | | | send the rays into another battery of six prisms, the entire set forming a double curve like the letter S, the rays being then carried to a higher level and back through the double battery. In this way a dispersive power of nineteen prisms could be secured. My friend Mr. Browning, the eminent optician, made a double battery of this kind,! which was purchased by Mr. W. Spottis- woode, and by him lent to Mr. Huggins for the express purpose of dealing with the task Secchi had set spectroscopists. It did not, however, afford the required evidence. Huggins consid- ered the displacement of dark lines due to the sun’s rotation to be recognizable, but so barely that he could not speak confidently on the point. There for a while the matter rested. Vdigel made observations confirming Huggins’s results relative to stellar motions ; but Végel’s instru- mental means were not sufliciently powerful to render his results of much weight. But recently two well-directed attacks have been made upon this problem, one in England, the other in America, and in both cases with success. Rather, perhaps, seeing that the meth- he supposed, that they do diminish, acknowledged | od had been attacked and was supposed to re- the error of his reasoning, but insisted on the validity of his observations ; maintaining thence- | forth, as all the world knows, that the earth is | extended instead of flattened at the poles! Huggins tried to recognize by the new meth- od the effects of the sun's rotation, using a much more powerful spectroscope than Secchi had em- ployed. The history of the particular spectro- scope he employed is in one respect specially interesting to myself, as the extension of spec- troscopie power was of my own devising before | Thad ever used or even seen a powerful spectro- scope. The reader is aware that spectroscopes derive their light-sifting power from the prisms | forming them. The number of prisms was gradu- ally increased, from Newton’s single prism to | Fraunhofer’s pair, Kirchhoff’s battery of four, till six were used, which bent the light round as | far as it would go. Then the idea occurred of carrying the light to a higher level (by reflec- tions) and sending it back through the same battery of prisms, doubling the dispersion. Such & battery, if of six prisms, would spread the Spectral colors twice as widely apart as six used ithe ordinary way, and would thus have a dis- Persive power of twelve prisms, It occurred to me that after taking the rays through six prisms, “ranged in a curve like the letter C, an inter- mediate four-cornered prism of a particular shape (which I determined) might be made to quire defense, we may say that two well-directed assaults have been made upon the attacking party, which has been completely routed. Arrangements were made not very long ago, by which the astronomical work of Greenwich Observatory, for a long time directed almost ex- clusively to time observations, should include the study of the sun, stars, planets, and so forth. Among other work which was considered suited | to the national observatory was the application of spectroscopic analysis to determine motions _of recession and approach among the celestial bodies. Some of these observations, by-the-way, were made, we are told, “to test the truth of Doppler’s principle,” though it seems difficult to suppose for an instant that mathematicians so | skillful as the chief of the observatory and some of his assistants could entertain any doubt on |that point. Probably it was intended by the words just quoted to imply simply that some of the observations were made for the purpose of 1 I have omitted all reference to details; but in reality the double battery was automatic, the motion of the ob- serving telescope, as different colors of the spectrum were brought into view, setting all the prisms of the double battery into that precise position which causes them to show best each particular part of the spectrum thus brought into view. It is rather singular that the first view I ever had of the solar prominences was obtained (at Dr. Huggins's observatory) with this instrument of my own invention, which also was the first powerful spectroscope I had ever used or even seen.

Page 328

illustrating the principle of the method. We are ! not to suppose that on a point so simple the Greenwich observers have been in any sort of doubt. At first their results were not very satisfac- tory. The difficulties which had for a long time foiled Huggins, and which Secchi has never been | able to master, rendered the first Greenwich measures of stellar motions in the line of sight | wildly inconsistent, not only with Huggins’s re- sults, but with each other. Secchi was not slow his objections to the new method of observation, pointing and illustrating his objections by refer- | ring to the discrepancies among the Greenwich results, But recently a fresh series of results has been published, showing that the observers at Greenwich have succeeded in mastering some at least among the difficulties which they had before experienced. The measurements of star- | the rate of several miles per second, when we — motions showed now a satisfactory agreement with Huggins’s results, and their range of diver- The chief interest of the new results, however, lay in the observations made upon bodies known to be in motion in the line of sight at rates al- ready measured. These observations, though not wanted as tests of the accuracy of the prin- ciple, were very necessary as tests of the accu- racy of the instruments used in applying it. It is here and thus that Secchi’s objections alone! = Observations have been made at Greenwich, required to be met, and here and thus they have been thoroughly disposed of. Let us consider what means exist within the solar system for method shows that Venus is receding when she thus testing the new method. | is known to be receding, and that she is ap The earth travels along in her orbit at the rate of about eighteen and one-third miles in every second of time. Not to enter into niceties which could only properly be dealt with mathematically, it may be said that with this full velocity she is at times approaching the remoter planets of the system, and at times receding from them ; so that here at once is a range of difference amounting to about thirty-seven miles per second, and fairly within the power of the new method of observa- tion. For it matters nothing, so far as the new method is concerned, whether the earth is ap- proaching another orb by her motion, or that orb approaching by its own motion. Again, the platfet Venus travels at the rate of about twenty-one and a half miles per second, but as the earth travels only three miles a second less swiftly, and the , same way round, only a small portion of Venus’s motion ever appears as a motion of approach toward or recession from the earth. Still, Venus ‘than that of Jupiter or Saturn, and a i | more easily recognized than the greater rate at confined their attention to Venus, so far asme | tions of planets in the line of sight are concerned to note this, and a short time ago he renewed | The moon, as a body which keeps always at | nearly the same distance from us, would, of } | ‘never! varies by more than 30,000 miles during gence among themselves was greatly reduced. | the lunar month, and her rate of approach orm | | cession thus averaging about one-fiftieth part of 524 THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. is sometimes approaching and sometimes reged. ing from the earth, at a rate of more than eight miles per second. Her light is much brighter this smaller rate of motion would be probably which the giant planets are sometimes approach. ing and at cther times receding from the earth, At least the Greenwich observers seem to have course, be the last in the world to be selected to give positive evidence in favor of the new method ; but she serves to afford a useful test of the accuracy of the instruments employed If, when these were applied to her, they gave evidence of motions of recession or approach at | know as a matter of fact that the moon’s distance — a mile per second, discredit would be thrown on the new method— not, indeed, as regards its prin | ! ciple, which no competent reasoner can for 4 moment question, but as regards the possibility ‘ of practically applying it with our present instr t mental means. ( V both on Venus and on the moon, by the new y method, with results entirely satisfactory. ‘The a y ¥ proaching when she is known to be approaching; n ‘and the method shows no signs of approach oF u "recession in the moon’s case, and is thus in sab ra | isfactory agreement with the known facts, Of er | course, these results are open to the objection ve | that the observers have known beforehand what m to expect, and that expectation often deceit 9 sy the mind, especially in cases where the thing OF cw | be observed is not at all easy to recognize. | will presently be seen that the new method la 9 jj been more satisfactorily tested, in this respect, he in other ways. It may be partly due to the effect _ of expectation that in the case of Venus the mo sur tions of approach and recession, tested by the Brot | new method, have always been somewhat oe am great. A part of the excess may be due tothe Fay use of the measure of the sun’s distance, and mo: 1 It varies more in some months than in others, re 4 moon's orbit changes in shape under the various : “a ing influences to which she is subject.

Page 329

therefore the measures of the dimensions of the solar system, in vogue before the recent transit. These measures full short to some degree of those which result from the observations made in December, 1874, on Venus in transit, the sun’s distance being estimated at about 91,400,000 miles instead of 92,000,000 miles, which would seem to be nearer the real distance, Of course, all the motions within the solar system would be correspondingly under-estimated. On the other hand, the new method would give all velocities with absolute correctness if instrumental diffi- culties could be overcome. The difference be- tween the real velocities of Venus approaching and receding, and those calculated according to the present inexact estimate of the sun’s distance, is, however, much less than the observed dis- erepaney, doubtless due to the difficulties in- volved in the application of this most difficult method. I note the point, chiefly for the sake of mentioning the cirenmstance that theoretically the method affords a new means of measuring the dimensions of the solar system. Whensoever the practical application of the method has been so far improved that the rate of approach or reces- sion of Venus, or Mercury, or Jupiter, or Saturn (any of these planets), can be determined on any occasion, with great nicety, we can at once infer the sun’s distance with corresponding exactness, Considering that the method has not been in- vented ten years (setting aside Doppler’s first vague ideas respecting it), and that spectroscopic analysis as a method of exact observation is as yet little more than a quarter of a century old, we may fairly hope that in the years to come the new method, already successfully applied to meas- ure motions of recession and approach at the rate of twenty or thirty miles per second, will be employed successfully in measuring much smaller velocities. Then will it give us a new method of measuring the great base-line of astronomical surveying—the distance of our world from the centre of the solar system. That this will one day happen is rendered highly probable, in my opinion, by the successes hext to be related. Besides the motions of the planets around the sun, there are their motions of rotation, and the rotation of the sun himself upon his axis. Some among these turning motions are sufficiently "apid to be dealt with by the new method. The most rapid rotational motion with which we are ‘cquainted from actual observation is that of the planet Jupiter. The circuit of his equator Mounts to about 267,000 miles, and he turns DRIFTING LIGHT-WAVES. 825 once on his axis in a few minutes less than ten hours, so that his equatorial surface travels at the rate of about 26,700 miles an hour, or nearly seven and a half miles per second. Thus, between the advancing and retreating sides of the equator there is a difference of motion in the line of sight amounting to nearly fifteen miles. But this is not all, Jupiter shines by reflecting sunlight. Now, it is easily seen that where his turning equator mee’s the waves of light from the sun, these are shortened, in the same sense that waves are shortened for a swimmer traveling to meet them, while these waves, already shortened ‘in this way, are further shortened when starting from the same advancing surface of Jupiter, on their journey to us after reflection. In this way, the shortening of the waves is doubled, at least when the earth is so placed that Jupiter lies in the same direction from us as from the sun, the very time, in fact, when Jupiter is most favorably placed for ordinary observation, or at his highest due south, when the sun is at his lowest below the northern horizon—that is, at midnight. The lengthening of the waves is similarly doubled at this most favorable time for observation; and the actual difference between the motion of the two sides of Jupiter’s equator being nearly fifteen miles per second, the effect on the light-waves is equivalent to that due to a difference of nearly thirty miles per second. Thus, the new method may fairly be expected to indicate Jupiter’s mo- tion of rotation. The Greenwich observers have succeeded in applying it, though Jupiter has not been favorably situated for observation. Only on one occasion, says Sir G. Airy, was the spec- trum of Jupiter “seen fairly well,” and on that occasion “ measures were obtained which gave a result in remarkable agreement with the calcu- lated value.” It may well be hoped that when in the course of a few years Jupiter returns to that part of his course where be rises high above the horizon, shining more brightly and through a less perturbed air, the new method will be still more successfully applied. We may even hope to see it extended to Saturn, not merely to con- firm the measures already made of Saturn’s rota- tion, but to resolve the doubts which exist as to the rotation of Saturn’s ring-system. Lastly, there remains the rotation of the sun, a movement much more difficult to detect by the new method, because the actual rate of motion even at the sun’s equator amounts only to about one mile per second. In dealing with this very difficult task, the hardest which spectroscopists have yet attempted,

Page 330

326 the Greenwich observers have achieved an un- doubted success; but unfortunately for them, though fortunately for science, another observa- tory, fur smaller and of much less celebrity, has at the critical moment achieved success still more complete. The astronomers at our national observatory have been able toe recognize by the new method THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. | tains from his spectroscopic observations rate of rather more than one and two-fifths mile, or about 300 yards per second more than the tele scopic rate. be If Young had been measuring the motion of the same matter which is observed with the tda scope, there could of course be no doubt that the telescope was right, and the spectroscope wrong, the turning-motion of the sun upon his axis. | We might add a few yards per second for the And here we have not, as in the case of Venus, | probably greater distance of the sun resulting to record merely that the observers have seen what they expected to see because of the known motion of the sun. “ Particular care was taken,” says Airy, “to avoid any bias from previous knowledge of the direction in which a displace- ment”’ (of the spectral lines) “‘ was to be expect- ed,” the side of the sun under observation not being known by the observer until after the ob- servation was completed. But Prof. Young, at Dartmcuth College, Han- over, New Hampshire, has done much more than merely obtain evidence by the new method that the sun is rotating as we already knew. He has suc- | from recent transit observations. For, of courte, with an increase in our estimate of the sun’s dig tance there comes an increase in our estimate of — the sun’s dimensions, and of the velocity of the rotational motion of his surface; but only about twelve yards per second could be allowed on this account, the rest would have to be regarded a an error due to the difficulties involved in the spectroscopic method. But in reality the tee sccpist and the spectroscopist observe different things in determining by their respective meth ods the sun’s motion of rotation. The former observes the motion of the spots belonging ceeded so perfectly in mastering the instrumental to the sun’s visible surface; the latter observes and observational difficulties, as absolutely to be | the motion of the glowing vapors outside thatsa able to rely on his measurement (as distinguished , face, for it is from these vapors, not from thé from the mere recognition) of the sun’s motion of rotation. The manner in which he has extended the powers of ordinary spectroscopic analysis can- not very readily be described in these pages, sim- ply because the principles on which the extension depends require for their complete description a | reference to mathematical considerations of some | Let it be simply noted that what is | complexity. called the diffractive spectrum, obtained by using a finely-lined plate, results from the dispersive action of such a plate, or grating, as it is techni- cally called, and this dispersive power can be readily combined with that of a spectroscope of the ordinary kind. Now, Dr. Rutherford, of New | York, has succeeded in ruling so many thousand lines on glass within the breadth of a single inch as to produce a grating of high dispersive power. Availing himself of this beautiful extension of spectroscopic powers, Prof. Young has succeeded in recognizing effects of much smaller motions of recession and approach than had before been observable by the new method. He has thus been able to measure the rotation-rate of the sun’s equatorial regions. His result exceeds con- siderably that inferred from the telescopic obser- | For, whereas from | vation of the solar spots. the motion of the spots a rotation-rate of about one and a quarter mile per second has been cal- culated for the sun’s equator, Prof. Young ob- surface of the sun, that the dark lines of the spectrum proceed. Now, so confident is Prof Young of the accuracy of his spectroscopic servations, that he is prepared to regard thé seeming difference of velocity between the a mosphere and surface of the sun as real, Hebe | lieves that “the solar atmosphere really sweeps forward over the underlying surface in the samé _ way that the equatorial regions outstrip the othet parts of the sun’s surface.” This inference, im | portant and interesting in itself, is far more it* portant in what it invoives. For, if we can & cept it, it follows that the spectroscopic method of measuring the velocity of motions in the line | of sight is competent, under favorable conditions to obtain results accurate within a few hundred yards per second, or ten or twelve miles pe minute. If this shall really prove to be true for the method now, less than nine years after ita first successfuily applied, what may we not hope from the method in future years? § analysis itself is in its infancy, and this but a recent application of spectroscopy. Aceh tury or so hence astronomers will smile (thowg? not disdainfully) at these feeble efforts, much we smile now in contemplating the puny * ' scopes with which Galileo and his conte studied the star-depths. And we may lieve that largely as the knowledge Dg] a & 2 es © & oe. et & o' we se ma ek kK

Page 331

> ote tht. ee telescopists in our own time surpasses that which Galileo obtained, so will spectroscopists a few generations hence have gained a far wider and deeper insight into the constitution and move- ments of the stellar universe than the spectro- scopists of our own day dare even hope to attain. I venture confidently to predict that, with that insight, astronomers will recognize in the universe of stars a variety of structure, a complexity of arrangement, an abundance of every form of cos- mical vitality, such as I have been led by other considerations to suggest, not the mere cloven lamina of uniformly scattered stars more or less resembling our sun, and all in nearly the same stage of cosmical development, which the books COST OF MINERAL TRAFFIC ON ENGLISH RAILWAYS. 327 of astronomy not many years since agreed in de- scribing. The history of astronomical progress does not render it probable that the reasoning al- ready advanced, though in reality demonstrative, will convince the generality of science-students until direct and easily-understood observations have shown the real nature of the constitution of that part of the universe over which astronomi- cal survey extends. But the evidence already obtained, though its thorough analysis may be “ caviare to the general,” suffices to show the real nature of the relations which one day will come within the direct scope of astronomical ob- servation, —Contemporary Review. E have seen, in a former paper, that the killed and wounded on railways of the United Kingdom, during the year 1875, amounted to the considerable number of 7,045 persons, and that grave reasons exist for attributing a large proportion of this loss to the result of the mutual interference of two different systems of traffic, carried over one system of road. To the data cited in our last. number, chiefly from the re- ports of the Government Inspector of Railways, may be advantageously added one or two further 1 The question handled in this paper has long seemed to us one of great importance, and we are glad to present the views of a writer qualified to deal with it. It may well be that our railway system stands in urgent need of a sweeping measure of reform, and that immediate steps ought to be taken to remove the mineral traffic (and per- haps all heavy-goods traffic) from railway lines used for the conveyance of passengers; such traffic to be in future carried on by sea, by inland waters, and by railway lines hot used for passengers. Our railway system is emphati- ally the child of Parliament, and Parliament has every right to interfere with it to any extent for the public good. Even for the profit of the companies, a manner of conduct- ing railway-traffic not proved necessary, and proved to cause annually a large number of cases of death and muti- lation, could, we hold, have no claim to continue its mur- course. But our professional friend thinks it will Sppear, on a thorongh examination, that this mixed traffic is actually carried on at a money loss, as well as a life-and- limb loss, not to speak of the losses in time, temper, and comfort, caused by daily and hourly unpunctuality. In Connection with this article ought to be read “ Battles of Peace” in our last, and “ Our Inland Navigation” in the amber for April.—Ep. Fraser's Magazine. COST OF MINERAL TRAFFIC ON ENGLISH RAILWAYS.' By F. R. CONDER, ¢. E. | | details, taken from the report of the Royal Com- | mission on railway accidents. The annually increasing rate of railway dan- ger could be only imperfectly illustrated by re- marks for which Captain Tyler’s report supplied material. It is therefore important to mention that between 1872 and 1875 there was an in- crease of between 40 and 41 per cent. in the an- nual list of casualties ; the number in the former years having been 4,183, of which 1,145 were fatal. But while such has been the general in- crease, the servants of the railway companies have suffered from it far more severely than the general public; casualties among them having increased from 2,032 in 1872 to 4,383 in 1875, or by 115 per cent. in three years. It should further be remarked that, although it is easy to show that a certain minimum pro- portion of these casualties are directly attributa- ble to the cause already suggested, it is not easy to limit the maximum proportion so caused, Thus, while it is immediately apparent, on a glance at the “ Summary of Accidents ” which is to be found on page 87 of the report of the Roy- al Commission, that 65 per cent. of the casualties caused by collisions are directly due to the inter- ference of passenger and goods or mineral trains, it is not apparent what proportion of the five per cent. of casualties caused by collisions of slow trains with slow trains, or of the remaining 30 per cent. caused by collisions of fast trains with fast

Page 332

328 trains, is primarily due to the general derange- ment caused by the mutual interference of fast and slow traffic. Again, while it is evident on the first glance that 57 per cent. of the casualties affecting rail- way servants from 1872 to 1875 are due to the three speciul causes of shunting, injury by falling | between engines, and wagons, and vans, and load- ing or unloading goods, there is not one of the remaining fourteen causes of accident which can be exclusively attributed to the fast traffic taken apart. Positive data give the proportions we have cited with regard to classified accidents plone. As to the unclassified accidents, our best guide will be found in comparing the danger-rate _ of the lines when the traffic is principally of one description with that of the lines of mixed traffic. The result of this comparison is the inference that perfectly unmixed traffic can be carried on with an almost inappreciable risk to human life, as in the case of the Metropolitan Railway, with one casualty to 10,000,000 passengers, or of the Taff Vale Railway, carrying more than 4,-. 000,000 tons of minerals, without a casualty men- tioned in the report of Captain Tyler. From these considerations, it is clear that the proportion of casualties already attributed to the interference of the two descriptions of traffic is probably far | below the truth. The chief difference which | strikes the investigators as to the main causes of | accident to the railway-passenger, and that to the railway-servant, is, that the former appears to be the intermixture of traffic directly regarded, while the latter is more distinctly traceable to the mineral traffic itself, although the fatal nature of that business is probably chiefly due to the rapidity with which all operations have to be carried on under the pressure of the partial occu- pation of the line and the station-yards by the rapid passenger-trains. It is now desirable to inquire as to the benc- fit derived by the railway comppnies, in a pe- cuniary view, from that mode of accumulating traffic to which, to say the least, we may attrib- ute from 66 to 96 per cent. of an annually aug- menting list of casualties. In other words, what is the net pecuniary result of the mineral traffic of the railways of the United Kingdom ? This simple and pertinent question is as yet wholly unanswered. The managers and directors of our railways maintain a discreet silence on the subject. The Board of Trade returns shed but little light upon it. The latest and most elabo- THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. rience of railways, we have no data of, or hardly even the means of approximating, the intrinsie loss and gain per passenger and per ton of goods or minerals per mile.”+ It is essential to eal] attention to this point. The plain, blunt state. ment that the railway companies do not know the proportions of profit or of loss due to each of their three main branches of traffic appears at first simply to be incredible. If we ‘suppose that the dividends on Bank of England Stock had deelined from their normal ten per cent. to six, to five, and to four, what manner of questions would be put to the half-yearly courts? What acute investi- gation would there not be directed to ascertain the cause! And if, on the inquiry of a proprie- tor as to the respective results of the operations of the issue, the banking, and the discount de partments of that important institution, the di- rectors were to reply that the accounts could not be dissected ; and that, even if this were done, it would be necessary to conceal the result, for fear of the rivalry of the London and Westminster, and other banks, but that the proprietors might rely on the best exertions being used (although the decline of trade, the depreciation of silver, the fear of war, and other causes over which the directors had no control, had unfortunately re duced the general profits): what would be the condition of the great room? Would there not be found men of high standing ready to point out that the fall of a great city establishment, once proudly called “as good as the bank,” would have been impossible had all concerned been aware of the state of that branch of busi- ness which was really consuming all, and more than all, the immense legitimate profits of the trade of Messrs. Gurney; and that no establish- ment, great or small, which carried on different kinds of business without distinct balance-sheets for cash, was safe from peril of insolvency ? It has been brought under the notice of the Board of Trade that the returns which are now published, under their auspices, of railway-traffie are so imperfect that they throw no light on the essential question of the respective loss or gait of the passenger, the goods, aud the mineral traf fic of railways; and that, as that department exerts a general supervision of railways, and am nually reports in detail on the movement of each year, the public may justly expect that the board either should secure the information, or cleatly state the fact of their deficient knowledge. The Board of Trade have replied that in 1840 rate analyst of our railway returns says: “ It is rather humiliating that, after fifty years’ expe- | ing, p. 15. 1“ "The Index to our Railway System,” by W. Fie —

Page 333

an attempt made to procure information of this kind failed; that difficulties in the way of such an effort have not diminished since ; and that, in the absence of any complaint from shareholders, they do not think that interference on the part of the Government is called for. In return, it has been urged that it is reliance on the vigilance of the Board of Trade which has been one main cause of the false security of the shareholders ; that it is of vital importance that ignorance on so fundamental a condition of the COST OF MINERAL TRAFFIC ON ENGLISH RAILWAYS. 329 however, most of the materials are supplied. It has been, unfortunately, the practice in the Board of Trade returns to make use of the indefinite unit of a “ train-mile” as a means of indicating the results of railway-working. Foreign railway accountants have followed suit in this respect. But the goods and mineral trains weigh from two to four times as much as the passenger-trains, and, therefore, the assumption that they are the same per mile to work is entirely unjustifiable. | In the English returns no means whatever are railway system should be removed; and that it | provided for remedying this grave defect. But in is proper that the public should be made aware that the Board of Trade distinctly repudiates the responsibility which is generally held to belong to that branch of the Government, as to supervision either of the financial results, or of the fair and equitable rate of charges, of the railways of the United Kingdom. It is satisfactory to be able to add that the Board of Trade, on this rejoinder, have announced their intention to make inquiries as to the statis- ties of the mineral traffic., In the mean time, it the fuller details of the other railway accounts there are to be found, for the most part, by analy- sis, the means of ascertaining the cost of convey- ing a definite load fora definite distance. The unit of railway expenditure is the cost of convey- | ing an ascertained weight of train and load for an ascertained distance. The most convenient expression will be that of the ton-mile-gross, or the cost of the conveyance of a ton of train and load (including return of empty wagons and all expenses) for a mile. When this is once known, is doubly proved, first by Mr. Fleming, and, sec- | we begin to ascertain something as to railway ondly, by the official correspondence of the Board | of Trade, that the question, “ What is the finan- cial result of the mineral traffic of railways ?” is at the present moment entirely unanswered. In the absence of proper balance-sheets on the part of the railway companies, and of proper statistical returns on the part of the Board of Trade, the first inquiry likely to suggest itself to any person earnestly desirous to arrive at the real economical outcome of the mineral traffic on our railways will be, “ What information is to be derived from railway accounts in other parts of the world ? ” The reply is, that many of the railway com- panieS in America, most of them in France, and all of them in India, supply the information which the English companies refuse to give, and which the Board of Trade fails to obtain. Further, analyses of American, of French, and of Indian accounts throw so much light on the question at issue as to suggest that the reasons for suppress- ing that information on the English lines, wheth- er they be those alleged or not, are insufficient to justify a mode of proceeding alike opposed to public polity and dangerous to the true interests of the shareholders themselves. It should be remarked, for the guidance of those persons who may turn for their own satis- faction to the sources of information here indi- cated, that the results most readily to be ob- cost and railway profit. And when this is accu- rately known, we shall be on the track of the dis- covery of that distribution of profitable and un- profitable business which is at present so sedu- lously concealed. . The total working costs of the railways of the United Kingdom in the year 1875 are stated by the Board of Trade at £33,220,728. The total number of miles traveled by trains in that year is given as 100,731,071 miles by passenger-trains, and 104,635,056 miles by goods and mineral trains. If to this information were added that of the average weights of such trains, we should be able to ascertain the price per ton-mile or per hundred ton-miles-gross. It is the want of the statement of weight that brings us to a standstill. The total receipt of the railways of the United Kingdom for the same year was £61,237,000. This sum was made up by £25,714,681 receipts for passengers ; £13,405,283 receipts for minerals; £19,862,789 receipts for merchandise, including carriage of live-stock ; and £2,254,247 from rents, tolls, navigation, and miscellaneous sources. The numbers of passengers, of tons of goods, and of tons of minerals conveyed are also re- turned. But we are left in the dark as to either the average fare per passenger, or the average paymert per toa for goods or minerals. The cor- responding detail of the average distance traveled P | in a passenger-journey, or the average distance tained require a certain correction, for which, | for which a ton of goods or a ton of minerals has

Page 334

THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. 830 been conveyed, is also omitted. Thus, the mere mileage of trains is a figure without statistical value, as long as it is unknown what the trains in question weigh. If we refer to the accounts of the French rail- ways which are given in the “Annuaire Officiel,” we shall be able to analyze the working expendi- ture of the lines of the Est, the Midi, the Ouest, the Orléans, and the Lyons Railways. Each of the last two lines consists of a double system ; so that, in fact, we have seven independent subjects for comparison. The mean cost of moving 100 tons of gross loud on these seven lines, in 1872, was 25.4d. In the passenger-trains 5.5 tons of net, or paying load, was carried per 100 tons of | loaded train. On the average of goods and min- eral trains, 38.5 tons of net, or paying load, was carried for every 100 tons gross load of freight and train. In the same way, we may take the results of the working of the seven principal Indian rail- ways. These are the East Indian, the Jubbul- pore branch of the same line, the Great Indian Peninsula, the Madras, the Bombay, Baroda, Central India, the Punjaub & Delhi, and the East- ern Bengal lines. On these railways the mean cost of conveying 100 tons of gross joad for a mile, in 1875, was 26.6d. The net, or paying weight, conveyed by the passenger-trains, aver- aged 11.8 per cent. of the gross load, being more than twice as much in proportion to the dead- weight as on the French lines, For goods and mineral traffic, 100 tons of loaded train contained 32.7 tons of freight. In America working costs are higher. There has, indeed, been a reduction of as much as 32 per cent. in the cost of working on the Louisville & Great Southern Railway since 1873. In that year the cost of conveying 100 tons of gross load for a mile, averaged over seven sections of line, was 56.4d., or more than double the Indian aver- age. In India, it should be remarked, the cost varied considerably on the different lines, being as low as 17.2d, per 100 ton-miles-gross on the East Indian line, and amounting to 35d. for the same duty on the Madras Railway. On the French lines the range is not so wide, the cheap- est duty performed having been on the ancien réseau of the Chemin de Fer d’Orléans, where the cost of moving 100 tons of gross load for a mile was 20d., and the highest being the figure of 37.5d. for the same duty, which was the cost on the nouveau réseau of the Chemin de Fer de Lyons. If the proportions of dead-weight to paying load were the same on the French and the Eng. lish, or on the Indian and the English, railways, it would be a comparatively simple calculation to arrive at the average price per ton-mile-gross of the railway-duty of this country, But the pro. portion actually existing is very hard to ascer. tain. No information is published on the sub. ject. In some special cases, where the traffic is of an unusually regular character, as on the Metropolitan and the Taff Vale Railways, it may be possible to approach very closely to the truth in this respect. But for general purposes we must be content to assume a proportion equal to that of the mean of the fourteen railways ana- lyzed, subject to future verification or correction, The average charges per passenger and per _ ton of goods are estimated by M. de Franqueville at between 16 and 17 per cent. higher in England than in France. The working expenses, expressed in percentage of gross income, are 11 per cent, higher in the former country than in the latter, If the proportions of net and gross weight are the same, the working cost in England, on these data, will be 27.5 per cent. higher than in France—a proportion which gives the cost of 32.4d. per 100 ton-miles-gross as that of the English duty. If we make a similar comparison with the In- dian lines, we find that the goods tariff is about the same as that of the English railways, and that the passenger fares on the Indian are abouts third of those on the English lines, The work- ing costs on the seven lines analyzed, in 1875, amounted to 49 per cent. of the gross revenue in India, and to 54.4 per cent. of the gross revenue in the United Kingdom. The gross receipts from the Indian passenger traffic are 32.3 per cent, of the total earnings. The corrections due to these differences amount to an increase of the Indian working cost per ton-mile by nearly 28 pe? cent. for the English equivalent. This gives a working cost for the latter of 33.9 per 100 ton-miles-gross —a result within 1.5d. of that arrived at from comparison of the French lines. It is impossible to come closer to the mark without a correct statement of the tare, or dead-weight, in each case and in each deeeription of traffic. The smaller tare of the Indian lines in the passenger traffic, while the goods tare is less than on the French lines, goes far to account for the differ ence in the results above stated. The passenger traffic of the United Kingdom for the year 1875, allowing fifteen passengers 10 the ton, involved the transport of 34.2 million tons of net weight. We have before remarked that the average length of a passenger journey is

Page 335

$B Peazrierees a s ra COST OF MINERAL TRAFFIC ON ENGLISH RAILWAYS. 331 not given. It is estimated by M. de Franqueville at 8.68 miles. If we take this as an approxima- tion, and allow the same tare for the passenger traffic as on the French lines, we arrive at an ag- gregate of 5,628 millions of ton-miles-gross for the passenger traffic of the railways of the United Kingdom. If we take the tare of the Indian passenger traffic, or if we allow, as on a former oceasion, a mean between the French and the Indian tare, we obtain somewhat different results, But, in making use of figures estiniated by M. de Franqueville, it is desirable not to introduce any sources of correction or of disturbance with which that careful investigator was unacquainted, The net tonnage of goods and minerals for the same year was a little over 200,000,000 -tons. The average distance over which this weight was conveyed is taken by M. de Franque- ville as thirty-six miles. This, at the French rate of fare, would give a total of 18,700 millions of ton-miles-gross for the heavy traffic, making a grand total of 24,328 millions of ton-miles-gross as the duty of our English railways. This amount of duty would make the average cost of conveying 100 tens gross for a mile amount to 32.6d., a re- sult almost identical with that arrived at by com- parison with the French railways. It may be re- membered that the gross total of ton-mileage arrived at by taking a tare intermediate between that of the French and that of the Indian rail- ways was stated as 25,072 millions of ton-miles, the passenger tare being raised and the mineral tare being reduced, by taking French proportions alone. The difference of result thus obtained, while interesting as showing the limits of varia- tion in practice, shows further the absolute need of obtaining definite returns on these points from the railway companies of the United Kingdom. On the Taff Vale Railway, which was origi- nally constructed as a mineral line, and on which the passenger traffic only earns 14 per cent. of the gross receipts, the charge for the conveyance of minerals is .78d. per ton net per mile. The tare on this line is kept down to the unusually low proportion of 50 per cent., including return of empty wagons. The working expenses amount to 57 per cent. of the gross revenue. If we allow them to reach 60 per cent. for the mineral traffic (which is, of course, the least productive per ton- mile), we find the working cost of conveying 100,000 tons gross for a mile to be 23.4d. This figure (which probubly is kept somewhat too low by the percentage distribution) is the lowest known to be attained on any English railway. On the Metropolitan Railway the weight of | the trains is a regular quantity. The cost of locomotion and maintenance on this line is con- siderably increased by the frequent stoppages, and by the rapidity with which a high speed is attained and arrested. The contingent expenses, including rates, are also unusually high. Thus, although the Metropolitan line works at a lower percentage on receipts than any other English railway, the cost of its duty per ton-mile is un- usually high. From reliable data this cost has been calculated for 1873 at 45.7d. per 100 ton- miles-gross, which is close upon the American cost for the same year of 44.4d. It thus appears that the variation in the cost of duty performed on the English railways is about the same as that on the Indian lines ; the most expensive instance approaching the double of the cheapest. On the Taff Vale, however, the only two items of charge included in the price quoted are for road-tolls and for locomotive power. There is a charge of 2d. per ton for shipping, which is not included in the rates cited, the distribution of which would somewhat raise the price per ton-mile-gross, The wagons are provided, repaired, and loaded by the freighters, and in point of fact the traffic ex- penses on the Taff Vale line are 3.5 per cent. be- low the average for the United Kingdom. On the above data it is safe to assume that the ordinary cost of moving a ton of gross load for a mile on an English railway averages about one- third of a penny, never quite rising, on any im- portant line, to a halfpenny, never falling, all things considered, so low as a farthing. And although this cost is not the direct measure of the profitable character of the traffic, it is a prime element in the calculation of profit. It is a datum for the engineer rather than for the financier. Between line and line the importance of this element is to a great extent controlled by other influences. But as to the cost of the dif- ferent branches of traffic on any one line, the knowledge of the cust of duty is the first and most important step to be taken. The absolute exactitude with which the duty cost per ton-mile-gross may be made use of in order to dissect the working cost of the different kinds of traffic on the same line depends on two, and only two, additional conditions. The first is that to which reference has more than once been made—namely, the proportion of tare or dead weight. The knowledge of this is essential in order to know what proportion obtains between the ton-mile-gross, which is the unit of cost, and the ton-mile-net, which is the unit of income. A further question arises as to whether the

Page 336

322 cost of the ton-mile-gross is the same for all de- scriptions of traffic—that is to say, whether it costs more or less, on the average, to move a ton of mineral-train or a ton of passenger-train. On this question some very unexpected light may be cast by a careful comparative analysis of the re- turns furnished by the Board of Trade. It is true that exact statements, depending on length of line for which traffic is conveyed, and on amount of tare for each description of traffic, are unattainable without definite information on those two essential points. But, in the absence of the means of direct analysis, it sometimes occurs that results of nearly equal value to those sought in vain by that method may be obtained by comparative analysis. For this (in the present instance) there exist elements of un- questionable value, and it cannot be denied that the figures we have to bring forward are such as to give information of very great importance with respect to the comparative profit of mineral and of passenger traffic on main trunk-lines. The great trunk-lines of railway which radi- ate from London vary to an extraordinary degree in the proportion of mineral traffic which they convey. Thus the Southeastern line receives less than 4 per cent. of its gross revenue from min- eral conveyance ; while the Midland Railway de- rives 27$ per cent. of its earnings from that source. If fares and freight were so arranged that the mineral traffic should be as remunerative as (or, as many of its supporters urge, more re- munerative than) the passenger traffic, the fact would certainly come out from our comparative analysis of the accounts of these lines. The working cost of railways may be con- veniently distributed under the following heads: First come the actual expenses of carriage, in- cluding locomotion, maintenance of way and works, and engine and carriage repairs. On the average of the railways of the United Kingdom for 1875 the cost of these items amounted to 30.38 per cent. of the gross revenue. The second main item is known by the name of “ traffic-charges,” and includes the cost of the service of station- yards, cartage, and generally of the ordinary fixed expenditure, which does not come under the for- mer head. The average percentage of traffic- charges on revenue in the United Kingdom in 1875 was 16.22 per cent. The passenger duty, from which the Irish lines are exempt, should be mentioned as a separate item. For 1875 it amounted to 1.39 per cent. on the English lines, 0.87 per cent. on those of Scotland, and 1.27 per cent. on the average of the United Kingdom. THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. The balance of general charges, rates and taxes, legal expenses, compensation for losses and for personal injuries, and miscellaneous expenses, amounted in the year in question to 6.38 per cent.; making the average proportion of expendi. ture to receipts, from all sources, 54.25 per cent, On the Metropolitan Railway, on which the mineral earnings form only 2.3 per cent. of the total revenue, the cost of the first class of ex. penses in 1875 was 15 per cent. of the gross to- tal. On the Southeastern Railway, with 3.8 per cent. of mineral revenue, the percentage of these items was 21 per cent. On the Great Eastern, with 10 per cent. of mineral revenue, it rises to 25.5 per cent. On the Midland, with 27.5 per cent. of mineral revenue, the percentage of loco- motive expenditure (including the three items named) is 29 per cent. Thus, the line which carries 27.5 per cent. of mineral traffic costs more to work than the line which carries 2.8 per cent, of mineral traffic by 14 per cent. of its gross in- come, the locomotion, maintenance, and repairs on the former line costing half as much again as on the latter, in proportion to gross earnings, And the Northeastern, on which line the mineral income forms 37 per cent. of the whole, actually spends 35.5 per cent. of its gross revenue in this group of expenditure. It is thus as certain as any statistical fact can be that the increase of mineral traffic on a railway is accompanied by a very sensible in- crease in the working expenditure of the line. We are not speaking of lines directly constructed for the service of colliery districts, as in the case of the Taff Vale, where a mineral traffic of 61.5 per cent. coincides with a carriage-cost of 29.7 per cent., under exceptionally favorable circum- stances. The subject we have under investiga- tion is the cost of mixed traffic on trunk-lines of railway, laid down for passenger traffic, On these we find that, for every additional one per cent. of mineral traffic borne by the line, the charges for locomotion, maintenance, and repairs, are increased on the average by more than one- half per cent. of the entire revenue. Owing to the increase of these three items alone, therefore, only about half of the nominal gross in-take from minerals has to be credited to revenue. It has been urged by a very able and ener- getic advocate of mineral traffic on railways that the saving in “traffic expenses ” accompanying that branch of trade is so great as to make the business very profitable to the companies. Com- parative analysis, however, does not support this assertion. On the Metropolitan Railway, in spite

Page 337

for ndi- nt, the ex- | to. 61.5 29.7 iga- Best STRESS ner. that ving the om- this pite of the cost of the special omnibus service, the percentage of traffic expenses is only 13.75 on the gross revenue, or 2.47 below the average for the United Kingdom. On the Southeastern line, the percentage is 14.09; on the Brighton, 13.67; but on the Midland it rises to 18.16, or 1.94 per cent. above the average for the United Kingdom. Thus, to say that this item of railway cost is diminished by increasing the proportion of mineral traffic is simply to state what is con- trary to published facts. The incidence of the Government duty is of course proportionately heavier, the smaller the amount of mineral traffic. This is, however, a burden that may be borne without reluctance by those who study the figures above stated. As . to the remaining items of expenditure, any varia- tion in their incidence depends very much on local conditions, and can only be directly con- nected with the question of the proportion of mineral traffic by the amount of the payments for compensation. These do not, however, ma- terially affect the question; as the average inci- dence for the United Kingdom is less than half per cent. on the gross returns, It is thus absolutely undeniable that, while the circulation of heavy mineral trains on a main trunk-line of railway increases the cost of loco- motive power, of maintenance, and of repairs, 80 rapidly as to leave only half of the sum nomi- nally received for mineral freight available for the payment of all other expenses, including divi- dend, incurred in the conduct of such traffic, there is no saving, but rather an extra expense, in the “ traffie-charges,”” and no appreciable dimi- nution in other items of outlay which can be cred- ited to the mineral traffic. From the above facts it is manifest that, of the £13,400,000 received by the railway compa- nies of the United Kingdom in 1875, so con- siderable a portion is counterbalanced by the augmentation in the expenditure caused by the conduct of a mixed traffic, that the possible source of profit to the shareholders is reduced to an almost imperceptible figure. The investi- gation previously carried out as to the cost of duty per ton-mile-gross is fully adequate to ex- plain this fact. The mineral traffic of the metropolis, as a tule, all goes in one direction. The vehicles bearing coals are sent up full, and have to be taken back empty, at the cost of the carrying companies, which thus receive only one payment for two duties. The exact amount of tare is, as we have seen, one of those points in which the COST OF MINERAL TRAFFIC ON ENGLISH RAILWAYS. — 333 Board of Trade returns are defective, and in which foreign railway companies give informa- tion refused by those of the United Kingdom. We have said that, under exceptionally favorable circumstances, the amount of mineral tare has been kept down to 50 per cent. of the gross load, Considering that the average tare of merchandise and mineral trains on the French ‘lines investi- gated is 61.5 per cent., and on the Indian lines 67.3 per cent., and that much merchandise goes in both directions, while mineral traffic (except in the cross-lines, which may exchange coals for ironstone) goes mainly in one, it will probably be much understating the tare of the mineral trains to take it at 64 per cent. of the gross load, being the mean between the French and the In- dian proportion of dead-weight. On this allowance, 100 tons of loaded mineral train (taking returns into account) will carry 36 tons of minerals, The average cost of the duty will be 33.3d. for a mile of lead, that is to say, of distance for which the freight is carried. This is equivalent to a cost of .925d. per ton of min- eral conveyed. This figure, which is an approxi- mate cost price, is more than the freight usually charged. On the Taff Vale, for haulage and tolls alone, the charge is .78d. per ton of coal per mile. On the Midland, freight is stated recently to have been reduced te .55d., and on the Great Northern to .45d., per ton per mile. We have before seen that the working cost of the two items covered by the Taff Vale charge approxi- mately amounts to 23.4 per 100 ton-miles-gross. Even that exceptionally low rate comes to the cost of .65d. per ton of coal per mile, at a tare allowance of 64 per cent. The saving of the Taff Vale in traffic expenses, as compared to the Mid- land rate, amounts to .05d. per ton of coal per mile. That good examples of bona-fide profit from purely mineral lines occur is not disputed. But that any profit whatever is gained by the conveyance of coals to London at prices below 7d. per ton of coal per mile is a statement al- together contradicted by the statistics now be- fore us. A moderate profit per ton, however, even if earned, would still be far from compensatory to main trunk-lines for undertaking the conveyance of minerals. It is a truism to say that such traffic is a losing speculation unless its net re- sults be such as to pay interest on the capital invested in order to carry it out. The question here is to ascertain how much of the £38,000 per mile which our railways have now cost has been expended in order to provide for the mineral

Page 338

’ 834 THE POPULAR SCIENCE traffic. We see some main lines already dou- bling their tracks expressly to give accommoda- tion to the slow trains. The ordinary mercantile rule would be to charge the capital in proportion to the work done, or to the occupation of the If this mode of | apportionment of capital were adopted, it would | debit the mineral traffic with interest on more | than half the total capital invested in our rail- | railway by each class of traffic. ways. But, even if revenue be taken as the basis of account, 22.5 per cent. of the total capital | outlay must look to the mineral traffic to provide | the interest on its expenditure. This proportion gives a total of £141,750,000 expended in pro- viding for the conveyance of the mineral traffic on railways. To pay 4} per cent. on this sum requires a net profit of £6,024,375 per annum; and any profit short of that amount derived from the mineral traffic is pro tanto a depre- ciation of the. general dividend actually paid. That is to say, that on the most moderate dis- tribution of capital outlay, or rather on that distribution which is most unjustly favorable to the mineral traffic, a profit of 45 per cent. of the net earnings is requisite in order to avoid a deterioration of the general dividend as the re- sult of this branch of business. For the share- holders not to be actually out of pocket by the mineral traffic, this branch of the trade must earn a net profit of £6,000,000 per annum. The gross revenue, however, from this source is only £13,400,000. To earn this, according to the statistics above given, the general expenses of the company have been increased by between £6,000,000 and £7,000,000 perannum. If we com- pare the charge per ton for conveyance with the cost of conveyance, we find that it is only in very favorable cases that there is any margin what- ever for profit in mineral transport. rates, lately adopted in order to compete with sea-carriage, involve palpable loss. It seems very difficult to escape from the con- clusion that the efforts made by the railway com- panies to deprive the canals of their proper traffic have in the first place been the main cause of the heavy and annually increasing list of killed and wounded on railways, especially among the servants of the companies; and, in the second place, have effected a reduction of the average dividends paid on the railways of the United Kingdom by something like a fourth part of their amount. So that it is not extravagant to suggest that the maintenance of this traffic by the railway companies costs the country at least five thousand casualities every year—of which Certain MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. , nearly one-fourth are fatal—and costs the rail. | way companies at least £5,000,000 per annum, | The figures are startling ; but they are not imag. inary. It is only just to the reader to add that the above statements are the unbiased outcome of statistical investigation. They are prompted by no interest except that of the public welfare, They are not the sequence of any preconceived idea, or the result of any personal hobby. A certain want of precision, as has always been al- lowed, characterizes every attempt at the direct analysis of the profits of the English railways, That want of precision is due to the concealment by the English companies of a class of facts which are published by American, by French, and by Indian railway managers. The results ob« tained from these more complete returns are such as to show that ignorance of the facts con- cealed is contrary to public welfare, and is likely to be extremely dangerous to the proprietors of railway capital. The more incertitude there is on this part of the subject, the louder and more imperative is the demand for full information. On the other hand, the comparative analysis, now for the first time attempted, has results as to the bearing of which there can be no question. It is not a matter of opinion that the working cost of railways of mixed traffic increases with the proportion of mineral traffic. For the sake of conciseness, only two or three lines have been analyzed in the foregoing pages, but the same analysis has actually been applied to the returns of all the principal trunk-lines. On each of these some special features may be pointed out, but on all the general rule is clearly exemplified. The | fact that minerals can be conveyed on lines laid out and well adapted for the service of a miner- al district, at remunerative prices, has probably been the basis on which the whole doctrine of | the value of mineral traffic on mixed lines, which | ig quite another question, is founded. It might ‘ have been sufficient to point out the difference ' between a case of this kind and one in whieh ' there is a competition with a sea-borne traffic, 10 | show that the profit earned by such a line asthe | Taff Vale can have but little to do with the profit | at which minerals ean be conveyed by the Lan- don & Northwestern, or any other great trunks “line fully occupied by light and rapid traffic, As to this, the comparison of the proportion of min _ eral earnings and of locomotive charges gives*# | positive indication which it will be madness0n | the part of the shareholders to neglect. All dite, ' man investigations are liable to error, and there 4

Page 339

THE ETHICS OF RELIGION. is good reason to subject these now brought for- ward to the most searching check. But no ob- jection, at all events to the comparative part of the foregoing analysis, can have any serious value which is not founded on the statement of definite facts—that is to say, on the publication by the railways of the United Kingdom of those statis- tics of their annual working which are given to 335 the shareholders of American, French, and In- dian lines. In the absence of this information, no shareholder can be aware whether his proper- ty is likely to improve to the value of some of the former, or to deteriorate to the negative con- dition of the Belgian railways, or of the Ameri- can colliery lines, —Fraser’s Magazine. THE ETHICS OF RELIGION. By Proressor W. KINGDON CLIFFORD, F.R.S. HE word religion is used in many different meanings, and there have been not a few con- troversies in which the main difference between the contending parties was only this, that they understood by religion two different things. I will therefore begin by setting forth as clearly as [ can one or two of the meanings which the word appears to have in popular speech. First, then, it may mean a body of doctrines, as in the common phrase, “The truth of the Christian religion;” or in this sentence, “The religion of Buddha teaches that the soul is not a distinct substance.” Opinions differ upon the ques- tion what doctrines may properly be called re- ligious ; some people holding that there can be no religion without belief in a god and in a future life, so that, in their judgment, the body of doc- trines must necessarily include these two; while others would insist upon other special dogmas being included, before they could consent to call the system by this name. But the number of such people is daily diminishing, by reason of the spread and the increase of our knowledge about distant countries and races. To me, in- deed, it would seem rash to assert of any doctrine or its contrary that it might not form part of a religion. But, fortunately, it is not necessary to any part of the discussion on which I propose to enter, that this question should be settled. Secondly, religion may mean a ceremonial or cult, involving an organized priesthood and a machinery of sacred things and places, In this Sense we speak of the clergy as ministers of religion, or of a state as tolerating the practice of certain religions, There is a somewhat wider meaning which it will be convenient to consider together with this one, and as a mere extension of it, namely, that in which religion stands for the influence of a certain priesthood. A religion is sometimes said to have been successful when it has got its priests into power; thus some writers speak of the wonderfully rapid success of Chris- tianity. A nation is said to have embraced a re- ligion when the authorities of that nation have granted privileges to the clergy, have made them as far as possible the leaders of society, and have given them a considerable share in the manage- ment of public affairs. So the northern nations of Europe are said to have embraced the Catho- lic religion at an early date. The reason why it seems to me convenient to take these two mean- ings together is, that théy are both related to the priesthood, Although the priesthood itself is not called religion, so far as I know, yet the word is used for the general influence and the professional acts of the priesthood. Thirdly, religion may mean a body of pre- cepts or code of rules, intended to guide human conduct, as in this sentence of the authorized version of the New Testament: “ Pure religion and undefiled before God and the Father is this, to visit the fatherless and widows in their afflic- tion, and to keep himself unspotted from the world ” (James i. 27). It is sometimes difficult to draw the line between this meaning and the last, for it is a mark of the great majority of re- ligions that they confound ceremonial observ- ances with duties having real moral obligation. Thus in the Jewish decalogue the command to do no work on Saturdays is found side by side with the prohibition of murder and theft. It might seem to be the more correct as well as the more philosophical course to follow in this matter the distinction made by Butler between moral and positive commands, and to class all those precepts which are not of universal moral obligation un- der the head of ceremonial. And, in fact, when we come to examine the matter from the point

Page 340

336 of view of morality, the distinction is of course of the utmost importance. But from the point of view of religion there are difficultics in making it. In the first place, the distinction is not made, or is not understood, by religious folk in general. Innumerable tracts and pretty stories impress upon us that Sabbath-breaking is rather worse than stealing, and leads naturally on to materi- alism and murder. ago sacrilege was punishable by burning in France, and murder by simple decapitation. , In the next place, if we pick out a religion at hap- hazard, we shall find that it is not at all easy to divide its precepts into those which are really of moral obligation and those which are indifferent and of a ceremonial character. We may find precepts unconnected with any ceremonial, and yet positively immoral; and ceremonials may be immoral in themselves, or constructively im- moral, on account of their known symbolism. On the whole, it seems to me most convenient to draw the plain and obvious distinction between those actions which a religion prescribes to all its followers, whether the actions are ceremonial or not, and those which are prescribed only as professional actions of a sacerdotal class. The latter will come under what I have called the second meaning of religion, the professional acts and the influence of a priesthood. In the third meaving will be included all that practically guides the life of a layman, in so far as this guid- ance is supplied to him by his religion. Fourthly, and lastly, there is a meaning of the word religion which has been coming more and more prominently forward of late years, till it has even threatened to supersede all the others. Religion has been defined as morality touched with emotion. I will not here adopt this defini- tion, because I wish to deal with the concrete in the first place, and only to pass on to the abstract in so far as that previous study appears to lead to it. I wish to consider the facts of religion as we find them, and not ideal possibilities. “ Yes, but,” every one will say, “if you mean my own religion, it is already, as a matter of fact, moral- ity touched with emotion. It is the highest morality touched with the purest emotion, ar emotion directed toward the most worthy of ob- jects.” Unfortunately we do not mean your religion alone, but all manner of heresies and heathenisms along with it: the religions of the Thug, of the Jesuit, of the South-Sea cannibal, of Confucius, of the poor Indian with his un- tutored mind, of the Peculiar People, of the Mor- mons, and of the old cat-worshiping Egyptian. Less than a hundred years | THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. It must be clear that we shall restrict ourselves to a very narrow circle of what are commonly called religious facts, unless we include in our cousiderations not only morality touched with emotion, but also immorality touched with emo. tion. In fact, what is really touched with emo. tion in any case is that body of precepts for the guidance of a layman’s life which we have taken to be the third meaning of religion. In that cok lection of precepts there may be some agreeable to morality, and some repugnant to it, and some indifferent, but being all enjoined by the religion they will all be touched by the same religious emotion. Shall we then say that religion means a feeling, an emotion, an habitual attitude of mind toward some object or objects, or toward life in general, which has a bearing upon the way in which men regard the rules of conduct? I think the last phrase should be left out. An he bitual attitude of mind, of a religious character, does aiways have some bearing upon the way in which men regard the rules of conduct; but it seems sometimes as if this were an accident, and not the essence of the religious feeling. Some devout people prefer to have their devotion pure and simple, without admixture of any such ap plication—they do not want to listen to “cauld morality.” And it seems as if the religious feel ing of the Greeks, and partly also of our own ancestors, was so far divorced from morality that it affected it only, as it were, by a side-wind, through the influence of the character and ex ample of the gods. So that it seems only likely to create confusion if we mix up morality with this fourth meaning of religion. Sometimes re ligion means a code of precepts, and sometimes it means a devotional habit of mind; the two things are sometimes connected, but also they are sometimes quite distinct. But that the com nection of these two things is more and more in- sisted on, that it is the key-note of the apparent revival of religion which has taken place in this century, is a very significant fact, about which there is more to be said. As to the nature of this devotional habit,of mind, there are no doubt many who would like & closer definition. But I am not at all prepared to say what attitude of mind may properly be calied religious, and what may not, Some hold that religion must have a person for its ob- ject; but Buddha was filled with religious feel. ing, and yet he had no personal object. Spinoza, the god-intoxicated man, had no personal object — for his devotion. It might be possible to frame pe a definition which would fairly include all case

Page 341

THE ETHICS but it would require the expenditure of vast in- genuity and research, and would not, I am inclined to think, be of much use when it was obtained. Nor is the difficulty to be got over by taking any definite and well-organized sect, whose prin- ciples are settled in black and white ; for example, the Roman Catholic Church, whose seamless uni- ty has just been exhibited and protected by an Ccumenical Council. Shall we listen to Mr. Mivart, who “execrates without reserve Marian persecutions, the massacre of St. Bartholomew, and all similar acts?” or to the editor of the Dublin Review, who thinks that a teacher of false doctrines “should be visited by the law with just that amount of severity which the pub- lie sentiment will bear?” For assuredly com- amon-sense morality will pass very different judg- ments on these two distinct religions, although it appears that experts have found room for both of them within the limits of the Vatican defini- tions. Moreover, there is very great good to be got by widening our view of what may be contained in religion. If we go to a man and propose to test his own religion by the canons of common- sense morality, he will be, most likely, offended, for he will say that his religion is far too sublime and exalted to be affected by considerations of that sort. But he will have no such objection in the case of other people’s religion. And when he has found that in the name of religion other people, in other circumstances, have believed in doctrines that were false, have supported priest- hoods that were social evils, have taken wrong for right, and have even poisoned the very sources of morality, he may be tempted to ask himself, “Is there no trace of any of these evils in my own religion, or at least in my own conception and practice of it?” And that is just what we want him to do. Bring your doctrines, your priesthoods, your precepts, yea, even the inner devotion of your soul, before the tribunal of con- science; she is no man’s and no god’s vicar, but the supreme judge of men and gods. Let us inquire, then, what morality has to say in regard to religious doctrines. It deals with the manner of religious belief directly, and with the matter indirectly. Religious beliefs must be founded on evidence ; if they are not so founded, it is wrong to hold them. The rule of right conduct in this matter is exactly the opposite of that implied in the two famous texts, “He that believeth not shall be damned,” and “Blessed are they that have not seen and yet have believed.” For a man who clearly felt 22 OF RELIGION. 337 and recognized the duty of intellectual honesty, of carefully testing every belief before he re- ceived it, and especially before he recommended it to others, it would be impossible to ascribe the profoundly immoral teaching of these texts to a true prophet or worthy leader of humanity. It will comfort those who wish to preserve their reverence for the character of a great teacher to remember that one of these sayings is in the well-known forged passage at the end of the sec- ond gospel, and that the other occurs only in the late and legendary fourth gospel ; both being de- scribed as spoken under utterly impossible cir- cumstances. These precepts belong to the Church and not to the gospel. But whoever wrote either of them down as a deliverance of one whom he supposed to be a divine teacher, has thereby written down himself as a man void of intel- lectual honesty, as a man whose word cannot be trusted, as a man who would accept and spread about any kind of baseless fiction for fear of be- lieving too little. So far as to the manner of religious belief. Let us now inquire what bearing morality has upon its matter. We may see at once that this can only be indirect; for the rightness or wrong- ness of belief in a doctrine depends only upon the nature of the evidence for it, and not upon what the doctrine is. But there is a very important way in which religious doctrine may lead to mo- rality or immorality, and in which, therefore, mo- rality has a bearing upon doctrine. It is when that doctrine declares the character and actions of the gods who are regarded as objects of rev- erence and worship. If a god is represented as doing that which is clearly wrong, and is still held up to the reverence of men, they will be tempted to think that in doing this wrong thing they are not so very wrong after all, but are only following an example which all men respect. So says Plato:! “We must not tell a youthful listener that he will be doing nothing extraordinary if he commit the foulest crimes, nor yet if he chastise the crimes of a father in the most ynscrupulous manner, but will simply be doing what the first and greatest of the gods have done before him. «. . “ Nor yet is it proper to say in any case—what is indeed untrue—that gods wage war against gods, and intrigue and fight among themselves; that is, if the future guardians of our state are to deem it a most disgraceful thing to quarrel lightly with one another: far less ought we to select as subjects for fiction and embroidery the battles of the giants, and numerous other feuds of all sorts, in which 1“ Rep.” ii., 878; translation of Davies and Vaughan.

Page 342

338 gods and heroes fight against their own kith and kin. But if there is any possibility of persuading them that to quarrel with one’s fellow is a sin, of which no member of a state was ever guilty, such ought rather to be the language held to our chil- dren from the first, by old men and old women, and all elderly persons; and such is the strain in which our poets must be compelled to write. But stories like the chaining of Hera by her son, and the flinging of Hephaistos out of heaven for trying to take his mother’s part when his father was beat- ing her, and all those battles of the gods which are to be found in Homer, must be refused admittance into our state, whether they be allegorical or not. For a child cannot discriminate between what is allegory and what is not; and whatever at that age is adopted as a matter of belief, has a tendency to become fixed and indelible, and therefore, perhaps, we ought to esteem it of the greatest importance that the fictions which children first hear should be adapted in the most perfect manner to the pro- motion of virtue.” And Seneca says the same thing, with still more reason in his day and country: ‘* What else is this appeal to the precedent of the gods for, but to inflame our lusts, and to furnish license and excuse for the corrupt act under the divine protection?” And again, of the character of Jupiter as described in the popular legends: “This has led to no other result than to deprive sin of its shame in man’s eyes, by showing him the god no better than himself.” In imperial Rome, the sink of all nations, it was not uncom- mon to find “the intending sinner addressing to the deified vice which he contemplated a prayer for the success of his design ; the adulteress im- ploring of Venus the favors of her paramour; . . . the thief praying to Hermes Dolios for aid in his enterprise, or offering up to him the first- fruits of his plunder; ... youths entreating Hercules to expedite the death of a rich uncle.” ? When we reflect that criminal deities were worshiped all over the empire, we cannot but wonder that any good people were left ; that man could still be holy, although every god was vile. Yet this was undoubtedly the case; the social forces worked steadily on wherever there were peace and a settled government and municipal freedom ; and the wicked stories of theologians were somehow explained away and disregarded. If men were no better than their religions, the world would be a hell indeed. It is very important, however, to consider what really ought to be done in the case of stories like these. When the poet sings that Zeus kicked 1 North British Review, 1867, p. 284. 7HE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. Hephaistos out of heaven for trying to help hig mother, Plato says that this fiction must be sup pressed by law. We cannot follow him there, for since his time we have had too much of trying te suppress false doctrines by law. Plato thinks i¢ quite obviously clear that God cannot produce evil, and he would stop everybody's mouth whe ventured to say that he can. But in regard to the doctrine itself, we can ouly ask, “ Is it true?” And that is a question to be settled by evidence, Did Zeus commit this crime, or did he not? We must ask the apologists, the reconcilers of religion and science, what evidence they can produce te prove that Zeus kicked Hephaistos out of heaven, That a doctrine may lead to immoral consequences is no reason for disbelieving it. But whether thé doctrine were true or false, one thing does clear. ly follow from its moral character: namely, this; that if Zeus behaved as he is said to have be haved, he ought not to be worshiped. To those who complain of his violence and injustice, it is no answer to say that the divine attributes are far above human comprehension — that the ways of Zeus are not our ways, neither are his thoughts our thoughts. If he is to be wor shiped, he must do something vaster and nobler and greater than good men do, but it must be like what they do in its goodness. His actions must not be merely a magnified copy of whatbad men do. So soon as they are thus represented, 7 morality has something to say. Not indeed about the fact ; for it is not conscience, but reason, that has to judge matters of fact; but about the wor ship of a character so represented. If there really is good evidence that Zeus kicked Hephat stos out of heaven, and seduced Alkmene bys — meun trick, say so by all means; but say, also, that it is wrong to salute his priests or to make offerings in his temple. When men do their duty in this respect, mo rality has a very curious indirect effect on theire ligious doctrine itself. As soon as the offerings become less frequent, the evidence for the doe — trine begins to fade away; the process of theo logical interpretation gradually brings out thé — true inner meaning of it, that Zeus did not.kiek Hephaistos out of heaven, and did not seduce Al mene. ug Is this a merely theoretical discussion abow — far-away things? Let us come back for & @® — ment to our own time and country, and thialt whether there can be any lesson for us in thi” refusal of common-sense morality to worship’® deity whose actions are a magnified copy of bad men do. There are three doctrines

Page 343

eeesse 2 wor | _ tween the bars upon the burning coals, there to find very wide acceptance among our countrymen at the present day: the doctrines of original sin, of a vicarious sacrifice, and of eternal punish- ments. We are not concerned with any refined evaporations of these doctrines which are exhaled by courtly theologians, but with the naked state- ments which are put into the minds of children and of ignorant people, which are taught broad- cast and without shame in denominational schools. Father Faber, good soul, persuaded himself that after all only a very few people would be really damned, and Father Oxenham gives one the im- pression that it will not hurt even them very much, But one learns the practical teaching of the Church from such books as “A Glimpse of Hell,” where a child is described as thrown be- writhe forever. The masses do not get the ele- gant emasculations of Father Faber and Father Oxenham ; they get “‘ a Glimpse of Hell.” Now, to condemn all mankind for the sin of Adam and Eve; to let the innocent suffer for the guilty; to keep any one alive in torture for ever and ever: these actions are simply magnified copies of what bad men do. No juggling with “divine justice and mercy ” can make them any- | thing else. This must be said to all kinds and conditions of men: that if God holds all man- kind guilty for the sin of Adam, if he has visited upon the innocent the punishment of the guilty, ifhe is to torture any single soul forever, then it is wrong to worship him. But there is something to be said, also, to those who think that religious beliefs are not in- deed true, but are useful for the masses; who deprecate any open and public argument against them, and think that all skeptical books should be published at a high price; who go to church, not because they approve of it themselves, but to set an example to the servants. Let us ask them to ponder the words of Plato, who, like them, thought that all these tales of the gods were fables, but still fables which might be useful to amuse children with: “ We ought to esteem it of the greatest importance that the fictions which chil- dren first hear should be adapted in the most per- Sect manner to the promotion of virtue.” If we grant to you that it is good for poor people and children to believe some of these fictiuns, is it not better, at least, that they should believe those which ave adapted to the promotion of virtue? Now, the stories which you send your servants and children to hear are adapted to the promo- tion of vice. So far as the remedy is in your own THE ETHICS OF RELIGION. you are bound to apply it; stop your vol- 839 untary subscriptions and the moral support of your presence from any place where the criminal doctrines are taught. You will find more men and better men to preach that which is agreeable to their conscience, than to thunder out doctrines under which their minds are always uneasy, and which only a continual self-deception can keep them from feeling to be wicked. Let us now go on to inquire what morality has to say in the matter of religious ministrations, the official acts and the general influence of a priesthood. This question seems to me a more difficult one than the former; at any rate it is not so easy to find general principles which are at once simple in their nature and clear to the conscience of any man who honestly considers them. One such principle, indeed, there is, which can hardly be stated in a Protestant country without meeting with a cordial response; being indeed that characteristic of our race which made the Reformation a necessity, and became the soul of the Protestant movement. I mean the prin- ciple which forbids the priest to come between a man and his conscience. If it be true, as our daily experience teaches us, that the moral sense gains in clearness and power by exercise, by the constant endeavor to find out and to see for our- selves what is right and what is wrong, it must | be nothing short of a moral suicide to delegate our conscience to another man. Itis true that when we are in difficulties, and do not altogether see Our way, we quite rightly seek counsel and advice of some friend who has more experience, more wisdom begot by it, more devotion to the right, than ourselves, and who, not being involved in the difficulties which encompass us, may more easily see the way out of them. But such coun- sel does not and ought not to take the place of our private judgment; on the contrary, among wise men it is asked and given for the purpose of helping and supporting private judgment. I should go to my friend, not that he may tell me what to do, but that he may help me to see what is right. Now, as we all know, there is a priesthood whose influence is not to be made light of, even in our own land, which claims to do two things: to declare with infallible authority what is right and what is wrong, and to take away the guilt of the sinner after confession has been made to it. The second of these claims we shall come back upon in connection with another part of the subject. But that claim is one which, as it seems to me, ought to condemn the priesthood making it in the eyes of every conscientious

Page 344

man, We must take care to keep this question to itself, and not to let it be confused with quite different ones. The priesthood in question, as we all know, has taught that as right which is not right, and has condemned as wrong some of the holiest duties of mankind. But this is not what we are here concerned with. Let us put an ideal case of a priesthood which, as a matter of fact, taught a morality agreeing with the healthy conscience of all men ata given time; but which, neverthless, taught this as an infal- lible revelation. The tendency of such teaching, if really accepted, would be to destroy morality altogether, for it is of the very essence of the moral sense that it isa common perception by men of what is good for man. It arises, not in one man’s mind by a flash of genius or a trans- port of ecstasy, but in all men’s minds, as the fruit of their necessary intercourse and united labor for a common object. When an infallible authority is set up, the voice of this natural hu- man conscience must be hushed and schooled, and made to speak the words of a formula. Obe- dience becomes the whole duty of man; and the notion of right is attached to a lifeless code of rules, instead of being the informing character of anation. The natural consequence is, that it fades gradually out and ends by disappearing al- together. I am not describing a purely con- jectural state of things, but an effect which has actually been produced at various times and in considerable populations by the influence of the Catholic Church. It is true that we cannot find an actually crucial instance of a pure morality taught as an infallible revelation, and so in time ceasing to be morality for that reason alone. There are two circumstances which prevent this. One is, that the Catholic priesthood has always practically taught an imperfect morality, and that it is difficult to distinguish between the ef- fects of precepts which are wrong in themselves and precepts which are only wrong because of the manner in which they are enforced. The other circumstance is, that the priesthood has very rarely found a population willing to place itself completely and absolutely under priestly control. Men must live together and work for common objects even in priestridden countries ; and those conditions, which in the course of ages have been able to create the moral sense, cannot fail in some degree to recall it to men’s minds and gradually to reénforce it. Thus it comes about that a great and increasing portion of life breaks free from priestly influences, and is governed upon right and rational grounds. 840 THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. ; The goodness of men shows itself in time more powerful than the wickedness of some of their religions. The practical inference is, then, that we ought to do all in our power to restrain and diminish the influence of any priesthood which claims to rule consciences. But when we attempt to go beyond this plain Protestant principle, we find that the question is one of history and politics, The question which we want to ask ourselves— “Ts it right to support this or that priesthood?” —can only be answered by this other question, ““ What has it done or got done ?” In asking this question, we must bear in mind that the word priesthood, as we have used it hitherto, has a very wide meaning—namely, it means any body of men who perform special ceremonies in the name of religion ; a ceremony being an act which is prescribed by religion to that body of men, but not on account of its in trinsic rightness or wrongness. It includes, therefore, not only the priests of Catholicism, or of the Obi rites, who lay claim to a magical character and powers, but the more familiar clergymen or ministers of Protestant denomina- tions, and the members of monastic orders, But there is a considerable difference, pointed out by Hume, between a priest, who lays claim toa magical character and powers, and a clergymal, in the English sense, as it was understood ia Hume’s day, whose office was to remind people | of their duties every Sunday, and to represents — certain standard of culture in remote country districts. It will, perhaps, conduce to clearness if we use the word priest exclusively in the first sense. There is another confusion which we must endeavor to avoid, if we would really get at the truth of this matter. When one ventures @ doubt whether the Catholic clergy has really been an unmixed blessing to Europe, one is genet ally met by the reply, “ You cannot find any fault with the Sermon on the Mount.” Now, it would be too much to say that this has nothing to do with the question we were proposing to ask, fér there is a sense in which the Sermon om the Mount and the Catholic clergy have something # ” do with each other. The Sermon on the Mount is admitted on all hands to be the best and moa” precious thing that Christianity has offered to the world ; and it cannot be doubted that the Cathe = olic clergy of East and West were the omy” spokesmen of Christianity until the Refo and are the spokesmen of the vast majority Christians at this moment. But it must

Page 345

ee fi f its in | out by im to & THE ETHICS be unnecessary to say, in a Protestant country, taat the Catholic Church and the gospel are two very different things. The moral teaching of Christ, as partly preserved in the first three gos- pels, or—which is the same thing—the moral teaching of the great Rabbi Hillel, as partly pre- served in the Pirké Abdoth, is the expression of the conscience of a people who had fought long and heroically for their national existence. In that terrible conflict they had learned the su- preme and overwhelming importance of conduct, the necessity for those who would survive, of fighting manfully for their lives and making a stand against the hostile powers around; the weakness and uselessness of solitary and selfish efforts, the necessity for a man who would be a . man to lose his poor single personality in the being of a greater and nobler combatant—the nation, And they said all this, after their fashion of short and potent sayings, perhaps better than any other men have said it before or since. “If I am not for myself,” said the great Hillel, “ who isforme? And if I am only for myself, where isthe use of me? And if not now, when?” It would be hard to find a more striking contrast than exists between the sturdy unselfish indepen- dence of this saying, and the abject and selfish se:vility of the priestridden claimant of the skies. It was this heroic people that produced the mo- rality of the Sermon on the Mount. But it was not they who produced the priests and the dog- mas of Catholicism. Shaven crowns, linen vest- ments, and the claim to priestly rule over con- sciences, these were dwellers on the banks of the Nile. The gospel, indeed, came out of Judea, but the Church and her dogmas came out of Egrpt. Not, as it is written, “ Out of Egypt have I called my son,” but, “Out of Egypt have I called my daughter.” St. Gregory of Nazianzus remarks with wonder that Egypt, having so lately worshiped bulls, goats, and crocodiles, was now teaching the world the worship of the Trinity in its truest form.! Poor, simple St. Gregory ! it was not that Egypt had risen higher, but that the world had eunk lower. The empire, which in the time of Augustus had dreaded, and with reason, the corrupting influence of Egyptian supersti- tions, was now eaten up by them, and rapidly rotting away, Then, when we ask what has been the influ- ence of the Catholic clergy upon European na- tions, we are not inquiring about the results of accepting the morality of the Sermon on the * See Sharpe, “Eg . yptian Mythology and Egyptian Christianity,” p, 114, OF RELIGION. 341 Mount; we are inquiring into the effect of at- taching an Egyptian priesthood, which teaches Egyptian dogmas, to the life and sayings of a Jewish prophet. In this inquiry, which requires the knowledge of facts beyond our own immediate experience, we must make use of the great principle of au- thority, which enables us to profit by the experi- ence of other men. ‘The great civilized countries on the Continent of Europe at the present day— France, Germany, Austria, and Italy—have had an extensive experience of the Catholic clergy for a great number of centuries, and they are forced by strong practical reasons to form a judg- ment upon the character and tendencies of an institution which is sufficiently powerful to com- mand the attention of all who are interested in public affairs. We might add the experience of our forefathers three centuries ago, and of Ireland at this moment; but home politics are apt to be looked upon with other eyes than those of rea- son. Let us hear, then, the judgment of the civilized people of Europe on this question. It is a matter of notoriety that an aider and abettor of clerical pretensions is regarded in France as an enemy of France and of French- men; in Germany, as an enemy of Germany and of Germans; in Austria, as an enemy of Austria and Hungary, of both Austrians and Magyars; and in Italy, as an enemy of Italy and the Italians, He is so regarded, not by a few wild and revolu- tionary enthusiasts who have cast away all the beliefs of their childhood and all bonds connect- ing them with the past, but by a great and in- creasing mujority of sober and conscientious men of all creeds and persuasions, who are filled with a love for their country, and whose hopes and aims for the future are animated and guided by the examples of those who have gone hefore them, and by a sense of the continuity of na- tional life. The profound conviction and deter- mination of the people in all these countries, that the clergy must be restricted to a purely cere- monial province, and must not be allowed to in- terfere, as clergy, in public affairs—this convic- tion and determination, I say, are not the effect of a rejection of the Catholic dogmas. Such re- jection has not, in fact, been made in Catholic countries by the great majority, It involves many difficult speculative questions, the profound disturbance of old habits of thought, and the toil- some consideration of abstract ideas. But such is the happy inconsistency of human nature, that men who would be shocked and pained by a doubt about the central doctrines of their reli-

Page 346

342 and pained by the moral consequences of clerical ascendency. About the dogmas they do not know ; they were taught them in childhood, and have not inquired into them since, and therefore they are not competent witnesses to the truth of them. But about the priesthood they do know, | and to its char- No man can | by daily and hourly experience ; acter they are competent witnesses. express his convictions more forcibly than by | acting upon them in a great and solemn matter | created by the Vatican Council. In all these countries | ages, they say, the Church did incalculable ser. of national importance. the conviction of the serious and sober majority of the people is embodied, and is being daily em- bodied, in special legislation, openly and avowed- ly intended to guard against clerical aggression. The more closely the Legislature of these countries reflects the popular will, the more clear and pro- nounced does this tendency become, It may be thwarted or evaded for the moment by constitu- tional devices and parliamentary tricks, but sooner or later the nation will be thoroughly represented in all of them; and as to what is then to be ex- pected let the panic of the clerical parties make answer, This is a state of opinion and of feeling which we in our own country find it hard to understand, although it is one of the most persistent charac- ters of our nation in past times. We have spo- ken so plainly and struck so hard in the past, that we seem to have won the right to let this matter alone. We think our enemies are dead, and we forget that our neighbor’s enemies are plainly alive: and then we wonder that he does not sit down, and be quiet as we are. We are not much accustomed to be afraid, and we never know when we are beaten. But those who are nearer to the danger feel a very real and, it seems to me, well-grounded fear. The whole structure of modern society, the fruit of long and painful efforts, the hopes of further improvement, the triumphs of justice, of freedom, and of light, the bonds of patriotism which make each nation one, the bonds of humanity which bring different na- tions together—all these they see to be menaced with a great and real and even pressing danger. For myself I confess that I cannot help feeling as they feel. It seems to me quite possible that the moral and intellectual culture of Europe, the light and the right, what makes life worth having and men worthy to have it, may be clean swept away by a revival of superstition. We are, per- haps, ourselves not free from such a domestic | danger; but no one can doubt that the danger | THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. gions are far more really and practically shocked | should become again barbaric, not with the weak. ness and docility of a barbarism which has never known better, but with the strength of a past civilization perverted to the service of evil, : Those who know best, then, about the Cath. olic priesthood at present, regard it as a standing menace to the state and to the moral fabric of society. Some would have us believe that this conéi- tion of things is quite new, and has in fact been In the middle Nets vice; or even if you do not allow that, yet the ancient Egyptian priesthood invented many use ful arts; or if you have read anything whichis — not to their credit, there were the Babylonians — and Assyrians who had priests, thousands of years _ ego; and, in fact, the more you go back into pre historic ages, and the farther you go away inte distant countries, the less you can find to say against the priesthoods of those times and places, This statement, for which there is certainly much foundation, may be put into another form: the more you come forward into modern times and neighboring countries, where the facts can actw ally be got at, the more complete is the evidence against the priesthoods of these times and places, But the whole argument is founded upon whatis at least a doubtful view of human nature and of society. Just as an early school of geologists were accustomed to explain the present state of the earth’s surface by supposing that in primitive ages the processes of geologic change were far more violent and rapid than they are now—#0 catastrophic, indeed, as to constitute a thoroughly different state of things—so there is a school of historians who think that the intimate structaré of human nature, its capabilities of Jearning and of adapting itself to socicty, have so far altered 4 within the historic period as to make the present 4 processes of social change totally different im character from those even of the moderately dis — tant past. They think that institutions and com ditions which are plainly harmful to us now have at other times and places done good and service able work. War, pestilence, priestcraft, and sl very, have been represented as positive boonst0 — an early state of society. They are not blessings — to us, it is true; but then times have altered very 2 much. “a On the other hand, a later school of gedlo- — 4 a ee aie ese Se ee would speedily arise if all Europe at our side | gists have seen reason to think that the processes: | of change have never, since the earth lidified, been very different from what they are now. More rapid, indeed, they must have Oem.

Page 347

tate of ‘jmitive — ere far ow—#0 THE ETHICS in early times, for many reasons; but not so very much more rapid as to constitute an entirely dif- ferent state of things. And it does seem to me in like manner that a wider and more rational view of history will recognize more and more of the permanent and Jess and less of the change- able element in human nature, No doubt our ancestors of a thousand generations back were very different beings from ourselves; perhaps fifty thousand generations back they were not men at all. But the historic period is hardly to be stretched beyond two hundred generations ; and it seems unreasonable to expect that in such a tiny page of our biography we can trace with clearness the growth and progress of a long life. Compare Egypt in the time of King Menes, say six thousand years ago, with Spain in this pres- ent century, before Englishmen made any rail- ways there: I suppose the main difference is that the Egyptians washed themselves. It seems more analogous to what we find in other fields of in- quiry, to suppose that there are certain great broad principles of human life which have been true all along; that certain conditions have always been favorable to the health of society, and cer- tain other conditions always hurtful. Now, although I have many times asked for it, from those who said that somewhere and at some time mankind had derived benefits from a priesthood laying claim to a magical character and powers, I have never been able to get any evidence for this statement. Nobody will give me a date, and a latitude and longitude, that I may examine into the matter. “In the middle ages the priests and monks were the sole depos- itaries of learning.” Quite so; a man burns | your house to the ground, builds a wretched hovel on the ruins, and then takes credit for whatever shelter there is about the place. In the middle ages nearly all learned men were obliged to become priests and monks. “ Then, again, the bishops have sometimes acted as trib- unes of the people to protect them against the tyranny of kings.” No doubt when pope and Cesar fall out honest men may come by their own. If two men rob you in a dark lane, and then quarrel over the plunder, so that you get a chance to escape with your life, you will of course be very grateful to each of them for having pre- vented the other from killing you; but you would be much more grateful to a policeman who locked them both up. Two powers have sought to enslave the people, and have quarreled with each other ; OF RELIGION. certainly we are very much obliged to them for j quarreling, but a condition of still greater happi- | 843 ness and security would bé the non-existence of both. I can find no evidence that seriously militates against the rule that the priest is at all times and in all places the enemy of all men—ASacerdos semper, ubique, et omnibus inimicus. I do not deny that the priest is very often a most earnest and conscientious man, doing the very best that he knows of as well as he can do it. Lord Am- berley is quite right in saying that the blame rests more with the laity than with the priest- hood : that it has insisted on magic and mysteries, and has forced the priesthood to produce them, But, then, how dreadful is the system that puts good men to such uses ! And, although it is true that in its origin a priesthood is the effect of an evil already exist- ing, a symptom of social disease, rather than a cause of it, yet, once being created and made powerful, it tends in many ways to prolong and increase the di which gave it birth. One of these ways is so marked and of such practical importance that we are bound to consider it here; I mean the education of children. If there is one lesson which history forces upon us in every page, it is this: Keep your children away Srom the priest, or he will make them the enemies of mankind. It is not the Catholic clergy and those like them who are alone to be dreaded in this matter; even the representatives of appar- ently harmless religions may do incalculable mis- chief if they get education into their hands, To the early Mohammedans the mosque was the one public building in every place where public busi- ness could be transacted ; and so it was naturally the place of primary education, which they held to be a matter of supreme importance. By-and- by, as the clergy grew up, the mosque was grad- ually usurped by them, and primary education fell into their hands. Then ensued a “ revival of religion;” religion became a fanaticism ; books were burned and universities were closed ; the empire rotted away in East and West, until it was conquered by Turkish savages in Asia and by Christian savages in Spain. The labors of students of the early history of institutions—notably Sir Henry Maine and M. Laveleye—have disclosed to us an element of so- ciety which appears to have existed in all times and places, and which is the basis of our own social structure. The village community, or @mmune, or township, found in tribes of the most varied race and time, has so modified itself as to get adapted in one place or another to all the different conditions of human existence,

Page 348

344 This union of men to‘work for a common object has transformed them from wild animals into tame ones. Century by century the educating process of the social life. has been working at human nature; it has built itself into our inmost soul. Such as we are—moral and rational be- ings—thinking and talking in general concep- tions about the facts that make up our life, feel- ing a necessity to act, not for ourselves, but for Ourself, for the larger life of man in which we are elements—such moral and rational beings, I say, man has made us. By man I mean men or- THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. of a god. But the explanation takes two differ. ent forms.: the god may speak in us for man’s sake, or for his own sake. If he speaks for hig own sake—and this is what generally happens when he has priests who lay claim to a magical character and powers—our allegiance is apt to be taken away from man, and transferred to the god. When we love our brother for the sake of our brother, we help all men’ to grow in the right ; but when we love our brother for the sake of somebody else, who is very likely to damn our brother, it very soon comes to burning him alive ganized into a society which fights for its life, | for his soul’s health. When men respect human not only as a mere collection of men who must | life for the sake of man, tranquillity, order, and separately be kept alive, but as society. It must fight, not only against external enemies, but against treason and disruption within it, Hence comes the unity of interest of all its members ; each of them has.to feel that he is not himself only, but a part of all the rest. sense of right and wrong—springs out of the habit of judging things from the point of view of all, and not of one. It is Ourself, not our- selves, that makes for righteousness. The codes of morality, then, which are adopt- ed into various religions, and afterward taught as parts of religious systems, are derived from secu- lar sources, The most ancient version of the Ten Commandments, whatever the investigations of scholars may make it out to be, originates, not in the thunders of Sinai, but in the peaceful life of men on the plains of Chaldea. Conscience is the voice of man ingrained into our hearts, command- ing us to work for man. Religions differ in the treatment which they give to this most sacred heirloom of our past his- tory. Sometimes they invert its precepts—tell- ing men to be submissive under oppression be- cause the powers that be are ordained of God; telling them to believe where they have not scen, and to play with falsehood in order that a par- ticular doctrine may prevail, instead of seeking for truth whatever it may be; telling them to be- tray their country for the sake of their church. But there is one great distinction to which I wish, in conclusion, to call special attention—a distince- tion between two kinds of religious emotion which bear upon the conduct of men. We said that conscience is the voice of man within us, commanding us to work for man. We do not know this immediately by our own expe- rience; we only know that something within us commands us to work for man. This fact men have tried to explain; and they have thought, for the most part, that this voice was the voice Conscience—the | | diverted from man to some divinity who speaks | | progress, go hand-in-hand; but those who only respected human life because God had forbidden murder, have set their mark upon Europe in fit teen centuries of blood and fire. These are only two examples of a general rule. Wherever the allegiance of men has been to men for his own sake and seeks his own glory, one thing has happened. The right precepts might be enforced, but they were enforced up- on wrong grounds, and they were not obeyed, But right precepts are not always enforced ; the fact that the fountains of morality have been poisoned makes it easy to substitute wrong pre cepts for right ones, To this same treason against humanity be longs the claim of the priesthood to take away the guilt of a sinner after confession has been made to it. The Catholic priest professes to act as an embassador for his God, and to absolve the guilty man by conveying to him the forgivencss of Heaven. If his credentials were ever so sure, if he were indeed the embassador of a superhu- man power, the claim would be treasonable, Can the favor of the czar make guiltless the murder- er of old men and women and children in Circas- sian valleys? Can the pardon of the sultan make clean the bloody hands of a pasha? As little can any god forgive sins committed against man. When men think he can, they compound for old sins which the god did not like by com mitting new ones which he does like. Many# remorseful despot has atoned for the levities of his youth by the persecution of heretics im his old age. That frightful crime, the adulteration of food, could not possibly be so eemmon among: — us if men were not taught to regard it as merely objectionable because it is remotely connected - with stealing, of which God has expressed his disapproval in the Decalogue; and, therefore,@®” — quite naturally set right by a punctual attend- x

Page 349

a “ o ray gest - By8F Fas EEE EEN rag a ; the among — a ad ance at church on Sundays. When a Ritualist breaks his fast before celebrating the Holy Com- union, his deity can forgive him, if he likes, for the matter concerns nobody else; but no deity ean forgive him for preventing his parishioners from setting up a public library and reading-room for fear they should read Mr. Darwin's works in it. That sin is committed against the people, and a god cannot take it away. I call those religions which undermine the supreme allegiance of the conscience to man ultramontane religions, because they seek their springs of action ultra montes, outside of the common experience and daily life of man. And I remark about them that they are especially apt to teach wrong precepts, and that even when they command men to do the right things they put * the command upon wrong motives, and du not get the things done. But there are forms of religious emotion which do not thus undermine the conscience. Far be it from me to undervalue the help and strength which many of the bravest of our brethren have drawn from the thought of an unseen helper of men. He who, wearied or stricken in the fight with the powers of darkness, asks himself in a solitary place, “Is it all for nothing? Shall we, indeed, be overthrown ?”—he does find some- thing which may justify that thought. In sucha moment of utter sincerity, when a man has bared his own soul before the immensities and the eter- A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF AN INFANT. 845 nities, a presence, fn which his own poor person- ality is shriveled into nothingness, arises within him, and says, as plainly as words can say, “I am with thee, and I am greater than thou.” Many names of gods, of many shapes, have men given to this presence; seeking by names and pictures to know more clearly and to remember more continually the guide and the helper of men. No such comradeship with the Great Companion shall have anything but reverence from me, who have known the divine gentleness of Denison Maurice, the strong and healthy practical instinct of Charles Kingsley, and who now revere with all my heart the teaching of James Martineau. They seem to me, one and all, to be reaching forward with loving anticipation to a clearer vision which is yet to come—tendentesque manus ripe ulterio- ris amore. For, after all, such a helper of men, outside of humanity, the truth will not allow us tosee. The dim and shadowy outlines of the su- perhuman deity fade slowly away from before us ; and, as the mist of his presence floats aside, we perceive with greater and greater clearness the shape of a yet grander and nobler figure—of Him who made all gods and shall unmake them. From the dim dawn of history, and from the in- most depth of every scul, the face of our father Man looks out upon us with the fire of eternal youth in his eyes, and -says, “ Before Jehovah was, I am!” , —Fortnightly Review, A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF AN INFANT. By CHARLES DARWIN. TAINE’S very interesting account of the | * mental development of an infant, trans- lated in the last number of Mind (page 252), has led me to look over a diary which I kept thirty-seven years ago with respect to one of my own infants. I had excellent opportunities for close observation, and wrote down at once what- ever was observed. My chief object was expres- sion, and my notes were used in my book on this subject ; but, as I attended to some other points, ad observations may possibly possess some little interest in comparison with those by M. Taine, and with others which hereafter no doubt will be made, I feel sure, from what I have seen with my own infants, that the period of development of the several faculties will be found to differ considerably in different infants. During the first seven days various reflex ac- tions—namely, sneezing, hiccoughing, yawning, stretching, and, of course, sucking and scream- ing, were well performed by my infant. On the seventh day I touched the naked sole of his foot with a bit of paper, and he jerked it away, curl- ing at the same time his toes, like a much older child when tickled. The perfection of these re- flex movements shows that the extreme imperfec- tion of the voluntary ones is not due to the state of the muscles or of the codrdinating centres, but to that of the seat of the will. At this time, though so early, it seemed clear to me that a

Page 350

346 warm, soft hand applied to ‘his face excited a wish to suck. This must be considered as a re- flex or an instinctive action, for it is impossible to believe that experience and association with the touch of his mother’s breast could so soon have come into play. During the first fortnight he often started on hearing any sudden sound, and blinked his eyes. The same fact was ob- served with some of my other infants within the first fortnight. Once, when he was sixty-six days old, I happened to sneeze, and he started violent- ly, frowned, looked frightened, and cried rather badly: for an hour afterward he was in a state which would be called nervous in an older per- son, for every slight noise made him start. A few days before this same date he first started at an object suddenly seen; but for a long time afterward sounds made him start and wink his eyes much more frequently than did sight; thus, when 114 days old, I shook a pasteboard box with comfits in it near his face, and he started, while the same box when empty, or any other object shaken as near or much nearer to his face, produced no effect. We may infer from these several facts that the winking of the eyes, which manifestly serves to protect them, had not been acquired through experience. Although so sen- sitive to sound in a general way, he was not able, even when 124 days old, easily to recognize whence a sound proceeded, so as to direct his eyes to the source, With respect to vision, his eyes were fixed on a candle as early as the ninth day, and up to the forty-fifth day nothing else seemed thus to fix them; but on the forty-ninth day his atten- tion was attracted by a bright-colored tassel, as was shown by his eyes becoming fixed and the movements of his arms ceasing. It was surpris- ing how slowly he acquired the power of follow- ing with his eyes an object if swinging at all rap- idly ; for he could not do this well when seven and a half months old. At the age of thirty- two days he perceived his mother’s bosom when three or four inches from it, as was shown by the protrusion of his lips and his eyes becoming fixed ; but I much doubt whether this had any connec- tion with ‘vision ; he certainly had not touched the bosom. Whether he was guided through smell, or the sensation of warmth, or through association with the position in which he was held, I do not at all know. The movements of his limbs and body were for a long time vague and purposeless, and usu- ally performed in a jerking manner; but there was one exception to this rule, namely, that from THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. a very early period, certainly long before he wag forty days old, he could move his hands to his owg "4 mouth, When seventy-seven days old, he took the sucking-bottle (with which he was partly fed) in his right hand, whether he was held on the left or right arm of his nurse, and he would not take it in his left hand until a week later, although] — tried to make him do so; so that the right hand — was a week in advance of the left. Yet this infant afterward proved to be left-handed, the tendeney 4 being no doubt inherited—his grandfather, moth er, and a brother, having been or being left-hand. — ed. When between eighty and ninety days old,he _ drew all sorts of objects into his mouth, and in two or three weeks’ time could do this with some skill; but he often first touched his nose with the ob ject and then dragged it down into bis mouth 4 After grasping my finger and drawing it to his mouth, his own hand prevented him from sucking it; but on the 114th day, after acting in this man ner, he slipped his own hand down so that he could get the end of my finger into his mouth ~ This action was repeated several times, and evi- dently was not a chance but a rational one, The intentional movements of the hands and arms were thus much in advance of those of the body and legs; though the purposeless movements of the latter were from a very early period usually | alternate as in the act of walking. When four months old, he often looked intently at his own hands and other objects close to him, and in do ing so the eyes were turned much inward, so that he often squinted frightfully. In a fortnight after this time (i. e., 132 days old) I observed that if an object was brought as near to his face as bis own hands were, he tried to seize it, but often failed; and he did not try to do so in regard to more distant objects. I think there can be litle ~ doubt that the convergence of his eyes gave him — the clew and excited him to move his arms. Al though this infant thus began to use his hands a at an early period, he showed no special aptitude in this respect, for, when he was two years ana four months old, he held pencils, pens, and other objects, far less neatly and efficiently than did his ; sister who was then only fourteen months od, it and who showed great inherent aptitude in ha dling anything. 4 Anger.—It was difficult to decide at how early an age anger was felt; on his eighth day he if frowned and wrinkled the skin round his et ‘. before a crying-fit, but this may have been @8 — to pain or distress, and not to anger. about ten weeks old, he was given some 3 cold milk and he kept a slight frown on bis fone

Page 351

A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF AN INFANT. head all the time that he was sucking, so that he looked like a grown-up person made cross from being compelled to do something which he did not like. When nearly four months old, and per- haps much earlier, there could be no doubt, from the manner in which the blood gushed into his whole face and scalp, that he easily got into a violent passion. A small cause sufficed; thus, when a little over seven months old, he screamed with rage because a lemon slipped away and he could not seize it with his hands. When eleven months old, if a wrong plaything was given him, he would push it away and beat it; I presume that the beating was an instinctive sign of anger, like the snapping of the jaws by a young croco- dile just out of the egg, and not that he imagined . he could hurt the plaything. When two years and three months old, he became a great adept at throwing books or sticks, etc., at any one who offended him; and so it was with some of my other sons. On the other hand, I could never see a trace of such aptitude in my infant daughters ; and this makes me think that a tendency to throw objects is inherited by boys. Fear.—This feeling probably is one of the earliest experienced by infants, as shown by their starting at any sudden sound when only a few weeks old, followed by crying. Before the present one was four and a half months old, I had been accustomed to make close to him many strange and loud noises, which were all taken as excellent jokes, but at this period I one day made a loud, snoring noise which I had never done be- fore; he instantly looked grave and then burst out crying. Two or three days afterward, I made through forgetfulness the same noise, with the same result. About the same time (viz., on the 137th day) I approached with my back toward him and then stood motionless : he looked very grave and much surprised, and would soon have cried, had I not turned round ; then his face in- stantly relaxed into a smile, It is well known how intensely older children suffer from vague and undefined fears, as from the dark, or in pass- ing an obscure corner in a large hall, ete. I may give as an instance that I took the child in ques- tion, when two and a quarter years old, to the Zo- ological Gardens, and he enjoyed looking at all the animals which were like those that he knew, such as deer, antelopes, etc., and all the birds, even the ostriches, but was much alarmed at the various larger animals in cages. He often said afterward that he wished to go again, but not to see “beasts in houses;” and we could in no manner account for this fear. May we not sus- 847 pect that the vague but very real fears of chil- dren, which are quite independent of experience, are the inherited effects of real dangers and ab- ject superstitions during ancient savage times ? It is quite conformable with what we know of the transmission of formerly well-developed char- acters, that they should appear at an early period of life, and afterward disappear. Pleasurable Sensations.—It may be presumed that infants feel pleasure while sucking, and the ex- pression of their swimming eyes seems to show that this is the case. This infant smiled when forty- five days, a second when forty-six days old; and these were true smiles, indicative of pleasure, for their eyes brightened and eyelids slightly closed. The smiles arose chiefly when looking at their moth- er, and were therefore probably of mental origin ; but this infant often smiled then, and for some time afterward, from some inward pleasurable feeling, for nothing was happening which could have in any way excited or amused him. When 110 days old, he was exceedingly amused by a pinafore being thrown over his face and then sud- denly withdrawn ; and so he was when I suddenly uncovered my own face and approached his, He then uttered a little noise which was an incipient laugh. Here surprise was the chief cause of the amusement, as iz the case to a large extent with the wit of grown-up persons. I believe that for three or four weeks before the time when he was amused by a face being suddenly uncovered he received a little pinch on his nose and cheeks as a good joke. I was at first surprised at humor being appreciated by an infant only a little above three months old, but we should remember how very early puppies and kittens begin to play. When four months old, he showed in an unmis- takable manner that he liked to hear the piano- forte played; so that here apparently was the earliest sign of an esthetic feeling, unless the at- traction of bright colors, which was exhibited much earlier, may be so considered. Affection.—This probably arose very early in life, if we may judge by his smiling at those who had charge of him when under two months old; though I had no distinct evidence of his distin- guishing and recognizing any one, until he was nearly four months old. When nearly five months old, he plainly showed his wish to go to his nurse. But he did not spontaneously exhibit affection by overt acts until a little above a year old, namely, by kissing several times his nurse who had been absent for a short time. With respect to the allied feeling of sympathy, this was clearly shown at six months and eleven days by his melancholy

Page 352

348 face, with the corners of his mouth well depressed, when his nurse pretended to cry. Jealousy was plainly exhibited when I fondled a large doll, and when I weighed his infant sister, he being then fifteen and a half months old. Seeing how strong a feeling jealousy is in dogs, it would probably be exhibited by infants at an earlier age than that just specified, if they were tried in a fitting manner. Association of Ideas, Reason, ete.—The first action which exhibited, as far as I observed, a kind of practical reasoning, has already been no- ticed, namely, the slipping his hand down my finger so as to get the end of it into his mouth; and this happened on the 114th day. When four and a half months old, he repeatedly smiled at my image and his own in a mirror, and no doubt mistook them for real objects; but he showed sense in being evidently surprised at my voice coming from behind him. Like all infants he much enjoyed thus looking at himself, and in less than two months perfectly understood that it was an image; for if I made quite silently any odd grimace, he would suddenly turn round to look at me. He was, however, puzzled at the age of seven months, when being out-of-doors he saw me on the inside of a large plate-glass window, and seemed in doubt whether or not it was an image. Another of: my infants, a little girl, when exactly a year old, was not nearly so acute, and seemed quite perplexed at the image of a person in a mirror approaching her from behind. The higher apes which I tried with a small looking-glass be- haved differently ; they placed their hands behind the glass, and in doing so showed their sense, but, far from taking pleasure in looking at them- selves, they got angry and would look no more. When five months old, associated ideas arising independently of any instruction became fixed in his mind: thus as soon as his hat and cloak were put on, he was very cross if he was not immedi- ately taken out-of-doors. When exactly seven months old, he made the great step of associating his nurse with her name, so that if I called it out he would look round for her. Another infant used to amuse himself by shaking his head later- ally: we praised and imitated him, saying “‘ Shake your head; ” and when he was seven months old he would sometimes do so on being told without any other guide. During the next four months the former infant associated many things and actions with words; thus when asked for a kiss he would protrude his lips and keep still—would shake his head and say in a scolding voice “ Ah!” to the coal-box or a little spilt water, etc., which he had been taught to consider as dirty. I may THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. add that when a few days under nine months old he associated his own name with his image in the looking-glass, and when called by name would turn toward the glass even when at some distance from it. When a few days over nine months, he learned spontaneously that a hand or other object causing a shadow to fall on the wall in front of him was to be looked for behind. While under a year old, it was sufficient to repeat two or three times at intervals any short sentence to fix firmly in his mind some associated idea. In the infant described by M. Taine (pp. 254-256) the age at which ideas readily became associated seems to have been considerably later, unless indeed the earlier cases were overlooked. The facility with which associated ideas due to instruction and oth: ers spontaneously arising were acquired, seemed to me by far the most strongly marked of all the distinctions between the mind of an infant and that of the cleverest full-grown dog that I have ever known. What a contrast does the mind of an infant present to that of the pike, described by Prof. Moébius,’ who during three whole months dashed and stunned himself against a glass partition which separated him from some minnows ; and when, after at last learning that he could not attack them with impunity, he was placed in the aquarium with these same minnows, then in a persistent and senseless manner he would not attack them! . Curiosity, as M. Taine remarks, is displayed at an early age by infants, and is highly impor tant in the development of their minds; but I made no special observation on this head. Imi- tation likewise comes into play. When our im fant was only four months old I thought that he tried to imitate sounds; but I may have deceived myself, for I was not thoroughly convinced that he did so until he was ten months old. At the age of eleven and a half months he could readily imitate all sorts of actions, such as shaking his head and saying “ Ah!” to any dirty object, or by carefully and slowly putting his forefinger im the middle of the palm of his other band, to the childish rhyme of “ Pat it and pat it, and mark it with T.” It was amusing to behold his pleased expression after successfully performing any such accomplishment. I do not know whether it is worth mention: ing, as showing something about the strength of memory in a young child, that this one, whe three years and twenty-three days old, on being shown an engraving of his grandfather, whom he had not seen for exactly six months, ‘| 1“ Die Bewegungen der Thiere,” etc., 1873, p. T.

Page 353

5 ¥ mt of ; 5 ? rs - e was pans recognized him, and mentioned a whole string of events which had occurred while visiting him, and which certainly had never been mentioned in the interval. Moral Sense—The first sign of moral sense was noticed at the age of nearly thirteen months. I said, “ Doddy” (his nickname) “won't give poor papa a kiss—naughty Doddy!” These words, without doubt, made him feel slightly un- comfortable ; and at last, when I had returned to my chair, he protruded his lips as a sign that he was ready to kiss me; and he then shook his hand in an angry manner until I came and re- ceived his kiss. Nearly the same little scene re- curred in a few days, and the reconciliation seemed to give him so much satisfaction that sev- _ eral times afterward he pretended to be angry and slapped me, and then insisted on giving me a kiss. So that here we have a touch of the dra- matic art, which is so strongly pronounced in most young children. About this time it became easy to work on his feelings, and make him do whatever was wanted. When two years and three months old he gave his last bit of ginger- bread to his little sister, and then cried out, with high self-approbation, “‘O kind Doddy, kind Dod- dy!” Two months later he became extremely sensitive to ridicule, and was so suspicious that he often thought people who were laughing and talking together were laughing at him. A little later (two years and seven and a half months old) I met him coming out of the dining-room with his eyes unnaturally bright, and an odd, unnatu- ral or affected manner, so that I went into the room to see who was there, and found that he had been taking pounded sugar, which he had been told not todo. As he had never been in any way punished, his odd manner certainly was not due to fear, and I suppose it was pleasurable excitement struggling with conscience. A fort- night afterward I met him coming out of the same room, and he was eying his pinafore, which he had carefully rolled up; and again his manner was so odd that I determined to see what was within his pinafore, notwithstanding that he said there was nothing, and repeatedly commanded me to ‘go away,” and I found it stained with Pickle-juice; so that here was carefully-planned deceit. As this child was educated solely by Working on his good feelings, he soon became as truthful, open, and tender, as any one could de- sire, Unconsciousness, Shyness.—No one can have attended to very young children without being struck at the unabashed manner in which they A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF AN INFANT. 849 fixedly stare without blinking their eyes at a new face ; an old person can look in this manner only at an animal or inanimate object. This, I believe, is the result of young children not thinking in the least about themselves, and therefore not being in the least’ shy, though they are sometimes afraid of strangers. I saw the first symptom of shyness in my child when nearly two years and three months old: this was shown toward my- self, after an absence of ten days from home, chiefly by his eyes being kept slightly averted from mine; but he soon came and sat on my knee and kissed me, and all trace of shyness dis- appeared, Means of Communication.—The noise of cry- ing, or rather of squalling, as no tears are shed for a long time, is, of course, uttered in an in- stinctive manner, but serves to show that there is suffering. After a time the sound differs accord- ing to the cause, such as hunger or pain. This was noticed when this infant was eleven weeks old, and I believe at an earlier age in another in- fant. Moreover, he appeared soon to learn to begin crying voluntarily, or to wrinkle his face in the manner proper to the occasion, so as to show that he wanted something. When forty-six days old, he first made little noises without any mean- ing to please himself, and these soon became varied. An incipient laugh was observed on the 113th day, but much earlier in another infant. At this date I thought, as already remarked, that he began to try to imitate sounds, as he certainly did at a considerably later period. When five and a half months old he uttered an articulate sound, “ Da!” but without any meaning attached to it. When a little over a year old he used gest- ures to explain his wishes. To give a simple in- stance, he picked up a bit of paper, and, giving it to me, pointed to the fire, as he had often seen and liked to see paper burned. At exactly the age of a year he made the great step of invent- ing a word for food—namely, mum; but what led him to it I did not discover. And now, in- stead of beginning to cry when he was hungry, he used this word in a demonstrative manner or as a verb, implying “‘ Give me food.” This word, therefore, corresponds with ham as used by M. Taine’s infant at the later age of fourteen months. But he also. used mum as a substantive of wide signification ; thus he called sugar shu-mum, and a little later, after he had learned the word black, he called liquorice black-shu-mum—black-sugar- food. I was particularly struck with the fact that when asking for food by the word mum he gave

Page 354

850 THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. to it (I will copy the words written down at the | munication—by the unconscious expression of time) “‘a most strongly- marked interrogatory | the features—by gestures and in a marked maqu ner by different intonations—lastly by words of " sound at the end.” He also gave to “ Ah,” which he chiefly used at first when recognizing any per- son or his own image in a mirror, an exclamatory sound, such as we employ when surprised. I re- mark in my notes that the use of these intona- | tions seemed to have arisen instinctively, and I regret that more observations were not made on this subject. I record, however, in my notes that at a rather later period, when between eighteen and twenty-one months old, he modulated his voice in refusing peremptorily to do anything by a defiant whine, so as to express “ That I won’t;” and again his humph of assent expressed “ Yes, to be sure.” M. Taine also insists strongly on the highly-expressive tones of the sounds made by his infant before she had learned to speak. The interrogatory sound which my child gave to the word mum when asking for food is especially curious ; for if any one will use a single word or a short sentence in this manner, he will find that the musical pitch of his voice rises considerably at the close. I did not then see that this fact bears on the view which I have elsewhere main- tained, that before man used articulate language, he uttered notes in a true musical scale, as does the anthropoid ape Hylobates. Finally, the wants of an infant are at first made intelligible by instinctive cries, which after a time are modified in part unconsciously, and in part, as I believe, voluntarily as a means of com- a general nature invented by himself, then of 4a more precise nature imitated from those which — he hears; and these latter are acquired at @ won. _ s| 4 #] derfully quick rate. An infant understands to 4’ certain extent, and as I believe at a very early period, the meaning or feelings of those whotend | him, by the expression of their features. can hardly be a doubt about this with respectite’ Pa smiling; and it seemed to me that the infant whose biography I have here given understood’y \ compassionate expression at a little over five months old. When six months and eleven days old he certainly showed sympathy with his nurse on her pretending to ery. When pleased after performing some new accomplishment, being then) almost a year old, he evidently studied the expres’ sion of those around him. It was probably due to differences of expression, and not merely of the form of the features, that certain faces clearly pleased him much more than others, even at 90 early an age as a little over six months. Before lade * te 4 he was a year old, he understood intonations and 4 gestures, as well as several words ard shortsem tences. He understood one word, namely, his ~~ nurse’s name, exactly five months before he im vented his first word mum; and this is what might have been expected, as we know that the lower animals easily learn to understand spoken words,— Mind. ON THE PROBABLE ORIGIN AND AGE OF THE SUN. By JAMES CROLL, LL. D., F. R. 8.1 HE total annual amount of radiation from the whole surface of the sun is 8,340 x 10” foot- pounds. To maintain the present rate of radia- tion it would require the combustion of about 1,500 pounds of coal per hour on every square foot of the sun’s surface; and were the sun com- posed of that material it would all be consumed in less than 5,000 years. The opinion that the sun’s heat is maintained by combustion cannot be entertained for a single moment. Mr. Lock- yer has suggested that the elements of the sun are, owing to its excessive temperature, in a state of dissociation, and some have supposed 10fH. M. Geological Survey of Scotland, and author of “Climate and Time.” that this fact might help to explain the duration of the sun’s heat. But it must be obvious that — even supposing we were to make the most ex travagant estimate of the chemical affinities of — these elements, the amount of heat derived GamaGy ‘é their combination could at most give us onlp® — few thousand years’ additional heat. Under every conceivable supposition the combustion” theory must be abandoned. a It is now generally held by physicists that the enormous store of heat possessed by the sum Ri could only have been derived from gravitation — Fi: For exainple, a pound of coal falling into the sun from an infinite distance would p its concussion more than 6,000 times the amount — @ a 8

Page 355

A > ee pas lig nities of ed from: ] 1 aa of heat that would be generated by its combus- tion. It would, in fact, amount to upward of 65,000,000,000 foot-pounds—an amount of en- ergy sufficient to raise 1,000 tons to a height of five and a half miles. There are two forms in which the gravitation theory has been presented: 1. The meteoric theory, propounded by Dr. Meyer; and, 2. The contraction theory, advocated by Helmholtz. The meteoric theory of the sun’s heat has now been pretty generally abandoned for the contrac- tion theory advanced by Helmholtz. Suppose, with Helmholtz, that the sun originally existed asa nebulous mass, filling the entire space pres- ently occupied by the solar system, and extend- ing into space indefinitely beyond the outermost _ Planet. The total amount of work in foot- pounds performed by gravitation in the condensa- tion of this mass to an orb of the sun’s present size can be found by means of the following formula given by Helmholtz : Work of condensation = . “Js M is the mass of the sun, m the mass of the earth, R the sun’s radius, and r the earth’s radi- us, Taking— M= 4,230 x 10° Ibs., m= 11,920 x 10% Ibs, R= 2,328,500,000 feet, and r = 20,889,272 feet, we have, then, for the total amount of work per- formed by gravitation in foot-pounds : 8 (20,880,272.5) x (4,280 x 10%) 5 * 2,328,500,000 x 11,920 x lu?! — = 168,790 x 10* foot-pounds. The amount of heat thus produced by gravita- tion would suffice for 20,237,500 years. The conclusions are based upon the assump- tion that the density of the sun is uniform throughout. But it is highly probable that the sun’s density increases toward the centre, in which case the amount of work performed by gravitation would be something more than the above, At this point, in reference to the age of our globe, Geology and Physics are generally sup- posed to come into direct antagonism. For, if it be true, as physicists maintain, that gravitation is the only possible source from which the sun could have derived its store of energy, then the sun could not have maintained our globe at its Present temperature for more than about 20,000,- 000 years. “On the very highest computation which can be permitted,” says Prof. Tait, “it cannot have supplied the earth, even at the pres- tat rate, for more then about 15,000,000 or 20,- ON THE PROBABLE ORIGIN AND AGE OF THE SUN. 351 000,000 years.”! The limit to the age of the sun’s heat must have limited the age of the hab- itable globe. All the geological history of the globe would necessarily be comprehended within this period. If the sun derived its heat from the condensation of its mass, then it could not pos- sibly be more than about 20,000,000 years since the beginning of the Laurentian period. But 20,000,000 years would be considered by most geologists to represent only a comparatively small portion of the time which must have elapsed since organic life began on our globe. It is true that the views which formerly pre- vailed among geologists, in regard to the almost unlimited extent of geological time, have of late undergone very considerable modifications ; but there are few geologists, I presume, who would be willing to admit that the above period is suffi- cient to egmprehend the entire history of strati- fied rocks. It is the facts of denudation which most for- cibly impress the mind with a sense of immense duration, and show most convincingly the great antiquity of the earth. We know unquestionably that many of the greatest changes undergone by the earth’s crust were produced, not by convulsions and cata- clysms of Nature, but by those ordinary agencies that we see at work every day around us, such as rain, snow, frost, ice, chemical action, etc. Val- leys have not been produced by violent disloca- tions, nor the hills by upheavals, but both have been carved out of the solid rock by the silent and gentle agency of chemical action, frost, rain, ice, and running water. In short, the rocky face of our globe has been moulded into hill and dale, and ultimately worn down to the sea-level by means of these apparently trifling agents, not merely once or twice, but probably dozens of times over during past ages. Now, when we re- flect that with such extreme slowness do these agents perform their work that we might, if we could, watch their operations from year to year and from century to century without being able to perceive that they make any sensible impres- sion, we are necessitated to conclude that geo- logical periods must be enormous. The utter inadequacy of a period of 20,000,000 years for the age of our earth is demonstrable from the enormous thickness of rock which is known to have been removed off certain areas by denuda- tion. I shall now briefly refer to a few of the many facts which might be adduced on this point. 4 Recent Advances in Physical Science,” p. 175.

Page 356

852 One plain and obvious method of showing the great extent to which the general surface of the country has been lowered by denudation is fur- nished, as is well known, by the way in which the inequalities of surface produced by faults or dis- locations have been effaced. It is quite common to meet with faults where the strata on the one side have been depressed several hundreds—and in some cases thousands—of feet below that on the other, but we seldom find any indications of such on the surface, the inequalities on the sur- face having been all removed by denudation. But in order to effect this a mass of rock must have been removed equal in thickness to the ex- tent of the dislocation. The following are a few examples of large faults : The great Irwell fault, described by Prof. Hull,' which stretches from the Mersey west of Stockport to the north of Bolton, has a throw of upward of 3,000 feet. Some remarkable faults have been found by Prof. Ramsay in North Wales. For example, near Snowdon, and about a mile east-southeast of Beddgelert, there is a fault with a down-throw of 5,000 feet ; and in the Berwyn Hills, between Bryn-mawr and Post-gwyn, there is one of 5,000 feet. In the Aran Range there is a great fault, designated the Bala fault, with a down-throw of 7,000 feet. Again, between Aran Mowddwy and Careg Aderyn the displacement of the strata amounts to no less than from 10,000 to 11,000 feet.? Here we have evidence that a mass of rock, varying from one mile to two miles in ver- tical thickness, must have been denuded in many places from the surface of the country in North Wales. The fault which passes along the east side of the Pentlands is estimated to have a throw of upward of 3,000 feet.* Along the flank of the Grampians a great fault runs from the North Sea at Stonehaven to the estuary of the Clyde, throw- ing the Old Red Sandstone on end sometimes for a distanceof two miles from the line of dislocation, The amount of the displacement, Prof. Geikie* concludes, must be in some places not less than 5,000 feet, as indicated by the position of occa- sional outliers of conglomerate on the Highland side of the fault. The great fault crossing Scotland from near 1“ Memoirs of the Geological Survey of Lancashire,” 1862. 2“ Memoirs of the Geological Survey of Great Britain,” vol. iii. 3“Memoir to Sheet 82,” Geological Survey-map of Scotland. * Nature, vol. xiii., p. 890.

|

THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. Dunbar to the Ayrshire coast, and which sepa. rates the Silurians of the south of Scotland from the Old Red Sandstone and Carboniferous tracts of the north, bas been found, by Mr. B. N. Peach, of the Geological Survey,’ to have in some places a throw of fully 15,000 feet. This great disloca. tion is older than the Carboniferous period, as ig shown by the entire absence of any Old Red Sandstone on the south side of the fault, and by the occurrence of the Carboniferous Limestone and Coal-measures lying directly on the Silurian rocks. We obtain here some idea of the enor. mous amount of denudation which must have taken place during a comparatively limited geo. logical epoch. So vast a thickness of Old Red Sandstone could not, as Mr. Peach remarks, “have ended originally where the fault ‘now is, but must have swept southward over the Lower Silurian uplands. Yet these thousands of feet of sandstcnes, conglomerates, lavas, and tuffs, were so completely removed from the south side of the fault previous to the deposition of the Carboniferous Limestone series and the Coal measures, that not a fragment of them is any- where to be seen between these latter formations and the old Silurian floor.” This enormous thickness of nearly three miles of Old Red Sand- stone must have been denuded away during the period which intervened between the deposition of the Lower Old Red Sandstone and the accumu- lation of the Carboniferous Limestone. Near Tipperary, in the south of Ireland, there is a dislocation of the strata of not less than 4,000 feet,? which brings down the Coal-measures against the Silurian rocks. Here 1,000 feet of Old Red Sandstone, 3,000 feet of Carboniferous Limestone, and 800 feet of Coal-measures have been removed by denudation off the Silurian rocks, Not only has this immense thickness of beds been carried away, but the Silurian itself, on whieh they rested, has been eaten down in some places into deep valleys several hundreds of feet below the surface on which the Old Red Sandstone rested. Faults to a similar extent abound on the Com tinent and in America, but they have not beep so minutaly examined as in this country. Ip the valley of Thessolon, to the north of Lake Hur, of 9,000 feet.® In front of the Chilowee Mountains there is # vertical displacement of the strata of more than 1 « Explanation to Sheet 15," Geological Survey-map Scotland. 2 Jukes’s and Geikie’s “ Manual of Geology,” p- 441.

| %“Geology of Canada,” 1868, p. 61.

there is a dislocation of the strata to the extent - 10,006 Appal: feet to Th means the thi moved countr enter. enorme places, denuda Pro must al of a m which | In t Avon a! that abi been re surface. Bety Glamorg Red San removed shire, ab of Old R feet—ha dovery ¢ vertical moved b forest of miles, a | 10,000 fe Prof. the Pend resting o Grit, and the Upp: coal-tield, the Carbc shire, he | the quant! have been Millstone beds, and less than of Clither< that the C; 1 Safford’ 2 Memoir land.” **“Denu logical Sure * Quart: mzir., p. 323

Page 357

ON THE PROBABLE ORIGIN AND AGE OF THE SUN. 10,000 feet.!' Prof. H. D. Rogers found in the Appalachian coal-fields faults ranging from 5,000 feet to more than 10,000 feet of displacement. There are other modes than the foregoing, by means of which geologists are enabled to measure the thickness of strata which may have been re- moved in places off the present surface of the country, into the details of which I need not here enter. “But I may give a few examples of the enormous extent to which the country, in some places, has been found to have been lowered by denudation. Prof. Geikie has shown? that the Pentlands must at one time have been covered with upward of a mile in thickness of Carboniferous rocks which have all been removed by denudation. In the Bristol coal-fields, between the river Avon andthe Mendips, Prof. Ramsay has shown® that about 9,000 feet of Carboniferous strata have been removed by denudation from the present surface. Between Bendrick Rock and Garth Hill, South | Glamorganshire, a mass of Carboniferous and Old | Red Sandstone, of upward of 9,000 feet, has been removed. At the vale of Towy, Caermarthen- | shire, about 6,000 feet of Silurian and 5,000 feet | of Old Red Sanstone—in all about 11,000 vertical | feet-—have been swept away. Between Llan- dovery and Aberaeron a mass of about 12,000 | vertical feet of the Silurian series has been re- | moved by denudation. Between Ebwy and the forest of Dean, a distance of upward of twenty miles, a thickness of rock varying from 5,000 to 10,000 feet has been abstracted. Prof. Hull found* on the northern flanks of the Pendle Range, Lancashire, the Permian beds resting on the denuded edges of the Millstone Grit, and these were again observed resting on the Upper Coal-measures south of the Wigan | coalfield. Now, from the known thickness of the Carboniferous series in this part of Lanca- shire, he was enabled to calculate approximately | the quantity of Carboniferous strata which must have been carried away between the period of the Millstone Grit and the deposition of the Permian beds, and found that it actually amounted to no less than 9,900 feet. He also found in the vale of Clitheroe, and at the base of the Pendle Range, that the Coal-measures, the whole of the Millstone * Safford's “ Geology of Tennessee,” p. 309. i to Sheet 32, “Geological Survey of Scot- *“Denudation of South Wales;” “Memoirs of Geo- logical Survey,” vo', i, * Quarterly Journal of the Geological Society, vol. miy., p. 323, 23 353 Grit, the Yoredale series, and part of the Car- boniferous Limestone, amounting in all to nearly 20,000 feet, had been swept away—an amount of denudation which, as Prof. Hull remarks, cannot fail to impress us with some idea of the prodi- gious lapse of time necessary for its accomplish- ment. In the Nova Scotia coal-fields one or two miles in thickness of strata have been removed in some places.! It may be observed that, enormous as is the amount of denudation indicated by the foregoing figures, these figures do not represent in most cases the actual thickness of rock removed from the surface. We are necessitated to conclude that a mass of rock equal to the thickness stated must have been removed, but we are in most cases left in uncertainty as to the total thickness which has actually been carried away. In the case of a fault, for example, with a displacement of (say) one mile, where no indication of it is seen at the surface of the ground, we know that on one side of the fault a thickness of rock equal to one mile must have been denuded, but we do not know how much more than that may have been removed. For anything which we know to the contrary, hundreds of feet of rock may have been removed before the dislocation took place, and as many more hundreds after all indications of dislocation had been effaced at-the surface. But it must be observed that the total quan- tity of rock which has been removed from the present surface of the land is evidently small in | proportion to the total quantity removed during the past history of our globe. For those thou- sands and thousands of feet of rock which have been denuded were formed out of the waste of previously-existing rocks, just as these had been formed out of the waste of yet older rock-mass- es. In short, as a general rule, the rocks of one epoch have been formed out of those of preced- ing periods, and go themselves to form those of | subsequent epochs. In many of the cases of enormous denudation to which we have referred the erosion has been effected during a limited geological epoch. We have, for example, seen that upward of a mile in thickness of Carboniferous rock has been de- nuded in the area of the Pentlands. But the Pentlands themselves, it can be proved, existed as hills, in much their present form, before the Carboniferous rocks were laid down over them ; and as they are of Lower Old Red Sandstone age, and have been formed by denudation, they 1 Lyell's “ Student's Manual,” chap. xxiii,

Page 358

’ 854 THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. | present rate of subaérial denudation, we have t consequently have been carved out of the ! pre solid pose sats the period of the Old Red only to ascertain the quantity of sediment anny. Sandstone and the beginning of the Carboniferous | ally carried down by the river-systems, i i im- Very accurate measurements have been made . This affords us some conception of the im aes lapse of time represented by the Middle | of the quantity of sediment carried down into the ond Upper Old Red Sandstone periods. | Gulf of Mexico by the river Mississippi, and it jg Again, in the case of the great fault separat- | — : — bea caarial an ins = os -ersetablagrher tot Scan Ma Now, 7,474,000,000 cubic feet removed ny bonaioes of the latter strata of probably more | fi marge 100 ie ta ce than a mile, as we have seen, must have been re- | to zis of a sad i) ~ oo ots, : . moved from the ground to the south of the fault | -_ foot in 4,5 a, “i = 7 a before the commencement of the Carboniferous | of hati otaye onc aes moa period. And, again, in the case of the Lanca- | roc ns 2. a — 4 ncn shire coal-fields, to which reference has been ! equal to one “preasssa oe i made, nearly two miles in thickness of strata had a ee ; o > seems at ae been removed in the interval which oaee be- sed — mt en ten alenuaes tween the Millstone Grit and the Permian pe- — = — faanane ee i enc . “ a we are enabled, from geological evidence, | Sir a om A scxe-ronsick bet.) he to form some rough estimate of the extent to a of cathe echelon 2 which the country in various places has been by selecting t papier lowered by subaérial denudation during a given that river mee a a gS anes Pe ; : pogo pg as ace oF oe reemn et latitude, and therefore through regions of arriving at som g hat | degre SE csdatakahin ios tet dis elena , that the rate of denudation must be equal to the | acter of its rocks fom pee ay rate at which the materials are carried off the | power of its a Ms ot niall land into the sea. But the rate at which thema- | pends mainly upon t 7 ports Cae terials are thus abstracted is measured by the | slope of the ground, an p =

i i f the rate at which sediment is carried down by our | and vegetation covering the surface 0 com i have no reasoa rivers, Consequently, in order to determine the | try. And, in respect of these, we a 1 “Student's Manual of Geology,” p. 91 (second e@ +f, 1 Philosophical Magazine, May, 1868; February, l ” “ “ i % iF 1867. “Climate and Time,” chap. xx. See also “ Trans | t on) iat ti i actions of the Geological Society of Glasgow,” vol. iii.

to beli from | during than a to dou been | clude t the ger may be rate of But denuda' and otl and whi ly than shall, tl over-est: effect tl sume th equal to To le would tl rate, abo that a th must hav ous peric period it strata in can be x tock ren period wa know per country n carried ay Old Red § Further, a time repri Stone itsel Now, t commence (Which in Would give Again, of time rep even more stone, Series indic these strata bers of the ited. And formed in t Preexisting had been b Prior Laurer Teach the en

Page 359

ON THE PROBABLE ORIGIN AND AGE OF THE SUN. 355 to believe that the present is materially different ! tians themselves resulted from the denudation, from the past. No doubt the average rainfall not of the primary rocks of the globe, but of pre- during some past epochs might have been greater | viously-existing sedimentary and probably igne- than at present, but there is just as little reason to doubt that during other epochs it might have been less than now. We may, therefore, con- clude that about one foot of rock removed from the general surface of the country in 6,000 years may be regarded as not very far from the average rate of denudation during past ages. But some of the cases we have given of great denudation refer to comparatively small areas, and others to beds which form anticlinal axes, and which, as is well known, denude more rapid- ly than either synclinal or horizontal beds. We shall, therefore—to prevent the possibility of over-estimating the length of time necessary to effect the required amount of denudation—as- sume the rate to have been double the above, or equal to one foot in 3,000 years. To lower the country one mile by denudation would therefore require, according to the above rate, about 15,000,000 years; but we have seen that a thickness of rock more than equal to that must have been swept away since the Carbonifer- ous period. For, even during the Carboniferous period itself, more than a mile in thickness of strata in many places was removed. Again, there ean be no doubt whatever that the amount of rock removed during the Old Red Sandstone period was much greater than one mile; for we know perfectly well that over large tracts of country nearly a mile in thickness of rock was carried away between the period of the Lower Old Red Sandstone and the Carboniferous epoch. Further, all geological facts go to show that the time represented by the Lower Old Red Sand- stone itself must have been enormous. Now, three miles of rock removed since the commencement of the Old Red Sandstone period (which in all probability is an under-estimate) would give us 45,000,000 years. Again, going further back, we find the lapse of time represented by the Silurian period to be even more striking than that of the- Old Red Sandstone. The unconformities in the Silurian series indicate that many thousands of feet of these strata were denuded before overlying mem- bers of the same great formations were depos- ted. And again, this immense formation was formed in the ocean by the slow denudation of Preéxisting Cambrian continents, just as these had been built up out of the ruins of the still Prior Laurentian land. And even here we do not each the end of the series, for the very Lauren- | ous rocks, of which, perhaps, no recognizable portion now remains, Few familiar with the facts of geology will consider it too much to assume that the time which had elapsed prior to the Old Red Sand- stone was equal to the time which has elapsed since that period. But if we make this assump- tion, this will give us at least 90,000,000 years as the age of the stratified rocks. That the foregoing is not an over-estimate of the probable amount of rock removed by sub- aérial denudation during past geological ages will appear further evident from the following considerations: The mountain-ridges of our globe, in most cases, as is well known, have been formed by sub-aérial denudation ; they have been carved out of the solid block. They stand 2,000, 4,000, or 5,000 feet high, as the case may be, simply because 2,000, 4,000, or 5,000 feet of rock have been denuded from the surrounding country, The mountains are high simply because the coun- try has been lowered. But it must be observed that the height which the mountains reach above the surrounding country does not measure the full extent to which the country has been lowered by denudation, because the mountains themselves have also been lowered. The height of the moun- tains represents merely the extent to which the country has been lowered. In the formation of a mountain by denudation, say 3,000 feet in height, probably more than 6,000 feet of strata may have been removed from the surrounding country. The very fact of a mountain standing above the surrounding country exposes it the more to denu- dation, and it is certainly not an exaggerated as- sumption to suppose that while the general sur- face of the country was being lowered 6,000 feet by denudation, the mountain itself was at least lowered by 3,000 feet. The very common existence of mountains 2,000 or 3,000 feet in height, formed by sub- aérial denudation, proves that at least one mile must have been worn off the general surface of the country. It does not, of course, follow that the general surface ever stood at an elevation of one mile above the sea-level, since denudation would take place as the land gradually rose. We know that the land was once under the sea, for it was there that it was formed. It is built up out of the materials resulting from the carving out into hill and dale, through countless ages, of a previously-existing land, just as this latter had

Page 360

‘ 356 THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. resulted from the destruction of a still older | 000 or 30,000,000 years, we prove that there land, and so on in like manner back into the un- known past. It has now been proved, by the foregoing | very simple and obvious method, that the age of the earth must be far more than 20,000,000 or | 30,000,000 years. This method, it is true, does | not enable us to determine with anything like | accuracy the actual age of the globe, but it enables us to determine with absolute certainty that it must be far greater than 20,000,000 years. We have not sufficient data to determine how many years have elapsed since life began on the globe, for we do not know the total amount of rock removed by denudation ; but we have data perfectly sufficient to show that it began far more than twice 20,000,000 years ago. But if the present order of things has been ex- isting for more than 20,000,000 years, then the sun must have been illuminating our globe for that period, and, if so, then there must have been some other source than that of gravitation from which the sun derived its energy, for gravitation, as we have seen, could only have supplied the present rate of radiation for about one-half that period. It is perfectly true, as has been stated, that the length of time that the sun could, by its ra- diation, have kept the earth in a state fit for ani- mal and vegetable life, must have been limited by the store of energy in the form of heat which it possessed. But it does not follow as a neges- sary consequence, as is generally supposed, that this store of energy must have been limited to the amount obtained from gravity in the condensa- tion of the sun’s mass. The utmost that any physicist is warranted in affirming is simply that it is impossible for him to conceive of any other source. His inability, however, to conceive of another source cannot be accepted as a proof that there is no other source. But the physical argument that the age of our earth must be lim- ited by the amount of heat which could have been received from gravity is in reality based upon this assumption—that, because no other source can be conceived of, there is no other source. It is perfectly obvious, then, that this mere negative evidence against the possibility of the age of our habitable globe being more than 20,000,000 or 30,000,000 years is of no weight whatever when pitted against the positive evi- dence here advanced that its age must be far greater. Now, in proving that the antiquity of our habitable globe must be far greater than 20,000,- must have been some other source in addition to gravity from which the sun derived his store of energy ; and this is the point which I have been endeavoring to reach by this somewhat lengthy dis. cussion, Are we really under any necessity of assum. ing that the sun’s heat was wholly, or even main. ly, derived from the condensation of his mass by gravity? According to Helmholtz’s theory of the origin of the sun’s heat by condensation, it is as. sumed that the matter composing the sun, when it existed in space as a nebulous mass, was not originally possessed of temperature, but that the temperature was given to it as the mass became condensed under the force of gravitation. Itis supposed that the heat given out was simply the heat of condensation. But it is quite conceivable that the nebulous mass might have been pos sessed cf an original store of heat previous to condensation. It is quite possible that the very reason why it existed in such a rarefied or gaseous condition was its excessive temperature, and that conden- sation only began to take place when the mass began to cool down. It seems far more probable that this should have been the case than that the mass existed in so rarefied a condition with- out temperature. For why should the particles ‘have existed in this separate form when devoid of the repulsive energy of heat, seeing that, in virtue of gravitation, they had such a tendency to approach one another ? It will not do to begin with the assumption of a cold nebulous mass, for, the moment that the mass existed as such, condensation—under the influence of the mutual attraction of its par ticles—would commence. We must thereforeas- sume either that the mass was created at the mo- ment condensation began, or that, prior to this moment, it existed under some other form. There are few, I think, who would be willing to adopt the former alternative. If we adopt the latter we must then ask the question, “In what cond tion did this mass exist prior to the commenet ment of condensation?” The answer to this question would naturally be that it existed ina condition of excessive temperature, the repulsive force of heat preventing the particles approach ing one another. In short, the excessive tem perature was the very cause of the nebulous ¢ol dition. But if the mass was originally in a heated condition, then in condensing it would have @ part not only with the heat of condensation, but also W sessed. It i the ne cence f cult to or to tl nally p tained but a | sessed | The could tl cent ? been ob affords, answer the ener mass m Two bo moving ty of 47 eussion years’ h ing with possess ergy, an page of of heat the sun’ years, Why of two si nal store derived { Two suel velocity verted ii ecivable ated; an place, a result. | could ney ty by the But there that their tual attr: Proaching wholly in We k absolute ¢ the limite nothing e may be b Pp

Page 361

ON THE PROBABLE ORIGIN AND AGE OF THE SUN. also with the heat which it originally pos- sessed. It is therefore evident that if we admit that the nebulous mass was in a state of incandes- cence prior to condensation, it will really be diffi- cult to fix any limit either to the age of the sun or to the amount of heat which it may have origi- nally possessed, The 20,000,000 years’ heat ob- tained by condensation may in sucha case be but a small fraction of the total quantity pos- sessed by the mass. The question now arises: “ By what means could the nebulous mass have become incandes- cent? From what source could the heat have been obtained ?” The dynamical theory of heat affords, as was shown several years ago,' an easy answer to this question. The answer is that the energy in the form of heat possessed by the mass may have been derived from motion in space. Two bodies, each one-half the mass of the sun, moving directly toward each other with a velosi- ty of 476 miles per second, would by their con- eussion generate in a single moment 50,000,000 years’ heat. For two bodies of that mass, mov- ing with a velocity of 476 miles per second, would possess 4,149 x 10°8 foot-pounds of kinetic en- ergy, and this converted into heat by the stop- page of their motion would give out an amount of heat which would cover the present rate of the sun's radiation for a period of 50,000,000 years, Why may not the sun have been composed of two such bodies ? And why may not the origi- nal store of heat possessed by him have all been derived from the concussion of these two bodies ? Two such bodies coming into collision with that velocity would be dissipated into vapor and con- verted into a nebulous mass by such an incon- ecivable amount of heat as would thus be gener- ated; and when condensation on cooling took place, a spherical mass like that of the sun would result. It is perfectly true that two such bodies could never attain the required amount of veloci- ty by their mutual gravitation toward each other. But there is no necessity whatever for supposing that their velocities were derived from their mu- tual attraction alone: they might have been ap- proaching each other with the required velocity wholly independent of gravitation. We know nothing whatever regarding the absolute motion of bodies in space ; and, beyond the limited sphere of our observation, we know nothing even of their relative motions. There may be bodies moving in relation to our system ? Philosophical Magazine for May, 1868. 857 with inconceivable velocity. For anything that we know to the contrary, were one of these bodies to strike our earth the shock might be sufficient to generate an amount of heat that would dissipate the earth into vapor, though the striking body might not be heavier than a can- non-ball. There is, however, nothing very ex- traordinary in the velocity which we have found would be required to generate the 50,000,000 yeurs’ heat in the case of the two supposed bodies. A comet having an orbit extending to the path of the planet Neptune, approaching so near the sun as to almost graze his surface in passing, would have a velocity of about 39Q miles per second, which is within 86 miles of that re- quired. It must be borne in mind, however, that the 476 miles per second is the velocity at the mo- ment of collision ; but more than one-half of this would be derived from the mutual attraction of the two bodies in their approach to each other. Suppose, for simplicity of calculation, each body to be equal in volume to the sun, and of course one-half the density, the amount of velocity which they would acquire by their mutual attraction would be 274 miles per second. Consequently we have to assume an original or projected ve- locity of only 202 miles per second. And if the original velocity was 676 per second, the total amount of heat generated would éuffice for 200,- 000,000 years at the present rate of radiation. On former occasions! I expressed it as my opinion that the total quantity of heat possessed by the sun could not probably exceed 100,000,000 years’ heat. But if we admit that the heat was derived from motion in space, there really does not seem any reason why it may not be double that amount. It will be asked, “ Where did the two bodies get their motion?” It may as well, however, be asked, “ Where did they get their existence?” It is just as easy to conceive that they always ex- isted in motion as to conceive that they always existed at rest. In fact, this is the only way in which energy can remain in a body without dis- sipation in space. Under other forms a certain amount of the energy is constantly being trans- formed into heat which never can be retrans- formed back again, but is dissipated into space as radiant heat. But a body moving in void stellar space will, unless a collision takes place, retain its energy in the form of motion untrans- formed forever. 1 Philosophical Magazine, May, 1868 ; “ Climate and Time,” chapter xxi.

Page 362

THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. 358 It will perhaps be urged as an objection that | we have no experience of bodies moving in space with velocities approaching to anything like 400 or 600 miles per second. A little consideration will, however, show that this is an objection which can hardly be admitted, as we are not in a position to be able to perceive bodies moving with such velocities. No body moving at the rate of 400 miles per second could remain as a member of our solar system. Beyond our sys- tem, the only bodies visible to us are the nebulae and fixed stars, and they are visible because they are luminous, But the fixed stars are beyond doubt suns similar to our own; and, if we assume that the energy in the form of heat and light pos- sessed by our sun has been derived from motion in space, we are hardly warranted in denying that the light and heat possessed by the stars were derived from another source. It is true that the motion of the stars in relation to one another, or in relation to our system (and this is the only motion known to us), is but trifling in comparison to what we even witness in our | solar system. But this is what we ought, a pri- ori, to expect ; for if their light and heat were derived from motion in space, like that of our sun, then, like the sun, they must have lost their motion. In fact, they are suns, and visible be- cause they have lost their motion, Had not the masses of which these suns were composed lost their motion they would have been non-luminous, and of course totally invisible to us. In short, we only see in stellar space those bodies which, by coming into collision, have lost their motion, for it is the lost motion which renders them luminous and visible.' 1 When the foregoing theory of the origin of the sun's heat was advanced, in 1868, I was not aware that a paper on the “ Physical Constitution of the Sun and Stars” had been read before the Royal Society by Mr. G. Johnstone Stoney, in which he suggested that the heat possessed by the stars may have been derived from collisions with one another. * Iftwo stars,” he says, “ should be brought by their proper motion very close, one of three things would happen: Either they would pass quite clear of one an other, in which case they would recede to the same im- mense distance asunder from which they had come; or they would become so entangled with one another as to emerge from the frightful conflagration which would en- sue, as one star; or, thirdly, they would brush against one another, but not to the extent of preventing the stars from getting clear again.” In the latter case he considers a double star is formed. Mr. Stoney'’s paper, though read in 1867, was not published til] 1869. Mr. Herbert Spencer, in his ‘* First Principles” (pp. 532-535), has a'so directed attention to the fact that the stars distributed through space must tend, under the in- fluence of gravity, to concentrate and become locally aggre- gated. Separate aggregations will be drawn toward one The formation of a sun by collision ig an | event that would not be likely to escape observa. | tion if it occurred within the limits of visibility in space. But such an event must be of very rare occurrence, or the number of stars visible would | be far greater than it is. The number of stars regis. | tered down to the seventh magnitude, inclusive, is—according to Herschel—somewhere between 12,000 and 15,000, and this is all that can possi. | bly be seen by the naked eye. Now, if we sup. | pose each of them to shine like our sun for (say) 100,000,000 years, then one formed in every 7,000 or 8,000 years would maintain the present number undiminished. But this is the number included in both hemispheres, so that the oceur. rence of an event of such unparalleled splendor and magnificence as the formation of a star or rather nebula—for this would be the form first assumed—is what can only be expected to be seen on our hemisphere once in about 15,000 years. The absence of any historical record of such an event having ever occurred can therefore be no evidence whatever against the theory. NOTE ON SIR WILLIAM THOMSON’S AR- GUMENTS FOR THE AGE OF THE EARTH. Sir Witt1am Tromson has endeavored to prove the recent age of the earth by three well known arguments of a purely physical nature: The first is based on the age of the sun’s heat; the second, on the tidal retardation of the earth's rotation; and the third, on the secular cooling of the earth. Argument from the Age of the Sun's Heat. It will be obvious that, if what has already been advanced in regard to the origin of the sun's heat be correct, it will follow that the argument for the recent age of the earth, based upon the assumption that the sun could have derived its store of heat only from the condensation of its mass, must be wholly abandoned, and that, in 80 far as this argument is concerned, there is 10 known limit to the amount of heat which the sum another, and ultimately coalesce. The resu't will be that the heat evolved by such collisions taking place under the enormous velocities acquired by gravity must have the effect of dissipating the matter of which they are com posed into the gaseous state. Both Mr. Stoney and Mr. Spencer consider the motions of the cosmic masses to be due wholly to gravity, but, a we have seen, gravity alone cannot account for the enor mous amount of energy originally possessed by the sul. may ha’ it may | Arg known t of the and it i for man when tl faster tl that ha nillions and the been mt Therefor tened, it came 80) present. ing slowe ions of y A few ye appeared argument denudatic been enti as we ha’ globe is aérial den 6,000 yea: the loss « retardatio the frictio must be s] at the po the polar to subaér: Obvious th has, in ex sinking du foot in 6,0 form of o different fr have been subaérial equator as torial regio much great _ there the r ate regions Which a e denudation the charac: '“Transa vol, iti, p.1. * Nature, &5,

Page 363

ON THE PROBABLE ORIGIN AND AGE OF THE SUN., may have possessed, or to the time during which it may have illuminated the earth, Argument from Tidal Retardation.—It is well known that, owing to tidel retardation, the rate of the earth’s rotation is slowly diminishing ; and it is therefore evident that, if we go back for many millions of years, we reach a period when the earth must have been rotating much faster than now. Sir William’s argument is,! that had the earth solidified several hundred nillions of years ago, the flattening at the poles, and the bulging at the equator, would have been much greater than we find them to be. Thercfore, because the earth is so little flat- tened, it must have been rotating, when it be- came solid, at very nearly the same rate as at present. And as the rate of rotation is becom- ing slower and slower, it cannot be so many mill- ions of years back since solidification took place. A few years ago I ventured to point out® what appeared to be a very obvious objection to this argument, viz., that the influence of subaérial denudation in altering the form of the earth had been entirely overlooked. It has been proved, as we have seen, that the rocky surface of om globe is being lowered, on an average, by sub- aérial denudation, at the rate of about one foot in 6,000 years. It follows, as a consequence, from the loss of centrifugal force resulting from the retardation of the earth’s rotation occasioned by the friction of the tidal wave, that the sea-level must be slowly sinking at the equator, and rising at the poles. This, of course, tends to protect the polar regions and expose equatorial regions to subaérial denudation. Now, it is perfectly obvious that, unless the sea-level at the equator has, in consequence of tidal retardation, been sinking during past ages at a greater rate than one foot in 6,000 years, it is physically impossible the form of our globe could have been very much different from what it is at present, whatever may have been its form when it consolidated, because subaérial denudation would have lowered the equator as rapidly as the sea sank. But in equa- torial regions the rate of denudation is, no doubt, much greater than one foot in 6,000 years, because _ there the rainfall is greater than in the temper- tte regions, It has been shown that the rate at “hich a country is being lowered by subaérial denudation is mainly determined not so much by the character of its rocks as by the sediment- te tions of the Geological Society of Glasgow,” oH, p. 1, re August 21, 1872; “Climate and Time,” p. 359 carrying power of its river-systems. Consequent- ly, other things being equal, the greater the rain- fall the greater will be the rate of denudation, We know that the basin of the Ganges, for ex- ample, is being lowered by denudation at the rate of about one foot in 2,300 years ; and this is prob- ably not very far from the average rate at which the equatorial regions are being denuded. It is therefore evident that subaérial denudation is lowering the equator as rapidly as the sea-level is sinking from loss of rotation, and that conse- quently we cannot infer from the present form of our globe what was its form when it solidified. In as far as tidal retardation can show to the con- trary, its form, when solidification took place, may have been as oblate as that of the planet Jupiter. There is another circumstance which must be taken into account, The lowering of the equator, by the transference of materials from the equator to the higher latitudes, must tend to in- crease the rate of rotation, or, more properly, it must tend to lessen the rate of tidal retardation. The argument may be shown to be incon- clusive from another consideration. The ques- tion as to whether the earth’s axis of rotation could ever haye changed to such an extent as to have affected the climate of the poles, is at pres- ent exciting a good deal of attention. The sub- - ject has recently been investigated with great care by Prof. Houghton,' Mr. George Darwin,* the Rev. J. F. Twisden,’ and others, and the gen. eral result arrived at may be expressed in the words of Mr. G. Darwin: “If the earth be quite rigid no redistribution of matter in new continents could ever have caused the deviation of the pole from its present position to exceed the limit of about 3°.” Mr. Darwin has shown that, in order to pro- duce a displacement of the pole to the extent of only 1° 46’, an area equal to one-twentieth of the entire surface of the globe would have to be elevated to the height of two miles. The entire continent of Europe elevated two miles would not deflect the pole much over half a degree. As- suming the mean elevation of the continents of Europe and Asia to be 1,000 feet, Prof. Hough- ton calculates that their removal would displace the pole only 199.4 miles, It may now be admitted as settled that if the earth be perfectly rigid the climate of our globe could never possibly have been affected by any 1“ Proceedings of the Royal Society.” vol. xxvi., p. 51. 2 “ Proceedings of the Royal Society,” vol. xxv., p. 328. 3 Paper read before the Geological Society, February 21, 1877.

Page 364

¢ change in the axis of rotation. Put it is main- tained that if the earth can yield as a whole, so as to adapt its form to a new axis of rotation, the effects may be cumulative, and that a displace- ment of the pole as much as 10° or 15° is possible.’ But then if the earth be able to adapt its form to a change in the azis of rotation, there is no reason why it may not be able to adapt its form to a change in the rate of rotation, and, if so, the flattening at the poles and the bulging at the equator would diminish as the rate of rotation di- minished, even supposing there were no denuda- tion going on. Argument from the Secular Cooling of the Earth.—The earth, like the sun, is a body in the process of cooling, and it is evident that if we go hack sufficiently far we shall reach a period when it was in a molten condition. Calculating by means of Fourier’s mathematical theory of the conductivity of heat, Sir William Thomson has 360 , THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. crust may have taken place. This argument jg undoubtedly the most reliable of the three, Ney. ertheless, the data on the subject are yet very imperfect, so that no definite and trustworthy result can be arrived at by this means as to the actual age of the earth. In fact, this is obvious from the very wide limits assigned by him within which solidification probably took place. “We must,” quoting Sir William’s own words on the subject, “allow very wide limits on such an esti. mate as I have attempted to make; but | think we may, with much probability, say that the con solidation cannot have taken place less than 20,000,000 years ago, or we should have mor underground heat than we actually have—nor more than 400,000,000 years ago, or we should not have so much as the least observed under. ground increment of temperature. say, I conclude that Leibnitz’s epoch of ‘emer. gence’ of the ‘consistentur status’ was probably endeavored to determine how many years must | within these dates.” ! have elapsed since solidification of the earth's — Quarterly Journal of Science, THE PLANET OF WAR. MID wars and rumors of war, the planet which has for its symbol the ‘spear and shield of the old Assyrian war-men approaches one of those points of its epicyclic orbit about the earth where it is at its nearest to us. In the earlier part of the Crimean War, Mars shone in our midnight skies, though not so splendidly as 1A displacement of the pole of less than 15° or 20° would be of very little service in accounting for the warm climate of Greenland during the Miocene and other periods. But a displacement to that extent, even supposing that we admit the earth to be yielding, demands a condition of things which few geologists would be willing to grant. When it becomes generally recognized to what an enor- mous extent the temperature of the arctic regions is de- pendent upon ocean-currents, the difficulties in under- standing how those regions have once enjoyed a temper- ate climate will disappear. Were the ice removed from Greenland that region would at present enjoy a warm summer, suitable for plant and animal life. It is the presence of ice rather than a positive deficiency of heat that makes Greenland so cold and barren (see “‘ Climate and Time,” chapter iv.). An increase in the quantity of heat conveyed by ocean-currents, merely sufficient to prevent the accumulation of ice, would completely transform the climate of the arctic lands. And such an increase would take p!ace during an Inter-glacial period when the eccen- tricity of the earth's orbit was at a high value and the win- ter solstice in perihelion. he will shine in August and September of the present year. In the early spring of 1854— “ ,... Ata time of the year When the face of night is fair on the dewy downs, And the shining Daffodil dies and the Charioteer And starry Gemini hang like glorious crowns Over Orion’s grave low down in the west,” the spirit of Maud— “|. . Seemed to divide in a dream from a band of the blest And spoke ofa hope for the world in the coming wars— .... and pointed to Mars As he glowed like a ruddy shield on the Lion’s breast.” The poet expressed the feeling of the day, though the hope of which he sang was not the hope with which men now watch the signs of war. But if Mars were in truth the planet of war, if his inft ence, poured from near at hand upon the nations of this earth, excited them to war and b shed, we might well fear that the coming months would bring desolation on many fair 1 “Transactions of the Royal Society of Edinburgh,” vol, xxiii., p. 161, That is to - fields. our 8 for fo Augu: Moree splenc those er Inf tune, | Th evil qu in pla earlies planet * enki or bur or the with that th glows | pion, : rival o Rec eveh h: relatin to the treatise of Bel, of Nin than th the obs than 5¥ about 2 to the | the star bright | heavens a third motest | is, mor planet } day of days in menclat Moon 01 di), Mer ter Over over F; gloomies powerful the sabt ence, nc Doubtles the initia day for ¢

Page 365

fields. For Mars has not blazed so fiercely in our skies since 1845, nor will he so shine again for forty-seven years, as during the last days of August and the opening days of September. Moreover, twice during his time of greatest splendor his rays will be closely conjoined with those of the malignant planet Saturn, the great- er Infortune, as Mars himself is the lesser Infor- tune, of astrological systems. The ruddy hue of this planet, justifying the evil qualities attributed to it by nations believing in planetary influences, has been noted from the earliest times. The Greeks called Mars the fiery planet ; the Hebrews gave to it a name signifying “enkindled ;” the Indians called it Angaraka, or burning charcoal, and sometimes Lohitanga, or the red orb. Ruddy stars also were compared with Mars, as the chief of all the ruddy stars—so that the name Antares, given to the star which glows like a fiery coal in the heart of the Scor- pion, signifies that in ruddiness that star is a rival of Mars or Ares. Recent researches among the ruins of Nin- eveh have brought to light cuneiform inscriptions relating to the celestial bodies, and among others to the planet Mars, It would appear that a treatise, in sixty books, called “ The Observations of Bel,” belonged formerly to the public library of Nineveh, Its date cannot have been later than the seventeenth century before our era, and the observations recorded in it extend over more than 500 years, so that the earliest bore date about 2540 B.c. One of the books was devoted to the pole-star—not our present pole-star, but the star Alpha of the Dragon, at that time the bright star which lay nearest the pole of the heavens, Another book was devoted to Venus ; athird to Mars, We find that even at the re- motest time to which these records relate, that is, more than 2,500 years before our era, the planet Mars presided (as a deity) over the third tay of the week, the other planets ruling the days in the order indicated by the present no- menclature, the Sun presiding over Sunday, the Moon over Monday, Mars over Tuesday (or Mar- di), Mereury over Wednesday (or Mercredi), Jupi- ter over Thursday (or Jeudi, Jove’s day), Venus over Friday (or Vendredi), and Saturn, the gloomiest and most malignant, but also the most powerful of the planetary deities, over Saturday, the sabbath-day, when, owing to his evil influ- enee, no work could safely be undertaken. Doubtless Tuesday was as rigidly set aside for the initiation of all warlike enterprises as Satur- day for the avoidance of all labor whatsoever. THE PLANET OF WAR. 861 If only astrology had been a true method of prediction, the discovery of the true nature of the solar system would have brought within our range much fuller information respecting the other planets, and in particular the planet Mars, than we are ever likely to possess. Astrologers claimed such perfection for the principles of their art, that the whole history of our earth might have been predicted from the planetary configura- tions alone; and indeed they were very success- ful in showing that all past events corresponded with the aspect of the heavens when they oc- curred. Now, if other planets thus influence the fortunes of our earth, which is itself one of the planets, it follows that each of the planets is in like manner influenced by the positions and mo- tions of the rest. But these can be quite easily calculated. Therefore the fortunes of the in- habitants of every planet can be determined, and the entire past history of each planet can be read by terrestrial astronomers. Only one cir- cumstance must be ascertained telescopically. (At least so it appears to us, for we confess we are not such adepts in the methods of astrologi- cal divination as to be quite sure whether astro- logical principles, properly applied, might not have determined everything which the telescope has revealed. Asa mere matter of fact, astrol- ogy discovered nothing of this kind. But that is the merest detail.) It should be known how a planet is posed in space, what are the pole- stars of its northern and southern hemispheres, and at what rate exactly it rotates upon its axis. For the astrologer, in determining the future for- tunes of his “native,” or in calculating the na- tive’s past history, has to take into account the aspect of the star-sphere at the moment of the native’s birth, as well as at the critical stages of his career; and to do this properly account must be taken, of course, of the hour and of the posi- tion of the pole of the heavens. We do, however, know fairly well the posi- tion of the axis of Mars, and we know the length of his day within the tenth part of a second, so that if only astrology were a sound method of div- ination, we might learn much of the past history and of the future fortunes of this planet. As De Morgan has remarked in an article on astrology in the “ Penny Cyclopedia,” “ we have lost,” in the rejection of astrology, “‘a charming opportu- nity of discovering what goes on in other plan- ets.” The astronomer who watches, during the ap- proaching close approach of Mars, the slowly-ro- tating lands and seas of the planet, can scarcely,

Page 366

362 however unimaginative he may be (and we fear it is an essential requisite of the surveying as- tronomer that he should be as free from imagina- tion as a man well can be), avoid the thought that contests such as have raged upon our earth for the possession of various regions of our plan- et’s surface, may be in progress out yonder in space. Armies may be desolating the fairest re- gions of Mars at the very time when they are under the telescopic survey of the terrestrial ob- server. Wazslike fleets may be urging their way across those seas and straits which our astrono- mers have marked down in their charts of the planet. We may hope, if we choose to forget our own experience of “ Nature red in tooth and claw with ravine,” that, in yonder peaceful-look- ing world, there is peace among all creatures. | But our own earth, amid the fiercest tumults and the most desolating wars, presents to the other worlds that people space the same peaceful scene. Distance lends so much, at least, of enchantment to the view. The sun himself, over every square mile of whose surface turmoil and uproar pre- vail compared with which the crash of the thun- derbolt is as silence, and the fiercest blast of the hurricane as absolute rest, looks calm and still in our skies, and even in the telescope shows signs of activity only to the mind’s eye, none that our | natural vision can appreciate. It is a strange thought, too, that expeditions such as man makes to discover the hidden places of the earth may be in progress in other planets. Some among those lands and seas of Mars which THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMEN T. We wonder, in passing, whether the idea hag ever occurred to the inhabitants of Mars that Martian regions have been made the subject of a war, and a somewhat lively war, though of words only, among terrestrial astronomers, Such has actually been the case, insomuch tbat if anal. ogy may be our guide, astronomers in Mars and Venus are not improbably contending about the distribution of the four quarters of our earth, and our principal seas, and lakes, and islands, and peninsulas, among living and dead celebrities in those planets. The story of a recent short but sharp terrestrial war over the lands and seas of | Mars is not without its lesson, even if that lesson | be only a response to the time-worn question, “Tantene animis celestibus ire?” It would seem that an English student of astronomy who _ had found occasion often to refer to Martian re gions until then unnamed, had for convenience assigned to these regions, after charting them (a ; work of some labor and difficulty), the names of | those astronomers whose observations had thrown light upon the geography of the planet—or its areography, as, if pedantically inclined, we may | name what corresponds with the geography of — our earth. Thus to Sir W. Herschel one conti- nent was assigned, to Secchi another, to Midler a third, and to Dawes (the “eagle-eyed” ob | server to whom we owe the most exact obserme tions of Mars yet made) a fourth. To divers other astronomers, all observers of the planet, | various lands and seas were assigned. This was | not done with the idea of honoring those as- the astronomer contemplates in the ease and quiet | tronomers, but simply of giving convenient names of his observatory may not as yet have been seen ; to features which have often to be referred to, by inhabitants of Mars because of the dangers | A Belgian astronomer, Dr. Terby, of Louvain, which prevent access to them. We may well | who has laboriously examined and compared am doubt, for instance, whether the bravest and most | immense number of pictures of Mars, adopted enterprising Martialists have yet succeeded in | the nomenclature just referred to, adding one or reaching either pole of the planet. Our eyes two names (including that of the author of the have rested on those polar regions, even on the | English chart), but making no changes. Unfor- very poles themselves, of the planet. But so, an | tunately, however, he had somewhat misappre- observer on Venus, possessing optical instru- | hended the object of the names, and described them as “in honor of” such a one’s labors, “ia ments of adequate power, could see, on turn- ing them upon our earth, those terrestrial polar | recognition of ” the discoveries of such another, regions which the- most daring of our voyagers | and so forth. This proved too much for the pa have in vain attempted to reach. And, as the | tience of a French writer on astronomy, bo eyes of creatures in other worlds may thus have | found neither continent nor ocean (as it chanced) looked upon regions of the earth of which we | assigned to any French observer, though large know nothing from direct observation, so the | tracts of land and sea were given to Laplace, _ eye of man has rested on the poles of a planet | Leverrier, Arago, and other distinguished French- which is never at a less distance than 33,000,000 | men. He therefore incontinently reconstructed miles, while the inhabitants of that planet, if such | the chart, altering it in many respects (all the al- 5 attempts to penetrate within their polar fastnesses. ; or less closely with Dr. Terby’s suggestions there are,may have been foiled again and again inall " terations, singularly enough, corresponding we to wh reéxa) proce He tr tempt’ gether Rue t seas cl of all, glass, | tronon vation: the Ge the se scriptir the nai fill the On In astr emnly ¢ truth, h his lab acknow fuse, b; “Nine name of lands a) meation the state from my the befo Flammar Dr. Ter! plus,” h Word, “3 rien d’ét de Mars Versé, et calmera ( Let u: erings to Already i theories ¢ world, ¢ inhabited, they May Of this eg be as hig Particular Certain, th ther According 1 See Co Mars 5° an "

Page 367

THE PLANET OF WAR. 863 to what might have to be done when Mars was ! called the Whewellite theory, Mars is altogether reéxamined). He called this chart his own, and | unfit to be the abode of creatures resembling proceeded to rename most of the lands and seas, those which inhabit our earth ; neither vegetable He treated some English observers rather con- | nor animal forms known to us could exist on the temptuously, dismissing Sir J. Herschel alto- planet ; in fine, “ all the conditions of life iu Mars, gether, relegating Dawes to a small sea, De la | all that tends to the comfort and well-being of Rue to another, Lockyer to a third (all three | Martian creatures, must differ utterly from what seas close together). The most marked feature | is human on earth.” We have also in our essay of all, a dark sea, shaped somewhat like an hour- | on “ Life past and future in other Worlds” (in glass, had been assigned to Kaiser, a German as- , the Cornhill Magazine for June, 1875) considered tronomer, who had made many interesting obser- | a general theory which in our opinion is far more vations of the planet. M. Flammarion dismisses | probable than either the Brewsterian or the Whe- the German to a corner of that sea, and leaves | wellite—the theory, namely, that each planet has the sea itself without any name except one de- a life-bearing stage, but that the duration of this seriptive of its shape—possibly intending that | stage of its existence, though measurable perhaps the name of a French writer on astronomy should _ by hundreds of millions of years, is yet exceed- fill the space. ingly short by comparison with the oe of On this Dr. Terby, of Louvain, rose indignant. | the preceding stage of preparation and the se- In astronomie ire and areographic grief, he sol- | quent stage of decay and death. From the direct emnly denounced the new nomenclature. To say , application of the laws of probability to this theo- truth, he had some reason to be annoyed, because , ry, the chances are shown to be very small indeed his labors had been freely used with a form of | that life exists at this present time on any planet acknowledgment which, though seemingly pro- | selected at random and without reference to what fuse, by no means did justice to his claims. observation has revealed. Precisely as, when we “Nine times,” said M, Flammarion, “does the know that a bag contains several thousand black name of Dr. Terby appear in my account of the balls and only a few white ones, the chance that lands and seas of Mars.” “I would you had a ball taken at random isa white one is exceed- meationed it once only,” retorts Dr. Terby, “ with ingly small: so, the period of a planet's fitness the statement that the account is entirely taken for life being short compared with the preceding from my labors,” where it is not borrowed from | and following stages, the chances are very small the before-mentioned English astronomers. M. | that this present time, which is, so far as other Flammarion promises, in return, never to mention | planets are concerned, taken at random, falls Dr. Buby again. Mea culpa: je ne le ferai | within the period of any given planet's fitness to plus,” he says, adding, as a pleasant parting | be the abode of living creatures. The telescope word, “4 tout bien prendre cependant, il n’y a | and the spectroscope may correct this inference, rien d’étonnant & ce qu’on se bataille 4 propos | just as on looking at a ball taken from such a de Mars; espérons qu'il n'y aura pas de sang | bag as we have described the drawer of the ball versé, et que la colére du petit lion Belge se | might find to his surprise that he had taken one calmera d’elle-méme.” of the white ones, few though they were com- Let us turn, however, from these small bick- | pared with the black ones. But apart from such erings to the consideration of the planet itself. | observations, the chances must be regarded as Already in these pages! we have discussed two | exceedingly small (according to this theory) that theories of the planet Mars regarded as another world. One is the theory that he is at present inhabited, and that too by creatures which, though they may differ very much from the inhabitants of this earth in shape and appearance, may yet | be as high in the scale of living creatures. In | Particular this theory assumes as probable, if not certain, the belief that among the inhabitants of Mars there are creatures endowed with reason. | According to the other theory, which we have '. * feo Cornhill Magazine for May, 1871, “Life in an, ; and for July, 1873,“ A Whewellite Essay on { any given planet is at this present time inhabit- ed. Nevertheless, two conclusions, according well with ordinary conceptions as to the fitness of things, follow from this theory: 1. Our earth is but one among many millions of worlds inhabited at this present time; 2. Every planet is at some time or other, and for a very long period, the abode of life. These three points—the small probability (apart from telescopic observation) that any given planet is inhabited now ; the great probability that many millions (out of thousands of millions of planets) are inhabited now; and the equally great probability that every planet

Page 368

864 has been, is, or will be, inhabited—are demon- strated in the third of the essays above mentioned. That essay presents the view toward which the present writer had been gradually led—from the Brewsterian theory which he accepted until 1871, through the Whewellite, toward which he had inclined until 1873, when finally the intermediate theory seemed pressed upon him by overwhelm- ing weight of testimony. Our present purpose is to show more particu- larly how this theory accords with what is known respecting the planet Mars. We wish also to show how both the lines of reasoning which had been before employed, one pointing to the Brew- sterian theory, the other to the Whewellite theo- ry, converge in the case of Mars upon this inter- mediate theory. In the first place, we saw, in considering the conditions which favor belief in the existence of life in the planet Mars, that he presents the clear- est possible evidence of being one in origin and structure with our own earth. We cannot tell what the nature of the soil of Mars may be, but its generally ruddy tinge—so well marked that, though the telescope shows an almost equal part of the surface to be greenish in hue, the red pre- vails, giving to the planet as seen by the naked ! eye its obvious red color—seems to show that it | resembles the red sandstone of our own earth. This, we know, is one of tle older geological | formations, and if we could safely compare ter- restrial with Martian geology, or, let us say, ge- ology with areology, we might almost be tempted to find in the present prevalence of a tint belong- ing to one of the earlier of our terrestrial forma- tions an argument in favor of the theory that Mars passed through fewer stages of development during its life-bearing condition than our earth, and that thus the later formations of our eartli’s surface are wanting in the surface of Mars. This reasoning would not be very safe, however; it implies a resemblance in details which is unlikely, the observed rule of Nature seeming, so far as we can judge, to be similarity in generals, variety in details. We may well believe that the ruddiness of the soil of Mars is due to the same general cause as the ruddiness of our red sandstone—the general prevalence of certain organisms; but neither the actual character of this particular for- | mation, nor its position in the terrestrial series of strata, can be safely predicated of the ruddy formation constituting the chief part of the visi- ble land-surface of Mars. Few will now suppose | with a French writer, that the ruddiness of Mars | is due to the color of vegetation there. A cer- | THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. tain support is given to the idea by the cireum. stance that the degree of ruddiness is variable, and is somewhat greater during the Martian sum. mer than in spring and autumn. In this sense, we may say of the summer of Mars with the poet Wendell Holmes : “ The snows that glittered on the disk of Mars Have melted, and the planet's fiery orb Rolls in the crimson summer of its year.” But the ruddiness of the planet’s summer— which will be well marked this year, for on Sep- tember 18th, only eleven days after its time of nearest approach and greatest splendor, it will be midsummer'’s day for the southern half of Mars—can be otherwise and better explained than by supposing that the Martian forests glow with fiery foliage during the summer days. We can see, as the summer proceeds, the white mists which had hidden the planet’s lands and seas breaking up, and the features of the surface be- ing gradually revealed with more and more dis- tinctness. It is to the disappearance of these mists and clouds, not to the red leaves of Mar- tian trees, that the change in the planet’s celor must most probably be referred. We have less reason for doubt as to the na- ture of the greenish markings. The spectro- scope, as we have already explained in “ Life’ in Mars,” shows that the air of Mars is at times laden heavily with the vapor of water. We can no longer, therefore, follow Whewell in doubting the real nature of the green parts of the planet, or refuse with him to accept the explanation of the white polar markings long since advanced by Sir W. Herschel. Undoubtedly wide seas and oceans, with many straits, and bays, and inland seas, exist on Mars. Snow and ice gather in the winter-time about his polar regions, diminishing gradually in extent as summer proceeds, but | never entirely disappearing. Thus we are not left doubtful as to the gen- eral resemblance of Mars, so far ashe structure of his surface is concerned, to the earth on which we live, He has a surface of earth, probably im large part formed by deposition at the bottom of former seas and subsequently raised above the sea-level by subterranean forces, or rather caused to appear above the surface by the effects of the gradual shrinkage of the planet's crust. Of the | existence of Vulcanian energy we have unmis- takable evidence in the fact that lands and seas exist, for a continent implies the operation of Vulcanian forces. The shapes, too, of the out lines of the lands and seas indicate the existence of mountain-ranges, and these, too, of consider- able ¢ water vapor sump' much air we would not ha have | origin, would develo; remain primev similar ish hue same § proport our oce blue, at It is blances, ferred. them t! conditic might, | which 1 might s¢ tant sea hear “ t} down by progress ing grad winds ra muring a loudly ox ering of 0 pass densed bi We see to Tarer atm Cause we Vealed th: tian day, White sho the gathe there mus dergoing ‘ show, anc thunder g does and hy ly than ou must be | the Martia But wi

Page 369

THE PLANET OF WAR. Then we have the presence of able elevation. water, and of a stable atmosphere in which the yapor of water rises, It seems no daring as- sumption to suppose that this air is constituted much like our own air. In the first place, if the air were formed of other gases, the spectroscope would probably reveal their existence, which has not happened ; and, secondly, with the evidence we have of a general similarity of structure and origin, an atmosphere of nitrogen and oxygen would naturally be formed while the planet was developing to its present condition, and would remain after other constituents of the planet’s primeval atmosphere had been removed. For a similar reason we may safely infer that the green- ish hue of the water implies the presence of the same substances, though not perhaps similarly proportioned, which are carried in suspension in our oceans, and give to them their green, green- blue, and blue tints. It is important to notice these general resem- blances, either demonstrated or safely to be in- ferred. We no longer propose to deduce from them the conclusion that the planet’s present condition is like that of our own earth. We might, indeed, dwell on some considerations which naturally suggest themselves here. We might see in imagination the waves of those dis- tant seas- beating upon the long shore-lines, and hear “the scream of a maddened beach dragged down by the wave.” We can imagine the slow progress of the Martian day—the mists of morn- ing gradually clearing away as the sun rises ; the winds raised by the mid-day heat, zephyrs mur- muring among the distant hills or blasts roaring loudly over desolate rock-bound seas; the gath- ering of clouds toward eventide, though probably to pass from the skies at night (because con- densed by cold), leaving the same constellations We see to shine with greater splendor through a Tarer atmosphere. We can imagine all this, be- cause we know from what the telescope has re- vealed that such must be the changes of the Mar- tian day. We see in the telescope the long, white shore-lines, the clearing mists of morning, the gathering mists of night, and we know that there must be air-currents in an atmosphere un- dergoing such changes. There must be rain, and iow, and hail, and electrical disturbances— thunder and lightning at times—besides torna- does and hurricanes, blowing probably more fierce- ly than our own, though their destructive effects must be less because of the greater tenuity of the Martian air. But while we recognize in imagination the | 365 progress of such events as these, we must not forget that for countless ages in the past mighty processes of disturbance and continuous pro- cesses of steady change took place in our earth when as yet there was no life, nor that probably life will have ceased to exist on this earth mill- ions of years before the land, and sea, and air, will cease to be the scene of Nature’s active but unconscious workings. We cannot deduce from the mere fact that, if living creatures existed on Mars they would witness such-and-such phenom- ena which are familiar to the inhabitants of earth, the conclusion that such creatures do ex- ist there. We do not assert that no such creat- ures exist there. Our theory of life in other worlds does not require that any given planet should be shown to be uninhabited. Neverthe- less, there are so many reasons for regarding the fullness of Mars’s life-bearing season as belong- ing to a very remote past, that it is necessary to note the insufficiency of the mere evidence of the activity of Nature’s unconscious forces to prove the existence of living, conscious beings on the planet. In fine, the arguments by which, in the essay on “ Life in Mars,” we endeavored to indicate the probability of the planet’s being inhabited, prove only that the planet had an origin like our earth's, and is similarly constituted. On the other hand, the arguments by which, in the essay entitled “‘ A Whewellite Theory of Mars,” we endeavored to show that Mars is not in a condition fit to be the abode of life, tend to show that while similar to the earth in origin and structure, Mars is in a far later stage of planetary development. One of these arguments, indeed, does not re- late to the condition of the planet itself, but to its position with reference to the sun. Being much farther from the sun than we are, the planet receives much less direct heat. The sup- ply is partly dependent, however, on the planet's condition; for, if the air of Mars is very rare, then apart from the diminished supply there is a more rapid cooling, owing to the readier radiation of heat into space. But in any case the supply of solar heat has to be considered as one of the factors of a planet’s condition, considered with reference to the question of habitability. If, through its inherent heat, the planet Mars was once as warm on the whole as the earth now is, that heat making up for the smaller supply of solar heat, then it seems reasonable to believe that the creatures inhabiting the planet were so far like those now existing on our earth that the

Page 370

366 THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. same degree of heat suited their requirements. | existence, than has already elapsed. Since most Ii, then, we find reason for believing that now | geologists assign many hundred millions of years the inherent heat of the planet is much less than | to the last-named period, and all agree that it that of our own earth, so that on this account must be measured by many millions of years, it the descendants of those creatures would be un- | follows that twice as many hundred millions of able to exist unless great modifications had taken years must elapse if the former are right, but place in their requirements, which modifications | only twice as many millions of years if the latter seem outside any effects which could be attrib- | are right, before our earth will be in the same uted to natural selection, then the inference that ' condition as Mars. In reality our argument is therefore these races of creatures have died out | not at all affected by the difference of opinion is certainly strengthened, and in no small degree, | among geologists in this respect. For the ques. by the fact that the supply of heat received from | tion is of the condition of Mars, not of the num. the sun is much smaller in the case of Mars-than | ber of years which may have elapsed since he wag in the case of our earth. Seeing, then, that the | in the same condition as our earth, or of the num. average daily supply of light and heat on Mars | ber of years which may have to pass before our (taking square mile for square mile of his sur- | earth will be in the same condition as Mars, face) is less than the average daily supply on our | Whether Mars requires hundreds of millions, or earth in the proportion of two to five, we have | millions, or only thousands of years, to pass here a strong argument, we will not say in favor | through one stage of its planetary existence, our of the belief that Mars is not now inhabited, but | earth requires about three times as long; and, in favor of the belief that the duration of the | taking the entire development of Mars and the life-supporting era has been, is, or will be, much | earth (assuming they began planetary existence more rapidly shortened than in our earth’s case, | together), Mars must be some three times as far by the cooling of his globe. For the life-destroy- | on the way toward planetary decrepitude and ing influence of the cooling is much more effee- | death as our earth. tively strengthened in his case than in our earth’s, Only one circumstance in the discussions of by the effect of distance from the central source geclogists on the question of the time required of light and heat. for the development of a globe like our earth, All the other circumstances in the condition | bears very strongly on our opinion as to the ex of Mars point directly to the conclusion that Mars | istence of life on Mars, It is not altogether must have long since passed his planetary prime. ; certain that the life-bearing era of a planet His orbit being outside the earth’s, he was prob- | is exceedingly short compared with the ers ably formed far earlier, though this is not so cer- | of growth and preparation, and the era of de- tain as it was held to be when Laplace’s nebular | crepitude and death. So far, indeed, as astro. theory was first advanced. It is, however, very | nomical considerations are concerned, we per unlikely that he began to be formed later; and, | ceive that the fashioning of a planet must be as he is much smaller, he would probably be | a process requiring an enormous length of fashioned more quickly. It is still more probable, time. The slow aggregation of nebulous mat in fact very much more probable, that he cooled | ter, the separation of ring from ring, the break- much more quickly than the earth. His mass is | ing up of a ring into separate nebulous masses, not much more than a ninth of hers, while his | and the gathering of each ring of them into # surface is only about one-third of hers. He had, single mass, must have proceeded.very slowly; then, originally, even if of the same temperature | and few who consider all the circumstances of when first formed, only one-ninth her amount of | the case will doubt that hundreds of millions of heat to distribute, so that if he had radiated away | years must have elapsed between the time when at one-ninth of her rate, the supply would have | first the matter of a future planet began to have lasted as long. Pouring it away at one-third of | separate existence, and when at length it was all her rate—for the radiation taking place from the | gathered together in a single mass. But what surface is proportional to the surface—he parted | fullowed—the gradual contraction and cooling = with it three times faster than he should have | of that mass till it became a true planet, the done in order to cool at the same rate as the gradual cooling of the planet until its surface be earth. Hence he cooled three times faster than _ came separable into land and water, the further i the earth, and must have attained a condition | cooling till life became possible, the progression which she will not attain until three times as long | of life through all its various stages till an interval has elapsed from the era of her first and sea and air had each their various races of : living existe biolog arisen as yet as yet to cor the si; erepite highes has ye ever ki of anit has ad Lower indefini stood, 1 individ life is | earth n and the and ligt depopul place gr at so ea continue tion of | greater planet t back) in But, other wi Mere cor amore i scious ar world, or than the be assure are crows those low decrepitu Planets Ji forms exi she was y

Page 371

THE PLANET OF WAR. living creatures—all these stages of the planet’s existence belong to the domain of geology and biology, not to that of astronomy. Doubts have arisen respecting the duration of these eras, and as yet these doubts remain. Nor have biologists as yet determined how long life may be expected to continue upon our earth. Some see already the signs of what may be called biological de- erepitude, It has been asserted that man, the highest race of living creatures which the earth has yet known, is not only the highest she will ever know, but that the race, regarded as a type of animal life, has already passed its prime, and has advanced perceptibly toward decadence.! Lower races, however, seem capable almost of indefinite multiplication—we refer, be it under- stood, to the multiplication of races, not of the individuals composing races. And so far as mere life is concerned, it would seem as though the earth might undergo vast changes of condition, and the sun himself lose largely in heat-emitting and light-emitting power, without the earth being depopulated, so long at least as the changes took place gradually. It may well be that life begins at so early a stage of planetary development and continues to so late a stage, that the entire dura- tion of a planet's life-bearing era bears a much greater proportion to the entire duration of the planet than our reasoning (a few paragraphs back) implies. But, after all, the question of mere life in other worlds is not what we are interested in. Mere consciousness can scarcely be regarded as &more interesting phase of Nature than uncon- scious activity such as we see in the vegetable world, or than the motion of inert matter, or even than the mere existence of matter. If we could be assured that Mars and Venus and Mercury are crowded with animal and vegetable life of those lower forms which owe their inferiority to decrepitude of the type, or that on the youthful planets Jupiter and Saturn some of the monstrous forms exist which flourished on the earth when she was young— “.... Dragons of the prime That tear each other in their slime,” : ‘One of the evidences for this discouraging conclu- “on, advanced by a well-known American zoologist, is the telative length of the period of old age in the individual man. In youthful races, the individual does not attain old age till very soon (relatively to the entire life) before death. The relative duration of old age grows longer and longer 4s the race grows older, until, in races which are about to Pass away, it becomes nearly equal to half the entire in- — “eo birth and death, soon after which the race out, 367 what to us would be those teeming worlds of life ? They might as well be mere inert masses circling idly round the sun, neither now nor ever in the past the abode of life, and never to become so in future ages. The story of such life would be to us as— “....A tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury Signifying nothing.” It is the existence of intelligent beings on those remote worlds that alone has any interest for us, the thought that the wonders of the universe are recognized by beings in some sort like ourselves, that the problems which perplex us may have been dealt with, perchance even solved, by others, and again that our world may be a subject of in- terest and study for creatures thinking as much, but knowing as little, about us as we think and know about them. In this respect certainly, if analogy can be any guide at all, we find little reason for regard- ing with present interest either the younger giant planets, Jupiter and Saturn, or the probably aged dwarfs, Mercury, Mars, and our moon. Few be- lieve that men have existed on the earth many hundreds of thousands of years, and those even who assign to the human race its greatest dura- tion in the past, regard it in its earliest form as little better than a race of brute beings. If we supposed that men sufficiently intelligent to con- sider the heavens and the earth have existed in our world for one hundred thousand years, we are certainly giving the widest possible allowance of duration to intelligent man. Nor can it be denied that the existence of such a race as ours seems far more definitely limited in the future by the slowly-changing condition of our earth and the life-giving sun, than that of lower types of animal existence. We would not assert that beyond all question a hundred thousand years hence the earth will no longer be a fit abode for man, who has already begun to draw very largely on the garnered stores of our globe; but we con- sider this view altogether probable, and that in- deed a nearer limit might be assigned to the duration of the human race, by one who should carefully consider the progress and requirements of the race on the one hand, and the condition, changes of condition, and capabilities of our earth, on the other. If we assign 200,000 years as the extreme duration of the period during which men capa- ble of observing the phenomena surrounding them and of studying the problems of the uni- verse have existed and will exist, we assign

Page 372

CT 368 THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. to our earth a reason- life (if we may so speak) } large part of the area shown in the charts as | aqueous consists in reality of land and water so which, compared with the full life of the earth, is but as a second compared with centuries. So far | as the existence of beings capable of thought and reflection is concerned, our theory assuredly holds. It is on @ priori grounds utterly unlikely that any one of the orbs we can actually observe is in- habited by creatures like ourselves in those cir- ' | | | ' | | | | cumstances which distinguish us from the brutes , and from savages. So far as observation extends, in the case of Mars, it seems altogether unlikely that the pres- ent era of his existence corresponds with that very brief period during which reasoning creat- ures inhabit a planet. Supposing we have rightly taken 200,000 years for the duration of broken up into small islands, lakes, straits, isth. muses, and the rest, that the telescope cannot distinguish the details, Again, the unchanging _ color of the land-regions implies that they are naked and sterile. Unless we adopt the theory that not only is the vegetation of Mars rubescent, but that all the principal glories of the’ Martian forests are ever-reds, and the Martian fields covered with herbage of unchanging ruddiness, | we must accept the conclusion that the land-sur- face is an arid desert. This evidence alone is _ almost strong enough to assure us that none but , exist on Mars at present. that period in our earth’s case—and it seems , Of life seems overwhelmingly strong. far more likely that the estimate errs in excess than in defect—the duration of the correspond. | ing period in the case of Mars would prob- ably be about 70,000 years. Mars would prob- ably have entered on that stage of his existence millions of years ago; but, supposing for a mo- ment that he reached it at about the same time as our earth, or, according to our estimate, a hundred thousand years ago, then the period would have been completed about 30,000 years ago. The appearance of the planet implies a ' than ours ? the lowest forms of life—animal and vegetable— The evidence against the fitness of Mars to support the higher forms But, after all, why should a conclusion such as this dishearten the student of other worlds Whether it relates to a planet here | and there, to Mars or Mercury, or the moon, be- ' cause of their decrepitude, or to Jupiter and Sat- much later stage, however, of planetary exist- | support life; but that even during the present ence. The seas of Mars present all the appear- ance of exhaustion during millions of years, in the course of which their waters have nourished the surface of the planet with rain. The water thus raised from the Martian oceans has no doubt falling directly on the water-surface in rain, or being gathered by streams and rivulets and rivers on the land-surface, to be discharged by the river- mouths into the seas. But a portion has always been retained by the land, soaking slowly and steadily into the interior of the planet. This portion has doubtless been exceedingly small each year, but during the long ages which have elapsed since first the seas of Mars had separate existence, the total amount thus drained off must have been enormous. We see the effect in the relatively small area of the Martian seas. They cover barely half of the planet, while terrestrial seas occupy nearly three-fourths of the surface of our globe. They have the shape also which our seas would have, if somewhat more than two- thirds of the water were dried up. The variety of tint which they present shows that but few of those seas are deep, for few of them are dark. Many are so light as to suggest the idea that a urn because they are as yet too young, or whether it is extended according to the laws of probability to the universe of planets, does it not accord with what we know of our own earth? We do not mean merely that our earth as a planet was once unfit, and will one day become again unfit, to life-supporting era of its existence we do not find all regions of the earth at all times fit to support life; nor do we find all races existing simultane ously, As various races begin, develop, and die been always restored to them in large part, either | out, as various regions are at one time sterile, at another clothed with life, so among the orbs im habiting space, now one set of races may exist and anon an entirely different set, the series of planets which during one era are the abode of life being the nascent worlds of a former, the dead worlds of a later era, A modern believer in the universality of life says: “On those worlds, as on ours, there are cities passing through all the stages of glory and of power; there also, as here, there are cities like Rome, and Paris, and London, altars and thrones, tem ples and palaces, wealth and misery, splendors and ruins. And, perchance, from the venerable ruins of an ancient capital two lovers at this mo- ment on the planet Mars may be gazing on the traces of the grandeur and of the decay of em pires, and feeling that amid all the metamor- phoses of time and space, life, eternally young, pervades the universe, reigning forever over the worlds, and pouring forth endless youth in A the g¢ finity. these Not e1 inhabi Paris, or city are pe others exister analog: ean be earth, each 0} the inf A] “ VE! to time vary the sens physiolog terval to evident t is not tim rate wor, this not s¢ would be We peruse view. Si ing of wh or less gu own resou: a few lett therefore, of the hun of synthes’ equal) will doubtedly all the wor intelligible stances we We could if ? Translat 2“ Unless phy.”

Page 373

A NEEDED RECONSTRUCTION OF THE NEBULAR HYPOTHESIS. 369 the golden rays of all the suns which people in- fnity.” But the very scene which suggested these ideas should have taught another lesson. Not every region of earth is inhabited, not every inhabited region is a Rome, or an Athens, or a Paris, or 2 London. While some great nation or city is enjoying the fullness of its vigor, others are perishing or have long since passed away, others are as yet unknown, or but begin their existence. So may it well be, so must it be if analogy is our guide; so és it if our observations can be trusted, with other planets than this earth, with other systems than our sun’s. As each orb occupies but the minutest portion of the infinity of space, so is the lifetime of each but a wavelet in the ocean of eternity. Two wavelets, or many, may run side by side upon an endless sea, and so may the lifetime of our earth synchronize with life upon another world, or many others. But for each wave that thus runs beside the wave of life on which our lot is cast, a myriad—nay, ten million million others— are far removed from ours, lie even beyond the horizon bounding what we call time. The uni- verse, as we know it, the region of space to which our most powerful telescopes penetrate, is not more utterly lost in the true universe of infinity than is the range of time, past, present, and to come, over which our researches extend, amid the infinities of time eternal.— Cornhill Magazine, A NEEDED RECONSTRUCTION OF THE NEBULAR HY- POTHESIS.’ , Br CARL DU PREL. “Si les phénoménes ne sont pas enchainés les uns aux autres, il n’y a pas de philosophie.” 2—Drpgror. VERY sense-impression takes a certain time to reach the consciousness, the length of time varying with the force of the impression and the sensibility of the individual. If with the physiologists we take the mean length of this in- terval to be one-sixth of a second, it becomes evident that in very rapidly reading print there is not time sufficient for each letter of every sepa- rate word to make its due impression. Were this not so, the task of discovering printers’ errors would be far easier than it really is, even when Wwe peruse a printed page with that one object in view, Since, however, we apprehend the mean- ing of what is read, fast reading must be more orless guessing, inasmuch as we fill in from our own resources the missing impressions, and from 4 few letters infer the whole word. Reading, therefore, is more or less a synthetic function of the human mind, and the greater one’s power of synthesis, the greater (all other things being equal) will be his power of reading rapidly. Un- doubtedly we are aided here by the fact that al the words in a sentence cohere to produce an intelligible impression, and under such circum- stances we infer a word much more readily than We could if it stood alone. 7 Translated from the German by J. Fitzgerald, A. M. ey phenomena are linked together, there is no 24 In reading the book of Nature we exercise a like synthetic function of the mind. Inasmuch as we are ignorant of the causal relations sub- sisting between multitudes of natural phenomena, this book is for us, as it were, resolved into its words and letters; indeed, no small portion of the contents of the book is altogether unknown to us. It is for the investigator of Nature, in the narrower sense of the term, to analyze and ex- plore with all possible minuteness individual phe- nomena; but he takes rank among philosophers when he goes further and strives to class together those phenomena which are united by the invisi- ble bond of the law of causality. Herein he must depend on his faculty of synthesis for the power of detecting the proximate or remote, the direct or collateral relations of phenomena. Often, however, this can only be done by filling up the gaps in our knowledge, just as in reading we fill up the gaps in the series of sense-impressions, and by inferring the existence of phenomena that we have never seen. Thus do we construct words, sentences, chapters, of the book of Nature out of the defective series of phenomena given us in ex- perience. In a greater or less degree all branches of natural science have already entered on that phase wherein further development depends on the synthetic faculty, and the human mind will

Page 374

370 have reached its perhaps unattainable goal only when it has succeeded in combining the multi- tude of its conceptions in a comprehensible scheme of the universe. We must not, however, forget that even then only one chapter of the great book of Nature would have been made out; we should still have to give ourselves an account of the past and future history of the Cosmos. If truth in this sense is to be defined as the agreement of our ideas with the things they rep- resent, then the discovery of truth would appear to be a process of thought in which the members of the subjective series are connected together in a manner answering to the connection between the members of the objective series. The sub- jective association must conform to the objective. To this synthesis do all those great hypothe- ses owe their origin which have mace their mark in the history of the human mind. The greater the abundance of the empirical material developed by research, the easier it is to make this synthesis. Nevertheless, great dis- coveries do not by any means always coincide with periods of active and fruitful research, nor is Zimmermann’s saying always true, that “the more the eyes have seen, the more does the mind see too.” Indeed, it very often happens that in such periods we cannot see the forest, for the trees; while in other periods genius anticipates, using a relatively small sum of empiric data with the utmost economy, on them basing hypotheses which later, when the sum of confirmatory phe- nomena has been much increased, find universal acceptance. Such efforts as these at syntheti- cally combining individual phenomena whose relations are not yet ascertained, and from the aggregate of the phenomena constructing the or- ganism, so to speak, of the universe, thus ren- dering it intelligible, might be compared to the task of reconstructing, out of some disconnected words that still remain, the text of a badly-muti- lated document. No essay of this kind is so well calculated to excite our admiration as that of Kant in con- structing, out of the at best extremely scanty materials at his command, the history of that little cosmical island which we call the solar sys- tem. For what did Kant know of that system? If we leave out of view the comets, which he did | not take into account, Kant was acquainted with six principal planets and nine moons: he knew that these bodies revolve round the sun, in one and the same direction; that Saturn has rings; that the orbits of the planets are approximately THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. circular, and that their orbital planes nearly ¢9, incide, What do we know of the same subject? Not only has the number of the planets (the asteroids included) increased to one hundred and sixty. four since Kant’s time, that of the moons has increased to eighteen, and all these bodies give confirmation to the nebular hypothesis. Further, we are acquainted with Plateau’s interesting ex. periment in which he imitated in miniature the genesis of the solar system by causing a sphere of olive-oil to rotate in a mixture of water and spirits of wine, and thus from the standpoint of the universality of terrestrial laws demonstrated the correctness of the Kantian hypothesis, Again, we know of the existence of cosmic neb- ule—the primordial matter inferred by Kant— the gaseous constitution of which is demon. strated by the spectroscope: nay, even the | telescope enables us to descry gaseous rings, analogous to the rings of Saturn, encireling the cosmic nebule. Finally, a number of vari- able and of new stars have been discovered. All of these bodies are, as it were, words that were altogether wanting in the text examined by Kant, but which can be of very great service to us in writing the history of the Cosmos : hence, it is no wonder if in the nebular hypothesis we recog, nize a degree of probability very closely border. ing on certitude. But it is a thing worthy of all admiration that in the mind of the philosopher of Kénigsberg there should have been formeds ‘train of ideas whose agreement with a train of long-past phenomena could at the time be de monstrated only at a few points, but into which all the discoveries since made fit with perfect ease, like the links of a chein. Kant was very far from believing that by this hypothesis he had done away with the need of further research ; but it almost looks as though we, in our zeal to add to the material confirm» tory of the nebular hypothesis, had forgotten to note the gaps in it that no discovery can fill, and the defects under which it still indisputably labors. And yet in the materials accessible to Kant there is to be found, as we shall see, that which should incite us to a reconstruction of the hypothesis. We are collecting building stones, without reflecting that, in proportion as ma' accumulate, the edifice should rise. We make that an end which is but a means; but, since in the Cosmos all phenomena are systematically com nected with one another, it cannot be our simply to accumulate them in our minds in dis , connected shape: on the contrary, in our A scher temat K draw) the s¢ ing to ets a theor existil mass, to the a geo! and ve cisely the dis the sta still to the tel must a to grav plain tl sume al gravity latter a tific. We lar hyp tation, a 2 planets | to say tl torial riz is the fa the sun, locity an change | Without | 2. ¢ Within th their gre, Must be | the law « “Dans ni Reres au evidence traneous. Perplexit; Comets b those tra Planets, a tion, to h into our 14 oie the planetar

Page 375

A NEEDED RECONSTRUCTION OF THE NEBULAR HYPOTHESIS. 371 scheme of the universe the whole must be sys- tematically combined. Kant, and, less thoroughly, Laplace, have drawn the main outlines of the process by which the solar system came into existence, and accord- ing to which the properties common to the plan- ets and moons are to be accounted for. The theory, however, does not explain the differences existing between those bodies with respect to mass, distance from the sun—which, according to the well-known law of Titius, is approximately a geometrical progression—form of their orbits, and velocity of their motion. And yet it is pre- cisely on these differences, but particularly on the distribution of the mass through space, that the stability of the system rests. Hence we have still to account, on the basis of natural laws, for the teleological result of the process. Either we must attribute to primordial matter, in addition to gravity, some other property which shall ex- plain the teleological result, or else we must as- sume an important corollary of the principle of gravity to have been overlooked by Kant. This latter assumption is the only one that is scien- tific. We have, therefore, to reconstruct the nebu- lar hypothesis on the basis of the law of gravi- tation, and to solve the following problems : 1, The teleological mass-distribution of the planets must be accounted for. It is not enough to say that the sun contracted and gave off equa- torial rings ; for the main point to be considered is the fact that, at such and such distances from the sun, planets of a certain proportionate ve- locity and mass hold their courses, and that no change could be made in any of these factors without causing perturbations. 2. Comets and meteorites must be brought within the purview of the nebular hypothesis, and their great numerical superiority over the planets must be shown to be a necessary consequence of the law of gravitation. When Laplace writes," “Dans notre hypothése les cométes sont étran- geres au systéme planetaire,” without citing any evidence to show that they are in reality of ex- traneous origin, he appears simply to confess his perplexity ;. nor is it permissible to eliminate the comets by arbitrarily assuming them all, both those traveling in the same direction with the planets, and those traveling in the reverse direc- tion, to have descended only at a later period ‘nto our system from the regions of the fixed sag esition du Systéme du Monde.” p. 475, Paris, —“In our hypothesis the comets are extraneous to the planetary system.” | stars, to sey nothing of the fact that by such assumption we do but push the problem farther back. 8. We have to explain why, notwithstanding the enormous expansion of the primordial solar sphere, the planets are not more numerous than they are; and further, why they are attended by their actual number of planets, and neither by more nor less. That we are warranted to propose this question is plain, especially from the fact that the number of moons accompanying a planet is, as a rule, though with exceptions, in a ratio to that planet’s rotation velocity. Astronomy is only a branch of mechanics; and hence, when we see, for instance, that though Mars rotates with nearly as high velocity as the earth, it is nevertheless moonless, we must directly conclude that the moon of Mars, theoretically existent in accordance with mechanical principles, must at one time have existed in reality. As must always be done with phenomena which, standing alone, are barren, we have now to connect synthetically these three groups of phenomena, which of necessity must be more or less closely related to one another. That Mars’s moon is wanting is a fact that by itself says nothing, but it becomes very eloquent when we connect it with the two other points of the problem we have to solve. In the first place, when we consider that in the formation process of the solar system processes of elimination, too, had a place, it appears allowable to assume elimi- nation of once-existent sateliltes. And if now we view these processes of elimination in connec- tion with the phenomena spoken of in section one, the two are found to throw light on each other, and we are inevitably led to conclude that _ the teleological distribution of mass in the solar system is the result of processes of elimination whereby those planets and moons have been dis- placed, which deranged the mechanism of the system. Not only does this explanation deduce from the law of gravitation the teleological phenomena of the solar system, it furthermore proves itself to be the only just explanation by its conformity to the laws of logic, which require us to look on such phenomena not as entering Nature already fashioned and shaped, but as being the results of a process of development. And if science, which, as it has been supposed, spurns the idea of teleology, would nevertheless demonstrate the possibility of teleological results, it can do so only by assuming a process of indirect selection ; and this in turn is conditioned on the impossi-

Page 376

’ THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. 372 bility of any unteleological (or unadapted) forms existing in a systematically-connected whole. From this point of view the evolution of the Cosmos is seen to be, as indeed we should have expected, entirely analogous to the evolution of all the kingdoms of Nature. Just as in biology, for example, adaptation to environment is at- tained only indirectly through a weeding - out process, which consists in the elimination of or- ganisms that are incapable of existing: so in the mechanism of the heavens does the law of gravitation, by indirect selection, work adapta- tion between the different members of a system, by eliminating such members as are incon- sistent with the rest. The perturbations aris- ing out of the mutual attraction of planets have indirectly—that is, by eliminating the greater part of the earlier comites of the sun —made selection of that small number of plan- ets which now exist; and our present planets are able to continue in existence, in spite of their mutual gravitation, because of the incom- mensurability of their periodic times. Nature acts after the manner of the engraver on wood, who makes his engraving in relief only indirectly, by cutting away the face of the wood between his lines. Cosmical problems are to be solved only by concluding from phenomena offered to us in ex- perience to phenomena in the past. But now perturbations are familiar phenomena in the plan- etary system, and their only effects consist in di- verting the planets a little out of their regular course, But that they might also exert the higher power attributed to them in the preceding para- graph—namely, the elimination of cosmic bodies from the system—we see from the comets, whose orbits not seldom are entirely transformed as the result of perturbations. It has been demonstrated by Newton that, under the quadratic law of attraction, the tracks of the planets can only be conic sections with the _ point of attraction for focus, their forms being, according to the ratio of the force of gravity to the centrifugal force, circles, ellipses of different lengths, parabolas, or hyperbolas. Actual elimi- nation of planetary bodies, therefore, could take place only on this relation of gravitation to cen- trifugal force being so materially altered that either, the force of gravitation having increased, a spiral motion toward the centre of attraction was set up, or else that, the centrifugal force having been considerably increased by perturba- tion, the original circular track was converted into a not-closed orbit, whether parabolic or hy- perbolic. But all those planets whose tracks were converted only into elongated ellipses re. mained in the system. Yet such planets do not exist. and meteorite-showers move in such elongated ellipses—that is to say, those very bodies which, as we have said, it is incumbent on us to embrace within the nebular hypothesis. But not onlpig it vow certain that the meteorites are fragments that once belonged to great planetary bodies, but Schiaparelli has even demonstrated the connee tion between comets and meteorites ; while, from Zollner’s researches it appears to be highly prob able that comets are only meteorites of vaporize ble matter. It only remains, therefore, to prove that plan etary bodies, which were by primordial perturba tions forced into elongated orbits, must, in-con sequence, have progressed more rapidly toward disintegration than those which were forced only a little out of a circular track. In investigating this subject we shall derive material assistance from the comparative astronomy of the planetary system, since in our planets and moons, whose conditions represent various phases of a like pro _ cess of development, the ultimate phase—that of the meteorite-showers—i® already more or less plainly typified. But I will not discuss this point here, having considered it fully in another place.’ According to the nebular hypothesis, the mat ter constituting our system was at one time dif fused beyond the orbit of Neptune; and it has been computed that matter so attenuated as this must have been could not have exceeded in det sity the ten-millionth part of the density of the lightest gas known—namely, hydrogen. Such enormous attenuation as this—an attenuation presupposing a development of heat that is hard- ly imaginable—is in itself enough to force us to the conclusion that there was at one time much more matter within the space circumscribed by Neptune's orbit than exists there now; and that, consequently, the primordial nebula was very, very much less attenuated than it was if the este mate above were correct. For this reason the meteor-streams and comets must be for us wee come phenomena; for if they once existed in interplanetary space in the state of dissolution, and passed beyond its limits only in consequence of later perturbations, then they must bear some 1 See “ Der Kampf ums Dasein am Himmel: Versach einer Philosophie der Astronomie” (“The Struggle for Existence in the Heavens: An Attempt at & Philosophy of Astronomy ”). art Only comets _ analog spectr that al forced quit th to fill orbit. ceivabl matter If 1 their a the san that ou stars at systems it will t indirect bodies | tem. Tho: a retrog truders under t acquired within ¢ teorites gated or HE hea solids, lig come equ now recc conclusio system, if Tive at o motion, « forms of « heat, will tse of m things, an 48 well as

Page 377

ON ICE-MAKING AND ICE-MACHINES. analogy to the cosmical nebule revealed by the spectroscope. Further, we have to bear in mind that all those original comites of the sun which, forced into hyperbolic and parabolic tracks, have quit the system, must likewise be added in order to fill up the space circumscribed by Neptune’s orbit. In this way we arrive at a leastwise con- ceivable degree of attenuation for the primordial matter of the solar system. If we consider that the fixed stars, too, have their attendant planets; that in their systems the same process of elimination takes place ; and that our sun receives from the neighboring fixed stars at least as many banished members of other systems as have been eliminated out of its own, it will be seen that we can only proximately and indirectly determine the number of the planetary bodies which have been dropped from our sys- tem. Those comets and meteorites which travel in aretrograde direction are to be regarded as in- truders from other systems. Some of these, under the action of planetary influences, have acquired closed orbits, and have settled for good within our system. As for the comets and me- teorites with direct motion, though their elon- gated orbits do not prevent us from recognizing 373 them a3 fragments of planets that once belonged to our system, we nevertheless have still to ac- count for the fact that whereas the orbital planes of the planets are nearly coincident with the plane of the sun’s equator, the orbits of many comets and meteorites form considerable angles with the plane of the earth’s orbit. But this difficulty vanishes also when we regard this in- clination toward the orbit of the earth as pro- duced by perturbations. Thus, for example, Brorsen’s comet of 1846, which, according to d’Ar- rest, in 1842, the attraction of Jupiter brought nearer to us, had to the earth’s orbit an inclina- tion of 41°, which was reduced to 81° by this single perturbation. Under suitable conditions, that angle might be increased to the same extent. It is plain, therefore, that we can reach a monistic conception of the history of our solar system only by assuming indirect selection of the fittest and elimination of the unfit here as in every other province of Nature. In this way not only do we explain the teleological distribution of mass through the planetary system, but also obviate the necessity of having a separate theory each for planets and comets. So must we supplement Kant and Laplace with Darwin.—KXosmos. ON ICE-MAKING AND ICE-MACHINES. By W. N. HARTLEY, F. R. S$. E. HE resolution of all forms of energy into heat, the continual passage of heat through solids, liquids, and gases, and its tendency to be- come equally distributed through all matter, are now recognized as facts; hence the inevitable conclusion that finally all substances in the solar system, if not in the universe, will ultimately ar- rive at one common temperature. Mechanical motion, electricity, chemical action, all other forms of energy which at present are sources of heat, will be completely exhausted. Man, by his use of machines, is hastening this end of all things, and this indeed by the production of low 48 well as of high temperatures. An economical means of freezing water is a fruitful source of profit at the present time, for the manufacture of ice serves not only the pur- pose of enhancing our bodily comfort in summer, but also for rapidly cooling large volumes of ‘iquid, as in the operation of brewing and other industrial processes, and for the better preserva- tion of animal food in seasons and climates which hasten putrefactive changes. The difficulty experienced in freezing water is due to the very large amount of heat it must lose: 1. In being lowered to the temperature of 32° Fahr.; and, 2. In being changed from liquid water at 32° Fahr. to solid ice at thesame temperature. The first quantity is called its specific heat, and the second is ijs latent heat. These quantities are greater for’ water than for any other sub- stance ; hence the cooling power of ice is greater for any given temperature than that of any other body, and the cooling power of water is greater than that of any gas or liquid. Faraday calcu- lated that the heat absorbed during the conver- sion of a cube of solid ice measuring three feet in the Jength of one side, into liquid water with- out undergoing any rise of temperature, would require the combustion of a bushel of coals for its artificial production. It is evident from these statements that, in

Page 378

374 THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. order to cool a quantity of heated air or water | the patentees of the apparatus, the chief charac. down to a moderate temperature, a large supply of water is the best medium, not only on account of its abundance and cheapness, but because of its great capacity for heat. When any elastic fluid is compressed, it be- comes hot, and if it then be cooled down to its original temperature and be expanded, it is ren- dered as many degrees colder by its rarefaction as it was heated by its condensation; hence we have here a means of producing low temperatures. On the one hand we can ignite tinder by the heat evolved in the compression of air in a glass cylin- der; and by the exhaustion of air in a bell jar the temperature may be reduced so that the moisture it contains is deposited as a mist. By the ex- tremely rapid expansion of a liquefied gas when pressure is removed, or of a volatile liquid when its evaporation is hastened by mechanical means, we obtain the most effective cooling powers. The familiar experiment of freezing water or mer- cury in a red-hot dish is effected by the enormous expansion of liquefied sulphurous acid or of solidi- fied carbonic acid, which substances regain the heat they lost when undergoing the change of liquefaction or solidification. The production of intense cold by the rapid evaporation of ether projected in the form of a fine spray is a process which has been introduced with success into surgery by Dr. Richardson, for the purpose of producing a local insensibility to the pain caused by a knife or other instrument. By inclosing ether in an air-tight vessel, and drawing off the vapor as fast as it is generated, evaporation is greatly accelerated, while the ether may be condensed again for further use. The original apparatus of Harrison, which depended upon this principle, consisted of a multitubular boiler immersed in an uncongealable liquid such as brine; an exhaust-pump carried off the ether- vapor which is rapidly formed at the expense of the warmth of the salt-water. The reduction of temperature may reach 24° Fahr., or what is commonly called 8° of frost. The ether was con- densed by passing through a worm-tube sur- rounded by a stream of cold water, and the chilled brine was made to circulate round metallic vessels containing the water to be converted into ice. Many improvements have been made on this ether-machine, and one of the most complete methods of working is now in operation on a large scale on the premises of the Manchester Patent Ice Company. Messrs. Sidely and Mackay, of Liverpool, are teristics of which are its adaptability to the satis. fying of large demands, its economical use of the cooling power of the ether-vapor, and its capabil. ity of making ice in thick blocks, Not only are exhaust-pumps used for evaporating the ether in the refrigerator, but pressure is exerted to liquefy the ether in the condenser. Both refrigerator and condenser are tubular vessels. Now, as the vapor passes from the refrigerator to be con densed by the pump, it is made to part with some of its chilliness either to ether going to the re frigerator, or to water about to be frozen; and | again in its return-passage to the refrigerator it is deprived of any oil which it may have acquired from the machinery. The whole of the cooling apparatus is below-ground, and contained for the most part in pits of cement or asphalt. The water to be frozen is run into metallic tanks, be tween the inner and outer surfaces of which chilled brine at a temperature of 15° Fahr., or 17° below freezing-point, is made to circulate, the metallic vessels being connected by stout vuk canized India-rubber tubing. The water during freezing is kept in constant agitation, with two objects—first, to remove air, and so obtain clear ice; and, second, to equalize the temperature throughout, so as to prevent the water freezing # on the surface, as it ordinarily does on a pond, The ice is formed first round the sides of the cell, and gradually thickens till it closes up in the centre. The clearness of the ice is greatly in creased by slow freezing, and to obtain this de sirable condition the time allowed is from sixty to ninety hours. Each block of ice measures three and a half feet broad by four feet long, and is thirteen inches in thickness; the weight varies from six to seven hundred-weight. A simple com trivance to facilitate the removal of the ice by crane traveling on rails laid on beams overbead, is a loop of rope which is frozen into each block: The ease with which, when placed on the ground, these large blocks can be slid about by the mea is very advantageous. In order to loosen the iee from the cells, brine at any temperature above $2° Fahr, is made to circulate in place of the frigorific liquid, and so greatly are the metallic vessels cooled that it requires a period of about an hour to loosen one of the blocks. The magnitude of the operations is such that the engines can be worked up to one-bundred- horse power, and are capable of turning out thirty tons of ice per day. On the occasion of a recent visit to this interesting factory there were om ; hundred and eighty tons of ice in store, and some of the appar of ons eight In Revie resear tion o! tinuit) it is t purely way be No one of gas mankir since } pends t ure, an after it evapor: out the hollow. tween i nected nary lig of abou gas in. denser | while th burner t this ops from the of its on stream « placed j boiler be at the e frozen, a boiler, re Leslie to be fr caused b by M. Ca quantitie: be made aists of ; is attache and the a i3 agitate Vapor an drawn, absorbs t] ens the ey tle of ice ; } See

Page 379

of the blocks were five weeks old. We have an apparent paradox in the fact that the combustion of one ton of coal in the furnace-fires will produce eight tons of ice. In the last number! of the Popular. Science Review it was found necessary to refer to the researches of Faraday and others on the liquefac- tion of gases, and of Prof. Andrews on the con- tinuity of the liquid and gaseous states of matter; it is therefore of great interest to note how a | | of each other, it is easy to account for a certain purely scientific fact can in a most unexpected way be made available for industrial purposes. No one could have imagined that the liquefaction of gases could prove of any practical benefit to mankind, but we now know that such is the case, since M. Carré’s ammonia freezing-machine de- pends upon the liquefaction of the gas by press- ure, and its subsequent condensation in water after it has produced a low temperature by its evaporation. The operation is conducted with- out the application of any mechanical power, A hollow conical condenser of iron has a space be- ON ICE-MAKING AND ICE-MACHINES. tween its inner and outer surfaces, which is con- | nected by a tube with a boiler containing ordi- | nary liquid ammonia; that is to say, a solution of about seven hundred volumes of ammoniacal gas in one volume of water. The conical om denser is immersed in a stream of cold water, | while the boiler is heated over a fire or large gas- burner to a temperature of 270° Fahr. During this operation the ammoniacal gas is expelled from the water, and is condensed by the pressure of its own particles and the cooling action of the stream of water. If, now, fresh cold water be placed in the condenser-cone, and the heated boiler be cooled in water, the ammonia distills off at the expense of the heat in the water to be frozen, and finds its way back once more to the boiler, ready for another operation. Leslie's famous experiment of causing water to be frozen by the rapid absorption of heat caused by its own evaporation has been modified by M. Carré, in such a manner that ice in small | quantities, as, for instance, in water-bottles, may be made in a few minutes. The apparatus con- aists of an air-pump, to which the water-bottle isattached. As the handle of the pump is worked and the air exhausted, a quantity of oil of vitriol 8 agitated in a vessel, through which all aqueous Yapor and air from the water-bottle must be drawn, The avidity with which the oil of vitriol absorbs the vapor as fast as it is formed so hast- eas the evaporation that in a few minutes a bot- tle of ice is the result, ? See “ Mineral Cavities and their Contents.” 375 Perhaps, of all machines, the one of most in- terest is that invented by M. Raoul Pictet, of Geneva, the striking feature in which is the em- ployment of liquefied sulphurous acid as the ab- sorbent of heat instead of ether. In all other machines there is a liability to a slight leakage, on account of the fact that the cylinder of the exhausting and condensing pump is kept air- tight to some extent by the lubricating material. Now, as ether and all kinds of grease are solvents amount of escape, which will be difficult to avoid. Liquefied sulphurous acid does not dissolve to any considerable extent in oil, and when free from moisture is without action on metals; and, although it might be expected that the packing of the piston might in time be acted on by sul- phurous acid, yet this danger has been entirely obviated by the use of manufactured asbestos- packing, which is now being greatly used for high-pressure steam-engines. When required to work in hot climates, the ice-making machines most generally in use are open to serious objections, and grave inconven- iences are experienced in their constant employ- ment. Thus, ammoniacal machines work at a pressure of twenty atmospheres, with water at 80° Fahr., and are thus liable to leakage, or even to the danger of an explosion. Methylated ether machines are open to the same objection, in ad- dition to which there is a danger of fire when a leakage occurs, which unfits them for use at sea. Now, in the use of sulphurous acid there is the great advantage that at 80° Fahr. its tension does not exceed four atmospheres, while it may be liquefied at 25°, and its tension then is only equal to the pressure of the atmosphere. It has no action upon metals when kept free from water; and, in order to obtain it in a perfectly anhydrous ; condition, M. Pictet prepares it by the action of heat on a mixture of oil of vitriol and sulphur, the gas being dried by oil of vitriol. The con- densing and refrigerating apparatus consists of tubular vessels similar to those employed with other liquids, such as ether. One of these machines is daily at work at the Chelsea Ice-Rink, and is capable of making forty tons of ice per day. The skating-floor, which is the invention of Mr. John Gamgee, consists of a number of flattened metallic tubes placed side by side on a bed of concrete or asphalt; the inte- rior of the tubes is kept filled with an uncongeal- able mixture of glycerine and water, which is al- lowed to flow in from an elevated cistern. Clear ice is secured by coating the tubes with water-

Page 380

376 spray, allowing this to freeze, and then sprin- kling again. During last winter, tubes of thin sheet-iron were laid on the floating-bath on the Thames, at Charing Cross, and a skating-floor was frozen. The tewperature of an ice-rink, from its agreeable coolness, has an exhilarating and bracing influence, which dissipates the languor felt in a warm, moist atmosphere. M. Pictet’s machine has interest beyond that of any ordinary, economical producer of ice, for, constructed as it is with all the philosophical thought and scientific knowledge which we usual- ly find bestowed only on instruments of research, it has been applied by its inventor to the purpose of establishing certain simple relations between the latent heat, molecular weights, and tensions of the vapors of volatile liquids. By the application of mathematical reasoning and the use of known Gata, M. Pictet calculates the latent heat of various liquids, and arrives at the following conclusions : 1. Cohesion is a constant quantity for all liquids, THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. 2. The derivate of the Napierian logarithm, . representing the ratio between vapor-tension ang temperature, is constant for all liquids, when they * are compared under the same circumstanceg:¢f | pressure and temperature. 3. The latent heat of all liquids referred % one and the same pressure, multiplied by the molecular weight, referred to a uniform tempers ture, gives a constant product. 4. For all liquids, the difference between: the latent heat at any two temperatures, multiplied _by the molecular weight, is a constant num | ber. a 5. The latent heat of every liquid is a mik | tiple of its specific heat. : | It would be entering too much into detail to | give the method by which these very importam conclusions have been arrived at, but it maybe of interest to some readers to know that an arth | cle on the subject was published by M. Pictet-ia the last volume of the Philosophical Magu | zine, —FPopular Science Review, SCHOPENHAUER IN A NUTSHELL. By F. HUEFFER. Nhis “ Critique of Pure Reason” the great Kant has proved the absolute impenetrability by our knowledge of the essence of things. Our sensual and intellectual organs are not adapted to such knowledge. To perceive at all we must attach to the objects of our perception certain conditions and relations, which in reality are the functions of our own brains, making such percep- tion possible. That is, in order to become aware of objects, we must regard them in their sequence after one another (time), in their various positions of coexistence (space), and finally in their mu- tual relations of cause and effect (causality). The ideality (i. e., objective non-reality) of time, space, and causality, taught by Kant is the final death- blow of the @ priori dogmatism of former systems. For our intellect (using the word in the most gen- eral sense), limited by the conditions alluded to, can never go beyond the appearances of things, the phenomena. To whatever extent the exact sciences may learn the various qualities of these phenomena, there always remains and must fe main a residuum of unknown exsence, indepelt dent of space, time, and causality, and unaltered and undiminished after all the definable qualities alluded to (for instance, in the case of matter, weight, extension, etc.) have been deducted. This unknown essence Kant calls the “ thing in itself” (Ding an sich), thus pronouncing the final and total bankruptcy of human reason in matters metaphysical. .For what positive idea is it poste ble to connect with this or the ctill more nebulow# though grander-sounding terms which later phi: losophers have used ? Is not the “ thing in itself” in reality a decorous disguise of the great wi knowable, the z in the metaphysical equation’of the universe ? Schopenhauer, who thus far bas in essentials followed Kant, here steps in, and solves the rid dle of the sphinx by the simple formula-e= Will. This transfers us at once from the niteness of metaphysical terminology to the fim ‘ realit} the id all be seems to oul from | be ine port t Al observ and ¢: selves, lives @ live an ception this pe ciple i essenc of and This v called perceir time, hent es our bei by dint the on knowle every ¢ to show indissol hand, e action ¢ sciousn its ners indeed | and obs viduatio Wit! We now the mac

Page 381

SCHOPENHAUER IN A NUTSHELL. 877 +. reality of human consciousness. We recognize | verse but the same will in its various stages of the identity of our own being with the essence of | consciousness and individuation? There is only all beings, and the great mystery of the world | the alternative between the acceptance of this seems a total mystery no more. The accession | reality and the theory of absolute egoism, which, to our sture of philosophic knowledge accruing | as Schopenhauer observes, cannot be metaphys- from Schopenhauer’s discovery seems to me to ically disproved, but has never been seriously be incalculable. To jay open its source and im- | started out of a mad-house. Will, then, will one port to the reader will now be my task. and universal, eternal and unchangeable in es- All things, Schopenhauer says, we observe and | sence, although multiform in its temporal appear- observe only through the medium of time, space, | ances, is the key-note of the harmony of the and causality, with one single exception—our- | spheres, the essence of which all the wonders of selves, It is true that our body, in so far as it | the world, from the colossal immovability of a lives and acts, and that which makes our body | granite rock to the subtile texture of the human live and act, our will, are objects of our own per- | brain, are only signs and forms. ception in the ordinary sense. But apart from Let the reader pause here for a moment to this perception, we are conscious of a vital prin- | realize the deep metaphysical import of this dis- ciple in ourselves absolutely identical with the | covery. It establishes the long-sought-for unity essence of our own being, and quite independent | of the world, it fills up the chasm formerly divid- of and beyond our ordinary means of observation, | ing mental and material forces, and at the same This vital principle of the human organism is | time it enables us, from the safe retreat of our called will; it is ever present to our mind, is | own existence, to glance fearlessly at the enor- perceived or rather felt by us independently of ; mous heaving and struggling of the universe in time, space, or causality; it is indeed the imma- | which we are no more entire strangers. It must nent essence of our life, the “ Ding an sich” of | not be thought that this ideal unity can be de- our being.! This recognition of our own being | duced from any previous system, or that Schopen- by dint of self-intuition, Schopenhauer justly calls | hauer has only changed the name of universal the only possible metaphysical or philosophic | force or law into will. Of force or law we know knowledge in the proper sense of the word. With | nothing, of will everything; we are will. Besides, every change or motion of this will, he proceeds | why introduce a difference of term where identity to show, a corresponding change in our body is | of essence is all-important ? And how are we to indissolubly connected. Every moyement of our | know where force ends and will begins? Organ- hand, every beat of our pulse, are the effect of the | ism or consciousness are no criteria in the mat- action of our will, independently of our own con- | ter, as will be seen presently. Spinoza says ofa sciousness of such action. Our body itself, with | falling stone, that if it were conscious it would its nerves and fibres, its blood and its brain, is | ascribe its movement to spontaneous action. indeed nothing but this will become conscious, Schopenhauer adds that the stone in thinking so and observing itself through the principium indi- | would be right. For the law of gravity to which viduationis, | it obeys, and the motive which points out to hu- With the aid of this knowledge of our being, | man will the object of its desire, are convertible we now look at the world around us to find that | terms. the macrocosm of the universe is only the repeti- But I am anticipating. Natura non facit sal- tion on a gigantic scale of our own tangible iden- | tus was one of Schopenbauer’s favorite maxims. tity. We perceive an infinity of outward forms, | To come from the stone to the individual action organic and inorganic; plants, and birds, and | of human will, we must pass through the innu- beasts, and men, all fashioned after the manner | merable gradations of inorganic, organic, and ani- of our own body, or at least submitting to the | mal life. All these Schopenhauer regards as the same laws of material existence. The essence or | various stages of the “ objectivation "—sit venia houmenon of our own body we know to be will ; | verbo—of the will. The history of the world is what, then, can be the one substratum of the uni- | but the history of the struggle of will for con- sciousness and individuality. To attain this it aa ge a hardly y to remind the reader | fashions itself into a thousand forms, all tending toa is the Sinehiecirnitie utes lies volition. Voli- | toward the same goal, and all reckless of the ex- n accordance with | . : *articular motive brought to bear upon it. It is, there- istence of the lower types, of which they them- fore, subject to time and causality, 2 phenomenon in short, | 8¢lves are further developments. Stone and While will is the noumenon or essence. plant, animal and man, are the landmarks of this

Page 382

378 unceasing current of desire. In man, at last, ' will obtains the highest stage of its objectivation. | It becomes object proper because the self-con- scious subject has been created. This, then, is what we discover in looking at | ourselves and the surrounding world through the | medium of Schopenhauer’s philosophy. Will and interminable desire are the essence of our being, and the same desire is at the bottom of the phe- nomena of the world. These phenomena them- | selves, although we recognize their essence by analogy, surround us with bewildering horror. Everywhere we see struggle for existence, species | devouring species, race contending against race ;! even the brute earth seething and bubbling with ' internal fire ready to burst forth at any moment. Such is the spectacle of will in contest wich itself, and devouring its own children with insatiable | hunger. Surely this is not a bright picture, and | Schopenhauer has painted it with the sombrest | hues of despair. He lays bare the revolting | cruelty of Nature, which, at the cost of incon- | ceivable individual suffering, creates new types | only to abandon them again to the universal | doom of destruction. And the same tragedy is repeated in our bosom. Here, also, desire fol- | lows desire never fulfilled, or bearing disappoint- | ment and ever-new desire in its very fulfillment. Here, also, quietude and contentment are vainly sought for, the very nature of will being unrest | and insatiable longing. The beauty and grandeur of Schopenhauer’s language, rivaling the highest efforts of poetry ; the force and vividness with which he depicts the nothingness and misery of existence; the halo with which he surrounds the sufferings of man as the truest and noblest aspirations of his being— all this has vastly contributed to carry his name far beyond the circle of metaphysical inquirers, But is there no escape from this sea of troubles ? ' ! | ' { ‘ 1 Readers who may be struck with the affinity of | Schopenhauer’s doctrine to certain theories of modern Science (an affinity much closer than would appear from my hurried sketch), I must remind that the German phi- losopher’s chief work was written before 1818. But even if this precedence could not te established, Schopenhauer’s claim to originality would not be in any way affected. He stands altogether on a higher level than is attainable to physical science, whose results he uses for his metaphysi- cal purpose in the same measure, as those of psychology, history, comparative philology, or any other empiric disci- pline. He reasons where they observe, or, at best, classi- fy. This ought to be particularly remembered in a coun- try where scientific men proper are apt to assume not only the name but also the function of philosophers. Why the | skillful handling of the microscope or of the vivisector’s | knife should entitle a man to speak ex cathedra on meta- | physical questions it is not easy to perceive. THE POPULAR SCIENCE M ONTHL Y.—SUPPLEMENT. —no compass to guide us to a haven of rest? Schopenhauer has pointed out such a way; be names one, and only one, all-healing balm for the wounds of mankind, and the name of his panaceg is self-negation. We must retrace our steps for a moment. It has been shown that will in ity lower forms is all but void of consciousness, It blindly pursues its struggle for individualization, and all its latent intelligent force (barely sufficient to account for the apparent teleology in Nature} is consumed in this one aim. But the case is dif. ferent in the human organism. Here will at last has become conscious of itself, and its own mig eries are mirrored in the intellect. By dint of: this intellect will is now enabled to paralyze t¢ some degree its own action ; it can intensify this intellectual or ccntemplative power to such ade gree as at last to become a calm looker-on atits own deeds, By thus renouncing itself in its high est stage of conscious development, will may at last find that freedom from suffering, that quies cent contentment which is forever denied to its affirmative efforts (“ Bejahung und Verneinung des Willens zum Leben”). Consistently carried out, this leads to the absolute deadening of indi- vidual desire, to be met with only in certain phases of Buddhism and Christianity ; and Scho penhauer by no means hesitates in adopting the extreme consequences of his doctrine. The high est stage at once of happiness and sanctity hei prone to acknowledge in the monk of the order of La Trappe, or still more in the Indian devotee who in passive contemplation awaits the dissolt- tion of his embodied will to enter the realm of divine non-existence, Nirwana. It is to this part of Schopenhauer’s philosophy that I was chiefly referring when speaking of the influence of his time and of his own personal feel ing on the development of his system. In his dark picture of human suffering he seems pur | posely to blind himself to the intense though transitory enjoyment of success long desired and well earned by arduous labor. A strong man com quering difficulties may rejoice in his power, and, if his will be guided and subdued by the bigher motives of love and self-sacrifice, if in short he be a hero in the true sense of the word, we surely are justified (on Schopenhauer’s own grounds) ia exalting his virtue above the impassive ness of a besotted monk or fakir. There is one other means, Schopenhauer com tinues, of temporarily emerging from the toil and struggle of will into the purer calm of contem- plation; this means is art. The artist and he _ who genuinely loves art contemplate the thow sand-f desire. is the dental ual chi essence est deg no mo where, Schope sense, last sta the bs becomi time, 8 observ: clude it undenis vidual Nature embodi: rarely 0 ize this “Pe can the beautifiu are not, precedes produce: has beer tiful sin, pose wit thought! he to rec others t] T is shou of his bo the narra difficultic indifferer tious opr 1Unde the Prine’

Page 383

UNDERGROUND JERUSALEM. sand-fold formations of Nature and life without desire. Artistic gift, according to Schopenhauer, is the power of divesting things from their acci- dental surroundings, of discovering in the contin- ual change of individual phenomena the lasting essence of the type. Genius proper is the high- est degree of this intuitive knowledge, which asks no more for the how and. the when and the where, but merely for the what. This “ what” Schopenhauer identifies with the idea in Plato’s sense. The Platonic idea he considers to be the last stage of objectivated (I again apologize for the barbarous formation) will previous to its becoming phenomenon. The idea lies beyond time, space, and causality, and is, therefore, not observable by our senses; but this does not pre- clude its metaphysical reality, a reality quite as undeniable and almost as tangible as the indi- vidual phenomena which are its subdivisions. Nature herself is continually struggling for the embodiment of this ideal type, but attains it rarely or never. How, then, can art hope to real- ize this archetypal beauty of form ? “ People believe by imitating Nature. But how can the artist know the works of Nature that are beautiful and worthy of imitation among those that are not, unless his anticipation of the beautiful precedes experience? Moreover, has Nature ever produced a perfectly beautiful human being? It has been said that the artist must collect the beau- tiful single parts of various individuals, and com- pose with them a beautiful whole—a perverse and thoughtless opinion. For we ask again, How is he to recognize that such forms are beautiful and others the reverse? .A posteriori and from mere 879 experience the recognition of the beautiful is im- possible; it must always be at least partly a priori. . . . The fact of our appreciating human beauty on seeing it, and of the artist recognizing it with such distinctness as to be able to reproduce it without ever having seen it, and to surpass Nature herself—this fact is explained by the other fact that we ourselves are that will, the adequate ob- jectivation of which in its highest development is thus appreciated or discovered. . . . True genius discovers in the single phenomenon its idea. He understands the half-uttered words of Nature, and himself pronounces clearly her stam- mered utterance. He impresses the type of Beauty, vainly attempted by her in thousand-fold forma- tions, on his hard marble, and places it before Na- ture, saying, as it were, ‘See here what it was thy desire to express.’ ” This is one of the two passages which the greatest artist among poets, Goethe, especially admired in the work of the greatest poet among philosophers. This testimonial alone ought to be sufficient to protect Schopenhauer from the sus- picion of exaggerated idealism in art. He does not undervalue the necessity in artistic produc- tion of experience external and internal, of real- ism, as we should say; but this realism ought always to be illumined by the supernal light of ideal intuition. Neither does he confine his re- quirement of a typical background to representa- tions of the beautiful or harmonious proper. Sir John Falstaff or Mrs, Gamp are realizations of Platonic ideas, no less than the Madonna della Sedia or the Venus of Milo. —Fortnightly Review. UNDERGROUND JERUSALEM’ T is to be regretted that Captain Warren should have thought fit to give up so much I of his book upon the exploration of Jerusalem to the narration of personal grievances and by-gone difficulties, early slights suffered at the hands of indifferent boards and secretaries at home, vexa- tious opposition and jealous interference on the ‘Underground Jerusalem: An Account of some of the Principal Difficulties encountered in its Exploratior, and the Results obtained, ete. By Charles Warren, Cap- _ E, F.G.S,, ete. London: Richard Bentley & Son. part of pashas, consuls, or rival investigators on the spot. The bistory of a praiseworthy and in many respects a noble work is marred by these discordant tones. Whatever may have been the “grievance” which Captain Warren claims as an Englishman’s birthright, it must be idle to discuss wrongs of six or seven years’ standing ; while by harping upon these he westes the op. | portunity of doing justice to his own real achieve- ments, and to the substantial gains secured by the enterprise under his control: If the solid re- sults of the Palestine Exploration Fund have thus

Page 384

880 far failed to come up to the mark fixed at the outset by its promoters, if few striking or sen- sational discoveries have been announced, and many of the disputed sites and other topographi- eal or archeological problems remain as uncer- tain as of old, it is beyond dispute that a great deal has been added to our knowledge both of the Holy Land at large and of its sacred capital. The large-scale ordnance map, shortly, we hope, to be published, will alone amply repay the outlay upon the expedition. The labor bestowed upon the identification of sites, chiefly by means of a heedful study of the existing vernacular names, has supplied innumerable points of contact, in addition to those of previous less systematic trav- elers and explorers, between the Bible-text and the present features of the country. In Jerusa- lem itself, though only here and there has the surface of the soil been more than scratched, while local jealousy has forbidden ground even to be struck where the problem of problems awaits solution within the sacred area of the Haram, there has, notwithstanding, been a great deal done to settle the basis for future inquiries, and to narrow the boundaries of investigation, while establishing particular points of no mean value. Of the labors and hardships undergone in work- ing up to this point of topographical knowledge the book before us gives a sketch as graphic in its details as it is modest and retiring in its tone. In the annals of the distinguished corps of royal engineers there can be few tales of patient toil and hourly risk of life more worthy of record than those which make up the unassuming nar- rative of “ Underground Jerusalem.” Shafts had to be sunk through rubbish and broken stones, which in the course of centuries had ac- cumulated to a depth of a hundred feet or more. One main difficulty in that treeless country was the providing the wooden frames with which the shafts had to be lined. Low and narrow galler- ies were then driven horizontally to right or left, in which the miner, often on bended knee, by the dim light of an oil-lamp, worked his perilous way through layer after layer of loose earth or stone-chippings, loose stones occasionally burst- ing in upon him like water, or huge blocks crash- ing in upon the void thus made, crumpling up the wooden frames like paper, and threatening the explorer with instant death. No wonder that Captain Warren could speak of the strain upon the nerves during this work as intense, re- quiring the greatest fortitude and self-control on the part of himself as leader, of the hardy and intrepid corporal or sergeant who stoutly sec- THE POPULAR SCIENCE -MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. onded him, and the much-enduring fellahin who had to be alternately coaxed and drilled into the requisite obedience. Even the power of restrain. ing the involuntary movement of the museles would fail at times under such tension, so that their limbs refused to obey the will, and the men had to be told off to duty above-ground until they once more became cool and collected. Cap. tain Warren himself became familiar with thig strange effect of nervous influence. Through all this he was often left without remittances, the fund being his debtor to the full extent of hig private means. Added to these constant draws backs, and perhaps most formidable of all, were the jealousies of Jews and Mohammedans alike, whose holy places or associations were threat ened by Frankish intrusion, and the dull and stupid opposition of the Turkish pashas, whe were at length generally best dealt with bys front of bold defiance. All things considered; Captain Warren may well be proud of the results he has to show from his seven years’ researches, Until the time comes when a more liberal firma or a greater relaxation of local prejudices open’ the area of the Noble Sanctuary itself to direct and thorough excavation, it is not clear what fresh discoveries of value are to be looked for within the immediate range of his investigations; What may be laid down as absolutely fixed; and as forming the groundwork of all further de tail, is the approximate parallelogram of solid masonry forming an artificial face to the native fortress of the Haram mount. That the date of this grand wall goes back in part to the time of Solomon is to be inferred from the masons’ marks in red paint found upon the lowest tier of stones near the southeast angle, and held, on the av thority of scholars so well qualified as Dr. Peter- mann and Mr. Deutsch, who saw them on the spot, to be Pheenician letters. Even though the other portions of the wall, which here and else where attains from the base (through the rub bish) the full height of 150 feet assigned to it by Josephus, be referred to the time of Herod, there is convincing proof that the present Haram ares was, in the time of our Lord, included within the circuit of the city wall. The idea, then, of the Sakhrah, or holy rock, in the very centre of the area, having been the site of the Saviour’s bary- ing-place—the key of Mr. Fergusson’s xf nary position—must be sent to the same limbo as the wonderful theory of the Turanians being the only builders, and Stonehenge being @ ist reliquary tope. No criminal, it is well knows, 2 | could by Jewish law be executed or buried Wilk Mosler as the harmo conclu tain V origin: thresh on a le on the it—the cavern threshi Tn this sons, ¥ themse over tl the ter upon tl altered to all a ary, wit he was Sanctua up pass bish, or make h chambe the tem sketch-] We all poin the pro: the bold detail, construc Warren troversis agreed i luded tc the topc have to 48 this 2. “ We Ring He were nec and alter follow th ic accoun

Page 385

in the city limits. We have, moreover, the ex- press testimony of St. John’s gospel (xix. 41) to the fact that in the place where Jesus was cruci- fied was the garden where he was buried. We are, then, to conceive a malefactor crucified and buried within a few yards at most of the Holy of Holies itself! The additional reverence paid by Moslems and Jews alike to this remarkable rock as the site of the threshing-floor of Araunah, in harmony with the direct evidence of Scripture, is conclusively borne out by the researches of Cap- tain Warren. Just such a place as this must originally have been is the customary native threshing-floor at the present day, a breezy spot on a lofty plateau of rock—in this case not quite on the ridge of Moriah, but a few feet south of it—the ridge or peak itself being occupied by the eavern for corn, the usual accompaniment to the threshing-floor, in which the grain is garnered. In this cavern, tradition says, Araunah and his sons, when they saw the destroying angel, hid themselves through fear. Be that as it may, over this hallowed site David designed to build the temple which his son was to execute, and upon the same spot was built the second temple, altered and enlarged by Ilerod. Here is the key to all authentic reconstruction of the lost sanctu- ary, with its courts and precincts. Forbidden as he was to break the sacred surface of the Noble Sanctuary, Captain Warren succeeded in opening up passages and staircases long closed with rub- bish, or blocked with later masonry, so as to make his way from several points of approach to chambers or spaces beneath the surface where the temple originally stood, as laid down in the sketch-plan accompanying his work. We cannot say that his description follows in all points the outlines given in the plan, or that the proofs he has to adduce justify throughout the boldness with which he fills up much of the detail. In the chapter describing, or rather re- constructing in idea, the original temple, Captain Warren coolly tells us he has “ignored all con- troversial points,” and has assumed that “all are agreed in the identifications which have been al- luded to.” What, then, will sober students of the topography and archeology of the holy city have to say to so assured a summary of exploits 88 this 2 _““We have been able to point out the work of Ring Herod, and the work of Solomon, and, if it Were necessary, we could identify the additions and alterations of the Roman emperors. We can follow the description of Josephus and the Talmud- “accounts, and find everything fall into its place UNDERGROUND JERUSALEM. 381 with the ease and facility only to be obtained from correct identifications, We can stand on the spot where the sacrifices were made, where the high- priest stood once a year before the ark of the merey- seat, where St. Simeon received our Lord, where the Sanhedrim listened to his questions, where the money-changers’ tables were overturned, where the lame man was made whole, where St. Paul was carried up the steps to the Antonia, where St. James the Just stood before he was cast down. All this information is the result of our explora- tions, and though all do not agree with me in my indications, yet I find more doso each year. When I came back to England, I did not expect our re- sults would be appreciated for ten years ; five have now passed away, and great progress has been made.” To Captain Warren's eye the temple stands forth in real form and dimensions as if still exist- ing. “ The altar s‘ands over the western end of the souterrain No. V.” (in his ground-plan), where to other eyes nothing is now visible but blank and level turf. This remarkable tunnel he con- siders to have served in connection with the great water-system necessary for flushing the temple-courts. Whether it led from the altar to the blood-passage, discovered near the southeast angle of the Noble Sanctuary, or connected the gates Mokad and Nitsots with the temple water- works, or whether it formed the underground communication with gate Nicanor, under which it runs, or even served all these purposes to- gether, he is unable to decide. But, if used for the discharge of the blood, this passage, having its orifice twenty feet above the foot of the outer wall, would have sadly disfigured the brilliant white masonry which must have caught the eye of the traveler or pilgrim drawing near to the holy mount. Another rock-hewed drain, far more suitable to this purpose, has been traced under the Triple Gate. We see no proof of the identification of Mokad, the western gate, with Captain Warren’s tunnel, or tank, No. L, or of Nitsots, the eastern gate, with the passage leading down to the Sakhrah, near which he also finds a place for the chamber of Parvah, a magi- cian (according to the Talmud), who “ digged a vault underground till he could come to see what the high-priest did on the day of expiation.” Captain Warren seems to have made, even by the admission of the party at home, whose crotchets he had all along stoutly combated, a real hit in the discovery of the north wall of the temple, not far from the gate Tadi, But this he was not allowed to follow up, through the jealousy of the pashas, while he has the provocation of finding

Page 386

382 it appropriated by the enemy as “ the south wall of the basilica of Constantine.” In the Sakhrah itself his zeal for investigation spurred him to a perilous exploit, with but little to show for what might have cost him his life, besides seriously compromising his associates. Getting three ladies, of equal courage and curiosity, to keep the at- tendant zaptichs in talk at a distant corner of the mosque, with the late Captain Warry, R.E., on the lookout to give warning, he vaulted over the railing of the Sakhrah, which he had proviously reconnoitred, and with a light iron lever proceeded to dislodge one of the stones which formed the flooring of the cave. An old wrench of the mus- cles causing his shoulder to fail with the weight of the flag—which was three feet by two feet six, and nearly four inches thick—down went the stone with a thundering crash into the hollow beneath, which was, after ail, no more than three feet deep. Despite the frantic terror of the Mos- lem friend, who unwillingly backed him in the unhallowed enterprise, Captain Warren dived into the hole, but could neither replace the stone nor make anything out of the mysterious abyss, be- yond the dubious surmise that it formed a gutter to carry off the blood of the sacrifices. Happily, no harm came to the adventurous party, and in some unknown way the stone in a few days was found restored to its place. It is in the narrative of personal adventures such as this, rather than in archxological discov- eries or facts, that the attraction of Captain War- ren’s volume consists. His account of the Jor- dan Valley, his trip to Jericho, and his exploration of the mounds there, though repaying him with little more than bits of crumbling brick; his visit to the Samaritans, who form an interesting group as they are photographed at prayer, ard of whose quaint yet repulsive Passover feast- THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. ings he was an amused witners, show him to pag. sess considerable powers of lively writing. Thiy Samaritan remnant comprises no more than one hundred and fifty persons. Their physiognomy, as well as their native dress and attitude, is strongly marked, as is also that of the Ashkeng. zim, or German and Polish Jews, the whole body of whom in Jerusalem is no less than 6,000, One of the most valuable parts of Captain Wan ren’s book, as well as the most novel in itself, ig his statistical account of the resources of Pale. tine, the various classes of the population, and the different trades and callings among whith they are distributed. No fewer than 1,320 shops were examined in the course of this exhaustive survey of Jerusalem ; the trades, the numberof active men, and their religion, being carefully noted down. The only manufacture the city cit boast of is that of scap, of which our author gives ample details. Indigo-dyeing forms @ industry of some importance. Captain Warten speaks of five potteries in Jerusalem, all worked by Moslems. It was probably after his time that the impulse was given to this handicraft, which has enriched many an archeological cellee- tion, notably the Imperial Museum at Berlin, with ingenious specimens of sham pottery. Captain Warren closes his somewhat desultory volume with some strictures on the past management of the Palestine Exploration Fund, in which we fed to a great extent inclined to concur. But for his complaint that we have not long ere this had & full and systematic statement of the results of excavation in Jerusalem, with a conclusive se tlement of the topographical problems der dispute, we fail to see any more solid ground than his own failure to improve thé opportunity. —Saturday Review, — BUTTERFLIES WAY in the far north of the arctic re- gions, floating in myriads upon the sur- face of the northern seas, and constituting vast fields of life, through which ships may sail for days and nights together, are found multitudes of small animals, to which the appropriate name of “ butterflies of the sea” has been given. To ] OF THE SEA. watch one of these beings, pursuing its way through the waters by means of two wing like appendages springing from the sides of the neck, and to note the delicate body, inclosed in some cases in a delicate glassy shell, the comparisoa or resemblance to the aérial insect is by 3 — means far-fetched or strained. And im organi may b interes the na of plea Th mal s¢ They 2 to our sels, et beings. the wh ing to ralists ralists distine every § be plac class, terflies “ wing- enough which 1 Bes by aid ean de from tl appear night o well ret mals s¢ of dark Thus, ¢ these li struct a ive hou of the « clock” closing Beir possess however beings, most re known | there a form, a called € is thus structur elongate being Cc and forr lar shap mal, pr

Page 387

organization and habits, these little organisms may be found to present some points of great interest to the non-technical reader; while to the naturalist they have ever afforded subjects of pleasant study and instruction. The position of the sea-butterflies in the ani- mal scale is of sufficiently well-determined kind. They are molluscous animals, that is, are allied to our ordinary shell-fish, such as oysters, mus- sels, etc., as well as to the cuttle-fishes and allied beings. Their nearest relations are undoubtedly the whelks, cowries, and other shell-fish, belong ing to the great molluscan class known to natu- ralists as the Gasteropoda ; and while some natu- ralists regard the sea-butterflies as forming a distinct group of themselves, others, and with every show of reason, maintain that they should be placed merely as a branch of the gasteropod class, The scientific appellation of our sea-but- terflies is the Pteropoda—a name signifying “wing-footed,” and which is thus of expressive enough kind, when we consider the manner in which they flit over the watery wastes. Besides being able to swim quickly and well by aid of their wing-like fins, the sea-butterflies can descend into the ocean-depths, or ascend from these depths to the surface, at will. They appear further to come to the surface chiefly at night or in the twilight; and, as a naturalist has well remarked, each species or kind of these ani- mals seems to have its own and special degree of darkness in which it ascends from the depths. Thus, did we know sufficient of the history of these little animals, we might be able to con- struct a pteropod clock by watching the respect- ive hours of their appearance at the surface of the sea; just as the botanist forms a “floral clock” by watching the times of the opening and closing of flowers, Being “shell-fish,” the pteropods usually possess a shell; this latter structure, it must, however, be noted, not being developed in all beings, A very beautiful and at the same time most representative kind of sea-butterfly is that known by the name of the Hyalea, of which kind there are several distinct species; and in this form, as well as in another well-known species called Cleodora, a shell is developed. The shell is thus seen to consist of a very delicate, glassy structure, somewhat triangular in shape, and of elongated form in Cleodora; that of Hyalwa being composed of two plates united together, and forming a small shell of elongated or globu- lar shape. The little head-extremity of the ani- mal, provided with its “wings,” protrudes in | BUTTERFLIES OF THE SEA. 883 each case from the front or open extremity of the sheil. Another very familiar sea-butterfly is the Clio, which does not possess a shell, but ap- pears as a little oblong body about an inch in length, and terminating in a lower pointed ex- tremity. No part of the structure of the sea-butterflies presents more surprising details than that of the head and its appendages ; the latter consisting of tentacles, jaws, and like apparatus, exercising the sense of touch and other offices. Thus, on each side of the mouth of Clio, we discover three fleshy appendages, which at first sight might appear to consist of simple tentacles or organs of touch. When, however, we bring the microscope to bear upon these bodies, we note the interesting fact that the surface of each is literally studded over with numerous minute specks, which, when more fully magnified, are seen to be of hollow cylindri- cal shape, and to contain each about twenty little suckers. These suckers may be protruded at will from their respective cylinders, so as to constitute an efficient apparatus for seizing and detaining particles of food. Thus if we consider that each of the six tentacles bears, on an average, about | 8,000 of the cylindrical bodies, and that each of the latter in turn contains about twenty suckers, we reach the enormous number of 360,000 suck- ers, as constituting the prehensile armament of a single Clio, itself of very small size. And imagi- nation may assist us in its scientific aspects bet- ter than any other intellectual process, in endeav- oring to form some idea of the extreme delicacy of the muscles and structures whereby the protru- sion and retraction of the suckers are secured. Two fleshy “ hoods” serve to inclose the ten- tacles when the latter are not in use and are re- tracted ; and other filaments exist which may be used to subserve the sense of touch in these forms. Within the little mouth of the sea-but- terflies, as also well exemplified in Clio, peculiar jaws and a curious “ tongue” exist, for the mas- tication of food. Each jaw is a conical structure, which literally bristles with sharp, spiny teeth ; and the “tongue” is likewise studded over with recurved hooks, which also aid in rasping down or triturating the nutrient matters. And as com- pleting the alimentary apparatus of the sea-but- terflies, we find a well-developed throat, stomach, a large liver, salivary glands, and other addenda; while a heart is also present, along with a system of blood-vessels for the conveyance of the vital fluid through the body. The breathing-organs in some of these beings are well developed, and appear in the form of delicate gille, or analogous

Page 388

384 structures, which are sometimes, as in Hyalea, inclosed within a special chamber, but in others, such as Clio, are apparently unprotected, and of indistinct nature. A very large “ brain”’—or at any rate a mass of nervous matter corresponding in function to the great nerve-centre of higher animals—is devel- oped in the sea-butterflies, and can be discerned lying beneath the throat, and forming, in fact, a kind of internal collar around the gullet. And nerves accordingly radiate throughout the body frum this central mass, and supply the various parts of the organism with feeling and vital power. Especially, as we might expect, do we find the delicate tentacles of the head to receive a large nerve-supply ; and we may also note the presence of two eyes, situated on the back of tke neck. These latter organs are not of a very high order of development, but doubtless subserve the func- tion of guiding their possessors in their marine flights. It is very curious to observe that, in the course of their development, the members of the higher class of the Gasteropoda already alluded to, at one period evince a strange likeness to the form of | our sea-butterflies. The young whelks and their allies first appear on the stage of life as little free- swimming bodies, which move through the waters, each by means of a pair of wing-like lobes which spring from the sides of the head. Observing such a form, we cannot but be struck with its close resemblance to the mature form of our sea- butterflies—a resemblance which is, however, wholly lost as the young gasteropod advances fur- ther in its development to attain its adult stage. The food of our sea-butterflies appears to con- sist of the more minute marine crustacea, which, with themselves, haunt the surface of the sea. THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. Thus these small beings exist on organismegf still leeser maguitude. But in turn the sea-but | terflies form a large proportion of the food of the largest of animais—the whales themselye, | Drawn in myriads into the capacious mouth of the Greenland whale, with the floods of wate which the great monster of the deep from timg to time imbibes, the sea-butterflies remain @ tangled in the ‘‘baleen” or whalebone plates the jaws, and are thereafter swallowed as ment; and the species Clio borealis, from this latter circumstance, becomes known to us unde the popular name of “ whales’ food.” also prey upon the butterflies of the ocean, which thus contribute largely to the support of mud higher forms than themselves. In the Medite, ranean Sea, on the Australian coasts, and inthe Atlantic Ocean, the sea-butterflies also occur, bul not in such numbers as in the far north, whitheh to the very home of the pteropods, British enten — prise has advanced on a noble mission of dig | covery. a Small as are all the existing representatives the sea-butterflies, it may prove interesting te note in the last place that, in past epochs of this world’s history, several relatively gigantic mem bers of this class appear to have been developed, In some of the oldest (Silurian) rocks, large shells of Pteropoda are discovered as fossils; onee® tinct species, known as Conularia, attaining ® lengtb of about a foot, and a breadth of fullya inch—dimensions these, of giant kind, as em pared with the shells of living sea-butterflié And in more recent rocks, the small, delicalé shells of our living Cleodore and Hyalea may be found in a fossil state; proving thus to us the ancient ancestry of the existing “ butterflies of the sea.””—Chambers’s Journal. - Wt ong Ground-Water and Zymotic Disease. — Mr. Baldwin Latham, in a paper on the sanitary importance of hydro-geological surveys, cites his own observations at Croydon to show the rela- tions between epidemics of zymotic disease and the state of the level of the ground-water. There were sixty-nine houses, some with their cess- pools lying to the north and others with their cesspools lying south of them; in both, the wells were on the opposite side of the house from the cesspools. In the former houses there had al- ways been entire immunity from zymotic disease, 1 wie sii while in the latter the tenants had at different times suffered from this class of diseases, Cate — ful investigation showed that the current of ie derground water in that locality was from south, east to northwest. Of course, in the cases where this current first passed by or through the ees pool and then reached the well, the latter "a contaminated ; and from the direction of the eit rent it is plain that this condition was in the case of those houses which had het — cesspools on the south and their wells @ the north. p= th the Age time of popular were bu or legal and “h Haggad eal, or directne disappe: the day lyptic. mnysteri bolic ai mouths held fo vengean and ear spiritual the lim range, Hellenis influence: of Alex was con tianity, | of the € of meta Absolut: and the interpre teaching of thou tianity, « of the n risen, an most pa ficial, openly ji elders he 1 This new editic Course Wi been susp ¢ Scotlan

Page 389

THE BIBLE. 385 THE BIBLE.’ By Proresson W. ROBERTSON SMITH, or roe University or ABERDEEN, II1.—THE NEW TESTAMENT. ELATION of the Earliest Christianity to | (Matthew xv.). It was his part not to destroy, the Literary and Intellectual Activity of | but fill up into spiritual completeness the teach- the Age.—In the literature of Palestine at the | ing of the old dispensation (Matthew v.); and time of Christ we distinguish a learned and a | herein he attached himself directly to the pro- popular element. The learned class, or scribes, | phetic conception of the law in Deuteronomy were busy on their twofold structure of Halacha, | (Matthew xxii. 37, 7). And not only in his or legal tradition and inference, supplementing | ethical teaching, but in his personal sense of fel- and “hedging in” the Pentateuchal law; and lowship with the Father, and in the inner con- Haggada, or fantastic exegesis, legendary, ethi- | sciousness of his Messianic mission, Jesus stood eal, or theosophic, under which the religious | directly on the Old Testament, reading in the directness of the Old Testament almost wholly | Psalms and Prophets, which so vainly exercised disappeared. The popular religious literature of | the unsympathetic exegesis of the scribes, the the day seems again to have been mainly apoca- | direct and unmistakable image of his own ex- lyptic. The people never wearied of these | perience and work as the founder of the spiritual mysterious revelations couched in strange sym- kingdom of God (cf. especially, Luke xxiv. 25, bolic and enigmatic forms, and placed in the | f:). Thus, Jesus found his first disciples among mouths of ancient patriarchs and worthies, which | men who were strangers to the theological culture held forth golden visions of deliverance and | of the day (Acts iv. 13), cherishing no literature vengeance in a shape which, because crasser | but the Old Testament witness to Christ, and and earthlier, was also more palpable than the | claiming no wisdom save the knowledge of him. spiritual hopes of the old prophets. Beyond | At first, indeed, the church at Jerusalem was the limits of Palestine thought took a wider | content to express its new life in simple exercises range. In adopting the Greek language the | of faith and hope, without any attempt to define Hellenistic Jews had also become open to the | its relation to the past dispensation, and without influences of foreign speculation, and the schools | breaking with the legal ordinances of the temple. of Alexandria, whose greatest teacher, Philo, | But the spread of Christianity to the Gentiles was contemporary with the foundation of Chris- | compelled the principles of the new religion to tianity, had in great measure exchanged the faith | measure themselves openly with the Judaism of of the Old Testament for a complicated system | the Pharisees. In the heathen mission of Paul of metaphysico-theological speculations upon the | the ceremonial law was ignored, and men became Absolute Being, the Divine Wisdom, the Logos, | Christians without first becoming proselytes. The and the like, which by the aid of allegorical | stricter pharisaically-trained believers were hor- interpretation were made to appear as the true | ror-stricken. The old apostles, though they could teaching of Hebrew antiquity. To these currents not refuse the right hand of fellowship to workers of thought the relation of the earliest Chris- | so manifestly blessed of God as Paul and Barnabas, tianity, entirely absorbed in the one great fact | were indisposed to throw themselves into thenew of the manifestation of God in Christ crucified, | current, and displayed considerable vacillation in risen, and soon to return in glory, was for the | their personal conduct. Paul and his associates most part hostile, when it was not merely super- | had to fight their own battle against the constant ficial. With the spirit of the scribes Jesus had | efforts of Judaizing emissaries, and the rabbini- openly joined issue. In the legal tradition of the | cal training acquired at the feet of Gamaliel en- elders he saw the commandment of God annulled | abled the apostle of the heathen to meet the Judaizers on their own ground, and to work out mm File ome was contributed by Prof, Smith to the | the contrast of Christianity and Pharisaism with edilion of the EXcycLopzp1a BRITANNICA, now in : ‘ . thoroughness only possible to one who knew course of publication ; and for writing it the author has . nant suspended from the ministry by the Free Church | Pbharisaism from long experience, and had learned ¥ Scotland, and is to be tried for heresy. | the gospel not from the tradition or teaching of 25

Page 390

386 THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. men, but by the revelation of Jesus Christ (Gala- tians i, 12). The relation of the first Christians to the cur- rent apocalyptic was of a different kind, The Messianic hopes already current among the first hearers of the gospel were unquestionably of apocalyptic color. And though the contents of | Liferature.—We have seen that the earliest cur Christian hope were new, and expressed them- | rents of Christian life and thought stood ina selves in a revival of prophetic gifts (1 Corinth- very secondary relation to the intellectual ae. ians xii, 10; Acts xi. 27, etc.), it was not a tivity of the period. The only books from which matter of course that apocalyptic forms should the Apostolic Church drew largely and freely be at once dropped, especially as Old Testament | were those of the Old Testament, and the Chris prophecy itself had inclined in its later stages | tian task of proclaiming the gospel was not in the toward an increasing concreteness in delineat- | first instance a literary task at all. The sft ing the Messianic kingdom, and so had at least writings of Christianity, therefore, were of an formed the basis for many apocalyptic concep- | occasional kind. The care of so many churéhés tions. The apocalyptic book continued to be compelled Paul to supplement his personal efforts read, as appears from the influence of the book | by epistles, in which the discussion of incidental of Enoch on the epistle of Jude; and, after the | questions and the energetic defense of his gos new spirit of prophecy had died away, a Chris- | pel against the Judaizers, are interwoven with . tian apocalyptic followed the Jewish models. | broad applications of the fundamental principle But the way in which a genuine Christian proph- | of the gospel to the whole theory and practiced ecy, full of “the testimony of Jesus” (Revela- | Christian life. In these epistles, and generallyia tion xix. 10), retained not a little of the apoca- the teaching of Paul and his associates, Christian lyptic manner (mainly, it is true, in dependence | thought first shaped for itself a suitable literary on the book of Daniel), appears clearly in the | vehicle. It was in Greek that the mission tothe pel is an unhistorical product of abstract refleg. tion. In the same way other attacks on the genuineness of New Testament writings are | backed up by the supposed detection of Orphie elements in the epistle of James, and so forth, Motives and Origin of the First Christian Revelation of John, which, whether we accept the prevalent tradition of its apostolic author- ship, or, with some ancients and many moderns, ascribe it to a different John, is at least an undis- puted monument of the prophecy of the apostolic age (according to modern critics, earlier than the fall of Jerusalem). | Gentiles was carried on, for that language was everywhere understood. Already in the mouths _ of Hellenistic Jews, and in the translation of the | Old Testament, the xowh, or current Greek of the ‘Macedonian period, had been tinctured with 8 | mitie elements, and adapted to express the idess of the old dispensation. Now, a new modifics | The influence on Christianity of Hellenistic | tion was necessary, and soon in the circle of the philosophy, and, in general, of that floating spirit | Pauline churches specifically Christian ideas be of speculation which circulated at the time in the | came inseparably bound up with words which t meeting-places of Eastern and Western thought, | the heathen had a very different sense, Whether was for the most part later than the New Testa- ment period. Yet the Alexandrian education of a man like Apollos could not fail to give some color to his preaching, and in the epistle to the Hebrews, whose author, a man closely akin to Paul, is not a direct disciple of Jesus (Hebrews ii. 3), the theological reflection natural to the | second generation, which no longer stood so immediately under the overpowering influence of the manifestation of Christ, is plainly affected in some points by Alexandrian views. In the ease of other books the assertion of foreign speculative influences is generally bound up with the denial of the authenticity of the book in question. That the gospel of John presents a view of the person of Christ dependent on Phi- lonic speculation is not exegetically obvious, but is simply one side of the assertion that this gos- | the epistolary way of teaching was used upon 0 | casion by the older apostles before the labors of Paul, is not clear; for most scholars have é clined to accept the ingenious view which see the epistle of James the earliest writing of the | New Testament, The other epistles are certaisily later, and the way in which several of themate addressed, not to a special community in refer- ence to a special need, but to a wide cirele of teaching by letter which extended from Paul net only to so like-minded a writer as the author of Hebrews (Apollos or Barnabas ?), but to the old apostles and their associates. Besides epistles we have in the New Tests ment a solitary book of Christian prophecy, ® a fourfold account of the gospel history, with ® continuation of the third gospel in the Acts readers, seems to presuppose a formed custom of : the J of th field be de confir bearit Je the or nary | (Mish: words down pel co time v must | gelical dition | earlies' in the of mar gested | dition ( is not lowed t Seems t at all, tl —did n ply thre underst: very wel Church ; compose Peter, Hierapol tion whe hot an er Oa the o nizes the first gosy out the ; that Matt bined wit (Aramaic best Gree £ospel is 1 tradition

Page 391

the Apostles. The origin and mutual relations of the gospels form at the present moment the field of numerous controversies which can only be dealt with in separate articles. We must here confine ourselves to one or two points of general bearing. Jewish disciples were accustomed to retain the oral teaching of their masters with extraordi- nary tenacity and verbal exactness of memory (Mishna, Aboth iii. 8; Edaioth i. 3), and so the words of Jesus might for some time be handed down by merety oral tradition. But did the gos- pel continue to be taught orally alone up to the time when the extant gospels were written ? or must we assume the existence of earlier evan- gelical writings forming a link between oral tra- dition and the narratives we now possess? The earliest external evidence on this point is given in the prologue to Luke’s gospel, which speaks of many previous essays toward a regularly di- gested evangelical history on the basis of the tra- dition (whether exclusively oral or partly written is not expressed) of eye-witnesses who haé fol- lowed the whole course of Christ’s ministry. It seems to be implied that if the eye-witnesses wrote at all, they—at least, so far as was known to Luke —did not compose a regular narrative, but sim- ply threw together a mass of reminiscences. This understanding of the words of the evangelist agrees very well with the uniform tradition of the old Church as to the second gospel, viz., that it was composed by Mark from material furnished by Peter. This tradition goes back to Papias of Hierapolis, about 150 a. p., but it is a fair ques- tion whether the second gospel as we have it is not an enlarged edition of Mark’s original work. Oa the other hand, ecclesiastical tradition recog- nizes the apostle Matthew as the author of the first gospel, but does so in a way that really bears out the statements of Luke. For the tradition that Matthew wrote the first gospel is always com- bined with the statement that he wrote in Hebrew (Aramaic). But from the time of Erasmus the best Greek scholars have been convinced that the gospel is nota translation. Either, then, the whole tradition of a directly apostolic Aramaic gospel 88 mistake, caused by the existence among the dudaizing Christians in Palestine of an apocryphal Gospel according to the Hebrews,” which was by them ascribed to Matthew, but was, in fact, a corrupt edition of our Greek gospel, or, on the other hand, what Matthew really wrote in Ara- male was different from the book that now bears bis name, and only formed an important part of the material from which it draws. The latter so- THE BIBLE. 387 lution is naturally suggested by the oldest form of the tradition; for what Papias says of Mat- thew is that he wrote ra Adyia, the oracles, an ex- pression which, though much disputed, seems to be most fairly understood not of a complete gos- pel, but of a collection of the words of Christ. And if so, all the earliest external evidence points to the conclusion that the synoptical gospels are non-apostolic digests of spoken and written apos- tolic tradition, and that the arrangement of the earlier material in orderly form took place only gradually and by many essays. With this the internal evidence agrees. The first three gospels are often in such remarkable accord, even in mi- nute and accidental points of expression, that it is certain either that they copied one another, or that all have some sources in common. The first explanation is inadequate, both from the na- ture of the discrepancies that accompany the agreement of the three narratives, and from the impossibility of assigning absolute priority to any one gospel. For example, even if we suppose that the gospel of Mark was used by the other two authors, or, conversely, that Mark was made up mainly from Matthew and Luke, it is still ne- cessary to postulate one or more earlier sources to explain residuary phenomena ; and the longer the problem is studied the more general is the conviction of critics that these sources cannot possibly have been merely oral. It appears from what we have already seen that a considerable portion of the New Testament is made up of writings not directly apostolical, and a main problem of criticism is to determine the relation of these writings, especially of the gospels, to apostolic teaching and tradition. But, behind all such questions as the relative priority of Matthew or of Mark, the weight to be assigned to the testimony of Papias, and so forth, lies a series of questions much more radical in char- acter, by which the whole theological world is at present agitated. Can we say of all the New Tes- tament books that they are either directly apos- tolic, or, at least, stand in immediate dependence on genuine apostolic teaching, which they hon- estly represent ? or must we hold, with an influ- ential school of modern critics, that a large pro- portion of the books are direct forgeries, written in the interest of theological tendencies, to which they sacrifice without hesitation the genuine his- tory and teaching of Christ and his apostles ? There are, of course, positions intermediate to these two views, and the doctrine of tendencies is not held by many critics, even of the Tiibingen school, in its extreme form. Yet, as a matter of

Page 392

¢ 388 THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. fact, every book in the New Testament, with the ' hand, they try to bring positive proof that een exception of the four great epistles of St. Paul, | tain books were unknown in circles where, if is at present more or Jess the subject of contro- ; genuine, they must have circulated. But suche versy, and interpolations are asserted even in | negative is in its very nature difficult to prove these. The details of such a controversy can | Probably the strongest argument of the kind js only be handled in separate articles, but a few | that brought to show that Papias did not know general remarks may be useful here. the gospel of John. But we know Papias The arguments directed by modern critics ; through Eusebius; and, though the latter is cag against the genuineness or credibility of the New | ful to mention all references to Gisputed books, Testament books do not for the most part rely much on external evidence. Except in one or | | it does not appear that it was part of his design to cite testimony to a book so universally allowed two cases (particularly that of 2 Peter), the ex-| as John’s gospel. And Papias does give test ternal evidence in favor of the books is as strong | mony to the first epistle of John, which is hardly as one can fairly expect, even where not alto- gether decisive. We shall see, when we come to | | speak of the canon, that, toward the close of the | second century, the four gospels, the acts, thir- teen epistles of Paul, the first epistles of Peter and John, and the book of Revelation, were re- ceived in the most widely-separated churches with remarkable unanimity. Before this time the chain of evidence is less complete. All our knowledge of the period that lies between the apostles and the great teachers of the Old Cath- olic Church toward the close of the second cen- tury is fragmentary. We possess but scanty re- mains of the literature, and the same criticism which seeks to bring down many New Testament books into this period, questions the genuine- ness of many of the writings which claim to date from the first half of the second century, and so are appealed to by conservative writers. separable from the gospel. On the whole, then, we repeat that, on the most cardinal points, the external evidence for the New Testament books is as strong as can fairly be looked for, though not, of course, strong enough to convince a man who is sure a priori that this or that book ism historical and must be of late date. The strength of the negative critics lies ini ternal evidence ; and in this connection theyhave certainly directed attention to real difficulties, many of which still await their explanation, | Some of these difficulties are not properly com nected with the Tiibingen position. The gem ineness of 2 Peter, which, indeed, is very weakly attested by external evidence, was suspicious even to Erasmus and Calvin, and no one will a& sert that the Pauline authorship of 1 Timothyis as palpable as that of the epistle to the Romatié, So, again, it is undeniable that the epistles tothe But, on the whole, what evidence does exist is of , Colossians, and the so-called epistle to the Bphé « kind to push back all the more important writ- | ings to an early date. The gospel of John, for | example, is one of the books which negative critics are most determined in rejecting. Yet the fairest writers of the school (Hilgenfeld, Keim) admit that it was known to Justin Martyr | in the middle of the second century, though they think that, besides our four gospels, he had a fifth of apocryphal character. But references of an earlier date can hardly be denied; and the gospel may be traced almost to the beginning of the century by the aid of fragments of the Gnos- tic Basilides and of the epistles of Ignatius. The sians, differ considerably in language and thought from other Pauline epistles, and that their rele tion to one another demands explanation. But, in the Tiibingen school, all minor difficulties, each of which might be solved in detail without any very radical procedure, are brought together a phases of a single extremely radical theory of the growth of the New Testament. The theory bas two bases—one philosophical or dogmatical, the other historical ; and it cannot be pretended that Tiibingen school, indeed, maintain that the frag- ments preserved by Hippolytus are not from Ba- silides, but from a later writer of his school, and utterly reject the Ignatian epistles ; but it cannot be said that they have proved their case beyond dispute. They have at most shown that, if the gospel must on other grounds be taken as spuri- ous, the external evidence may be pushed aside as not absolutely insuperable. On the other | | | | ' | ( | | ! i the latter basis is adequate if the former is stttek away. Philosophically, the Tiibingen school starts from the position so clearly laid down by Strauss, that a miraculous interruption of the laws of Ne ture stamps the narrative in which it occurs #8 unhistorical, or, at least, as more cautious writ ers put the case, hampers the narrative with such extreme improbability that the positive evidenée in favor of its truth would require to stronger than it is in the case of the N ‘esta } ment history. The application of this tion makes a great part of the narrative’ 4 g08F ther ture as th of ¥ the ¢ the ¢ harm is th each erary on th parts tility ly def stages transi tests of the tion h more | mass ¢ ing-po harrow of Pau powers Christi: xii. 12) rative ¢ of Acts account lem, anc is prove tulated | advance pel of . hot rath & hecess which eg apostolic nal evide facts of cessive tianity w The Testamen Apostolic Hebrew s confirmat cies in Ch Tevelation Position teaching, Still less Testament

Page 393

ee ee i ee | ee ee gospels and Acts appear as unhistorical, and therefore late; and the origin of this late litera- ture is sought by regarding the New Testament as the monument of a long struggle, in the course of which an original sharp antagonism between the gospel of Paul and the Judaizing gospel of the old apostles was gradually softened down and harmonized. The analysis of the New Testament is the resurrection of early parties in the church, each pursuing its own tendency by the aid of lit- erary fiction. In the genuine epistles of Paul, on the one hand, and in the Revelation and some parts of Matthew on the other, the original hos- tility of ethnic and Jewish Christianity is sharp- ly defined ; while, after a series of intermediate stages, the Johannine writings present the final transition in the second century from the con- tests of primitive Christianity to the uniformity of the Old Catholic Church. This general posi- tion has been developed in a variety of forms more or less drastic, and is supported by a vast mass of speculation and research ; but the turn- ing-points of the controversy may, perhaps, be narrowed to four questions: 1. Whether, in view of Paul’s undoubted conviction that miraculous powers were exercised by himself and other Christians (1 Corinthians xii. 9, 7. ; 2 Corinthians xii, 12) the miracle criterion of a secondary nar- rative can be maintained ? 2. Whether the book THE BIBLE. 389 tian writings, to be read like the Old Testament in public worship, and appealed to as authorita- tive in matters of faith, take shape so long as the Church was conscious that she had in her midst a living voice of inspiration. The first apostolic writings were, as we have seen, occa- sional, and it was not even matter of course that every epistle of an apostle should be carefully preserved, much less that it should be prized above his oral teaching. Paul certainly wrote | more than two epistles to the Corinthians, and even Papias is still of opinion, when he collects reminiscences of apostolic sayings from the mouths of the elders, that what he reads in books cannot do him so much good as what he receives “from a living and abiding voice.” Nay, the very writers who are the first to put Old and New Testament books on a precisely similar footing (e. g., Tertullian) attach equal importance to the tradition of churches which had been directly taught by apostles, and so were presumed to possess the “rule of faith” in ; a form free from the difficulties of exposition | that encumber the written word. In the first | instance, then, the authoritative books of the | Christian Church were those of the Old Testa- ; ment; and in the time of the apostles and their immediate successors it was the Hebrew canon that was received. But as most churches had of Acts is radically inconsistent with Paul’s own ; no knowledge of the Old Testament except account of his relations to the church at Jerusa- lem, and whether the antithesis of Peter and Paul is proved from the epistles of the latter, or pos- tulated in accordance with the Hegelian law of advance by antagonism? 3. Whether the gos- pel of John is necessarily a late fiction, or does not rather supply in its ideal delineation of Jesus &hecessary supplement to the synoptical gospels which can only be understood as resting on true apostolic reminiscence ? 4. Whether the exter- nal evidence for the several books and the known facts of church history leave time for the suc- cessive evolution of all the stages of early Chris- tianity which the theory postulates ? The Christian Canon of the Old and New Testaments.—We have already seen that the Apostolic Church continued to use as sacred the Hebrew Scriptures, whose authority derived fresh confirmation from the fulfillment of the prophe- cies in Christ. The idea that the Old Testament revelation must now fall back into a secondary Position as compared with inspired apostolic teaching, was not for a moment entertained. Still less could the notion of a body of New Testament Scriptures, of a collection of Chris- | through the Greek translation and the Alexan- drian canon, the Apocrypha soon began to be quoted as Scripture. The feeling of uncertainty as to the proper number of Old Testament books which prevailed in the second century is illustrated by an epistle of Melito of Sardis, who journeyed to Palestine in quest of light, and brought back the present Hebrew canon, with the omission of the book of Esther. In the third century Origen knew the Hebrew canon, but accepted the Alexandrian additions, appar- ently because he considered that a special provi- dence had watched over both forms of the col- lection. Subsequent teachers in the Eastern Church gradually went back to the Hebrew canon (Esther being still excluded from full canonicity by Athanasius and Gregory of Nazi- anzus), distinguishing the Alexandrian additions as avayryvwoxdueva—books used for ecclesiastical lessons. In the Western Church the same dis- tinction was made by scholars like Jerome, who introduced for merely ecclesiastical books the somewhat incorrect name of Apocrypha; but a laxer view was very prevalent, and gained ground during the middle ages, till at length, in opposi-

Page 394

390 tion to the Protestants, the Council of Trent accepted every book in the Vulgate translation as canonical, We turn now to the New Testament collec- tion. The idea of canonicity—the right of a book to be cited as Scripture—was closely con- nected with regular use in public worship, and so the first step toward a New Testament canon was doubtless the establishment of a custom of reading in the churches individual epistles or gospels. The first beginnings of this custom must have been very early. The reference to Luke in 1 Timothy v. 18 is disputed, and 2 Peter iii. 16 is usually taken as one of many argu- ments against the genuineness of that epistle; but a citation from Matthew is certainly referred to as Scripture in the epistle of Barnabas. But such recognition of an individual gospel is a long way removed from the recognition of an apos- tolic canon. The apostolic writings continued to be very partially diffused, and readers used such books as they had access to, often failing to dis- tinguish between books of genuine value and worthless forgeries. The most readers were very uncritical, and there was an enormous floating mass of spurious and apocalyptic literature, in- cluding recensions of the gospel altered by he- retical parties to suit their own views. It was, perhaps, in contest with the heretics of the sec- ond century that the necessity of forming a strict list of really authoritative writings came to be clearly felt; and it is remarkable that heretics, generally hostile to the Old Testament, seem to have been among the first to form collections of Christian writings for themselves. Thus Mar- cion, in the middle of the second century, se- lected for himself on dogmatical grounds ten Pauline epistles, and a gospel which seems to have been based on Luke. Up to this time, perhaps no formal canon of sacred writings had been put forth by the Catholic Church. But in the second half of the century the notion of an authoritative New Testament collection appears in full development, and there is an amount of agreement as to the contents of the canon, which implies that, in spite of the loose way in which apocryphal books circulated side by side with genuine works, the Church had no great difficulty in drawing a sharp line between the two classes when this was felt to be necessary. At the time of the great teachers of the close of the second century (Irenzus, Tertullian, Cle- ment), we find a twofold collection, the Gospel and the Apostles. The Gospel comprises the four ; evangelists; and this number was already so THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. ‘ absolutely fixed as to admit of no further | doubt. Quite beyond dispute were also the maip books of the Apostolicon, the Acts, thirteen epistles of Paul, 1 Peter, 1 John, and the Apoc. alypse. The Muratorian fragment, which cop. tains a list twenty or thirty years older than the third century, omits 1 Peter, but adds Jude, 2and 3 John (?), and (as a disputed book) the Apocalypse of Peter. The Shepherd of Hermag might also be read, but it is pointed out that it ig of quite recent date, and not of prophetic or’ apostolic authority, From this time forward, then, the controversy is narrowed to a few books, occupying a middle position between the large mass of our present New Testament, which was already beyond dispute, and the spurious litera. ture which was quite excluded from ecclesiastical use. Absolute uniformity was not at once at tainable, for various churches had quite indepen dent usages; and, as we see from the Muratorian canon, a book might receive a certain ecclesias- tical recognition without being, therefore, viewed as strictly canonical. This dubious margin to the canon was of very uncertain limits, and Clement of Alexandria still uses many apoc- ryphal books which found no acknowledgment in other parts of the Church. Gradually the list of books, which have even a disputed claim to authority, is cut down. In the time of Ew sebius, the Shepherd of Hermas was still read in some churches, and several other books—the epistle of Barnabas, the Acts of Paul, the Re elation of Peter, the Teachings of the Apostles— appear as controverted writings. But all these are plainly on the verge of rejection, while, om the other hand, 2 and 3 John, Jude, James, and 2 Peter, are gradually gaining ground. This pre cess continued to go on without interruption till at length the whole class of disputed books (antilegomena) melted away, and only our present canon was left on the one hand, and books of no authority or repute upon the other. Thus the Council of Laodicea was able wholly to forbid the ecclesiastical use of uncanonical books (360 4. Dh and the only uncertain point remaining in @ tradition of the Eastern Church was the a of the Apocalypse, which had gradually fallen into suspicion, and was not fully reinstated ti the fifth century. The Western Church, 0” the other hand, was long dubious as to the to the Hebrews, which was received without hesitation in the East, as the Apocalypse contiD- ued to be in the West. The age of Augustine and Jerome saw the close of the Western calio™ B B Ui the ti ancier :. rapid of the Christ of the gint 1 circul: Hebre Christ well as the Se text h study juster formed period, contin Easter it final Hebrev Greek, terest i Bible ¢ the Jev ting a was no tury th ly inter has bee centuric printed Neu New T¢ on pap frequen historic howeve: capital | tuation, probabl whateve only po: being 0 than the became or of th Tare, J quite fi

Page 395

THE BIBLE. 891 TRANSMISSION AND DIFFUSION OF THE | followed the book of Acts. It may also be noted BIBLE IN THE CHRISTIAN CHURCH | that, in the oldest MSS., the epistle to the He- BEFORE THE INVENTION OF PRINTING. | brews precedes the pastoral epistles. In course of time various changes were introduced in the Under this head we have to speak—l. Of | externals of the written text. Parchment and the transmission of the original text; 2. Of the | vellum took the place of papyrus, and form the ancient versions : material of the oldest extant copies. The uncial 1. The Original Text.—Old Testament.—The | character held its ground till about the tenth rapid spread of Christianity among the Gentiles century, when the use of a cursive or running of the West made Greek the sacred language of | hand became general. Attempts to indicate the Christendom. Not only is Greek the language | punctuation go back as far as the fourth or fifth of the New Testament, but it was in the Septua- | century. The oldest MSS. use for this purpose gint version that the Old Testament was first | an occasional simple point, or a small blank space circulated in the most important Gentile churches. | in the line. Another system was to write the Hebrew was almost unknown even to learned ! text in short lines (erfxo:), accommodated to the Christians, and, in fact, the current (Jewish as | sense. The author of this stichometry was Eu- well as Christian) doctrine of the inspiration of | thalius of Alexandria, in the second half of the the Septuagint, and a suspicion that the Hebrew | fifth century, who applied it to the epistles and text had been falsified by the Jews, made the | Acts, The same plan was afterward extended to study of the original appear unprofitable. A | the gospels ; but vellum was too costly to allow juster view of the value of Hebrew studies was The present system of | of its general adoption, formed by the two greatest scholars of the Patristic period, Origen and Jerome. But the Septuagint continued to enjoy an authoritative place in the Eastern Church ; and the Latin Church, though it finally adopted Jerome’s translation from the | Hebrew in place of the older translation from the | Greek, was not led by this change to take any in- terest in further study of the original. The Hebrew Bible continued to be the peculiar possession of the Jews, of whose labors in fixing and transmit- | It | was not till the beginning of the sixteenth cen- ting a standard text we have already spoken. | punctuation was first used in printed books. Breathings and accents were not in common use ' down to the end of the seventh century, but occa- , Sional traces of them seem to occur considerably earlier. Another device for the more convenient use of the New Testament was the division of the text into sections of various kinds. The gospels were divided by Ammonius of -Alexandria (220 A. D.) into short chapters (Ammonian sections, KepdAaa), constructed to facilitate the comparison of corresponding passages of the several gospels. tury that Christian scholars began to take a live- | These sections are marked on the margin of ly interest in the “ Hebrew verity;” and what | most MSS. from the fifth century onward ; and, in has been done since that time to repair so many | general, a reference is also given to the so-called centuries of neglect belongs to the history of the canons of Eusebius, which are a kind of index printed text or of exegesis. New Testament.—The original copies of the New Testament writings were probably written on papyrus-rolls, and were so soon worn out by frequent use, that we do not even possess any historical notice of their existence. They must, however, have been written in uncial or large capital letters, without division of words or punc- tuation, without accents, breathings, ete., and Probably without any titles or subscriptions whatever, The earliest transcripts comprised only portions of the New Testament, the gospels being oftenest copied, and the Pauline oftener than the catholic epistles. Even after the canon became fixed, MSS. of the whole New Testament, or of the whole Greek Bible, were comparatively rare. The order of the several books was not quite fixed ; but the catholic epistles generally | to the sections, enabling the reader to find the | parallel passages. Another division of the gos- pels into larger sections (rirAo, breves) is also | found in MSS. of the fifth century, and a similar division of the other books into chapters (e- gdAaa) came into use not much later. The chapters of the Acts and the catholic epistles were the work of Euthalius, Our present chap- ters are much later. They were invented by Cardinal Hugo of S. Carus in the thirteenth cen- tury, were first applied to the Latin Bible, and are still unknown in the Eastern Church. The pres- ent system of verses first appears in the edition printed by Robert Stephens in the year 1551. The titles and subscriptions of the New Tes- tament books are another point on which a suc- cession of changes has taken place. The oldest MSS. have much shorter titles than those which

Page 396

392 THE POPULAR SCIENCE the English version adopted from the later Greek text; and the subscriptions, with their would-be historical information, are not only late, but worthless. Those appended to the epistles of St. Paul are attributed to Euthalius. More important than these external matters are the variations which in course of time crept into the text itself. Many of these variations are mere slips of eye, ear, memory, or judgment, on the part of a copyist, who had no intention to do otherwise than follow what lay before him. But transcribers, and especially early transcribers, by no means aimed at that minute accuracy which is expected of a modern critical editor. Correc- tions were made in the interests of grammar or | of style, slight changes were adopted in order to | remove difficulties, additions came in, especially from parallel narratives in the gospels, citations from the Old Testament were made more exact or more complete. That all this was done in per- fect good faith, and simply because no strict con- ception of the duty of a copyist existed, is es- pecially clear from the almost entire absence of deliberate falsification of the text in the interets | of doctrinal controversy. To detail all the sources of various readings would be out of place; it may suffice to mention, in addition to what has ' been already said, that glosses, or notes originally written on the margin, very often ended by being | taken into the text, and that the custom of read- | ing the Scriptures in public worship naturally brought in liturgical additions, such as the dox- ology of the Lord’s Prayer, while the commence- ment of an ecclesiastical lesson, torn from its proper context, had often to be supplemented by a few explanatory words, which soon came to be regarded as part of the original. Up to a certain point the various readings due to so many different causes constantly be- came more and more numerous; but the number of independent readings which could arise and be perpetuated was limited by various circum- stances. A general similarity necessarily pre- vailed in associated groups of copies, which were either derived from the same archetype, or writ- ten by the same copyist, or corrected by compari- son with a single celebrated MS. Causes such as these, combined with local peculiarities of style and taste, and with the fact that the New Testa- ment, like Christianity itself, was sent forth from central mother-churches to newly-formed com- munities all around, gave a decided local color- ing to the text current in certain regions; so that we are still able to speak in a general way of an Alexandrian, a Western, a Byzantine, and MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. perhaps also (with Tischendorf) of an Asiatig text. But, of course, no ancient local text re mained uninfluenced by copies from other re gions. The comparison of copies became more and more extended in range as the Church grey and consolidated into an homogeneous form; and though old readings, which had obtained a firm hold in certain communities, were not easily eradicated, it at length became almost impossible | for any important new error to escape detection, Most variations of any consequence which are found in existing MSS. are known to be as old as | the fourth century, and other readings existed then which no MS. is known to contain, The variations of early copies were most com pletely smoothed into uniformity in the later By zantine MSS., after the Mohammedan conquest had overthrown Greek learning in Syria and Egypt The scribes of Constantinople spent great paing ' on the text, in accordance with their own notions of what was proper, and gave it a form which is certainiy smoother, correcter, and more uniform, than that of older MSS. But precisely these pe culiarities show that this late recension is remote from the original shape of the New Testament writings, and compel us to seek the true text by study of early MSS., especially of the still-exist- ing uncial copies. The manuscripts are of six classes, containing respectively the gospels, the Acts with the cathe | lie epistles, the Pauline epistles, the Apocalypse, the ecclesiastical lessons from the gospels, the | lessons from the Acts and epistles. Copies be longing to the last two classes are called lection | aries, and lectionaries of the gospels are called | evangelistaria. Each MS. is referred to by critics by a special mark. Uncial MSS. are denoted by a capital letter, A standing for the Codex Ale andrinus, B for the Vaticanus, and so on, Cut | sives and lectionaries are denoted by Arable ' numerals. It is to be observed that the same | letter in a different part of the New Testament does not necessarily refer to the same MS. Thus Cod. D of the gospels and Acts is the Codex Beze, but D of the Pauline epistles is the Claromontanus. If we reckon fragments, the number of uncial MSS. is fifty-six of the go® pels, fourteen of the Acts, six of the catholie epistles, fifteen of the Pauline epistles, five of the Apocalypse. But many of them are && tremely short fragments. The number of car sives and lectionaries is enormous, 80 that ab together there are nearly a thousand MSS, for the gospels, and as many more for the rest of the New Testament. Not nearly all the cursive : copi of th tivel that aries most the ¢ mer; the ] ogni T the C nus ( age the C ferrec were | well a as re lacun: the ar by a1 ings 0 great fully these the fif Ai Latin from t of the uncial; from | acter ( more y Th dition | Laudia the Bo les we at Pari. and H, tury, of and tw Most s¢ Vatiear an unci The the earl in the | authorit tempts | era to p Old Tes; had its.

Page 397

copies have been thoroughly examined, and most of them have small value, though some compara- tively recent MSS. are important from the fact that they represent an ancient text. Lection- aries, even when uncial, are little esteemed by most critics. Greco-Latin codices which have the Greek and Latin in parallel columns were for- merly suspected of correcting the Greek text by the Latin, but their value is now generally rec- ognized. The oldest copies of the Greek Testament are the Codex Sinaiticus (x) and the Codex Vatica- nus (B), both of the fourth century. Next in age come the Alexandrian manuscript (A), and the Codex Ephraemi (C), both of which are re- ferred to the fifth century. All of these copies were originally complete Bibles, with the Old as well as the New Testament. » is still complete as regards the New Testament; A and B have lacune ; C is very imperfect, and barely legible, the ancient writing having been almost removed by a medieval scribe to make way for the writ- ings of Ephraem Syrus. x, A, B, C, are the four great first-rate uncials, and will be found more fully described in separate articles. Besides these there are one or two fragments as old as the fifth century (I, 1°, T). A quite peculiar place is held by the Graco- Latin Codex Beze at Cambridge (D), which dates from the sixth century, but presents a text full of the most singular interpolations, The other uncials of the gospels are less important, either from their fragmentary state or from the char- acter of their text. The later uncials are hardly more valuable than good cursives. The most important MS. of the Acts, in ad- dition to those already mentioned, is E, the Codex Laudianns, Greco-Latin of the sixth century, in the Bodleian at Oxford. For the Pauline epis- tles we may mention D, or Codex Claromontanus, at Paris, also Greeco-Latin of the sixth century; and H, or Codex Coislinianus, of the same cen- tury, of which there are twelve leaves at Paris and two at St. Petersburg. Uncial authority is most scanty for the Apocalypse, for which the Vaticanus is defective. B of the Apocalypse is an uncial of the eighth century. The Christian Versions.—We have seen that the early Church adopted the LXX., not so much in the character of a version, as in that of an authoritative original. Although several at- tempts were made in the second century of our tra to produce a better Greek rendering of the Old Testament, not one of these seems to have had its origin in the Catholic Church. Aquila THE BIBLE. 893 was a Jew, whose closely verbal rendering was designed to serve the subtilties of Rabbinic Ex- egesis. Symumachus and Theodotion were prob- ably Ebionites, The former was an excellent master of Greek, who happily corrected many clumsy renderings of the LXX., but inclined too much to paraphrase, and to the obliteration of characteristic figures and bold expressions. Theo- dotion made less extensive changes, and aimed only at necessary corrections. His rendering of Daniel was so manifest an improvement that it entirely displaced the old version, and is still regularly printed as part of the LXX. In the Christian Church the importance of these new versions and the unsatisfactory con- dition of the LXX.—which, apart from its origi- nal defects, had been much corrupted in suc- cessive transcriptions—were first clearly set forth by Origen in his Hexaplar edition of the Old Testament. This great work takes its name from the six columns in which it was arranged, con- taining respectively the Hebrew in the proper character, the same in Greek letters, the versions of Aquila, Symmachus, and Theodotion, and a text of the LXX., partly corrected by comparison of MSS., partly emended by recourse to the He- brew. The variations of several less important versions were also noted. The complete Hexa- pla was too huge a work to be transcribed and circulated as a whole. It lay in the library at Cesarea, and was only occasionally consulted by scholars; but the column containing Origen’s emended text of the LXX. was published in sepa- rate transcripts by Eusebius and Pamphilus, and attained so great a circulation that in the Pales- tinian churches, as we learn from Jerome, it quite displaced the older text. In composing his Hex- aplar text, Origen was careful to distinguish his own improvements from the original LXX. by the use of asterisks and other marks. In later copies these marks were unfortunately often omitted. The Hexaplar text became mixed up with the true LXX., and the modern critic is sometimes tempted to forget how much the Eastern Church owed to this first attempt to go back to the He- brew Old Testament, in his impatience at the ob- literation, by the adoption of Hexaplar correc- tions, of important divergences of the LXX. from the Masoretic text. Our knowledge of the other columns of Origen’s great edition is fragmentary, and is derived partly from c‘tations in ancient authors, partly from notes in MSS. of the Hexa- plar LXX., or of the Syriac translation of it com- posed by Paul of Tela (616 a. p.). The best collection of these fragments is that edited by

Page 398

394 THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. Field (“ Origenis Hexaplorum que supersunt,” | stand alone. The Hexaplar version of Paul of Oxford, 1867-"75). The first origin of translations of the Chris- tian Scriptures into the vernacular of non-Hel- lenic churches is involved in much obscurity. Apart from the probable existence of early Ara- maic gospels, there is no sure trace of a Chris- tian literature in any other tongue than Greek till late in the second century. Even in the churches of Gaul, Greek was the recognized language of Christian authorship. In Rome the literary use of Greek extended into the third century ; and in the earliest days of the Roman Church Greek was the language of public worship. Even in remoter districts the demand for a vernacular Bible can hardly have come from the educated and reading classes, but arose rather from the custom of reading lessons from Scripture in the congregation. Ths earliest Christian translations are the Peshito or “Simple” version in Syria, and the Old Latin in Africa, monuments of the early vigor of two great churches on the east- ern and western outskirts of Hellenic culture. It is scarcely probable that either of these versions is older than the middle of the second century. The Syriac, which claims to be first considered, was already an old version, contain- ing obsolete expressions, in the time of St. | Tela, and the slavishly literal Philoxinian (59g 4. D.—revised a century later by Thomas of Hharkel) were presumably designed in the sen vice of Biblical criticism. More obscure are the origin and purpose of the fragmentary version of the gospels published by Cureton in 1858, and by him supposed to be older than the Peshito, In the history of the Old Latin version almost nothing is certain save that it originated ip Africa, before the time of Tertullian, and that it assumed such protean shapes in the hands of transcribers that it is to this day uncertain whether several distinct versions are not included in the general name of the Old Latin. Jerome, indeed, speaks only of great variations between copy and copy; but Augustine tells us that the “Itala ” is to be preferred to the other Latin im terpretations. Hence MSS. of the Old Latin are often called copies of the Itala; but in truth ne one knows what the Itala is, for it is mentioned only by Augustine, and by him but once. A version which at best was a rude and over literal rendering of the Greek Bible, in an uw polished provincial dialect, and which had not even that fixed form which is so necessary ins Bible for ecclesiastical use, could not continue to serve the needs of the great Latin Churel; Ephraem, who died 373 a.p. Internal marks | and toward the close of the fourth century a work of antiquity are found in the relation of the Old | of revision was undertaken at the instance of Testament to a very early Jewish exegesis, and | Damasus, Bishop of Rome, by Jerome, the most especially in the omission from the New Testa- ment of 2 Peter, 2 and 3 John, Jude, and Reve- lation. On the other hand, there is no certain reference to this version by authors earlier than Ephraem; and the data afforded by the history of the canon, and by a comparison of the earliest remains of Syriac literature — the hymns of Bardesanes, who died about 225—are not sufficient to supply the lack of direct infor- mation. Some critics still date the version from the beginning of the second century, while others would bring it down into the third. Even the close of the third century has been named, but this view rests on the unlikely supposition that the omission of five New Testament books was due to later theological influences, and was not learned of the Western doctors. Jerome began by correcting the New Testament, making only such changes as seemed absolutely imperative, In the Old Testament he first revised the Psalter after the LXX., producirg the version known a the Roman Psalter, from its adoption in the Re man liturgy. A second revision, based on the Hexaplar text, forms the Gallican Psalter, long used in Gaul and other churches beyond the Alps. Then Jerome proceeded to revise other books on the basis of the Hexaplar Greek; bul finding this half measure unsatisfactory, he finally rendered the Old Testament directly from thé Hebrew. The work was completed 405 4.0% and though often dependent on Aquila, and e& pecially on Symmackus, it bears high witness an original peculiarity of the version. The trans- | the scholarship of the author, and is perhaps the lation is, on the whole, excellent. The Old Tes- | best of the ancient versions. In spite of iw tament is taken from the Hebrew, and, though | merits the new version was much attacked, and sometimes dependent on Hebrew exegesis, and in | made way in public estimation by very slow de- other ‘parts strongly influenced by the LXX., is | grees. It was not till the ninth century that the decidedly superior to the Targums. The Peshito | Old Latin was entirely superseded in the Roman was the received version in all branches of the | Church,‘and the circulation of the old and new much-divided Syrian churches. But it did not , versions side by side was long a fertile the | marl the givel lect | per | Chri: was | Syria to be vern: was | sourc the A centu the ¢ motes versic of th tury, ments the fa centu: sal, Th the tr sions, spread querin of Sy ninish sions, | service unlear the vul and, ac Version tongue: were d the ris. ture pr New T; there a from th ish sch teuch a: century ments ¢ In ¢! of the rise of ; be und Church

Page 399

ee) te egw corruptions in the text of both. At length the complete supremacy of Jerome’s Latin was marked by the transference to it of the name of the Vulgate Version, which in older times was given to the LXX. The Egyptian versions (Memphitic in the dia- lect of Lower Egypt, Thebaic or Sahidic for Up- per Egypt) supplied the needs of the only great Christian population of the early Church which was not able to use the Greek, the Latin, or the Syriac. The most recent inquirers are disposed | to believe that Egypt received the Bible in the vernacular almost as soon as Syria. The version was taken from the Greek, which was also the source of various later translations—the Ethiopic, the Armenian (fifth century), the Georgian (sixth century), the Slavonic (ninth century)—fruits of the gradual diffusion of Christianity in the re- motest regions of the ancient world. The Gothic version of Ulfilas—the earliest written monument of the Teutonic languages—is of the fourth cen- tury, and was also from the Greek. Only frag- ments of this translation remain to us, mainly in the famous silver-lettered MS. of the fifth or sixth century (Codex Argenteus) in the library of Up- sal, Thus far the history of the versions records the triumphs of Christianity. The Arabie ver- sions, on the contrary, owe their origin to the spread of Islam, when the language of the con- quering Saracens displaced the ancient dialects of Syria and Egypt. This change did not di- ninish the authority of the old ecclesiastical ver- sions, or displace them from their position in the services of the Church. The edification of the unlearned was secured by reading the lessons in the vulgar tongue, as well as in Syriae or Coptic; and, accordingly, the numerous Christian Arabic versions are mainly taken not from the original tongues, but from the versions whose use they were designed to supplement. In like manner the rise of the New-Persian language and litera- ture produced a Persian version of the Syriac New Testament. Of parts of the Old Testament there are Arabic and Persian translations directly from the Hebrew, but these are the work of Jew- ish scholars, The Arabic versions of the Penta- teuch and Isaiah, by R. Saadias Gaon, in the tenth century, are among the most important monu- ments of ancient Jewish learning. In the West, as in the East, the disintegration of the Roman Empire was associated with the | rise of new national dialects, and Latin ceased to | be understood by the laity. But the Roman Church was too intent on the preservation of her THE BIBLE. 395 homogeneous organization, her visible unity of worship, to allow the vulgar tongues to supplant | the old liturgical language, or even to introduce , @ bilingual service. The use of the Bible in a form intelligible to the illiterate was shifted from the sphere of public worship to that of private edification and instruction; and for the latter purpose the necessities of a barbarous age seemed to demand explanatory paraphrases, Bible narra- | tives in metre, and the like, rather than literal renderings of the whole Scriptures. Thus, in the Anglo-Saxon Church, Ceedmoni’s poetical version of the Bible history dates from 664 a. p., while , the earliest prose translations of parts of the Latin Bible (gospels, Psalms, etc.) do not seem to | be older than the eighth century. In Germany, 'in like manner, metrical versions of the gospel are among the earliest attempts to convey the Bible to the people. Oufrid’s harmony of the gospels in High German, and the poem called Heéliand (Saviour), in Old Saxon, date from the ninth century; and the prose translation of the so-called “ Gospel Harmony of Tatian’’—from the Latin of Victor of Capua—belongs to the same age. A complete and literal translation of the Vulgate existed in Germany perhaps as early as the beginning of the fourteenth century. Among nations whose speech was descended from the vulgar Latin, the work of translation naturally began later. The earliest remains of Romance versions are thought to be as old as the eleventh century; but the work of translation assumed important dimensions mainly in connection with the spirit of revolt against the Church of Rome, which rose in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. The study of the Bible in the vulgar tongue was a characteristic of the Cathari and Waldenses, and the whole weight of the Church’s authority | was turned against the use of the Scriptures by | the laity. The prohibition of the Bible in the vulgar tongue, put forth at the Council of Tou- louse in 1229, was repeated by other councils in various parts of the Church, but failed to quell the rising interest in the Scriptures. In England and in Bohemia the Bible was translated by the reforming parties of Wyclif and Huss; and the early presses of the fifteenth century sent forth Bibles, not only in Latin, but in French, Spanish, Italian, German, and Dutch. The Printed Text.—Though the Latin Bible was the first book printed, the original text was for some time neglected. The Jews of Italy led the way with several editions of parts of the Old Testament, commencing with the Psalter of 1475. | The beautiful edition of Soncino (1488) was the |

Page 400

bd 396 first complete Hebrew Bible, and was soon fol- lowed by the edition of Brescia, used by Luther (1494), At length Christians interested them- selves in the work. The Antwerp printer, Daniel Bomberg, established a Hebrew press in Venice, | from which he sent forth a series of Bibles and other books. The famous Rabbinical Bible of 1517, edited by Felix Pratensis, a converted Jew, is known as the first Bomberg Bible, and is es- pecially valuable for the text of the Targums, which it prints in parallel columns with the He- brew. The second Rabbinical Bible of Bomberg was edited by R. Jacob Chayim (who also became a Christian), and contaius tbe first printed edition of the Masora, with a text carefully corrected in accordance with Masoretic precepts. This edi- tion at once attained a great reputation. It was several times reprinted, and most subsequent edi- tions are directly or indirectly dependent on it. The only early edition which rivals its fame is the “‘Complutensian Polyglot,” published at Al- cala in 1517, at the expense of Cardinal Ximenes. The Hebrew of this polyglot exhibits a peculiar | Later | text, independent of the Italian editions. editions of the Hebrew Bible present little or no advance on the early prints; and most recent editions are decidedly inferior. Of Hebrew Bibles, with various readings from MS. authority, the best known are Kennicott’s (Oxford, 1776-1780) and De Rossi’s (Parma, 1784-1788). The latter collection is by far the best, but neither has done much for the improvement of the text. the differences between really good MSS. are gen- erally very minute; and where the current text is corrupt it is not from MSS., but from the ver- sions, or from conjecture, that help must be sought. On the other hand, a more accurate edition of the Masoretic text is certainly wanted. But such an edition must pay special regard to vowel-points and accents, which Kennicott and De Rossi neglect, and must consult MSS. of the Masora as well as of the text. The most valu- able edition which notes variations not affecting the consonantal text is the Mantuan Bible of 1742-1744, with the notes of Norzi (R. Jedidiah Solomon, of Norcia). The best recent texts are S. Baer’s Leipsi¢ editions of Genesis (18€9), Psalms (1861), and Isaiah (1872). Among easily accessible editions of the whole Old Testament. those of Jablonsky (Berlin, 1699) and J. H. Michaelis (Halle, 1720) have the best reputation. The Greek New Testament was first printed in the “Complutensian Polyglot’ (1514), but a de- lay in the publication enabled Froben of Basel to preoccupy the market with an edition hastily pre- In fact, | THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. ‘ pared by Erasmus from very recent codices, Ip subsequent editions a good many changes were made, partly after the Complutensian text, and in the third edition (1522) the spurious passage, ] John v. 7, appeared for the first time. But it was still a recent and therefore an unsatisfactory text that was represented, and this radical defegt was not corrected by the editors who followed Erasmus, though some of them, and notably Theo. dore Beza, possessed, and to some extent used, bet. ter MSS. than Erasmus consulted. Their and convenience, rather than the merit of their text, procured a great currency for the editions of Robert Stephens (O mirificam editions, 1546, 1549; royal edition, 1550), and his text of 1550, | or the Elzevir text of 1624, which, though mainly based on Beza, is very nearly identical with the other, came to be regarded as the “received text,” which subsequent editors were long afraid to change. But materials for a better text were gradually accumulated by Walton in the Lom don “Polyglot” (1657), Curcelleus (1658), Fell (1675), and above all by John Mill in his great edition of 1707. Theve labors were viewed with ' much jealousy by the hyper-orthodox; and even as late as 1751, Wetstein, after long and most ' valuable studies, could find a publisher only oa consideration that his amendments on the me ceived editions should not stand in the text Some important steps, however, were taken in | the interval between Mill and Wetstein. Bentley sketched in 1720 the plan of an edition which | should restore the text of the fourth century; and ' Bengel in 1734 actually published an amended | text, though readings which had not been gives in any previous edition were admitted only in the Apocalypse. Bengel was the first who classed MSS. under families, as Asiatic and African re spectively. The next great critical editer after Bengel and Wetstein was J. J. Griesbach, whose chief edition appeared 1796-1806, Griesbach gave an exaggerated importance to the doctrine of families of MSS.; and his edition was cot structed on the principle of adhering to the te ceived text, unless the reasons to the contraty were irresistible; but his industry and critical skill give him a very high place among editors Griesbach was followed by the Roman Catholi¢ Scholz, whose labors were more pretentious then : valuable; and at length the great critic F mann (1842-1850) threw aside all traditional re spect for the received text, and sought to restore the text of the fourth century by the aid of @ very small number of select MSS., together with the Latin versions as given in the oldest copies ~ bee! MSS late ting and and fort] eigh plete grea sivel Lack mucl well na, t ralys T tion origit New of th Erast in hi: gives oa “J both « such | schola under it was humar lation tongue (New we ma a or chu ny; th Synod Versio formed sion of ther, re Most o} earlier | Revisio Years | Germar 2. 7 than th,

Page 401

and the citations of the earliest fathers. The idea was fruitful, though the material employed was too scanty. Since Lachmann published his edi- tion, our knowledge of the most ancient authori- ties has been greatly increased. New MSS. have been added, notably Tischendorf’s x; and the MSS. formerly known have be enedited or col-. lated with much greater accuracy. The most dis- tinguished laborers in this work were Tischendorf and Tregelles. In addition to numerous editions and collations of ancient copies, Tischendorf put forth a series of critical editions, of which the eighth (Leipsic, 1865-1872) contains the com- pletest critical commentary yet published. The great edition of Tregelles (1857-1872) rests exclu- sively on the most ancient authority, resembling Lachmann’s work in conception, though using much more copious materials. This edition, as well as Tischendorf’s VIIL., lacks the prolegome- na, both editors having been struck down by pa- ralysis before their work was complete. The recent versions, subsequent to the inven- tion of printing and the revived study of the original tongues, demand a word in conclusion. New Latin versions naturally accompanied many of the early editions of the original text. Thus Erasmus gave many corrections of the Vulgate in his Greek Testament, the “ Complutensian ” gives an interlinear version of the LXX., the Gen- oa “Polyglot Psalter” of 1516 gives renderings both of the Hebrew and of the Chaldee. Even such works as these, designed as they were for scholars, gave offense from their appearance of undermining the authority of the Vulgate; and it was the Reformation, in its revolt against mere human authority, that first demanded open circu- lation of vernacular versions from the original tongues. From the time of Luther’s version (New Testament, 1522; complete Bible, 1534) we may distinguish four classes of versions: 1. Versions adopted by Protestant countries orchurches. Such are Luther’s Bible in Germa- ny; the Dutch Bible of the Commission of the Synod of Dort, 1637; the English Authorized Version of 1611; the Genevan French Bible, formed by successive revisions of Olivetan’s ver- sion of 1535; the Danish of 1550, based on Lu- ther, revised in 1607, 1647; the Swedish, 1541. Most of these national Bibles were preceded by earlier Protestant versions, which they supersede. Revisions of the national versions have of late years been undertaken in Norway, Holland, and Germany, as well as in England. 2. Versions which never held any other place than that of private contributions to Biblical exe- THE BIBLE. 397 gesis. Such are—among older works—the Latin Old Testament of Junius and Tremellius, and the New Testament of Beza. These versions belong to the history of exegesis. 8. Missionary versions. 4. Roman Catholic versions. The Council of Trent declared the Vulgate version authentic, and forbade interpretations of Scripture not in conformity with the consent of the fathers. Ver- nacular versions subject to these restrictions were published as the antidote to Protestant Bibles. Such are the Rhemish and Douay versions in English. Other Roman Catholic versions owe their origin to evangelical tendé&cies within the Church. Jansenism, in particular, produced the French version of De Sacy (Mons, 1667), and otherwise stimulated the study of Scripture. Literature—Full discussion of some of the topics glanced at in this article must be sought in treatises on individual books or critical prob- lems of the Old and New Testaments. But on most points it will be sufficient to refer to works on Biblical Introduction, The history of this branch of theology, with lists of the principal older books—some of which, including the writ- ings of R. Simon, Carpzov, and Eichhorn, are still of value—is given in most recent works on the subject. Of these it may be sufficient to mention for the Old Testament—De Wette’s “ Einleitung,” rewritten by Schrader (Berlin, 1869), full of con- densed information; Bleek’s posthumous “ Ein- leitung” (third edition, 1870), less complete in detail and now rather behind date, but very clear and instructive ; Keil’s “ Einleitung ” (third edi- tion, 1873), which is strictly conservative. The last two are translated. Kuenen’s “ Historisch- kritisch Onderzoek,” of which there is a French translation, is very full, but the author has con- siderably changed his views in the “ History of the Religion of Israel” (Haarlem, 1869-’70), of which there is an English translation, Ewald’s “ History of Israel” is important, and is also ac- cessibie to the English reader; with it must be taken his books on the “ Prophets” and “ Poets of the Old Covenant.” Revent English literature on the Old Testament is not very remarkable, but Dr. S. Davidson’s “ Introduction” gives a full account of foreign investigations. The his- tory of the Old Testament in the Christian Church has been written by L. Diestel (“ Geschichte des alten Testamentes,” u. s. w., Jena, 1869). For the New Testament, De Wette, Bleek, and David- son, may again be consulted. A very instructive book is Reuss’s “ Geschichte der Heiligen Sckrif- ten Neuen Testaments ” (fifth edition, Brunswick,

Page 402

398 THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. 1874). The most recent general work proceed- ing from the Tiibingen school is Hilgenfeld’s “ Historisch-kritische Einleitung in das Neue Tes- tament”” (Leipsic, 1875). On the canon there are several important works by Credner in Ger- man, and an English “ History of the Canon of the New Testament,” by Dr. Westcott (fourth | edition, 1875). On the text of the New Testa- ment the English reader may consult Tregelles’s volume, contributed to Horne’s “ Introduction ” (1856), and Scrivener’s “ Plain Introduction to the Criticism of the New Testament” (second edition, 1874). Le Long’s “ Bibliotheca Sacra” continued by Masch (Halle, 1778-90), gives ¢ full account of editions of the original text and versions, which may be supplemented by refer. ence to De Rossi’s “ Annales Hebrao-typogra. phici ” (XV. Cent., Parma, 1795 ; MDI. to MDXL, Parma, 1799), and Reuss’s “ Bibliotheca Noy Testamenti Greci” (Brunswick, 1872). De tailed references to other recent books will be found in the works already cited, COPERNICUS IN ITALY. HE celebration at Thorn, in 1873, of the | that he was of mixed descent. His father was four hundredth anniversary of the birth of Copernicus, was the occasion to which both the works before us owed their origin. Thus they belong to the large and increasing class which may be described as centenary literature. This | category, indeed, includes many degrees of merit. The publication of Signor Schiaparelli, well known as the director of the Brera Observatory at Milan, although slight in form, is admirable of its kind —clear, exhaustive, and unbiased by precon- ceived opinions. That of Signor Berti, which has recently received considerable additions, is infe- rior in literary quality, but deserves praise for its painstaking accuracy of detail, and careful con- sultation of authorities. The purpose of the pres- ent article is not to sketch a biography of the great Polish astronomer, nor to put forward a theory as to the genesis of his system, but to point out some of the influences which he must have encountered on coming to Italy—then the intellectual hot-bed of Europe—and to trace a few among the innumerable currents of thought which must have modified the development of his ideas during his residence at Italian universities, Nicnotas Copernicus was born on February | 19, 1473, at Thorn, then part of the dominions of Casimir IV. King of Poland. Some controver- sy as to his nationality has been caused by the inconsistent terms in which contemporary writers mention him; some speaking of him as a Prus- sian, others as a Pole. The truth seems to be 1“Copernico e le vicende del Sistema Copernicano in Italia nella seconda meta del secolo XVI e nella prima del XVII.” Del Professore Domenico Berti. Roma, 1876. “T Precursori del Copernico nell’ Antichita. Ricerche Storiche.” Di G. V. Schiaparelli, Milano, 1873. apparently a Slav by race, as he was certainlya Bohemian by country; his mother, Barbara Wat selrode, was an undoubted German. Although early destined for an ecclesiastical career, the native promptings of the genius of Copernicus urged him toward astronomical studies, and we find him at the University of Cracow, where he resided from 1491 to 1495, collecting from the teachings of Albert Brudzewski all that was to be known of the system then in vogue. Through the influence of his uncle, Lucas Wasselrode, Bishop of Ermland, he was, at the early age of twenty-two, raised to the dignity of Canon of Frauenburg, and having completed the obligatory year of residence, he obtained from the chapter three years’ leave of absence for the purpose of completing in Italy the course of study begun in his native country. Italy was then the best school for mathematics, and practically the only one for Greek ; and Copernicus coveted the mat tery of both as necessary instruments for perfect ing himself in the science of his choice. Thus, toward the end of 1496, he was enrolled among the students at the University of Bologna, and early in the following year the Ferrarese astron® mer, Domenico Maria Novara, had already found in him a zealous assistant in his nightly observ tions. fay, Bologna at that time flourished under the outwardly beneficent tyranny of Giovanni Benti voglio II. The tumults of communal faction and the turbulence of university riots had been alike quelled; the French cyclone had swept by on the other side of the Apennines ; letters Wem — fostered, the arts flourished, wealth increased. Whether these benefits were worth the price paid for t! nico fesso of ast OF tl has | the n deter spora sprea ously too, i of th rand¢ the si Giant of se could editec a tole Nova bounc To fl: save maint stars, was t the c His si courti ed the ginnin singul receiv: impris also a his pr hia it failed enoug! Th the eq zodiac: though preces: preced ninete tween ual pr from + Hindos nual y; curacy earth’s round

Page 403

for them we cannot now stop to inquire. Dome- nico Maria Novara combined the duties of Pro- fessor of Astronomy at the university with those of astrologer in ordinary to the Prince of* Bologna. Of the innumerable delusions to which mankind has been subject, judicial astrology was perhaps the most universally diffused, and it is difficult to determine whether it should be classed as a sporadic or an infectious disorder—whether it spread from one centre, or sprang up spontane- ously at many points. Like all popular errors, too, it died hard. Only the most daring minds of the fifteenth century, such as Pico della Mi- randola, ventured to assail its principles; and in the sixteenth and seventeenth, Girolamo Cardano, Giannantonio Magini, and other equally able men of science, were slaves to its influence. If we could imagine Zadkiel’s Almanac and Ephemeris edited by the astronomer-royal, we should have a tolerably exact idea of the prognosticons which Novara was, by virtue of his official position, bound to publish at the beginning of every year. To flatter the fortunes of the Bentivogli, and to save the orthodox doctrine of free-will while maintaining in full force the influence of the stars, by which it was felt to be compromised, was the somewhat complicated problem which the court astrologer of Bologna had to solve. His suecessor, Luca Gaurico, was a less prudent courtier, though a more skillful seer. He predict- ed the fall of the house of Bentivoglio in the be- ginning of the very year (1506) in which, by a singular coincidence, it actually took place, and received the usual reward of prophets of evil— imprisonment and torture. Novara was, however, also a diligent laborer in the legitimate field of his profession, and an observation recorded by him in his prognosticon for 1489, although he failed to read its meaning right, is remarkable enough to deserve mention. The slow westerly movement which carries the equinoctial points backward through all the zodiacal signs in a period of 25,868 years, al- though retrograde with regard to space, is called precession, because it causes the equinoxes to precede their due time by twenty minutes and nineteen seconds—the amount of difference be- tween the tropical and sidereal years. This grad- ual process of change was “known to the Greeks from the time of Hipparchus, and the ancient Hindoo astronomers were able to estimate its an- nual value with a close approach to modern ac- curacy. But the corresponding motion of the earth’s axis, the pole of which describes a circle round the pole of the ecliptic in the same long ‘ COPERNICUS IN ITALY. 899 period, had not been recognized until Novara, comparing his observations with those of Ptole- my, found that the pole of the heavens—which is nothing more than the vanishing-point of the earth’s axis—had considerably changed its place among the stars. Both these variations in celes- tial relations—that of the equinoxes and that of the pole—are in truth but different manifestations of the same fact—the secular tilting of the earth in its orbit, caused by the action of the sun and moon on the protuberant mass at the equator. The error of Novara’s inference from his observa- tion—namely, that the celestial pole was slowly approaching the zenith—is now obvious enough ; .the stability of the earth’s axis in the earth itself, and the consequent invariability of the distance between the pole of the heavens and the zenith, or representation in space of some given spot on the earth’s surface, being considered one of the cardinal points in astronomical science. The intimate relations then customary be- tween master and pupil were maintained un- broken by Copernicus with Novara during the two and a half years of his residence at Bologna. He was sheltered by his roof, sat at his board, shared all his ideas, learned all his methods, and assisted him night after night in the laborious ob- servations and calculations necessary for rede- termining the positions of the J,022 stars cata- logued by Ptolemy, and estimating anew the in- clination of the equator to the plane of the eclip- tic. The cosmographical opinions of Novara are, therefore, of primary importance in endeavoring to estimate the influences within the reach of which Copernicus came during his stay in Italy. Two Ferrarese writers, Libanori and Barotti, as- sert, although without alleging any definite proof of their statement, that Novara first put forward the theory afterward adopted by Galileo, that the tides were caused by the earth’s daily rota- tion; and the question has lately been raised whether his knowledge of the movement of the pole was compatible with a sincere adherence to Ptolemaic doctrines. This, in our opinion, hardly admits of a decisive answer. The crystal spheres of the celestial motions had been found capable of containing so many anomalies, that one additional fact would scarcely have sufficed to shatter them. Moreover, it was not to be ex- pected that the first innovators on the existing system should be those whose emoluments and honors depended cnits maintenance. We should be surprised to find railway directors engaged in promoting aéronautic science, or publicans active in the temperance movement; and astronomers

Page 404

. ¢ 400 who were also astrologers would have been equal- ly disinterested if they had helped to revolution- ize the science of the stars. However, there is a strong intrinsic probability that the private opinions of Novara were favorable to the theory of the earth’s motion, just then beginning to be openly discussed in Italy; and a sentence of George Joachim Rheticus, the devoted friend and disciple of Copernicus in his later years, stating that Novara was not only an able astrono- mer, but also “ followed the good method,” gives strength to that probability. It is, perhaps, the most singular phenomenon in the history of science that a system founded on such a total ignorance of natural forces, and involving so much that is repugnant to common- sense as the Ptolemaic cosmology, should have been universally received; and not only received, but studied, expounded, and developed, during at least fourteen centuries. This anomaly becomes somewhat less perplexing ona little consideration of its origin and history. The temperament of the Greeks did not incline them to prolonged as- tronomical observations. As Diodorus remarks, they had too many other interests to distract their thoughts; and they wanted that secular patience, reaching from generation to generation, which enabled the Chaldeans to establish their great year of 600, and the Egyptians their Sothaic period of 1,461 years. Thus, up to the time of Hipparchus, the astronomy of the Greeks con- sisted of some more or less ingenious theories, founded on traditions imported by their philos- ophers from the East—fragments, perhaps, of an older and more perfect science, which, like the submerged continent of Lemuria, survived as broken islets of truth floating in a vast sea of error. This was the opinion of Bailly; and al- though no longer in favor with savanis, it receives at least some countenance from the fact that, in the Indian Tables certain of the recorded obser- vations imply a more advanced state of knowledge than the Brahmans have, within historical times, attained; such as that of the slow shifting in space of the perihelion of the earth's orbit, and the nearly exact determination of the yearly amount of precession. Anaximander, a disciple of Thales of Miletus, was the first among the Greeks to propound the theory of the earth’s ro- tation on its axis, and the Pythagoreans, as long as they continued to have distinctive opinions, all held more or less explicitly the same doctrine. Heraclides, of Pontus, after the middle of the fourth century B. c., made the first approach to the heliocentric theory of the planetary move- THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. ments by making Mercury and Venus revolyg round the sun—retaining, however, the central position of the earth with regard to the sun itself as well as the remaining planets. This doctring which Heraclides is supposed, on the authority of a doubtful passage in Macrobius, to have de rived from the Egyptians, was carried out to ity logical conclusion early in the following century by Aristarchus of Samos, to whom belongs the glory of having assigned to the earth its move ment of translation as well as of rotation, and of having thus anticipated, in both its parts, the doctrine of Copernicus. This line of opinion, however, from Anaximander to Aristarchus, wag but an isolated development of thought, ungup. ported by scientific proof, and repugnant to the prima facie evidence of the senses. The over whelming preponderance of ideas conformed it self to direct appearances, , Opinions have been hitherto equally divided as to which side of the question was reénforced by the august name of Plato. The real state of the case seems to be, as Signor Schiaparelli has pointed out with much learning and acumen, that the Platonic ideas on the subject were progressives advancing from the mythological conception of & universe whirling on the spindle of necessity, to a clear grasp of the Pythagorean doctrine of the. earth’s rotation.? At an intermediate stage of his long development, he proposed to geometers the problem of accounting for the apparent mo tions of the heavenly bodies on the hypothesis of uniform circular motion round the earth ag & centre. (It must be remembered that the Greeks carefully separated astronomy from physics; Tt garding the first as dealing only with mathemati cal possibilities, while physics took exclusive cog: nizance of natural laws.) Plato’s challenge pre duced the homocentric system, elaborated by the mathematicians Eudoxus and Calippus, which accounted for the apparent paths of the sum moon, and planets, supposing them to be pre pelled by a series of spheres revolving with dif. ferent velocities round the earth as a commom centre. This hypothesis answered admirably for Jupiter and Saturn, but failed to explain the anomalies of Mars, Venus, and Mercury. It wat consequently abandoned in favor of the system, of eccentrics and epicycles, as developed mathe matically by Apollonius of Perge. Uniform eit. cular motion, being presupposed as a necessity, postulate, the accelerations and retardations of the celestial bodies were explained by supposing the, 1 “ Republic,” book x. 1 aa 2 Laws,” book vii. eart tral “ sta theo on t caug then trav Hipp thori com] ganiz the : from of ol false nome prince trolo; helpe is per A whos their of the West tory,” in Eu And, | Ptoler knowt Arabi ages, cultur the ar genius creatiy than ix as Cor the Ar evolve: Thus } during its cus: Ptolem Arabic was the them a: was the letters | an inde tige of £an gra to cone 14 Hist

Page 405

7 Os oF ge. ett oe A, Tipton sen Sialic 1 op Pa earth to be more or less displaced from the cen- tral point of their orbits; while the planetary “stations and retrogradations” were met by the theory of epicycles, or smaller spheres rotating on the circumference of each great sphere, which caught the planets in their revolution, and whirled them back over a portion of the paths already traversed. This ingenious system, adopted by Hipparchus, and fortified by the irresistible au- thority of Ptolemy, formed the basis of the only compact body of science, except geometry, or- ganized by the labors of antiquity. It derived the almost impregnable strength of its position from this—that it was intrenched behind a mass of observations and calculations which had a false air of scientific truth. It explained phe- nomena in detail, although it outraged reason in principle. The fascinating superstitions of as- trology, which were closely dependent on it, helped to give it efficacy and duration ; for error is persistent, though truth be invincible. A people fresh from the reveries of the desert, whose thirst for knowledge was only equaled by their thirst for conquest, collected the inheritance of the school of Alexandria, and transmitted it to Western Europe. “ Efface the Arabs from his- tory,” says Libri,! “‘ and the renaissance of letters in Europe will be delayed for several centuries.” And, in fact, the works of Aristotle, Euclid, and Ptolemy, were, until the fifteenth century, only known in Italy by means of translations from the Arabic; while, during great part of the middle ages, Moorish universities were the centres of culture, and Moorish geometers and astronomers the arbiters of science in Europe. But as the genius of the Arabs was decorative rather than creative, so their intellect was ingenious rather than inventive. With all their laborious patience a3 commentators, and subtilty as interpreters, the Arabs laid down no new line of thought, and evolved no new truths out of the old materials. Thus knowledge made no single step forward during the many centuries in which they were its custodians. The “ Almagest,” as they called Ptolemy's “ Syntax of Astronomy ” (from al, the Arabic article, combined with péyioros, greatest), was their astronomical Koran, and Ptolemy was to them as exclusively she astronomer as Mohammed was the Prophet. It was not until the revival of letters in Italy enabled Christian Europe to form an independent judgment, that the imposing pres- tige of Ptolemy and his Arab commentators be- gan gradually to decline. It was found possible 0 conceive a constitution of the universe differ- 1“ Histoire des Sciences Mathématiques,” vol. i., p. 151. 26 COPERNICUS IN ITALY. 401 ent from tiiat consecrated by the authority of the Alexandrian philosopher, when other ideas were found to have been entertained by sages of equal learning and a more venerable antiquity. It was not, however, among astronomers by profession that innovating opinions began to spread during the fifteenth century; the preju- dices as well as the interests of their caste were opposed to change. Purbach and Regiomonta- nus were as orthodox Ptolemaists as Isaac Aben Sid or Abdurrahman Sdphi. The very complica- tions of the system made it dear to those whose lives had been devoted to mastering its intricate details, since we value most what we have ac- quired with the greatest difficulty, and our past labor becomes an intimate part of our present self-love. The theory of the earth’s rotation was adopted by many lay thinkers on the subject be- fore a single expert had declared in its favor, and Celio Calcagnini, the notary of Ferrara, spoke of the contrary opinion as an error manifest to all thoughtful men, long before Magini, the Bologn- ese astronomer, composed his twelve books on the “ Primum Mobile.” The first of these astronomical heretics was a German by birth, but an Italian by culture, a metaphysical cardinal and theologian, a dilettante in science, and one of the earliest of modern Pla- tonic philosophers. Nicholas Krebs was the son of a poor fisherman, and was born in 1401, at Cues, on the banks of the Moselle. His remark- able talents procured for him the advantage of an education at the University of Padua, and af- terward raised him to thehighest honors of the Church. His philosophical writings received much attention from the Italian prelates assembled at the Council of Basle, in the stormy discussions of which he took a prominent part; and his name would no doubt have become more widely famous had not a premature death cut short his career at the comparatively early age of forty-seven. His ideas as to the constitution of the universe are contained in the singular treatise, “De Docta Ignorantia.” They are founded on metaphysical rather than on scientific considerations, the con- ception of physical cause being as yet only dimly present to the minds of men. By a modification of the Platonic idea, Cardinal Cusa conceives the universe as a vast organism, whose life is the breath of God, having no material centre or cir- cumference, but infinite as its Maker. He lays down as an axiom that motion can only be appre- hended by comparison with what is fixed, and thence clearly deduces the motion of the earth: “ Ex his quidem manifestum est terram moveri.”

Page 406

402 The details of his cosmical system are, it must be admitted, open to much doubt; but his design was rather to expose prevalent errors than to build up from the foundations a new structure. The point important to be held in mind is that, forty years before Copernicus was born, Cardinal Cusa clearly apprehended and pointed out, at least in principle, the difference between the real and apparent motions of the heavenly bodies. | The same treatise contains some remarkable fore- shadowings of subsequent discoveries, which, al- though conclusions drawn from false premises, show a singular intuition of scientific truth. Un- til Kepler discovered his first law, it was taken to be a necessary and fundamental principle of Nature, that the orbits of all the heavenly bodies were perfect circles. Even Copernicus did not venture to impugn the truth of this axiom, and was consequently compelled to impair the simple beauty of his system by retaining in it some of Cardinal Cusa, however, rejected not only uniform circular motion, but also perfect symmetry of figure as inconceivable and impossible in the ex- isting order of things, and maintained that the figure of the earth, although closely approaching sphericity, was not that of a perfect sphere, as well as that its orbit departed to some extent from the perfectly circular form. Another pas- sage shows a close approximation to modern ideas on the subject of the solar constitution : “To a spectator on the surface of the sun,” he says, “ the splendor which appears to us would be invisible, since it céntains, as it were, an earth for its central mass, with a circumferential en- velope of light and heat, and between the two an atmosphere of water and clouds and of ambient air.” A somewhat obscure passage which has been generally considered to refer to the earth’s orbi- tal revolution seems to us to point rather to a proper motion of the entire solar system in space —or, as he describes it, round the poles of the world—inferred erroneously from the apparent movement of the stars really caused by preces- sion. This curious book, which attracted much attention in Italy, was printed at Corte Maggiore in 1502—two years, that is, before Copernicus finally returned to his native land. It is there- fore in the highest degree improbable that it es- caped the notice of one whose faculties were, there is little doubt, already beginning to concen- trate themselves on the subjects mooted by the philosophical cardinal. There is abundant evidence that the doctrine THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. of the earth’s rotation was extensively prevalent | in Italy when Copernicus took up his abode there, and Signor Berti has done good service in point. | ing out this interesting and hitherto almost ig- nored fact in the history of science. Girolamo | Tagliavia, a Calabrese poet, propounded the the. ory in unequivocal terms toward the close of the fifteenth century ; although the assertion of Za- varrone that Copernicus not only saw the poem in which these ideas were expressed, but bor. rowed from it its precise words, rests on no suffi cient evidence, and cannot therefore be admitted to form part of history. In Bologna itself, how. | ever, during the residence of Copernicus, the sub- | ject was one of common discussion. We hear, for instance, that Codrus Urceus, Professor of | Greek and Latin Letters at the university—an eccentric character, who prided himself on the | poignancy of his sallies and the piquancy of his | wit—was accustomed to treat those who believed | } | | than as needing special proof. Some of the opin. | ions, indeed, of this miracle of genius are so far | in advance of those of his contemporaries as to | Seem inspirations of prescience far more than in- ferences of ordinary reason, and can therefore hardly be treated as evidence of the common standard of thought in his time. Finally, while Copernicus, in the solitude of Frauenburg, was slowly and laboriously completing his new cos- mical system, another ecclesiastic was revolving similar thoughts at the brilliant court of Ferrara. Celio Caleagnini died in 1541—two years before the great work of Copernicus saw the light—and his treatise, “ Quod Coelum stet, Terra autem moveatur,” seems to have been written some years earlier. It is possible, although it does not appear, that some rumors of impending innova tions in astronomical science may have reached him from Rome, where, in 1533, Widmenstadt expounded the doctrines of Copernicus with much applause to Clement VII. and his court, Cal. cagnini, at any rate, maintains his opinion stoutly, declaring the immobility of the earth to be the doctrine most repugnant to reason of any ever taught by philosophers, and citing sundry al cient authorities—Hicetas of Syracuse, Herat- lides and Ecphantus—in support of his view. He | gives no hint, however, of the earth’s motion, Another man, of far higher genius than the Apostolic Prothonotary of Ferrara, was busy. | | at 1 fort lane ignc devi ful t the whic pate fram dent 7 pern was of 1. two kh obtai Chap after upon torun turne Andr neces: pittan vation the J month plaudi from | world, which above perceiy in Bok teachin Mathen no doul discove tions w dano—,; made it at once, rable ar Agai Coperni Chapter longed | dua, T the mor devote | three yer

Page 407

| | a ea ee ee le cel at the same time with another scheme for re- forming the constitution of the universe. A Mi- lanese physician named Girolamo Fracastoro, ignorant of the work being done at Frauenburg, devoted his extraordinary abilities to the ungrate- ful task of repairing and setting on its legs again the disearded system of homocentric spheres, which had always been a favorite with the Peri- patetics, and which Dante had chosen as the framework of his wonderful Cosmos. It is evi- dent that the time was ripe for change. The irterval between the first coming of Co- pernicus to Italy and his final departure from it was eight years—from the end of 1496 to that of 1504. But his sojourn was interrupted by two homeward journeys for the purpose mainly of obtaining renewed leave of absence from the Chapter of Frauenburg. The first was in 1499, after the University of Bologna had conferred upon him the degree of Doctor of Laws—Decre- torum Doctor. Later in the same year, he re- turned to Bologna, accompanied by his brother Andrew; but, finding themselves in extremely necessitous circumstances—probably because the pittance which had been bread for one was star- vation for two—the brothers repaired to Rome in the Jubilee year, 1500. There, for about ten months, Nicholas taught mathematics amid the plaudits of thronging audiences, and, abstracted from the ealamities and crimes of the nether world, he lost himself in the contemplation of that “ Paradise of golden lights,’ which Night opens, * Deep, immeasurable, vast! *’ above the Capitoline ruins and palaces. One perceives that he had made good use of his time in Bologna, and had profited abundantly by the teachings of Scipioné del Ferro, Professor of Mathematics in that school. There is little or no doubt that to Del Ferro rightly belongs the discovery of the formula for solving cubic equa- tions which goes by the name of Girolamo Car- dano—a discovery, by which modern Europe made its first great scientific stride, leaving, all at once, both Greeks and Arabs at an immeasu- rable and increasing distance. Again, in 1501, both Nicholas and Andrew Copernicus were in Poland, and this time the Chapter of Frauenburg granted them a more pro- longed leave for the purpose of studying at Pa- dua. The permission, we are told, was granted the more willingly, because Nicholas promised to devote himself to medicine! Thus, when, after three years’ further study, he finally returned to COPERNICUS IN ITALY. 403 his native land, he was a doctor in two faculties, as well as a competent classical scholar, a rare mathematician, and the astronomer all the world knows of. The remainder of his life, which reached out to seventy years, was spent in labo- rious and unbroken solitude. Like Dante, he lived in his book, and, like Dante, he died in giv- ing birth to an immortal offspring. We learn from his prefatory letter to Pope Paul IIL. that he began the great work in which he gave per- manent form to the patient convictions of his genius—“ De Revolutionibus Orbium ccelestium ” —in 1507, and worked at it without intermission up to the year of its publication, 1543, which was also that of the death of its author. The evolution of ideas in the minds of men of genius is always a more or less obscure pro- cess, difficult to be traced even by the thinkers themselves, who are usually but imperfectly con- scious of the successive steps by which they ad- vance from intuition to intuition. Thought is a winged courser, whose race has neither starting- point nor goal—an apparition out of the mists of Time. The account given by Copernicus himself (in the above-mentioned letter to Paul IIL.) of the incubation of his new ideas is therefore not to be taken as exhaustive. The letter in ques- tion, moreover, was evidently written with a pur- pose. He desired to prove that the system which he advocated was, not an innovation, but a re- vival of opinions already sanctioned by antiqui- ty—the sacro-sancta antiquitas of the Renais- sance. “He began to he weary,” he says, “of the unstable theories taught in the schools as to the constitution of a machine built by the most per- fect and most systematic of Artificers, and he ,therefore undertook the task of reperusing all that philosophers had written on the subject.” This project, the very conception of which implies a considerable acquaintance with classical literature, must have been undertaken and car- ried out in Italy. First, because Copernicus, un- til he came thither, knew little Latin and no Greek ; next, because in Italy only could he have access to a sufficiently extensive collection of an- cient authors to make the scheme useful or feasi- ble. In all probability, his thoughts were first directed to the subject by the conversations which he heard carried on around him at Bologna, where the question, An terra moveatur? was a moot- point for discussion. Two things forcibly strike us in the apology of Copernicus for his doctrine. This contained a double innovation ; it made the earth rotate on its own axis, and it made the

Page 408

404 THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. earth revolve in an orbit round the sun. But, in ; against revealed religion, excited the alarm of A quoting the opinions of the ancients, he carefully | the simple, and prepared the tribulations of Gali. : slurs over the heliocentric portion of his scheme | leo. o with an ambiguous phrase. “ Philolaus the Although he has no claim to be ranked among oo Pythagorean,” he writes, “attributed to the | the great discoverers in astronomical and mathe ° earth divers motions, and classed it among the | matical science, Giordano Bruno must be placed we stars.” Now, the cosmical scheme of Philolaus | with Galileo, and before Galileo, in the foremost see was in its essence geocentric, since the “ Central | rank of the champions and martyrs of scientific by Fire,” round which it made the earth as well as | truth. The comprehensive audacity of his geniug req the sun and other luminaries revolve, although | seized at once the bearing of the Copernican gyg. of t not contained within the substance of the earth, | tem on the whole range of human thought, .n9 ote was supposed to exist immediately outside it— | longer concentrated around the destinies of this =e that is, within the small circle of its daily rota- | terrestrial ball, but expanded and expanding into Sen tion. Next, while alleging in support of his views | space, and revoiving round an orb, which is but pik the opinions of Hicetas, Heraclides, and Ecphan- | one of the luminous centres of the creation, by] tus, as well as of Philolaus, Copernicus omits all | There is nothing in language finer than some. of on mention of the only one among the Greeks who | the flashes of eloquence in which Bruno deseribes for | attained to a clear conception of the true solar | the effect of this illumination of his mind. Bat the system—Aristarchus of Samos. Nor can it be | with his enthusiasm was combined a singular dom supposed that he was ignorant of his views, since | gift of playfulness and humor. Among othe a fo he quotes from the identical treatise by Plutarch | miscellaneous topics—the qualities of binaries,” j (or some other unknown author), in which the | the hopeless dullness of the Peripatetics, the Gn following remarkable passage occurs: “ Aristar- | Stygian condition of London streets, and the — was chus numbers the sun among the fixed stars, | Tartarean manners of London citizens—he die pleat makes the earth move in the solar circle” (the | cussed the Copernican philosophy in a remark- Heb ecliptic), “and says that the shadows fall on it | able and entertaining series of dialogues, called thos proportionately to its inclinations.”* (A suffi- | the “Cena de le Ceneri.” The scene of this fe point ciently clear account of the changes of the sea- | titious Ash-Wednesday supper is laid in “the ly re sons.) Only one explanation occurs to us to ac- | honored dwelling of the most noble and high had : count for this marked neglect of so decisive an | bred Signor Folco Grivello” (Fulke Greville), mer authority—namely, the faint suspicion of impiety | Time, the spring of 1584—the twenty-sixth year andri attaching to the name of Aristarchus. Cleanthes | of Elizabeth—when Bruno was the guest in Loa- ages the Stoic had imputed it to him as an offense | don of Mauvissitre, the French embassador, o¢- conee against religion that he had “ disturbed the re- | cupying, as he tells us, not without rancor, “a he co pose of Hestia,” and the accusation was not with- | most eminent place under the roof.” The pur ure w out success in imposing silence upon the truth. | pose of the debate was to prove the truth of O> spect In the sixteenth century, antiquity was still vital, | pernican doctrines to the satisfaction of Greville him t and its reminiscences not ineffective. Copernicus,| and his friends, in the teeth of two “mad bar math feared lest a second Aristarchus might meet with | barians,” Drs. Nundinio and Torquato, Eng and ¢ a second Cleanthes. land, Bruno informs us, was fertile of such fruit ; like h Although the publication of his book was pro- | —doctors fit rather to follow the plough thant might moted by a cardinal (Schonberg), and its dedica- | adduce learned arguments ; proud of refusing were tion accepted by a pope, Copernicus well knew | believe what Aristotle was ignorant of, and not the fa that a great mass of prejudice remained to be | ashamed to be ignorant of all that Aristotle knew; Th overcome before his system could be finally re- | pedants, before whose obstinate and presumptive of the ceived as the only rational interpretation of ce- | ignorance, combined with rustic incivility, Job's tained lestial phenomena. And, in fact, astronomers | patience itself must have given way. 1H which and mathematicians admired it as a beautiful hy- As we read, we cease to wonder that Gior- raise t pothesis, but continued to take the “ Almagest ” | dano Bruno had to fly from Paris before the. rie Philosc for their text-book, and to make the tables of | ing storm of Peripatetic wrath, and that he spent ful sen Alfonso the basis of their calculations ; while Gi- | his life a wanderer on the face of the earth. His force s ordano Bruno, although grasping its truth with | sarcasms were too keen to be readily forgives tact, a1 an intuition of genius, by using it as a weapon | his sneers were too constant to be lightly 4g i Newtor 1 Plutarch, “De Placitis Philosophoram,” ib. ii., cap. | BOPed; his very gratitude carried with it a,stiag ; tenable 24, quoted by Schiaparelli, Appendix, xl. and his eulogy was dogged by @ mocking On Pervad

Page 409

i ad ee ee ee ee ee ee ee ews Sere ofirony. Our English self-love suffers consider- able mortification at his hands. He dipped his pen in gall when he wrote of that “ happy land,” guarded by Arcturus, the Bearward, under the influence of the constellation Bodtes, The pict- ure he draws of London apprentices and London roughs reminds us of the concise answer given by an African explorer of the last century, when requested to describe the manners and customs of the tribe he had visited: ‘‘ Manners they have none, and their customs, sir, are very beastly.” In the midst of the hustling, jeering crowd of draymen, porters, and serving-men, armed with pikes, halberds, or spits, conjured up before us by Bruno’s vivid words, we seem to see his slight southern figure, trembling with rage as he feels for the handle of his Neapolitan stiletto, and faces the “ grim English giants” with those sad, in- domitable eves, which might be thought to hold a foreshadowing of his tragical fate. Although an ardent advocate of the Coperni- ean theory in its main principles, Giordano Bruno was so on grounds of his own choosing. He pleaded the same cause, but held a different brief. He boasted of seeing with his own eyes, not with those of either Copernicus or Ptolemy ; and, in point of intellectual descent, he seems more close- ly related to the ‘‘ divine Cusa,”” whose works he had attentively studied, than to the sober astrono- mer of Thorn or the successful charlatan of Alex- andria, The metaphysical flaw of the middle ages still lay at the root of Bruno’s cosmical conceptions. He was no mathematician ; indeed, he could hardly describe a simple geometrical fig- ure without betraying his helplessness in this re- spect ; and his mind was so constituted as to lead him to despise what he did not possess. “ Mere mathematicians” served by their observations and calculations to prepare the way for those, like himself, gifted with deeper insight into the mighty meanings of celestial phenomena ; they were translators of strange words, but without the faculty of interpreting their higher sense. The idea of a central force ruling the motions of the planetary bodies, which had been enter- tained in an imperfect form by Copernicus, and which it was reserved for a still greater mind to raise to the dignity of a law, was rejected by the philosopher of Nola in one of his incisive, scorn- ful sentences. It was to him inconceivable that force should act upon matter save by direct con- tact, and the difficulty of Bruno was shared by Newton, who endeavored to meet it with the un- tenable hypothesis of an inward pressure of space- Pervading ether. The difficulty is, in truth, un- COPERNICUS IN ITALY. 405 answerable, unless we suppose that impalpable substance called “ ether,” which we know to be diffused between star and star, as well as be- tween atom and atom, to be the medium through which all material forces whatever, from the at- traction of gravitation to chemical affinity, exert their energy. Force, acting through an absolute vacuum, is as inconceivable to us as it was to Giordano Bruno; and the attempt to realize it encounters a repugnance in our mental consti- tutions as strong as that which prohibits our conceiving an effect without a cause; but the ine conceivability does not vanish with the use of the word “contact.” Contact is only a rude method of describing a balance of forces. We say two bodies are in contact when the mutually attractive energy of their masses is counteracted by the repulsive energy of the particles forming their surfaces. But inter-atomic action without a conveying medium is precisely as unimaginable as the compelling action of the sun upon the earth exerted across 92,000,000 miles of blank space; and the y;sy part of an inch, unbridged, is as metaphysically impassable as the awful gulf which separates us from the farthest nebula, Space has a relative, not an absolute existence ; the measure of all things, it has itself no meas- ure. Thus, the objection urged by Bruno against the dawning theory of gravitation applies equally to all the forces which hold together the visible frame of Nature; and, reaching deeper than he himself suspected, can only be proved to be in- valid by being shown to be universal. It was Giordano Bruno's pride to have broken down the barriers of heaven, and, like the “ little old woman” on her broomstick in the nursery rhyme, to have “ cleared the cobwebs out of the sky,” in the shape of the last vestiges of cycles, epicycles, and rotating spheres. Space —im- mense, ethereal, illimitable—lay open before him; peopled with shining spheres—“ the Divine Animals ” of Plato—consciously rejoicing as they swept through their voluntary, majestic orbits ; “ constellated suns unshaken,” differing from our sun in species, not in genus ; “ infinitely infinite” in number; nourishing in their bosoms an end- less variety of sentient beings ; renovated by par- tial change, subsisting in an eternal cause. Their motions he conceived to be imperceptible to us, not because they were “ fixed,’”’ but because their revolutions, by reason of their inconceivable dis- tance from the earth, could only be apprehended by a careful series of observations. Now, the moving principle of observation is the belief that the thing to be observed is at least possible, and

Page 410

’ 406 THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. the motions of the stars had hitherto been be- | which are known to be greater and more magnif- lieved to be impossible ; therefore, they had re- | cent than our earth, should be compelled, in spite mained unobserved. His daring prescience mul- of Nature and reason, which, by means of motions tiplied even the traditional seven planets of the evident to the homytr prociaim the conteny, —_e ‘ : ‘ acknowledge this globe as the centre and base of solr system, which in the increasing family of their revolutions and influences. Who, then, will the planetoids alone have, by the latest discovery be so churlish and discourteous toward the efforts of Borelli, grown to the imposing number of 172. | of this man as to cover with oblivion all he bas But with all this poetic fervor of genius, which | done, by being ordained of the gods as an Auror sometimes missed its mark, and sometimes antici- | which was to precede the rising of this sun of the pated the result of much later discoveries, Gior- | true, ancient philosophy, buried during so many dano Bruno has left us one of the grandest and | centuries in the tenebrous caverns of blind, malig most weighty tributes to the character and genius nant, froward, SS eae and, taking of Copernicus himself. We shall quote the pas- | "°% only of what he failed to accomplish, rank oy allies tenieattiinsdl Ren taees Geile | him among the number of the herded multitude, cage ar s remarkable examp & which discourses, guides itself, precipitates to de style of that age: struction, according to the oral sense of a brutal “Tle was a man of grave and cultivated mind, | and ignoble belief, rather than among those who, of rapid and mature intelligence; inferior to no | by the use of right reason, have been able to rise preceding astronomer, unless in order of succession | Up, and resume the true course under the faith and time; a man who in natural ability was far | ful guidance of the eye of divine intelligence,” superior to Ptolemy, Hipparchus, Eudoxus, and | all those others who followed in their footsteps. | And for this cause Giordano died. He was What he was, he became through having liberated burned at the stake at Rome in 1600, more, we himself from certain false axioms of the common | believe, for his defense of the Copernican system and vulgar philosophy—I will not say blindness. | than for his loose life and visionary philosophy, Nevertheless, he did not depart far from them; | Had Galileo not retracted, he might have shared because, studying mathematics rather than Nature, | pruno's fate. Be Glos t penstete snd dig one enangs ehe- For himself Copernicus had nothing to fear. gether to cut away the roots of incongruous and While his book we e. & apse a ERA vile his book was still in the hands of the vain principles, and thus, removing perfectly all | — , z opposing difficulties, free himself and others from | printers of Nuremberg, he had already so many empty investigations into things obvious and unchangeable. In spite of all this, who can sufficiently praise the magnanimity of this Ger- man, who, having little regard to the foolish mul- titude, stood firm against the torrent of contrary opinion, and, although wellnigh unarmed with living arguments, resuming those rusty and neg- lected fragments which antiquity had transmitted to him, polished, repaired, and put them together with reasonings more mathematical than philo- sophical ; and so rendered that cause formerly con- temned and contemptible, honorable, estimable, | men, indeed, have done their day’s work so well more probable than its rival, and certainly con- | as Nicholas Copernicus. He brought man astep venient and expeditious for purposes of theory and | nearer to the truth, and therefore to the Author calculation? Thus this Teuton, although with | o¢ 9) truth; and the name of the obscure Canon n i ie Vv ish, ove Ww . , mesons tnsuficient to vanquish, overthrow, and | of Frauenburg will be forever memorable as that suppress falsehood, as well as resist it, neverthe- | - ? s lane less resolutely determined in his own mind, and | of tim — placed (to use a“ ae re openly confessed this final and necessary conclu- | guage) “the light of the worl ie ¢ ; sion: that it is more possible that this globe | Soverns the planets in their circulation—upom 8 should move with regard to the universe, than that royal throne, in the midst of the Temple of the innumerable multitude of bodies, many of , Nature.”"—Edinburgh Review. * Outsoared the shadow of our night,” and attained to the region of perfect truth—trath complete on every side. The story so often re peated, of his having died with the first printed copy of his book in his hand, must be consigned, however reluctantly, to the limbo which holds 80 | many appropriate fables. Truth does not round off its outlines so neatly as fiction, and real life leaves many a finishing touch to be desired. Few :y ly-dif land v but wi contin ingly and re influer peacef ceeded retical used fi tical w wants istratir hands doctrir least ¢ for the private affairs having have be the roo come ir Ver during Peter tl ity was tional | abandot their off accordit pathy o of theor nor by the nev grand s« tical He country lutions | among a I ha various two syst Out one | ed with England steady ;

Page 411

SECRET SOCIETIES IN RUSSIA. SECRET SOCIETIES IN RUSSIA. By D, MACKENZIE WALLACE. HE history of Russia and the history of Eng- land present two clearly-defined and wide- ly-different types of national progress. In Eng- land we have had several important revolutions, but we may fairly say that the thread of historic continuity has never been broken, and accord- ingly the history of the nation presents a long and regular development little affected by foreign influences. The reform movements, whether in peaceful or in stormy times, have always pro- ceeded—at least until quite recently, when theo- retical considerations have been occasionally used for party purposes—from keenly-felt prac- tical wants, and have subsided as soon as those wants were satisfied. The legislative and admin- istrative authority has never slipped into the hands of pedantic professors or bureaucratic doctrinaires, but has always been wielded, or at least controlled, by men of the world, who had for the most part learned to manage their own private affairs before undertaking to manage the affairs of the State. Thus the upper classes, having constantly received a political education, have been preserved from political dreaming, and the root-and-branch method of reform has never come into fashion. Very different has been the history of Russia during the last two centuries. In the reign of Peter the Great the thread of historical continu- ity was rudely snapped asunder, The old tradi- tional methods of government were suddenly abandoned, and since that time the czars and their official advisers have ruled and reorganized according to foreign principles, without the sym- pathy or codperation of the people. Being men of theory, and trammeled neither by tradition nor by practical knowledge, these legislators of the new school have habitually launched into grand schemes that would make a prosaic, prac- tical House of Commons stand aghast, and the country has been periodically subjected to “‘ revo- lutions from above” such as are inconceivable among a people accustomed to self-government. I have no intention of discussing here the various advantages and disadvantages of these two systems of government, but I wish to point out one practical result which is closely connect- ed with the subject of the present paper. In England the reform movement has been slow but steady ; and where reformers have gained a new | position, they have generally been able to hold it, for the simple reason that a very large section of the people has been ready to support them. In Russia, on the contrary, the advance has been rapid and spasmodic. It is easy, of course, to make any number of grand schemes on paper, and in a country where an uncontrolled autocrat rules over a politically passive population it is not difficult to transform any bit of paper into a law ; but it is a very difficult thing, in Russia as elsewhere, to make a grand legislative scheme work well in real life among a people unprepared for it. Unforeseen practical difficulties arise, unknown disturbing forces are called into exist- ence, the instruments do not effect what was ex- pected of them—in a word, the plausible pro- gramme, which looked so well on paper, cannot be carried out, and the consequent despondency is in proportion to the warmth of the preceding inordinate expectations. Thus a period of vio- lent reform is pretty sure to be succeeded by a period of equally violent reaction. The history of the present campaign in Asia Minor has so far illustrated well the Russian char- acter and habitual mode of action. First, great enthusiasm, inordinate expectations, and a haugh- ty contempt for difficulties; next, a rapid ad- vance, obstacles surmounted with wonderful fa- cility, difficult positions stormed with reckless, dashing gallantry; and, as a result of all this, overweening confidence whispering to them that, as one of their proverbs graphically and quaint- ly puts it, “if they tried to ford the ocean, the waters would not rise higher than their knees.” Then comes a check, obstacles are met which no amount of dash and gallantry can surmount, the over-heated enthusiasm cools, the retreat begins, the imprudence of neglecting to secure firmly and methodically the positions gained becomes apparent, and the great shadowy conquest col- lapses into the most modest of acquisitions. This has been the history of the campaign in Asia Minor, and it has likewise been the political his- tory of Russia since the time of Peter the Great —a fact which may be recommended to the con- sideration of those who imagine that impulsive- ness and spasmodic enthusiasm can flourish only in southern climes. In the opening chapter of Macaulay’s history, it will be remembered, there is an eloquent passage in which national progress

Page 412

‘ 408 is compared to the advancing tide. First the wave advances, and then it recedes, but only in order to gain new force to advance further than before. To use this metaphor, I should say that in a country like ours the waves are mere rip- ples. If we have what may be termed periods of Liberal enthusiasm and periods of Conserva- tive reaction, the enthusiasm does not drive us very far forward, and the Conservatism simply stops us without perceptibly pulling us back. In countries like Russia, on the contrary, the tide ad- vances in great rolling, foam-crested waves, and the recoil is, of course, in proportion to the im- pulse. It is in these moments of recoil that se- cret societies are likely to appear. I say likely, because other conditions are also requisite. If a people is in a state of com- plete political passivity and indifference, there may be conspiracies among those who surround the throne, but there cannot be secret societies in the proper sense of the term, It is only when a certain portion of the public, excluded from political influence, have imbibed political aspira- tions which they are prevented from expressing freely, that the formation of secret societies be- comes possible. This is well illustrated in the history of Russia. Since the end of the seven- teenth century there have been four great reform- ing epochs, associated respectively with the names of Peter the Great, Catherine II., Alex- ander I., and Alexander II. Each of these vio- lent advances was succeeded by a corresponding recoil, but the first two produced no secret soci- eties, because the reform enthusiasm which pro- duced them was confined to the rulers. There was no outside public sharing the enthusiasm, and excluded from the sobering influence which experience and the possession of authority natu- rally generate. All who moved forward in the impulsion retreated voluntarily in the recoil; and when the Emperor Paul, Catherine’s son and successor, carried his reactionary policy ad absurdum, he was opposed, not by secret socie- ties, but merely by a little band of conspira- tors—men belonging to the court—who re- moved him by assassination. The two more re- cent movements had a very different character, and of them I must speak more in detail. While resembling each other in their origin, they are very different in their character and aim, and the points of similarity and contrast were reflected in the secret societies which they produced. Let us glance first at those in the time of Alexan- der I. In 1801 Alexander I. ascended the throne af- THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. ter the violently-repressive reign of his father Paul, who had a fanatical hatred of everything which had the least odor of liberalism. Alexan. der presented in almost every respect a marked contrast to his father. He had been trained-un. der the eyes of the philosophic Catherine II, by a Swiss tutor called Laharpe, a man of high moral character and imbued with the liberalism then in fashion. Under the influence of this teacher he had, at the age of nineteen, in spite of the reactionary spirit that was then dominant at court, learned to hate despotism in all its forms, to love liberty as something to which every human being had an inalienable right, and even to rejoice at the success of the French Revolution! He wished to see republics estab- lished everywhere, and regarded that form of government as the only one consistent with the rights of man. For the first time in her history, Russia received as her legitimate, autocratic ezar, @ young sentimental republican ! As soon as this young republican succeeded to the throne, he determined to put his phile sophical principles into practice on a grand scale, A boundless field of activity opened itself up to his imagination. He would make his subjects free, civilized, prosperous, and happy, and would then retire, like Washington, to the ranks of private life, where he would enjoy, without the cares and responsibilities of office, the love and veneration of his emancipated countrymen. These youthful dreams, I need scarcely say, were not destined to be realized. Alexander was not of the stuff of which great reformers are made, His policy did not proceed from vigorous natural instincts, as in the case of Peter the Great, nor from keen political sagacity, as in the case of Catherine II. His political aspirations were the result of education on a weak, impres sionable character, and, as such, could ill bear the rough handling of real life. He had been taught to believe that a sovereign had merely to be virtuous, well-intentioned, and animated with the liberal spirit of the time, in order to render his people prosperous and happy. But gradu- ally he discovered how different real life is from theory. By bitter experience he learned that high aims, liberal convictions, and autocratic power do not suffice to make a successful reform: er. Looking back over a reign of more than twenty years, he could not but feel that he had realized few of his youthful aspirations, and that his humanitarianism and liberalism had proved mistake. In the army he saw insubordination and disaffection ; in the civil administration ¥@ nali fain “we chat my | with polic ful. hour and t the | andr —wit subje his re regar and t with ¢ moral tion ir world which Havin; the m sought ments. mental as his reign, ¢ voted a The change on a ls study ¢ tellectu sentime stitution ilar way Case, co Tesponsi poleon, : by the | quainted ern Euro of the 1 home th their exe the caus formerly now appe tion that air of po People, th Venality ‘ Police, th

Page 413

nality, theft, and abuses of every kind. “ These fainéants,” he said, speaking of the officials, “would steal my ships of war if they had the chance; and if they could draw my teeth without my noticing it, I should have been long since without a tooth in my head.” In his foreign policy he felt that he had been equally unsuccess- ful. The sovereigns whom he had saved in the hour of danger showed themselves ungrateful, and the nations whom he had helped to free from the Napoleonic yoke now forgot their liberator, and regarded him—not altogether without reason —with profound distrust. Even many of his own subjects, on account of his Polish schemes and his refusal to aid the Greeks against the Turks, regarded him as almost a traitor to his country | | SECRET SOCIETIES IN RUSSIA. . 409 want of energy in all classes of the nation— these, and a thousand little facts which had hith- erto passed unnoticed, made upon them now a painfulimpression, Whatirritated them most of all was tle talk of the elderly men, who praised all that was old, and condemned every attempt at reform as a dangerous innovation. They felt, as one of them afterward said, that they bad gota century ahead of their fellow-countrymen. It is always a very dangerous thing for a lit- tle group of people to get a century ahead of their contemporaries, and so it proved in this instance. The apathy of those around them, and the de- cidedly reactionary spirit of the government and the emperor, drove these men first into extra- legal and then into positively illegal means of re- and to the national faith. As is often the case alizing their refurming aspirations. At that time | with ambitious natures who fail and have not the the most approved means of producing political moral energy to begin anew, he sought consola- and social reform were secret political societies. tion in religious contemplation and mysticism—a | So it was in Germany, in France, in Italy, in world in which no energy is required, and in which there is no possibility of disappointment. Having lost his faith in liberalism, he adopted the most energetic repressive measures, and sought to root out abuses by severe punish- ments. Ina word, the young enthusiastic senti- mental republican, who at first took Washington as his model, became, in the latter years of his reign, a victim to religious melancholy and a de- voted adherent of Metternich. The events which produced this remarkable change in the emperor had a very different effect on a large section of the young noblesse. The study of French literature, and all those in- tellectual influences which had made him first a sentimental republican and then a believer in con- stitutional monarchy, had affected them in a sim- ilar way, and their enthusiasm was not, as in his case, counteracted by the sobering influence of a responsible position. During the wars with Na- poleon, and the subsequent occupation of France by the allies, they became to some ‘extent ac- quainted with the social and political life of West- em Europe, and with the opinions and aspirations of the various political parties. On returning home they were struck with the contrast, and their excited patriotic feelings led them to seek the causes of this difference. Much that had formerly seemed to them in the nature of things, now appeared barbarous and disgraceful for a na- tion that professed to be civilized. The general air of poverty, the apathy and ignorance of the People, the corruption of the administration, the venality of the law-courts, the brutality of the Police, the frivolity of St. Petersburg life, the Sp2in, and in Greece, and the young Russians naturally followed the prevailing fashion, The first Russian secret society was formed about the year 1816, under the title of “The Union of Salvation,” and was composed chiefly of officers of the Guards. Its professed aim was to struggle for the common weal, to aid in carry- ing out all beneficial measures of the govern- ment and all useful private undertakings, and to oppose evil of every kind—especially the mal- practices of the officials. In 1818 it was reor- ganized on the model of the German Tugend- bund, and received the new name of “‘ Union for Public Welfare.” Under this new form it pro- posed to itself—besides the vague aim of assist- ing the government in all beneficial measures— certain definite objects, the principal of which was the obtaining of representative institutions. In the years 1819 and 1820 its members rapidly increased, till nearly all the young nobles who had any pretensions to being “civilized” and “liberal ” were in more or less intimate relations with it. Though it was in form and organization an illicit secret society, it had little or nothing of the nature of a conspiracy, and the great major- ity of the members had certainly no illicit de- signs. “They still believed in the emperor’s lib- eral sympathies and intentions, and on more than one occasion it was proposed to inform his Maj- esty of the aims and intentions of the society, and to petition him to aid them in their work. While the great majority of the members were thus entirely innocent of treasonable or rev- olutionary designs—indulging in impracticable, idealistic sentimentalism, and trusting to moral

Page 414

410 PHE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. ingi . The two met rather than political propaganda for bringing , i Sag . te poem a ee ae ta about the national regeneration—there was a | icon th tees, tas dr een small ne yd vena ay teres Abas on sosved fruitless, the artillery fired a few spirit, and this minority , S densel the cmstealll became pogo - “oo postage a ! eae i meng the cnthorn gia a by | 7 cessful. The whole thi that they had nothing to anys o vaio Sac eadeaenadias effort. A bended concessions on the part of his Majesty, and con- | — sapann ciiuase ver teh Ge a cluded that the autocratic power must be abol- | an " = re idie'ees cones ae ished. Some were in favor of constitutional | Son. / ese, io on tes alas Ga monarchy, but this idea met with little favor. | lows = ner Psa ends the fret chastalll French writers had proved that all forms of gov- ome az ne ~<a leprae ernment in which the scsauor tt seeseed aire a ete wer Iidwhe was very different tary must lead to despotism, while republican in- ; : a rox sage hate, saree stitutions preserve political liberty and insure a | a ; ge anenee-tepengtin ; wonderfully rapid development of the national | e i caiaedie, tania prt resources, all which was supposed to have been “a ar tno—copecialty ta detll~and Gm proved to demonstration by the history of Greece | _ : s se ay er +a toma and Rome in ancient times, and more recently by | ere : vs the Liberals called “the opie sla the history of the United States, | om my To effect this, be edopted and peahellll ee — recone mr treme limit the Metternich system of police ciety to be broken up, and the more violent mem- | its ex ten dud capeeniion, ant bers formed a new society, which took for its int preter te purpose. During tts aa principle of action the French saying of its Presi- a uility reigned in Russia, ‘The edmiahtil dent, Pestel: ‘‘ Les demi-mésures ne valent rien ; | “ yom ean edibly corvept, but ene GH il faut faire maison nette!” What Pestel under. os canvedane Ghuadts stood by these words was, to raise a military in- | pu ste . rey aites “i hie cena aa surrection, to annihilate the imperial family, and = ecncasynce no sevelstionsey Gall to form a provisional government under its own pont om stormy times of 48. The pall ee ee ‘a a each pee Saal it necessary occasionally to send a few transformed into a federation of ‘sémi-indepen- : : tlees” people to Siberia, and once tigi dent provinces, resembling the United States of acacia intentioned peopl Sil cae. i itic spiracy; but there was When Alexander died, and Nicholas sueceed- paren _ i: ae A vn a ed in 1825, an attempt was made to carry out | prone, athe a secret society. Had Mililll the programme, but it failed most Atl ps - Ate 1852 his last moments might have bees the morning when the oath of allegiance was to | ie “ene i no constitten Qn eae be administered to the troops in St. Petersburg, com : on J of an entocnet, ond Git GH several companies refused, and collected in the | the mui wh Wt well had proved a brilliant si ee eee ed ee rudely dispelled by the successful, but here their success ended. They ecee, = ; had rashly crossed the Rubicon without making wae ners is of England and France thi eny plans for further action. The soldiers, de- ” won - ode of second-rate important ceived as to the point at issue, were ready to psaertn spa Peg RA 87 magnitude, fight, but they had no leader. The command | for pc the direct cause, as I have elsewhere eee rere ee eee oe See | 8 he ned, of all those great reforms which have ten, and successively declined. Every one com. | na ” present reign one of the most a manded and no one obeyed. All waited for | made ase te sane ’ something, they knew not what, and in the mean | tant epo daeamediacenneedlll resembles time the troops which had taken the oath were In eae ot 1. Both open with «iil being formed in front of them, under the com- | that o : eer wed “4 thusiasm, and in both eases mand of Nicheles binesif, The governer.gen- | outburst ¢ r puts himself at the head of ther eral of St. Petersburg rode in among the muti- the empero “ Fora time all goes well d exhorted them to return to their duty, | form movement. : ay enaeallll oil oe | forms are conceived and partly but his words had no effect, and he was shot | re

man} lenni asm ence. more new i ality do n¢ ment intern decid sentec the er is no gover! nillen: means is agai cal soc In mencet began emanci rights | course | proud, any pre warmly acciden half of | dissatis: probabl ism and type—tl tle too Russian youths, that the general consider should } after due that the and diss proclama the univ; Nihilists, question ought to hever re there js | Conceptio ion, they and wom Who had

Page 415

SECRET SOCIETIES IN RUSSIA. 411 many sanguine people believe that a national mil- lennium is at hand. But gradually the enthusi- asm cools under the influence of chilly experi- ence. The chilling process naturally takes place more rapidly among those in authority. The new institutions do not work nearly so well in re- ality as on paper, and new forces appear which do not readily submit to control. The govern- ment think it well to apply the curb, first in an intermittent, irritating way, and then in a more decided, systematic fashion, This is naturally re- sented by the enthusiastic, sanguine people, and the cry is raised that the reaction has set in. It down, and to introduce “a new kind of social order,” founded on the most advanced principles, communistic and otherwise. They had discov- ered that the two chief fountains of crime and human misery, viz., lust and the desire of gain, might be hermetically sealed by abolishing the obsolete institutions of marriage and private property. When society would be so organized that all the natural instincts of human nature would find complete and untrammeled satisfac- tion, there would be no inducement to comwit | crime. That could not, of course, be effected in- | Stantaneously, but something might be done at is no longer possible, they say, to trust to the | once. The adherents of the new doctrines ac- government for the realization of the expected millennium. If it is to be realized, extra-legal means must be employed. In a word, the stage | cordingly reversed the traditional order of things | in the matter of coiffure: the males allowed their | hair to grow long, and the female adepts cut their is again prepared for the entrance of secret politi- | hair short, adding occasionally the additional cal societies. In the present reign the cooling process com- menced almost as soon as the emancipation law badge of blue spectacles. Their appearance nat- | urally shocked the esthetic feelings of ordinary people, but to this they did not object. They began to be put in execution, in 1861. Serf- | had raised themselves above the level of popular emancipation—the conferring of liberty and eivic notions, were indifferent to so-called public opin- rights on forty millions of human beings—is of | ion, despised Philistine respectability, and rather course a grand thing, of which a nation should be | liked to scandalize people with antiquated preju- proud, and with which every patriotic man with dices. Besides this, they had a special grudge any pretensions to being civilized and iiberal must warmly sympathize; but when this great event accidentally deprives you of all power over one- ' | against the worship of esthetic culture. Profess- ‘ing extreme utilitarianism, they explained that the shoemaker who practises his craft is, in the half of your estate, and you find that your serfs are | true sense, a greater man than a Shakespeare or dissatisfied because they do not get the whole of it, | probably you will feel—especially if your liberal- ism and patriotism be of the vaporing, rhetorical type—that really liberalism may be pushed a lit- | tle too far. So, at least, thought many of the Russian proprietors. On the other hand, certain | youths, not amenable to sobering influences, held | that the emancipation law and the government in general were not nearly liberal enough. These | considered that more land and less taxation | should have been given to the peasantry, and after due consideration arrived at the conviction that the best way to mend matters was to write and disseminate the most terrifically seditious proclamations, Then there were the disorders in the universities ; and, above all, there were the Nihilists. What are the Nihilists? That is a question which I have often put to men who ought to be competent authorities, and I have | never received a satisfactory explanation, but there is no difficulty in describing the popular Conception of them. According to popular opin- ton, they were a band of fanatical young men and women—many of them medical students— who had determined to turn the world upside | a Goethe, because humanity has more need of shoes than poetry. Strange to say, the opera found favor in their eyes—perhaps because the founder of modern theoretical Communism had included operatic representations in his phalan- stére programme. Perhaps the most curious part of this curious phenomenon was the prominence of the female element in all the demonstrations. When the students held meetings against the | orders of the authorities, ladies in short hair and blue spectacles were generally among the ora- tors. Let it be distinctly understood that I am de- scribing not the Nihilists but simply the popular conception of them. Some of their friends have assured me that this conception is radically false. According to these authorities there never were any Nihilists. The people to whom this name was applied were simply students who desired beneficent liberal reforms. The peculiarities in their costume arose merely from a laudable neg. lect of trivialities in view of graver interests. However this may be—and I do not pretend at present to decide the question—many people were alarmed, and the reaction was prepared in

Page 416

, THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. 412 consequence. To illustrate this, I may quote here | part of an unpublished letter, written in October, 1861, by a man who now occupies one of the | highest positions in the administration. At that time he was regarded as ultra-liberal, and conse- quently we may assume that, relatively speaking, | he did not take a very alarmist view of the situa- tion. Here is what he says, writing to a near relative : “You have not been long absent—merely a few | months ; but, if you returned now, you would be astonished by the progress which the opposition— one might say the revolutionary party—has already made. The disorders in the university do not re- late merely to the students. I see in the affair the beginning of serious dangers for public tranquillity and the existing order of things. Young people, without distinction of costume, uniform, and ori- | gin, take part in the street demonstrations. Be- sides the students of the university there are the students of other institutions, and a mass of peo- | ple who are students only in name. Among these | last are certain gentlemen in long beards and revo- dutionnaires in crinoline who are of all the most fa- | natical. Blue collars—the distinguishing mark of | the students’ uniform—have become the signe de | ralliement. Almost all the professors, and many officers, take the part of the students, The news- paper critics openly defend their colleagues. Mik- hailof has been convicted of writing, printing, and circulating one of the most violent proclamations | that ever existed, under the title of ‘To the Young Generation.’ Among the students and the ittéra | teure there is unquestionably an organized con- | spiracy, which has perhaps leaders outside the | literary circle. The Polish students have not yet spoken out in this movement, but they are so self- confident that. . . . The police are powerless. | They arrest any one they can lay their hands on. | About eighty people have been already sent to the fortress and have been examined, but all this leads to no practical result, because the revolutionary | ideas have taken possession of all classes, all ages, | ail professions, and are publicly expressed in the | streets, in the barracks, and in the ministries! I | believe the police itself is carried away by them. What all this will lead to it is difficult to predict. I am very much afraid of some bloody catastrophe. | Even if it should not go to such a length imme- | diately, the position of the government will be ex- | tremely difficult, Its authority is shaken, and all | are convinced that it is powerless, stupid, and in- | capable. On that point there is the most perfect unanimity among parties of ail colors, even the | most opposite. The most desperate ‘ planter’? | agrees in that respect with the most desperate so- | | 1 An epithet commonly applied, at the time of the emancipation, to the adherents of serfage and the defenders | of the proprietors’ rights. cialist. Meanwhile those who have the directigg of affairs do almost nothing, and have no plano definite aim clearly in view. At present the em peror is not in the capital, and now, more thang any former time, there is complete anarchy in the absence of the master of the house. There ig g great deal of bustle and talk, and all blame they | know not whom,” ! The expected revolution did not take plage, but timid people had no difficulty in perceiving signs of its approach. The press continued disseminate under a more or less disguised form ideas which were considered dangerous, The Kolokol, a Russian paper published in London by Herzen, and strictly prohibited by the Press-cem sure, found its way regularly into the country, and was eagerly read by thousands. The youth, it was said, was being corrupted by socialistie ideas, Young girls of respectable family had been heard to express most objectionable views on the subject of matrimony. Not a few sup pected that a great Nihilist organization had been secretly formed for the overthrow of society; and this suspicion found confirmation in several great - fires which broke out in St. Petersburg and other towns, and which were believed to be the work of Nihilist incen@iaries, Soon a new event came to strengthen the reac tionary influences. In the beginning of 1863 the Polish insurrection broke out. That ill-advised | attempt on the part of the Poles to recover their | independence had a curious effect on Russian public opinion. There was at that time in Russi a very large amount of generous liberal sentiment, | which was, perhaps, not very deep, but was at least genuine so far as it went. Both the gover ment and the better section of the educated classes were ready to grant to Poland very considerable concessions. The Poles were to have their owm administration and almost complete autonomy, — under the viceroyalty of a Russian grand-duke. Whether the scheme would have succeeded, ifthe Poles had shown sufficient political tact and pe tience, is a question that need not here be div cussed. Political tact and patience are not prom nent features of the Polish character, and ce tainly they were not displayed on this oceasion. The new administration committed some grave mistakes, and the Poles appealed to arms. 48 the news of the rising spread over Russia, there was a moment of hesitation. Those who had been for several years habitually extolling liberty” and self-government as the necessary gs 1 For obvious reasons I refrain from naming the waite | of this letter, which accidentally fell into my hands = of al ever} abro aspir of th cosm tweer posed well s fair a lay th for th the R mopol the sa bursts contra broug! insurr Ere lo carrie thund ism wi to the Katko! time th countr’ convict Koloko cers wh and he confess display. few, an traitors oughly ; adopted rection months niloquer joined | & great | and by 1 had syst the serf: for the ironical] many 3 1 TT hay dox Russi ever, in fa in Westerr tion are, t opinion, gi 2 Count biographic

Page 417

SECRET SOCIETIES IN RUSSIA. of all progress, and sympathizing warmly with every Liberal movement, whether at home or abroad, could not well frown upon the political aspirations of the Poles. The Liberal sentiment of that time was so extremely philosophical and cosmopolitan that it scarcely distinguished be- tween Poles and Russians, and liberty was sup- posed to be agood and grand thing in Warsaw as well as in St. Petersburg. But underneath this fair artificial growth of cosmopolitan liberalism lay the voleano of national patriotism—dormant for the moment, but by no means extinct. Though the Russians are, in some respects, the most cos- mopolitan of the European nations, they are at the same time capable of indulging in violent out- bursts of patriotic fanaticism; and these two contradictory elements in their character were brought into contact by the news of the Polish insurrection. The struggle was only momentary. Ere long the patriotic feelings burst forth, and earried all before them. The Moscow Gazette thundered against the pseudo-Liberal sentimental- ism which would, if unchecked, necessarily lead to the dismemberment of the empire; and Mr. Katkoff, the editor of that paper, became for a time the most influential private individual in the country. A few, indeed, remained true to their convictions. Herzen, for instance, wrote in the Kolokol a glowing panegyric on two Russian offi- cers who had refused to fire on the insurgents, and here and there a man might be found who confessed that he was ashamed of the severity displayed in Lithuania.’ But such men were few, and were commonly regarded almost as traitors. The great majority of the public thor- oughly approved of the severe energetic measures adopted by the government, and, when the insur- rection was suppressed, men who had a few months previously spoken and written in mag- niloquent terms about humanitarian liberalism joined in the ovations given to Muraviéff! At &great dinner given in his honor, that energetic and by no means too humane administrator, who had systematically opposed the emancipation of the serfs, and had never concealed his contempt for the Liberal ideas recently in fashion, could ironically express his satisfaction at seeing so many “ new friends” around him, ? 1 T have heard, at least, two genuine, nominally ortho- dox Russians make statements of this kind. I must, how- ever, in fairness add that the conceptions commonly held in Western Europe regarding Muraviéff and his administra- tion are, though not without a foundation of fact, in my opinion, gross exaggerations. * Count Muraviéff has left a most interesting auto- biographical fragment relating to the history of this time, | 413 Still the government, while repressing all po- litical agitation, did not abandon its policy of introducing reforms by means of the autocratic power, The Zemstvo, a system of local self-gov- ernment comprising periodical elective assem- blies, was created, and preparations were made for thoroughly reorganizing the law-courts and the judicial procedure. But in 1866 a new event came to strengthen the reactionary influence, A foolish, misguided youth, called Karakézof, made an attempt on the life of the emperor. The effect of such an incident on his Majesty and on those who surrounded him may easily be imagined. Report says—though I must add that I have never seen the official documents relating to this affair—that the would-be assassin, formerly a student, belonged to a little domestic community composed of two or three youths of not very satisfactory moral character, and calling itself by the ill-sounding name of Ad, that is to say, Hell. This incident, in conjunction with the others which I have indicated, induced the government to take energetic measures. It was found that the agitation proceeded in all cases from young men who were studying, or had recently studied, in the universities, the seminaries, and the techni- cal schools, such as the Medical Academy and the Agricultural Institute. Plainly, therefore, the system of education was at fault. The semi- military system of the time of Nicholas had been succeeded by one in which discipline had been reduced to a minimum, and the study of natural science formed a prominent element. Here, it was thought, lay the chief root of the evil. Eng- lishmen may have some difficulty in imagining a possible connection between natural science and revolutionary agitation. To them the two things must seem wide as the poles asunder. Surely mathematics, chemistry, physiology, and similar abstract subjects have nothing to do with politics. Certainly they have not much to do with each other in this country, but in Russia it is different. This is one of the many curious and interesting phenomena to be found in the present intellectual condition of the Russian educated classes. To explain it would require at least a long article, so I must content myself for the present with simply indicating the explanation. When an English- man undertakes the study of any branch of natural science, he gets up his subject by means of lect- ures, text-books, and museums or laboratories, but it is not likely to be published during the lifetime of the present generation. As an historical document it is very valuable, but must be used with extreme caution. A copy of it was fur some time in my possession, but I was bound by a promise not to make extracts from it.

Page 418

414 THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. and when he has mastered it he probably puts his knowledge to some practical use. The man who has studied the medical sciences becomes a doctor ; the student of chemistry finds employ- ment as a professor or in a factory; the mathe- matician becomes, perhaps, an engineer. Prob- ably none of these men feel any desire to enter political life or imagine that their previous studies have specially fitted them for such activity. In Russia it is otherwise. Few students confine their attention to their specialty. Many of them dislike the laborious work of getting up details, and with the presumption which is often to be found in conjunction with youth and ignorance, aspire to become social reformers. But what has social reform to do with natural science? To understand the connection the reader must know that, though very few Russian students have opened the voluminous works of Auguste Comte, | flourished in the time of Alexander I. The con trast between the two groups is very striking nearly all of them are more or less imbued with the principles of positivism. Now, in the “ Positive Philosophy ” the study of natural science leads to | | secret societies were all, or nearly all, young men the study of sociology. In the classification of the sciences proposed by Comte, sociology is the main part of the edifice, and to it all the other | sciences are subsidiary. Social reorganization is thus the ultimate aim of scientific research, and the positivist can behold with prophetic eye hu- manity organized on strictly scientific principles. Cool-headed people who have had a little experi- ence of the world recognize clearly that this ulti- mate goal of human intellectual activity is still afar off—that even in the lower parts of the structure there are still enormous gays which it will require many years, and probably many generations, to fill up, and that consequently it would be folly to attempt at present to construct the higher parts. But the would-be social re- formers among the Russian students are too young, too inexperienced, too impatient, and too presumptuously self-confident, to perceive this plain and simple truth. As soon as they have acquired a smattering of chemistry, physiology, and biology, they imagine themselves capable of reorganizing human society, and when they have acquired this conviction they are of course un- fitted for that patient, plodding study of details which is the only foundation of genuine scientific knowledge. To remedy these evils the government de- termined to introduce more discipline into the schools, and to supplant, to a certain extent, the study of natural science by the classics—that is to say, Latin and Greek. This measure naturally caused much discontent among the students. Young men who considered themselves capable of reorganizing society, and playing a politica} part, fretted of course under discipline, and re. sented being treated as schoolboys. The Latin grammar seemed to them an ingenious ingtry. ment adopted by the government for the destroy. ing of intellectual development and the checking of political progress. Ingenious speculations about the possible organization of the working. classes and magnificent views of the future of humanity are so much pleasanter than the in regular verbs and rules of syntax. But I must refrain from going deeper into this interesting subject. These few threads in the tangled web of Russian social history during the present reign will, I.hope, enable the reader in some measure to understand how the soil was prepared for the growth of secret societies, differ. — ing widely in character and aim from those which In the time of Alexander I., the members of the of good family, and very many of them belonged to the jeunesse dorée of the period. The societies which have recently appeared are composed of very different elements. They are violently aris- tocratic, and draw their recruits chiefly from the sons of the clergy, the small proprietors, and the minor Officials. In strong contrast to the roman tic, sentimental, idyllic spirit which animated the conspirators of 1825, they declare war against romanticism in all its forms, despise sentimental ity, and declare themselves the champions of the peasantry. In aims, too, they differ widely from the societies of the old school. What they desire is, to produce not merely a political, but also # fundamental social revolution, which will abolish forever all obsolete institutions, such as private property, marriage, and religion, and forever equalize rich and poor. The overthrow of the government and the annihilation of officials, nobles, and capitalists, form only the introductory part of the programme. But, for the realization of even this introductory part, great efforts ar necessary. A court conspiracy, though backed : by disaffection in the army, will not suffice. Itis necessary that the masses should be raised from’ their ignorance and apathy, and made to under~ stand what a magnificent future they have before them if they would only bestir themselves. T0 effect this, and at the same time to study the character of these much-talked-of and little-under stood masses, intelligent Young Russia must enter for a time the ranks of the people (idti v naréd). F this | socie atten I time certa pamp he ws he pr self r which and w classe sever tionar sation covere secret cow, ¢ Kiev. town a Mosco three | whom, had th prepari hands ; everyth laborin two hu lance of ultimate eleven priests, classes- ers, and Was rat] ing thirt Ouly fiv age, anc The fen than fift under tw by their sessing for takin Such as 1 would b about th

Page 419

SECRET SOCIETIES IN RUSSIA. 415 Perhaps the best way of conveying an idea of | prepossessing appearance, respectable family, and this peculiar movement is to describe briefly the | considerable education, who are ready to enter society which has most recently attracted public ' upon wild sanguinary enterprises which inevitably attention. In April, 1875, a peasant, who was at the same time a factory-worker, informed the police that certain persons were distributing revolutionary pamphlets among the people of the factory where he was employed, and as a proof of what he said he produced some pamphlets which he had him- self received. This led to an investigation, by which it was found that a number of young men and women, evidently belonging to the educated classes, were employed as common laborers in several factories, and were disseminating revolu- tionary ideas by means of pamphlets and conver- sation. Arrests followed, and it was soon dis- covered fhat these agitators belonged to a large secret association, which had its centre in Mos- cow, and local branches in Ivanovo, Tula, and Kiev. In Ivanovo, for instance—a manufacturing town about one hundred miles to the northeust of Moscow—the police found a room inhabited by three young men and four young women, all of whom, though belonging to the educated classes, had the appearance of ordinary factory-workers, | prepared their own food, did with their own hands all the domestic work, and sought to avoid everything that could distinguish them from the laboring population. In the room were found two hundred and forty-five copies of revolution- ary pamphlets, a considerable sum of money, a large amount of correspondence in cipher, and several forged passports. How many members the society contained it is impossible to say, for some eluded the vigi- | lance of the police; but many were arrested, and ultimately forty-seven were condemned. Of these, eleven were nobles, seven were sons of village priests, and the remainder belonged to the lower classes—that is to s1y, the small officials, burgh- ers, and peasants. The average of the prisoners | ' ' j { | ‘ | ' lead in the long-run to the house of correction or the mines of Siberia; but I must postpone this investigation to a more convenient season. For the present, suffice it to say that there are such young ladies in Russia, and that several of them were condemned as founders and active members of the society in question. The character and aims of the society are clearly depicted in the documentary and oral evi- dence produced at the trial. According to the fundamental principles, there should exist among the members absolute equality, complete mutual responsibility, and full confidence and openness with regard to the affairs of the organization, Among the conditions of admission, we find that the candidate should be willing to devote himself entirely to revclutionary activity; that he should be ready to cut all ties, whether of love or of friendship, for the good cause; that he should possess great powers of self-sacrifice and the ca- pacity for keeping secrets; and that he should consent to become, when necessary, a common laborer in a factory. The desire to preserve ab- solute equality is well illustrated by the regula- tions regarding the administration; the office- bearers are not to be chosen by election, but all members are to be office-bearers ‘in turn, and to be changed every month. The ultimate aim of the society seems to have been to destroy the existing social order, and to replace it by one in which there should be no private property and no distinctions of class or wealth; or, as it is put in one place, “to found on the ruins of the social organization which at present exists the empire of the working-classes.” The means by which the necessary revolution is to be effected are carefully enumerated in one of the documents seized by the authorities. Each member, it is there explained, has the greatest Was rather less than twenty-four—the oldest be- liberty as to the means, but he is to leave nothing ing thirty-six, and the youngest under seventeen! | Oily five were more than twenty-five years of age, and none of these five were ringleaders. The female element was represented by no less | than fifteen young persons, whose average age was under twenty-two. Two or three of these, to judge by their photographs, were of decidedly prepos- sessing appearance, and apparently little fitted for taking an active part in wholesale massacres, such as the society talked about organizing. It undone to forward the cause of the revolution. For the guidance of the inexperienced the follow- ing means are recommended: simple conversa- tion, dissemination of pamphlets, the exciting of discontent, the formation of organized groups, the foundation of funds and libraries. These, taken together, constitute, in the terminology of revolutionary science, “propaganda.” Besides it, there should be “ agitation.” The difference between propaganda and agitation, we are in- would be interesting to inquire how it has come | formed, consists in this, that the former aims at about that there are in Russia young ladies of enlightening the masses regarding the true nature

Page 420

416 of the revolutionary cause, while the latter aims at exciting an individual or group to direct revo- lutionary activity. In time of peace “ pure agi- tation” is to be carried on by means of organized bands, the purpose of which is to frighten the government and the privileged classes; to draw away the attention of the government from other forms of revolutionary activity ; to raise the spirit of the people, and thereby render it more fit to accept revolutionary ideas; to obtain pecuniary means for the activity of the society, and to lib- erate those who have been imprisoned. The ten- dency of the bands should always be “ purely socialistico-revolutionary "—whatever that may mean, In time of revolution the members should give to all movements every assistance in their power, and impress upon them “a socialistico- revolutionary character.” The central adminis- tration and the local branches should form con- nections with publishers, and take steps to secure a reguiar supply of prohibited books from abroad. Such are a few characteristic extracts from a document that might fairly be called a treatise on revolutionology. As a specimen of the revolutionary pamphlets | above mentioned, I may give here a brief account | of one which is well known to the political police, | and figures largely at all the political trials. It is entitled “ Khitraya Mekhanika ” (cunning ma- chinery), and gives a graphic picture of the ideas and method of the propaganda, The mise en scéne is extremely simple. Two peasants, Stepan and Andrei, meet in a gin-shop, and begin to drink together. Stepan is described as good and kindly when he has to do with men of bis own class, but very sharp-tongued when speaking with a foreman or director. Always ready with an answer, he can on occasion even silence an of- ficial. He has traveled all over the country, has associated with all manner of people, sees every- thing most clearly, and is, in short, a very re- markable man. One of his best qualities is that he is always ready to enlighten others, and he soon finds an opportunity of displaying his pow- ers. When Andrei, a peasant of the ordinary type, proposes that they should drink another glass of vodka, he replies that the czar, together with the nobles and traders, bars the way to his throat. As his companion does not comprehend this metaphorical language, he explains that, if there were no czars, nobles, or traders, he could get five glasses of vodka for the sum which he now pays for one glass. This naturally suggests wider topics, and Stepan gives something very like a lecture. The common people, he explains, THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. pay by far the greater part of the taxation, and at ih the same time do all the work: they plough the fields, build the houses and churches, work jn | the mills and factories, and in return for all this | | they are systematically robbed and beaten, Ang _ what is done with all the money that is taken from them? First of all, the czar gets ning million rubles—enough to feed half a provingge and with that sum he amuses himself, has hunt ing-parties and feasts, eats, drinks, makes mergy, and lives in stone houses, He gave liberty, itis true, to the peasant, but we know what the emay cipation really was. The best land was takes away and the taxes were increased, lest the mughik should get fat and lazy. The czar is himselfthe richest landed proprietor and manufacturer jp the country. He not only robs us as much ashe pleases, but he has sold into slavery (by forming a national debt) our children and grandchildren, He takes our sons as soldiers, shuts them upiin barracks, so that they should not see their broth er-peasants, and hardens their hearts, so that — they become wild beasts ready to tear their ows parents. The nobles and traders likewise rb the poor peasant. In short, all the upper classes have invented a cunning bit of machinery ly which the peasant is made to pay for all their — pleasures and luxuries. But the people willom day arise and break this machinery to pieces — When that day arrives, they must break every part of it, for if one bit escapes destruction all | the other parts will immediately grow up agaim All the force is on the side of the peasantsif they only knew how to use it. Knowledge they will get in time. They will then destroy the me chine, and perceive that the only real remedy for all social evils is fraternity. People should live — like brothers, having no mine and thine, but all — things in common. When we have created fe — ternity, there will be no riches and no thieves, but right and righteousness without end. Ja — conclusion, Stepan addresses a word to “the torturers: “When the people shall rise, the czar will send troops against us, and the noble — and capitalists will stake their last ruble onthe J) result, If they do not succeed, let them expest no quarter from us. They may conquer us 0ng® or twice, but we shall at last get our ownyit — there is no power that can withstand the whole people. Then we shall cleanse the country af our persecutors, and establish a brotherhood it which there shall be no mine and thine, but all will work for the common weal, We will em struct no cunning machinery, but will pluck ™? evil by the roots and establish eternal justice.» q tion and plac Wa pres ente the ties | of tl to b held riodi patio wher that | am q with seen. while fairly views in his and n agitat the re ishnes I was tlemer tively ly afte heard; out co failed | typed | cursed antry, visitor his dis: French inspira the ma: they pr dispose safely | watchw This is, think ¢] it dese when s« tarianis and poli tionably Cipation foolish

Page 421

Ses a. 4 SECRET SOCIETIES IN RUSSIA. 417 It would be interesting to trace the connec- {more than expiated, during fifteen years, any tion between these secret revolutionary societies youthful indiscretions he may have committed. and the great intellectual movement which took A few words in conclusion regarding the real place in the educated classes after the Crimean | importance of these secret societies. Do they War, and produced the beneficent reforms of the | constitute a real danger for the stute? Any one present reign. Want of space prevents me from ; who knows Russia well will not hesitate, 1 be- entering on that investigation. All I can say for lieve, to answer this question in the negative. the present on this subject is, that these socie- | Even some of the agitators have come to per- ties are the illegitimate and monstrous progeny | ceive the folly of their conduct, Here is the of that movement. Many of the agitators claim | literal translation of a letter written by a mem- to be disciples of Tchernishefski—a man who | ber of the secret society above described. I held the most influential position in Russian pe- | preserve, as very characteristic of the movement riodical literature during the time of the emanci- | in general, the pedantic, pseudo-scientific style pation, and who was afterward exiled to Siberia, | in which the document is written. Referring to where he is still living—but I venture to think | the impetuous, inconsiderate conduct of one of that he could not recognize them as such, and I | the female members of the society, the writer am quite certain that he could have no sympathy | says: with those specimens of the class whom I have seen. If we accept a novel which he wrote while in solitary confinement, and which cannot fairly be considered an exposition of his real views in his serious moments, we find everywhere “ T explain her conduct by her complete subjec- | tion to the desire of acting in a certain direction | without thinking of consequences, and by the | want of critical power or perhaps by the desire egeeigaliees ; not to consider the thing critically, We ought at in his writings a large amount of common-sense | last to look into the past and learn froin experi- and moderation. In the conversation of the few | ence, It is time for us to give up running our agitators whom I have met I have always found | heads against a stone-wall. She wishes to act in the reverse—a strange farrago of pedantry, child- | a‘ rude,’ * democratic’ sphere, but she forgets that ishness, and political fanaticism. Not long ago | if she now gives way to her impulse, she will be I was favored with a visit from one of these gen- | gain within a month in prison, and she will tlemen. During several hours I listened atten- thereby deprive herself of all possibility of ever tively to his tirades, and endeavored, immediate- | doing anything. Werther, cnch-tmpulsive — ly after his departure, to put on paper what I had | S oe ape yey ee gta oie 4 pris abt, tan 9 eend sondien ak Hien uat aa prison, is a bit of extreme egotism and a giving one” nner tegrt —— — | way to personal feeling. All the authorities are out considerable practice in that kind of work, I | now alarmed and on the watch. Their nervous failed completely. Beyond the ordinary stereo- system and their feeling of revenge are excited. typed phrases about tyranny, obscurantism, “the | Their fears are exaggerated. Every new attempt cursed bourgeoisie,” “ exploitation ” of the peas- | of the kind will not only be quickly discovered antry, and the like, I could recall nothing. My | and end in the ruin of those engaged in it, but it | | will at the same time strengthen and keep up th present excitement among the authorities, and French words, showing plainly the source of his make them act more energetically against those ned , who have fallen into their hands. Is it not, then, inspiration. Such men do a grievous wrong to! _ ae sstical iv 1 feel the man whom they call their teacher, and whom nang ’ — Se ae * ate Ass ~ ing, and to disregard the fate of hundreds who hey profess to revere; for the authorities, though | will suffer in consequence? Besides this, it will disposed to clemency, think that they cannot greatly injure the people by calling forth a series safely liberate one whose name is used as a | of repressive measures which have a prejudicial watchword by unscrupulous political fanatics. influence on the national life. That is the more This is, no doubt, a grave consideration ; but I | evident side of the question. But there is anoth- | visitor spoke Russian during the interview, but his dissertations were interlarded with Russified- er side which may be called the principal one. Are all problems solved accurately so as to admit | of no doubt? Surely experience is not altogether tarianis ‘ . silent. What is the people? Not only are’ the home ad ae mesate pr wok graceful problems not solved, but they are not accurately tionably di y ae: _ aedancrees unques- " stated. Experience must lead to doubt. The es did good service in the cause of serf-eman- thing is that Russian radicalism is merely an ab- ipation, who systematically discountenanced all | stract logical conclusion, founded on an untrust- foolish political demonstrations, and who has | worthy basis of sentiment and an ignorance of the 27 think that more importance is attached to it than it deserves, Surely, at the present moment, when so much is said about justice and humani-

Page 422

¢ 418 nature and wants of the Russian people—igno- rance of the conditions of itshistorical life and of man in general. So long as that specially practi- cal and partly theoretical information has not been obtained, it is impossible to arrive at any conclu- sion, and still more impossible to begin any activ- ity. That Russian radicalism does not know man in general and the Russian in particular— that is unquestionable. We know by experience that it wishes to impose on Russians foreign modes of thought and ideals which they are incapable of appropriating. It promises them a stork in heav- en, when they would much prefer a sparrow on earth. By a priori reasoning and from general knowledge of human nature, we may conclude that every ignorant and ‘ undeveloped’ man val- | ues most of all his own life, that the sphere of his requirements is confined to food and a wife, and that anything higher than these is unintelligible for him until they are satisfied, and until you de- velop in him human dignity and thought. Be- sides this, various social misfortunes have brought down the wants of the Russian peasant to such a minimum, that, firstly, it requires very great want to make him protest, and, secondly, it requires very small concessions to make him be silent and tran- quil. Ifthe apparent emancipation of the serfs post- poned popular insurrection for several decades, it is evident that when serious attempts at insurree- tion are made in the future, it will be sufficient to diminish the taxes and increase a little the amount of peasant land. Small material conces- sions will induce them the more readily to de- liver up the leaders and intelligent propagandists, and that will continue until there have been cre- ated in the people a popular idea and more or less | human culture, which must be created not by | THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. logical conclusion, or a mathematical programme, surdity. Revolutionarity can exist only in the feelings of an individual man or in the periodical outbursts of the masses. The masses as an ele ment do not possess the critical faculty, and gt certain moments act by instinct. The individdal is obliged to act according to the critical and ought not to construct his principles on ele mental impulsions of the masses. Regarding the _ latter as an historical and cultural necessity, he | ought to content himself with the following pro gramme: by the attentive study of the masses | and of the separate units of which they are com- posed, he should inoculate the separate units with consciousness and the critical faculty, avoiding all _ bias and instigation, and introduce into the A masses, in so far as it is possible, the elements of — human culture. The rest should be left to the | elaboration of this material by the people. Fur ther than this the part of intelligent units cannot go. Every departure from this, so to say, natural | programme, is as fatal to the intelligent units and — | to the people as every departure from the laws of Nature must be. Revolutionarity as a principle is an anomaly—a transferring of instinct to the sphere of logic, that 1s to say, an unnatural union. But | all that is general theory. There are no actors, | and those who remain should spare themselves, | Such a miserably small group cannot do anything | more in the direction which I regard as the true | one. It ought therefore to contract itself so as to form the nucleus of a future radical party, and ia the mean time it ought to examine the surround- ings in which it lives, study these surroundings and the people, investigate the conditions and o» ! | | } | | ! | books imported from abroad, not by incitement to | ganization of civilized life, elaborate the founda revolt, but by gradual human development, and by influence in those places where it is not com- pletely excluded by unfavorable circumstances. The times of Pugatcheff are past. The state has succeeded in crushing the warlike, nomadic in- stinets of the people. A popular rising has, there- fore, no chance of success, and if such a thing did happen to succeed, the people in its present intel- lectual condition would gain nothing, and would simply fall into the hands of a dictator, or of capitalists, or of both. I do not deny the possi- bility of an insurrection as the result of a whole series of causes, but I am convinced that it can be produced and guided only by elemental forces raise the spirit of such a popular movement and success or failure, so far as the people are con- cerned, will depend on the degree of conscien- tiousness of the leaders ; for a popular revolution is an elemental force, and not a principle, or a the number of conscious and reflecting adepts— | not of children—and wait. Every revolutionary | tion of a programme, increase as much as possible | pamphlet should be thrown into the fire. All that q is nonsense and absurdity. Perhaps the time will) soon come when it will be necessary to have &, conscious—radical—popular party, a genuine cham- pion of popular interests—not a mere phantom in 4 the form of an anachronism ; and such a party will 5 not then be found. It is necessary to create ity and in the mean time to wait, working slowly but surely in that direction. It is time to get rid | of the charms of peasant surroundings, and 0 | independently of artificial influences. He who can | out | harm.” take advantage of it will alone gain by it, and his | | give up thinking about externals. These youthful bursts without criticism lead to nothing but) Let us hope that Young Russia will som 4 come to perceive clearly the truth contained in. a the last sentence of this curious 4d ic Fortnightly Review. ie Hence to raise Jevolutionarity (Kevolutionnosd to : the rank of a principle is in my opinion an gh _ re | har fact, pecu its, it latior for m certa’ most ideas of dy dates come tigatic It is phase: fore t broug! In well as tion to nize ce ture uy While singula ticed b and the races | served attache er of m ing in v these a some d upon N more fo; That notion ¢ dissimil; blanee iy deeply r quite sy stances ; all who | at the p these ¢ must be | ’ Trans A. B. Mac.

Page 423

THE CONDITIONS OF LIFE IN ANIMATED BEINGS. 419 THE CONDITIONS OF LIFE IN ANIMATED BEINGS.’ By EMILE BLANCHARD. HE conditions of existence to which beings are subject present a prodigious variety, in harmony with the diversity of animal forms. In fact, between the organization of beings and the peculiarities of their abodes, their aptitudes, hab- its, instincts, and intelligence, there are close re- lations which call for deep study, and after study for meditation. We feel that such study is the certain path leading to the true interpretation of most of the phenomena of life, and to sound ideas of the plan of creation. The possibility of dwelling with advantage on such a subject dates but from yesterday, as it were; it could only come after the great number of scientific inves- tigations that have been followed up to our epoch, It is useful, then, to present a rapid sketch of the phases through which the subject has passed be- fore the views which we desire to explain were brought out. In every country, among primitive races as well as in civilized nations, the most careless atten- tion to the animated world allowed men to recog- nize certain conditions of existence imposed by Na- ture upon the various representatives of creation. While the most striking characteristics, the most singular features of organization, remained unno- ticed by superficial observers, the main aptitudes and the places of abode of the most widely-spread races escaped no one. The earliest men ob- served that there were creatures in some sort attached to the earth, others gifted with the pow- er of moving in air, others again designed for liv- ing in water. Terrestrial, aérial, aquatic animals, these are the only distinctions known without some degree of attentive remark. In looking upon Nature, nothing strikes the human mind more forcibly than the circumstances of life. That almost childish thought which forms the notion of important relations between the most dissimilar beings, if there exists some resem- blance in certain faculties and in the abode, is so deeply rooted that it persists even against ideas quite sufficient to compel its surrender, In- stances are numerous. Formerly, in the eyes of all who looked with a sort of superstitious terror at the rapid wheeling flight by night of bats, these creatures, having the power of flying, must be birds, At atime when a great amount * Translated from the Revue des Deux Mondes, by AR. Macdonough, Jr of scientific knowledge had been already gained, the ignorant were not the only ones to follow that opinion. Bats have a body covered with hair; they have teeth; they produce their young alive, and suckle them; in a word, they combine all the essential marks of land-animals usually denoted by the name of quadrupeds. Men ac- quainted with these facts by observation never- theless continue, like the ignorant, to see in bats birds of a singular form, or at least beings that share in the nature of birds and quadrupeds both, In the sixteenth century, Belon, the natu- ralist-traveler, and Scaliger, the famous scholar contented themselves with this sort of judgment. An opinion as ill-founded is much more strongly expressed even now, with regard to dolphins and whales; the obstinacy with which these inhabi- tants of the deep are regarded as fishes yields most reluctantly to an exact conception of the most characteristic traits in their organization, As there was united with this condition of a common abode for dolphins and fish a consider- able resemblance in their bodily form, the truth was only admitted after long resistance. It was known that dolphins and whales are warm-blood- ed animals, while fish are cold-blooded; that the former breathe in the air, the latter in the water, and that the former are true mammals, yielding milk ; in spite of all, it was supposed that whales and dolphins, living in the water, could not pos- sibly be anything else than fish. If attention dwells at first most readily on conditions of abode, it is afterward caught by striking aptitudes. The construction of the swan and other birds of the same family, so happily adapted to their mode of swimming, has always _ been admired, even though not studied. With no greater effort of reflection, it was remarked that fishes, in the shape of their bodies and their fins, unite those conditions most favorable for movement in the water. There was no need of investigation to discover that the wings of the insect and the bird are the very instruments that allow these animals to support themselves in the air, and to pass over more or less considerable spaces. In all ages wings have been an object of envy for men—an ideal. Angels exist in im- agination, and these heavenly beings with human forms wear wings. To soar in a few seconds to great heights, to sweep swiftly over vast expanses,

Page 424

THE POPULAR SCIENCE 420 to withdraw almost instantaneously from those one wishes to shun, to drop suddenly upon cer- tain places, and discover in them some hidden or lovely thing—such are the longings that have agitated many hearts. A few of the general features of Nature have necessarily been visible at all times to the eyes of men least disposed to launch into high specu- | lations, but nothing has been understood. Those who first conceived the thought of writing the history of animals remained under the control of prevailing ideas, and stopped at appearances, which are enough to content the mind of mere observers; but the day came when naturalists | thought of arranging a sort of inventory of Na- ture. Then, from the necessity of giving a de- scription of each animal such as to cause it to be | recognized, grew the attention needed for grasp- ing those peculiarities of conformation common | to a greater or less number of species, without | paying much regard thenceforward to their kind | of life. It began to be perceived that creatures very similar in their characteristic organization might have very different habits and modes of nutrition. were still far from having a clear conception of the typical forms to which animated beings are bound. Thus it was an event when George Cu- vier, more learned than his predecessors, discov- ered that “there exist four principal forms after which all animals appear to have been modeled.” This new light soon gained all imaginable bright- ness from the observations of a professor at St. | Petersburg, laboring and meditating with no con- | cern for the opinions more or less in vogue. It | had occurred to that patient and skillful investi- gator to prove that the characteristics of beings in their embryonic condition confirmed the nat- | ural divisions observed by Cuvier, which only required to be corrected as to their boundaries. In another direction, fortunate suggestions, spring- | ing up in the early years of our century, direct- ed investigation upon a course peculiarly favor- able to the advance of science. Comparisons methodically made established the certainty that all the representatives of each of the grand z0- ological types are constructed after one and the same fundamental plan, that the differences relate simply to the configuration of the parts, to their degree of development or perfection, vo their appropriation to various uses; an admirable truth, disengaged by slow degrees from obscurity, and afterward defended against ancient errors with a sort of enthusiasm kindled by the feeling of winning a great controversy for the human MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. mind. With a success checkered, however, bya few failures, owing to the want as yet of suff, cient precise knowledge, proofs were constantly accumulated that all vertebrated animals, mam. mals, birds, reptiles, fishes, have the same organs situated in constant relations, and that all ap ticulated animals, insects, arachnids, Crustacea, Yet with this glimpse of truth men | are derived from one single primordial plan, Ag | to the vertebrates, this demonstration came in | great part from the labors of Geoffroy Saint | Hilaire; as to the articulates, it was made by | Savigny. Setting out from this point, it became almost easy to understand the reason of the form orthe degree of development of different parts in the organism, and to gain the meaning of an alters. tion in the forms. A guide of unerring certainty was given toinvestigators. Under the influence of the very natural exultation occasioned by the triumphs gained, and yet more by the grand and philosophic idea which had ruled in the invest gation of parts of like nature, or, to adopt the expression used, of homologous parts in animals so unlike as fishes, reptiles, and mammals, the question was asked, whether unity of composi tion did not extend throughout the entire animal kingdom. Thus several attempts were made, but not successfully, to assimilate the organs of the insect to those of the vertebrate animal In these two types the organs do not mail tain either like relations or like positions ; it is only by giving exclusive attention to marks of structure and to the function of the parts that we find it possible to reach a sort of assimile tion. The precise idea of the general constitution of animals having become established, anatomi- | eal studies, suitably directed, ceased to find their | only object in the configuration of the organs; | they tended necessarily toward the interpretation of modifications in the organism, the ascertain ment of the functions of parts, and the discovery of the mechanism of arrangements. The results gained under the inspiration of such views are vast, and science has enlarged with marvelous rapidity. On the other hand, close study of the tissues has brought to light this important fact, that the primitive elements present the same essential characters in all living beings. BY experiments skillfully conducted upon living animals, certain functions of different parts of the organism have been made apparent doubtless would never have been suspected hed : other modes of examination been employed.) i ‘ vestigations of the successive phases of develop- 4 ment for a the c condi maki the p imme large Tl scien: assun Aided tigato makir pletin imper but a which ists, | highes of th alone fail to modifi ous ch cessive parts, turn, | action come i spirit 1 main 1 perime of the be lool coincid tion an animal withou tule wi parts, strong! female: ments. No formity sign of quence someti; One of the ex stock case of and in bility j

Page 425

ment in animals, demonstrating identity of origin for all, revealing the most curious details upon the changes that occur in the organs, and in the conditions of existence of a multitude of species, making the most instructive comparisons between the permanent and the transitory states of an immense number of creatures, have greatly en- larged the horizon of philosophy. Thus we have reached an epoch in which science, rich in solidly- established truths, has assumed a character of remarkable grandeur. Aided by the very various methods which inves- tigators have employed, we are certain of yet making great and numerous discoveries, of com- pleting many branches of knowledge that remain imperfect, and of attaining new generalizations ; but a different view is coming into notice of those which have hitherto served as guides to natural- ists, promising to carry our resources to the highest degree of availability in the examination of the phenomena of life. Although by itself alone the comparative study of apparatus may THE CONDITIONS OF LIFE IN ANIMATED BEINGS. 421 wide in species of the same natural group, a sort of repetition of similar conditions in species of groups more or less unlike, carry this diversity to the farthest imaginable limits. Hence come special applications of important characteristics in the organism. The idea of the relation existing between peculiarities of conformation and the kind of life will be made more precise by an instance readily understood, Every one has heard of those dis- tinctions between granivorous and insectiverous birds that belong to a science now obsolete. The | sparrow, the chaftinch, and goldfinch, are thought } | to be granivorous; the warbler and wagtail are classed as insectivorous, notwithstanding their mode of feeding, which is less exclusive than was once supposed. All these birds show absolutely the same general structure; those marks which are distinctive at a glance, as the shape of the beak, are quite of a secondary order, and merely denote adaptation to biological circumstances very slightly different. Other species of birds, fail to enlighten us as to the object of certain | which are almost sisters in their habits, yet of re- modifications, or to explain the reasons for vavri- | ous changes in forms, in arrangements, in the ex- | organization, present certain superficial traits of cessive development or the atrophy of certain | resemblance that easily mislead observers dis- parts, and although experimental research, in its turn, owing to the necessity that confines its action within rather narrow limits, may also be- come impotent, yet the resources of the scientific spirit will not be exhausted. There will still re- main to be followed that which we may call ex- perimenting on Nature. In a word, the solution of the highest problems of natural history must be looked for in the constant observation of the coincidences between all the details of organiza- tion and the vital conditions in the case of each animal. Nothing exists in the organism, it seems, without having some duty to perform. To this tule we perhaps find a single exception: certain parts, dependent on the teguments which are strongly developed in males and wanting in their females, are probably nothing more than orna- ments. No zodlogist of the present day takes con- formity of abode and of aptitude as an assured sign of essential resemblances ; and yet, in conse- quence of the tendency we have remarked, this fometimes leads to serious mistakes in judgment. One of the most wonderful things in Nature is the extreme diversity gained from a common stock—a diversity which displays itself, in the case of living beings, both in their characteristics sen in the circumstances of their lives. A varia- lity motely separate origin as regards their general posed to trust to appearances. Every one knows the difference between little swallows—the win- dow-swallow, the chimney -swallow, the bank- swallow, and the great swallow, or martin—but every one also, including many naturalists, is con- vinced that all these birds, called by one and the same name, belong to the same family. Yet this is not so at all; the little swallows have the con- formation of sparrows, and their adaptation to a rather peculiar kind of life is almost all that makes the difference. The great swallow is con- structed in an altogether different way, and shows a remarkable affinity with those charming birds of Southern America called humming - birds. Both little swallows and great swallows, repre- sentatives of separate and strongly-characterized types, feed alike on insects which they snap up on the wing; then, too, they are alike in having a small beak, broad at the base and cleft down to below the eves; intended alike to sweep through the air swiftly and to traverse great spaces, they are similar in having the quill-feathers of their wings extraordinarily long. Thus, the species of a great number of natural groups, offering greater or less dissimilarity in their kind of life, are re- marked for very evident peculiarities, though of a secondary order, which fit them properly for fixed conditions of existence. Therefore, species in conditions of existence which is often | of groups that are wholly distinct may resemble

Page 426

422 each other in some superficial marks, certain sighs of adaptations to a similar sort of food, or similar habits. The study of beings pursued in a comparative way in all the details of their or- ganization and all the acts of their life, this alone can safely lead us to the distinction between what is general and what is particular, and, as the highest end, to an understanding of the great Jaws of Nature. The path is barely marked out, and we see in perspective the endless range of triumphs that will successively enlarge the realm of science. If we were obliged to limit ourselves to weighing the relations between the organism and the circumstances of life, acquiring certainty with regard to the habits of an anima) before di- rect observation from considering its conformation only, or with regard to organic peculiarities from considering its recognized aptitudes, even with this restriction, the result would be very satis- factory. But above this result there rises the question of instincts, intelligence, and feeling, in their relations to the organism— psychology, rest- ing on facts capable of dewonstration through observation, experiment, and comparison, that precious source of light. In this order of ideas we have to concern ourselves with facts which will find their explana- tion in the views of most recent science, and with subjects which for their full comprehension require investigations of a new kind. In a field 80 vast, we must necessarily dwell on only a small number of instances, chosen among the most in- structive and striking ones, and neglect matters of commonplace science. It would be of little use to trouble ourselves about limbs turned into oars for swimming, and wings for flying, or about teeth adapted to the food and the appetite, since such instances are but the common citations by which naturalists display their powers of infer- ence. In this study, which must be restricted in its range, we shall not adduce man as an instance, nor point out in his case such coincidences as those we intend to examine in the case of various animals. For the sake of a term of comparison, it will be enough to say that man, endowed with intelligence far superior to that of all other creatures, possesses equally marked physical ad- vantages in the posture of his body and the shape of his hand, that incomparable natural instru- ment. The instrument being given, instinct and intelligence must be given, sufficient to put it to use, and to draw all the advantage possible from it. This is an absolutely general truth, which will certainly result with irresistible conviction from observation, and particularly from the com- THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. parison of facts—a truth which must be kept constantly before our eyes. ; As we intend, in the first place, to examine some animals of different classes remarkable for their peculiarities of external conformation ang at the same time for their special aptitudes, it seems well to call attention to a very curious mammal, the aye-aye, or chiromys, of Madagas. car. After having traversed China and the East Indies during the years from 1774 to 1780, Son nerat, a French traveler, landed on the western © shores of that great region of Madagascar, so interesting for its natural productions. The na. tives brought him an animal the size of a cat, covered with a thick fleece ; it was the first time they had seen it themselves, and they expressed their surprise by repeating the sound ayeaye, Sonnerat, as much struck with amazement as the Malgaches were, attempted in vain to connect this mammal with some known type; he found resemblances in its physiognomy to squirrels, makis, and monkeys, all together. By a singular whim, the naturalist-traveler named the curious animal by the exclamation that had struck his ear so forcibly, and the name has been preserved, The aye-aye, which displays its activity only during the night, has great, rounded eyes, like those of hooting and screech owls. It is peace able and timid, sleeping all day with its head hid- den between its legs, and the tail curled under. neath. To these traits it adds one thing more extraordinary and altogether unique: the two fore-feet, which resemble a little the monkey's hand, have the fingers rather thick and covered with hair; one of these fingers, the middle one, is bare, quite slender, and possessed of the power of lifting itself and acting quite independently of the others; it seems like a deformity, In this point there is displayed in a striking manner @ relation between a detail of shape, peculiar com ditions of existence, and a very special instinet, Sonnerat kept a male and female alive for twa months, feeding them on boiled rice, with which they contented themselves for want of anything better, and, doubtless, to the injury of their health, Our traveler relates that they used their twe slender fingers in eating, as the Chinese use . chopsticks. This remark would not have throws much light on the true use of this slender fing — if we were not better informed by statement? gained from the natives of Madagascar, and late 2 ly by the observations of travelers. The = : lives partly on insects, choosing the oe most delicate—the larve that live in the - = S' slen: tape nece stinc signe trem faint the f It hi ing, | made bring of its or br availi hollo ing a qualit intere island captiv and di euriou eral cl to tha ical fr throug introd ing th orifice, one ha Car in con ing mo its. sin, Englist exceller finds in too rea cies, |] aye is makis, | which ij compel same gr in the | tion, rel been as, the leas One fing duced ¢

Page 427

THE CONDITIONS OF LIFE IN ANIMATED BEINGS. and branches of trees. Often these trees have fissures, and it is possible to reach the larve which bore them, and pull them out from their holes ; but the openings, being narrow, allow only a very slender instrument to pass. The aye-aye has its taper finger for an instrument. The animal must necessarily have at its disposal senses, an in- stinct, an intelligence, fit to lead it to the de- signed object. In fact, it has eyes with an ex- tremely dilatable pupil, which amply admits the faint twilight or moonlight, and allows it to roam the forests at night without the least difficulty. It has ears that indicate great delicacy of hear- ing, and beyond doubt it detects the slight noise made by the larve in gnawing the wood. It brings an astonishing intelligence to the demands of its pursuit; it may be seen striking a trunk or branch of a tree with its nail—in a word, availing itself of percussion to learn whether a hollow exists that may contain a grub. Possess- ing a keen scent, the aye-aye satisfies itself of the quality of its food. Dr. Vinson, to whom we owe interesting observations on the animals of the island of Madagascar, relates that an aye-aye in captivity would not accept all grubs indifferently, and distinguished between them by smelling. This curious mammal, related to the makis by its gen- eral characteristics, has a dental system similar to that of gnawing animals. Fond of those trop- ical fruits that are full of savory pulp, it bites through their hard shell with its strong incisors, introduces its slender finger through the open- ing thus made, and, bringing its mouth near the orifice, draws the pulpy substance out. When one hand is tired it uses the other. Can we find a creature better fitted for living in conditions strictly determined, or correspond- ing more completely in singularity of habits with its singularities of conformation? The famous English naturalist, Richard Owen, author of an excellent essay on the chiromys of Madagascar, finds in it strong arguments in refutation of ideas too readily accepted as to the mutability of spe- cies, By its zodlogical characteristics, the aye- aye is an isolated being in creation; like the makis, its nearest relatives, it inhabits forests in which insects everywhere abound. Nothing would compel it, any more than other animals of the same group, to prefer those kinds that are hidden = the trunks of trees, unless a peculiar distine- ton, related to peculiar instincts and organs, had been assigned to it from the beginning. Is there the least reason to suppose that the tapering of one finger on the fore-extremities has been pro- duced through a forced use by individuals in a

423 succession of generations, when they had no need of subjecting themselves to that trouble Pina food in abundance ? : The digging animals, intended for an under- ground life, are well known in respect to their characters and instincts, which are in a manner repeated in the most different types. Every one notices their body, tolerably long and nearly cy- lindrical, their short, broad, and extremely power- ful fore-limbs. Observe the mole: its body pre- sents no prominent part capable of obstructing easy circulation in narrow galleries ; its fore-feet resemble strong hands, with the palm turned out- ward, and with broad, sharp nails, Could one imagine instruments more perfectly adapted to break up and push away the earth? The ani- mal’s muzzle, made resistant by the presence of a special bone, is a snout, acting like a gimlet. To these peculiarities, which explain the mole’s manner of life so well, are added senses devel- oped to a degree that corresponds with the con- ditions of existence of this mammal. Organs of sight are useless to a being condemned to live in darkness; and these are rudimentary. <A very delicate touch is indispensable to their recogni- tion of each other in their dark abodes ; it is given by the muzzle, which is nearly bare, having some stiff, scattered hairs. In a contracted space, to be warned of a danger, or of the presence of in- sects that form its prey, it is important that it should be sensitive to the least sounds; its organs of hearing answer that requirement, In the ab- sence of sight, a very keen sense of smells of the first necessity, to guide it in the search ood ; and its olfactory organ is greatly developed. An organization and instincts so well adapted to an underground life make existence impossible for the mole in any other conditions. In a certain insect there are found peculiari- ties of form, habits, and instincts, so similar to those of the mole, that the insect, after the pop- ular idea, has been called the mole-cricket. It has an almost cylindrical body, its fore-claws pressed close toward the head, with legs prodig- iously large, and provided with strong serrations, so as to bear a kind of resemblance to the feet ef the mole. The legs of the mole-cricket and the feet of the mole are organs of entirely differ- ent nature, marked by an almost identical adap- tation. There are animals which, among those of the same class or family, present nothing more unu- sual than some particularity which seems to be trifling. When the reason for this insignificant peculiarity is found, a strong interest arises.

Page 428

? 424 THE POPULAR SCIENCE Birds of the family of our cuckoo, spread through- out the warm regions of Africa, Asia, and Austra- lia, known under the name of “ coucals,” will give us an instance of this. We know how flexible and soft to the touch are the beards of the feath- ers in the wings and tail of birds in general. In these birds, on the contrary, they are stiff and harsh like thorns. Without close observation, much vain inquiry might have been spent as to the necessity which this structure of the feathers corresponded to; but we had the notices of trav- elers, and perceived at once a wonderful adapta- tion. These birds live in gloomy forests, and feed on insects, which they are obliged to pursue in the thickets of vines twining about the trees. These vines are extremely tough; the ordinary plumage of birds would be torn and cut to pieces by the contact, but the feathers of the coucals resist it. If we chose to pass in review the species of birds, as to each one of them we should find in the details of formation of the claws the signs of certain habits easy to prove—in the shape and development of the bill the mark of a preference for some special kind of food. On this subject a great number of curious observations are re- corded which it is impossible for. us to relate. But here is one instance, taken almost at random from among many others, of a very singular beak, adapted to a very special kind of food, which MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. bird of the fir-groves would not yet have become a common sparrow or an ordinary grossbeak, but at least the theory that has made so much noige would have gained one serious argument, | Among fishes there are some kinds that seize their prey in front of them, and even out of wa: | ter, and other kinds that seek their food in mud. | dy bottoms. With the first, as the perch, the lower jaw projects beyond the upper; with the ; latter the contrary is the case; the mouth jg crowded downward, and is often provided with fleshy appendages fitted to stir up the mud; the | barbel is an instance of this. Thus everywhere some characteristic points out habits and im stincts from which the animal cannot disengage itself. With respect to insects and arachnids, the study of coincidences between their ways and ' their peculiarities of outward form has been car ried very far, The examination of the working. tools in species fitted to build suffices now to give us a certain conclusion as to the kind of work the species performs. By the study of the | appendages we know in what way and under what conditions the animal must move, Ina | great variety of circumstances, from the arrange- ment of the organs of sight, we infer, without fear of mistake, the existence of wandering or | of sedentary habits, with a multitude of fine dis- ' tinctions. At the same time, with insects and seems too instructive to be passed by. Every | arachnids we follow step by step, better, pet one knows the crossbill, that prettily-feathered | haps, than in any other case, the advance in in bird which frequents forests of evergreen trees | stinct and intelligence with the growing perfee and fir-plantations ; its beak has the mandibles very much arched in opposite directions, and crossed for about two-thirds of their length. One tion of the instruments, as also the diminishing | of these faculties along with the simplification | of the appendages. needs to see the bird provided with this strange A different condition of abode from that usu beak breaking and peeling the resinous cones, to | ally presented to our notice offers considerable admire the usefulness of such an implement. A | interest with regard to the adaptation of organ very simple modification sufficed to create the | isms to the media, and to the question of the instrument with which it attacks the pine-cones, | origin of beings. Animals of different classes and this sort of anomaly is produced only at a | live in places wholly deprived of light; these late period in the animal's development. Is there | animals are blind, Just a century ago there was not here a fit subject to induce those naturalists | discovered in the subterranean waters of Lower who have faith in the mutability of species to | Carniola a sort of batrachian of pretty large size, try a little experiment? It would merely be a | from eleven to thirteen inches long, of a pinkish matter of shutting up a few crossbills in an in- | white, having external branchia—in 4 word, Fe closure and depriving them of their usual food | sembling, with larger proportions, the larva ofa while supplying them an abundance of the food | triton or a water-salamander. The animal was sought by granivorous birds. Either the cross- | blind; a zodlogist introduced it by the name of bills would perish without breeding, or, as a re- | the “serpentine proteus.” The first conjecture sult of their new food, after a few generations | was that this batrachian was carried into the their beak would have changed its shape and | caverns by water overflowing in the rainy seas 4 taken another, better suited to a different kind | from the Sittich lakes ; but this supposition was 4 of life. If the experiment should succeed, our | not found correct, The proteus has never be take now berg Here disti livin tuck ern, with is uti in wl table whiti been eyes, the s! ing, | Kent opsis, blind: eral ¢ autho able t anima perha, iy, | the q! declar rant f habita and i Amon; genus, ship ¢: it wou the M. the un by nat At of Ger the gro certain less, w: from ty ably el closely scribed express eyes, | but wit tied on Nees, al Amerie; distinct The hur

Page 429

ed THE CONDITIONS OF LIFE IN ANIMATED BEINGS. taken except in subterranean waters, and it is now always easily found in the grotto of Adels- berg, situated on the road from Vienna to Trieste. Here, then, is a species of a peculiar kind, very distinct from all others existing in Europe, and living in an habitual way in darkness. In Ken- tucky, in the United States, there is a deep cav- ern, the Mammoth Cave, abundantly supplied with water. No light penetrates it; the darkness is utter. A fish inhabits the water of the cavern, in which necessarily other animals live, and vege- tables to give them nourishment. The fish is whitish, without scales, of a kind that has never been found elsewhere, and entirely blind; its eyes, in the rudimentary state, and hidden under the skin, are quite useless ; its apparatus of hear- ing, on the contrary, is well developed. This Kentucky fish has been named the “ cave ambly- opsis, the generic name referring to the animal’s blindness. The amblyopsis presents in its gen- eral conformation characters so peculiar that the authors who have studied it best have not been able to refer it with certainty to any of the known animals of the class of fishes. Some zodlogists, perhaps rightly, see in it the type of a new fam- iy. Louis Agassiz, an authoritative judge upon the question, maintaining extreme caution, only declares that he inclines to consider it an aber- rant form of the family of eyprinodontes, The habitation of the amblyopsis is extraordinary, and its characteristics are not less peculiar. Among all the fishes there is neither species, nor genus, nor even family, in which a true relation- ship can be found for it. In view of these facts, it would be difficult to maintain that the fish of the Mammoth Cave was not created to live in the unique condition in which it has been found by naturalists, At a not very remote period an entomologist of Germany undertook a careful exploration of the grottoes of Carniola, and discovered in them certain blind coleoptera, very active, quite color- less, wan, almost transparent, having a size of from two to three inches in length, and remark- ably elegant proportions. These insects did not closely resemble any known form ; they were de- scribed under the name of “anophthalms,” to express their most striking mark, the want of eyes. The fact long continued an isolated one, but within a few years examinations actively car- ried on in the grottoes of the Ariége, the Pyre- Rees, and different parts of Europe and North America, have resulted in the discovery of many distinet species belonging to the same genus. The hunt for these anophthalms would not be a 425 pleasant one for everybody. Fortunately, en- tomologists are people determined to brave diffi- cult situations and suffer many inconveniences to attain their object. They enter these caverns with torches, and advance slipping over the rough, wet floor, striking against rocks, and wounding themselves on jagged points. Near the entrance of a cavern, where the darkness is not yet complete, a kind of anophthalm is some- times found, which has imperfect eyes, but it is necessary to go still farther to find those lively blind coleoptera they are in search of. Almost always the seeker finds these insects over a rather limited space, running along the walls of the cave or hidden under the stones. At present the known anophthalms are numerous, and—a fact worthy of remark—each species seems limited to a single cave, or to a few caves only a little distance apart. If the seekers of blind insects were merely animated by the wish to take strange species and adorn their collections with them, they have none the less done science a useful service by gathering materials that lead to reflec- tions on the conditions of existence in some be- ings. In their zodlogical marks the anophthalms have close relations to the coleoptera of the same family that live in the light ; but they have forms and proportions so peculiarly their own that the idea of a common origin could not enter the mind of any naturalist. The species observed in different caves and under similar conditions are perfectly distinct, and when we find in the greater part of them complete atrophy, not mere- ly of the eyes but also of the optic nerves, it is hard to believe in anything else than an adapta- tion of the organism to a special kind of life. Besides, in the darkness of caverns and deep grottoes there are animals of more than one kind ; we find there small crawfish, small spiders, in- sects of different kinds, all wanting the organs of sight. There are in those gloomy recesses vegetable-eating species, serving in a certain de- gree for food to the carnivora; and vegetables, some kinds of mushrooms, the only known plants susceptible of growth in the absence of light, de- signed to feed such species; it is a complete lit- tle world set apart from the rest of the world. The broken chasms of a grotto, besides being the most picturesque retreat, are the abode of numberless creatures that pursue, retreat, de- stroy, and move, in a constant whirl. Who could resist the temptation of seeking to ascend in thought toward the origin of these sightless creatures, to whom existence seems 80 wretched ? Agassiz was asked to give his opinion

Page 430

¢ 426 upon the primitive condition of the eyeless ani- | often plunged into his bath, and reappeared gt a the surface almost immediately; but sever] | times the animal made so long a stay at the bot. Bt tom of his basin, that more than once it caused | uneasiness. As it was not understood how g bs mals of the Mammoth Cave. The eminent ziolo- gist declared the necessity of a series of observa- tions and experiments to arrive at absolute cer- tainty. He advised the attempt to rear the em- bryos of the cave-species by subjecting them to different conditions from those in which they are now found; and he ended with this declaration: “‘ According to all that | know of the geographi- cal distribution of animals, I am satisfied that these were created in the circumstances in which they are now living, within the limits where they are now found, and with the same peculiarities of structure that mark them to-day.” Only those who refuse to deal with the observation of facts can be easily led to believe that the inhabitants of caverns—fish, insects, or other animals—are blind because they live and breed constantly amid circumstances in which the organ of sight could not do its duty. That supposition is really not inadmissible, according to the laws of organic development ; an atrophy may be produced under certain influences ; but a knowledge of the con- ditions of life rigidly fixed for animals in general compels us to reject such an explanation as that with regard to the cave-species. There is almost an absolute certainty that species designed to see the day would perish, or cease to breed, if they were confined in an atmosphere laden with moist- ure, and plunged in utter darkness. Since the date of Agassiz’s expressed opinion, these sight- less species have been collected in great num- bers, and observations repeated, and on one point of the highest importance doubt is no longer possible ; the animals of these dark recesses are not found in spots exposed to light, and many of them differ so strikingly in their characteristics from species which see as to destroy any notion of community with them in origin. After the instances of adaptation of external parts to fixed conditions of existence, we should examine in what way the parts of internal organ- ization explain special aptitudes. In this regard, the absolutely precise facts we possess are not yet so numerous as might be wished, but there is reason to expect a great deal from the investiga- tions that are going on in our time. In 1853, the first living hippopotamus seen in Europe since the time of the Romans was intro- duced into the menagerie of the Museum of Nat- ural History at Paris. It was an event, and every one was delighted in watching the singular ways of the animal, of which the pictures and descrip- tions and stuffed figures had given no correct idea. The new guest at the Jardin des Plantes YHE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. mammal of that order could have the power of | breathing at very long intervals, suffocation ‘seemed possible. But all anxiety ceased whey | the conviction was gained that the hippopotamus staid at the bottom of the water because it was his pleasure to do so, and after that there was no | longer any doubt that it possessed some organig | arrangements fitted for an amphibious animal, | An opportunity of studying them came later, | The first hippopotamus was a male; a female _ arrived, and they produced offspring. Several of the young died, and Gratiolet, whose eloquent lectures have charmed so many audiences, de voted an attentive examination to them, That examination supplied the explanation why it is that suffocation would occur in the hippopotamus | only after a very long suspension of respiration, | Several remarkable arrangements of the veing | force the blood to accumulate and pause, notte ‘rush suddenly to the heart, nor to return ina great quantity to the lungs. Thus the animal, protected against the danger of congestion of | the brain, the eyes, the lungs, and even the mus cles, preserves its freedom of movement. Bats, and those pretty little paroquets called inseparables, from the notion of the mutual af fection these charming birds require, the agapor- nis of zodlogists, suspend themselves by their claws, and sleep head down. In that position most animals would suffer congestion of the brain, Such an accident need not be feared either for bats or for paroquets. We under and arrangement of the little valves in the veins — of the head and the fore-parts of the body. The immense difference that exists between birds as to their power and rapidity of flight is well knows. | The pheasant and partridge have a short and heavy flight; the sparrow is not one of the most | favored birds in this respect ; the eagle, the fab é con, the sea-mew, on the other hand, are wonder | fully endowed in regard to flight. Who has net admired, on fine evenings, the dizzy, darting whirls of the great swallow? No doubt the mensions of the wings, the general shape of the 3 | body, permit us to account ina certain the greater or less ease of movement in birds; bat j | this unequal distribution of the power of locomo | tion is not due merely to the proportions of gi stand how so unusual a position is possible for — tkese animals, as soon as we remark the number — portior vincib! with f mode strengt it pres,

Page 431

THE CONDITIONS OF LIFE IN ANIMATED BEINGS. body and limbs; it arises also from the extension of the respiratory apparatus, and from the force of circulation of the blood. If a pheasant were swept along with the rush of a falcon, or a spar- row with a swallow’s swiftness, the unhappy pheasant and wretched swallow would be blown immediately, and would soon fall helpless. With birds, the size of their air-receptacles is always in perfect relations with the degree of activity, the energy of movement, and power of flight. In this respect, comparative study, which has not yet been made thoroughly enough, would furnish remarks of great interest. With an increased or diminished activity of respiration, the circulation of the blood, too, shows corresponding variations, within limits fixed by the structure or the ar- rangement of the organs. In the great fliers the heart is larger in proportion to the size of the body than in sedentary species. The left ven- tricle, which propels the vital fluid into the whole arterial system, has walls of considerable thick- ness, supported also by strong muscular columns, | in birds of powerful flight, where its contractions | need to be made most energetically. It is curi- ous to follow in examination the whole series of slight variations in ducks, cranes, flamingos, 427 very little concern about the views of science, and who, nevertheless, are well satisfied of the possibility of success. Does not the model seem to exist in Nature? But it is that model precise- ly that inspires the naturalist with the fear that the pursuit is chimerical. The size of an eagle or a condor is not very considerable, and the bird which attains still greater dimensions, yet without losing any of the essential characteristics of the type to which it belongs, is incapable of flight. The ostrich and the cassowary stay on the ground ; the gigantic dinornis, which still in- habited New Zealand a few years ago, did not fly; the épyornis of Madagascar, whose enor- mous eggs have been the theme of astonishment, and almost of admiration, was not more favored than the other birds mentioned. Thus the ob- servation of what exists in Nature leads us to think that locomotion through air is incompati- ble with great size. We do not intend to select instances from all the classes of the animal kingdom of coincidences between specialties of organization and aptitudes ; but there is one which invites citation, because it relates to animals habitually in every one’s sight. A carp lives comfortably in a narrow reservoir gulls, and birds of prey, in which last the highest | with muddy water seldom renewed ; a trout thrown degree of perfection is realized. In species that | into the same water dies asphyxiated in a few min- have a feebly-sustained flight, as gallinaceous | utes; for a trout requires running water always birds, parrots, or sparrows, the same walls and | well aérated. The carp consumes little oxygen; muscular pillars of the heart present in compari- | its respiration is weak. A trout’s respiration is son only a weak resistance. In the same way | far more active. The difference in function is ex- the capacity of the right ventricle, into which the | plained by certain arrangements in the branchie blood flows from the veins, is modified: of mod- ; and the apparatus of circulation, and then we erate size in those species of quiet habits, it is , understand the necessity for the trout of an en- large in species more energetic in movement and | tirely different abode from that of the carp. capable of performing long journeys. In old times simple persons had the notion that, by merely fastening wings to their shoulders, they could succeed in rising into the air. If the idea was really carried so far as the beginning of execution, the attempt must have at once satis- |} Among the remarkable peculiarities of the life of beings, there are few more instructive than ' the exceptions presented in a large number of ‘natural groups. Thus, if the representatives of | one class are usually land-animals, some, neverthe- ' less, dwell in the water; if a class is composed fied the most enterprising of the emptiness of the | of species essentially aquatic, several species of Project. Man has not the strength to manage , that zodlogical division have the power of escap- great wings ; and, if he had the strength, the pro- | ing from their element; such a difference in the portion and weight of his body would remain in- | conditions of existence does not ordinarily require Vincible obstacles. The bird, completely covered ;a profound modification of the organism. We with feathers, admirably shaped for its usual | are here struck by the simplicity of the means mode of moving, has muscles of enormous | used by Nature to obtain an important result. strength to supply motion to its fore-limbs; and Among fishes and crustacea, animals so admira- it presents but little weight, for its body contains bly formed for their usual mode of life, there are great pockets always full of air, and its bones, for | species which, voluntarily or by accident, pass a the most part, are hollow. In our days, the idea | part of their existence out of water. In aquatic of navigating the air comes up again constantly ; animals death occurs as soon as the organs of res- there are inventors who usually give themselves _ piration, ceasing to be moistened, begin to dry up.

Page 432

¢ 428 THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. . If an arrangement exists fitted to prevent the | tions—that which exists between the faculties of flowing away of the liquid contained in the com- | adult animals and the condition of new-born ones, partment which holds the branchie, the animal | The lower orders are of a constitution strong will be able to live a pretty long time in the open | enough from the time of their birth to supply air. Eels, which are fond of rambling about, and | their own needs without aid from others. Those venture into the middle of meadows without dan- species that offer us the spectacle of most admis ger, owe that power to the mode of closing up | rable instincts are born weak, and incapable of life their respiratory cavity. The anabas of Indian | without the care of mothers or nurses, Among rivers, the gourami of China, are very much bet- | the beings that suckle their young, do we not-seg ter furnished ; they have a true reservoir formed | the most intelligent, the most gifted in all respects, of cells surrounded by leaf-like plates ; thus, with- come into the world in a state of extreme weaks out the least inconvenience, they can leave their | ness, which imposes on parents and especially on usual abode, and even make tolerably long jour- | mothers the duty of watching over and protects neys; the water from their reservoir flowing out | ing their children for a long period? Man is the slowly moistens the branchiz. first and most striking instance of this, Among Like fishes, crustacea in general live con- birds there is a more marked difference than stantly in the water. Some crabs, it is true, quit | among mammals, which all, without exception, the sea, but cautiously; they do not go far from | draw the first nourishment from their mothers, the shore, and their excursions are not long. Chicks, when they leave their shell, are even then Some species only penetrate into the land, and go | toa distance, ranging over the country fora month | atatime. These land-crabs, as they are called, almost all prettily adorned with lively colors, are | spread through the warm regions of South Amer. | ica, and abound in the Antilles, where they mark | their passage through the fields with devastation. | They are distinguished from other crabs by a | rounded and very high shell. The advantage of this arrangement is at once apparent: the shell being very high, the respiratory chamber becomes spacious; and this chamber, well closed, lined with a permeable membrane, being full of water, the branchiz are constantly moist. The air breathed is thus kept in a state quite sufficient for the needs of respiration. Fora crustaceous creature which can climb trees, quite abundant on the In- dian coasts, the Molucca and Seychelles Islands, ete., the means of living a long time out of water are provided by another arrangement, also very simple. This creature, of large size, called the robber-crab because it eats fruits, has neither a very convex upper shell nor a very large respi- ratory chamber; but above its branchiz is a vas- cular sort of vegetation, fit to retain moisture, and acting in the manner of asponge. Every- where we succeed in establishing a close relation between the organization and the aptitudes, be- tween the instincts and the characteristics of ex- ternal parts. Itis thus that the conditions of life imposed on each species seem to us determined in a way that forces us to regard as impossible any modifications that are at all considerable in animated beings. There is one relation of a peculiar kind, most | interesting to follow in its different manifesta- strong and able to get their own focd; they do indeed follow their mother, and seem to seek her protection; but, if they stay close by her and take refuge under her body, it is solely for the sake of the warmth indispensable to all young creatures. William Edwards, the famous physi- ologist, showed nearly half a century ago that in newly-born animals the-power of producing | heat is seldom so much developed that the tem perature of the organism can be kept up to the normal degree, if the atmosphere grows very cold. The observations and experiments of nat uralists proved that young animals ought to be kept very warm, and that in this respect the m» ternal instinct never errs, Villermé and Milne Edwards ascertained, by a grouping of well-estab- lished facts, that the human species is not e% cepted from the general Jaw, and they were thus led to protest against the barbarous regulation which obliges new-born children to be carried to the mayors’ offices for registry, thus in fact expos ing them to the risk of death, if the cold affects them. They demonstrated the danger with the support of undeniable scientific facts, and yet few choice spirits needed unconquerable persé verance for forty years before they could over come administrative routine, and gain the abel tion of a custom like that at Paris. 4 If the young of the hen and the duck, birds of very limited intelligence, have no other need of the mother on quitting the shell than to wal themselves by her, on the contrary, all thos charming birds that delight us by their songs, their industry, their loves, their intelligence, the more wonderful in our eyes the more Gail small the creature is, all those that we taint aa “ live spee the their in tl ever’ ents blers those voice nests terial watcl agair activ! youn; neces them divid: unite fami); and t beyon young freedc of the of the pair ¥ an ing uralist well ¢ notice of gre has re prey v the se compa stork ; It has behind look of the bit saw at the ear called | design: er in § The borhoo habitar in the there i the top Upper | constan

Page 433

. THE CONDITIONS OF LIFE IN ANIMATED BEINGS. live in our domestic life, those that utter human speech, and those proud birds, too, the eagle and the falcon, are compelled to watch long over their young. The latter are condemned to dwell in the nest for weeks or months, and receive everything from their parents. And what par- ents they are—those bold sparrows, those war- blers and nightingales with their liquid trills, those parrots with noisy chatter, those shrill- yoiced falcons! Skillful in building their downy nests, full of contrivance in gathering their ma- terials, they suffer the most painful fatigue in watching over their progeny; to defend them against possible attacks, they display wonderful activity in seeking the food suitable for their young, and devote untiring love to them. The necessity of rearing their brood and laboring for them brings about the lasting union of two in- dividuals, a male and a female, happy in being united in a feeling of mutual affection, and the family is formed. The law is general. The need and the satisfaction of a joint life do not extend beyond one season, if in that space of time the young have grown strong enough to take their freedom, byt they continue longer if the growth of the brood is slower. If they require the aid of their parents for a very considerable time, the pair will continue mutually attached almost for an indefinite period. Jules Verreaux, the nat- uralist-traveler, who had grown particularly well acquainted with the history of birds, has noticed an instance of this in a species which is of great interest for many reasons. Every one has remarked in menageries that singular bird of prey which is called indifferently the messenger, the secretary, or the serpent bird. Its legs are comparable in length to those of a crane or stork ; it is a sort of falcon mounted on stilts. It has a grave and proud walk ; a stiff tuft placed behind the head and always quivering gives ita look of great elegance. On account of this tuft the bird was named the secretary by those who saw a resemblance in it to the pen carried behind the ear by people whose business is copying, and called the serpent-bird by those who preferred to designate a peculiarity in the habits of this dwell- er in Southern Africa. These secretaries, very abundant in the neigh- borhood of Cape Town, are protected by the in- habitants on account of the services they render im the colony, Near to most of the dwellings there is a pair of them which fixes its eyrie on the top of tall bushes, and very usually in the "pper part of the mimosa. As these birds are constantly hunting serpents, we easily understand 429 the usefulness of their high stilts. They over- look the region about, and, their sight being very keen, they distinguish the reptile at a distance, and some precaution in the attack is necessary, The secretary, therefore, on discovering his prey, advances prudently, and, with sparkling eye and ruffled neck and throat feathers, watches the op- portune moment, then springs forward with a bound, and often kills its victim by a single blow of the claw given with incredible force. Some- times the wounded serpent rears furiously, hiss- ing with rage, and springs at its enemy; but the bird, soon recovering from its hesitation, and naturally courageous, opens its wings to serve as a shield, avoids the attacks by quick springs, and when the reptile drops to the ground tired and exhausted, it comes nearer and kills it with strokes from its claws. A battle of this kind between a secretary and a dangerous serpent al- ways leaves a strong impression on the minds of those who see it. There are circumstances in the life of this bird of the Cape interesting in a much higher way. Its early age continues re- markably long ; the young secretaries remain in the nest at least six months; they have gained within a very little the size of the old birds, but are still incapable of going in search of their food. Their legs and their tarsi, of extraordi- nary size, gain solidity very slowly, and, until consolidation is complete, they could not under- take the dangerous hunts to which their instinct and their appetite urge them. To feed this great and surprisingly voracious brood imposes on the parents the duty of making incessant war upon snakes, and, when they grow rare in the fields, of picking up lizards and even insects. The need of providing for the wants of their young during half the year, following the long time taken in building the nest and then in hatching, thus brings about a nearly indissoluble union be- tween the male and female of the secretary-bird. This difference between birds appears also in quite as marked a way between insects—some full of intelligence and so weak in the early time of life that their existence would be impossible without the family ; others, little gifted with in- stinct and with intelligence, coming into life in so advanced a state of development as to be quite able to take care of themselves. In general, in- sects at their birth have no need of any assist- ance; but the species of some groups quit the egg in such a state of weakness that they would instantly perish if they did not receive the care of a mother or a nurse, These are those won- derful insects, wasps, humblebees, honey-bees,

Page 434

430 and ants, whose industry, instincts, and intelli- gence confound our reason. We have remarked the rule: those beings gifted with the finest organization have progeny too weak to be safely left to themselves; there- fore the parent cares for them. But the rule has its exceptions. Some species, quite like those that are most remarkable for their industry, do not know how to do anything for their young, and yet their offspring at the beginning of life require assistance every moment. An imperious want to be satisfied on ove side, absolute impo- tence to help on the other—this is the problem of which the solution is found by the aid of a special instinct bestowed on mothers unable to | work for their progeny. When one cannot rear one’s children, they are confided to strangers— | nothing is simpler. The bird called the cuckoo is well known, and very curious stories are still told | about it, sometimes without distinguishing between old legends and the accounts of careful observers. The cuckoo, which is constantly heard in large | woods and hardly ever seen, from its extreme shyness, builds no nest, as every one knows. Unable to construct one, it goes and drops its eggs in the nest of some other bird. The reason of that incapacity eludes us, for till now no known peculiarity of its organism has furnished an explanation. Yet a very curious observation has been made: the members of the two sexes are very unequal; there are fifteen or twenty males for a single female. In this crowd of suit- ors the female, it would seem, wishes to please | all, and her incessant gallantries must divert her | from any maternal duty. The cuckoos, then, se- | cretly carry their eggs to the nests of different birds—the red-throat, the nightingale, the red- wing, the peewit, and many others besides—and these birds, if they do not detect the cheat, hatch the alien egg, and, after it is hatched, rear the intruder as one of their own brood, notwith- standing its size, which soon grows beyond that of the rightful young, and becomes very danger- ous to them. If we are to believe some asser- tions, the female cuckoo never wholly loses the feeling of maternity: she does not leave the neighborhood of the places where her young are reared till after they have quitted the nest. Some insects behave nearly like the cuckoo. The great downy humblebees, sometimes red, sometimes black, with some parts yellow, tawny, or reddish, so common in the fine season about the flowers in the fields or the edge of the woods, are wonderfully ‘industrious creatures, as we know, and take the most irreproachable care of THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. their progeny. Besides these laborious inaeets, we find species incapable of any care, and so ike the true humblebee in their appearance and principal marks that painstaking naturalists had — not been able to distinguish the two kinds; but one day an observer, Le Peletier de Saint Paw” geau, more attentive than his predecessors, mm marked a significant difference: these speci, hitherto confounded with humblebees, are quite wanting in working-instruments ; their legs have. no sack to store the pollen, no prickles to attach the flakes of wax; the first joint of their tarsi though quite broad, yet is not such a plate as the humblebees use, like a trowel, and carries no. hairy tuft suited to brush off the collected pék | len. No working-tools means evident i to build, and also impossibility of feeding larve. These insects, designated by the name of psithyres, have recourse to the humblebee TI re | is a simple explanation of the resemblance given for the preservation of their own species. by Nature to these two kinds of creatures, The cuckoo, smuggling an egg into a small bird's nest, has no reason to fear being at a disadvan tage if caught in the act by the owner. It is not the same with the insect that makes its way into. the humblebee’s nest. The habitation is always more or less filled and guarded by individuals whose sting is mortal, The best-managed trick would fail. Here the insect must deceive as t0 its kind, and seem a humblebee when it is not one. The psithyres, therefore, have received the gift of the size, shape, colors, and complete ap | pearance of the humblebee, and as there are of | the latter quite a large number of species known apart by their colors, so there are psithyres an- swering to the chasnctestatio peculiarities of these different species. Seeing cne of them, we may say, without fear of mistake, this is the parasite i of that particular humblebee. then enters, without being disturbed, the d where they are working and bringing up @@ young insects ; member of the family ; it goes in confident tat it will not be recognized as a stranger nor treated. In the cells built in view of a di purpose it deposits its eggs; the grubs that w come from them will have all the appearance those of the humblebees, and the latter make no difference in their nursing. Thus lation is perpetuated between two evel belonging to the same genus. The hum could very well dispense with the psithyres, bi F The psithyre EY 3 its dress makes it pass ef 7 a the latter would inevitably perish by the "i ai pearance of the former. z i Al called expose of the but th specie: need i The s its offs food jt tenant be oft has no an eg! stock keeps honey positio to pen and th is well chance WI cumsta are gre tunatel istence beings manne! only by gift of | really e times 1 from th the we: carried that the tinguis! calls th fortune: In ¢ that are with th bodies f deed dis having scarcely selves, them. nection

Page 435

4 A i s Allthose industrious insects that are commonly called solitary bees and mason-bees are equally | by mouthfuls. exposed to receiving the visits of hymenoptera of the same family that have no power to work ; but these strangers do not wear the livery of the species whose nests they invade; nor do they need it, as they proceed only by skill and craft. The solitary bee builds, by itself, the cradle of its offspring, and stores in each cell a supply of food just sufficient for the grub that is to be its tenant. Insearch of its provision it is obliged to be often absent; the bee that does not work, and has no other care than to contrive the deposit of an egg in the cell where its grub will eat the stock laid up for that of the laboring species, keeps in the neighborhood of the nest at which honey and pollen are arriving; it studies the position, takes advantage of the owner’s absence to penetrate into the retreat, lays an egg in it, and then escapes by stealth, like the robber who is well aware of the risk he would run should he chance to be met. When we direct our attention to the cir- cumstances of the life of animated creatures, we are greatly struck by seeing on the one hand for- tunately-endowed beings, whose conditions of ex- istence seem full of charm, and on the other hand beings less favored, and even some that are in a manner disinherited, and that find life possible only by the assistance of species which have the gift of strength or of skill. Hence result certain really extraordinary associations of animals; some- times the luckless one expects his subsistence from the good-will of the better endowed ; oftener the weak accompanies the strong either to be carried about with it, or to profit by the leavings that the latter drops. M. van Beneden, the dis- tinguished professor of the University of Louvain, calls these creatures that are thus attached to the fortunes of others commensals, Ir some ant-hills little bright coleoptera live that are called clavigeri ; their heads are crowned with thick antennz, and on the sides of their bodies grow tufts of hairs. These creatures are in- deed disinherited ; completely blind, with mouths having their articulated parts very small, and scarcely movable, they cannot eat of them- selves, and the aid of the ants is indispensable to them, Between these insects there exists a con- nection of the most extraordinary sort, which has been very closely observed by an able naturalist, M. Lesp’s, The clavigeri shed a sweet fluid, which clings to their hairy tufts; the ants, greedy for anything that is sugary, swallow this fluid, and the clavigeri become favorite guests for them. THE CONDITIONS OF LIFE IN ANIMATED BEINGS. 431 In return for their good offices, they feed them When an ant-hill is disturbed, every one knows with what zeal, activity, and anxiety the ants carry off their grubs and nymphe to put them out of the reach of danger. They act in the same way with régard to the clavigeri when they suppose them to be threatened. In spite of all this, a dependent condition is the fate of the latter in the community, in which each one finds its part; it is slavery made inevitable by defects in organization. For the philosopher, there is, perhaps, one thing even more interesting than this state of slavery in the relations between ants and clavigeri. The repeated experiments of Lespés prove that ants need some training to ap- preciate the benefits they may gain from these little bright coleoptera. All ant-hills of the same species do not own clavigeri. If one takes a fancy to put a few of these poor blind things into a nest where there are none of them, the ants have no suspicion of the happiness intended to be provided for them. With their instinct of seeking to account for everything that takes place in their dwelling, they examine the intruders, and, failing to discover the possibility of getting any good out of them, they pull them to pieces. In some companionships of individuals of dif- ferent species, a sort of equality rules: that of the mussel and the little crab known by the name of the pinnothera gives an instance of this. The pinnothera, which has been very unjustly charged with possessing properties injurious to the ani- mal economy, finds a shelter in the mussel. Cov- ered by a shell of stony hardness, armed with powerful claws, and gifted with excellent sight, it falls suddenly on its prey, and quietly devours it, the mussel receiving the remnants. It gives food, and receives lodging in return. Most fre- quently the association is of advantage only to the weaker individual, which, moreover, is the only one of the two that seeks it. Some quite small fish take up their abode in the mouth of a large species of silurus on the Brazilian coast, which is skillful in fishing with the help of its beard-like appendages, and there seize what they require as it goes by. A slender-shaped fish of the Mediterranean, the fierasfer, rather ill adapted for pursuing its prey, makes its way into the stomach of the holothuria, where it feeds at its ease. The holothuria are zodphytes covered by a very leathery integument, and having the mouth encircled by branchy tentacles. ‘The Chinese eat them, particularly the kind that is known as the edible trepang. Many animals with very imper- fect means of locomotion, especially some crus-

Page 436

‘ 432 tacea, fasten themselves upon fish and cruise about in search of subsistence. Some species, of lower organization, lose their liberty entirely; the cir- rhipeds fix themselves, and are never again de- tached, drawing floating particles toward their mouths by the help of appendages converted into fringed tendrils, The coronule, which belong to this group, fix themselves on the skin of the whale, and are thus carried about in the water, where they find the microscopic creatures fit for their food in profusion. Another kind of companionship is that of parasites with creatures from which they draw their subsistence directly. Some of these para- sites are of so low an organization, that their in- troduction to the individuals destined to give them shelter seems to depend on chance. In- testinal worms have no appendages, and move within the narrowest limits; the presence of these worms in the place where existence is pos- sible for them is the work neither of their instinct nor of that of their parents. Beings have the power of struggling against the chances of acci- dent in proportion as their organization is per- fect, and as their instinct and intelligence are de- veloped. In the case of inferior species, much exposed to risk of destruction, this disadvantage is compensated by very great fecundity, In species that have no power of self-defense, fe- cundity becomes enormous. Intestinal worms are placed in a situation to live, only through cir- cumstances almost casual; their eggs are pro- duced and scattered in incalculable numbers. All coincidences of the nature of those we have inquired into between the organism of be- ings and their physical aptitudes may be followed in their least details by observation and experi- ment, But science should not pause at phenom- ena of the physical order in its study of life ; those of the psychological order fall within its ken also. The bond between these two orders of phenomena is a close one. To be convinced of this, it is enough to compare some animals with each other, in all their manifestations, and again to compare these animals with man himself. We are long past the time when animals were seriously believed to be mere machines. The mind of man was very early impressed by the prodigious differences presented in the forms, the organic structure, and the habits of beings. The diversity is indeed immense, for each species bears its stamp in perfectly appre- ciable zodlogical and biological characteristics ; but, after a long series of researches, unity in a general plan has become manifest. We have THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. discovered in all animated beings the same op. ganic apparatus, the same tissues, the same fun tions, the same beginning. The difference cog. sists in the degree of development or of perfection, and in the adaptations. Are the powers that fig within the realm of intelligence governed by another law? The mere statement of the ques. tion suggests all the contradictions to the han mony of natural phenomena that such a supp sition would require; and a comparison of the facts best demonstrated by observation and eg periment yields manifest proofs that the lawig the same. Cuvier ence said, “To know may thoroughly, be must not be studied only in man#® The great naturalist was thinking particularly of the material deiails of the organism. With equal truth it may be added, “To understand intellie gence thoroughly, it must not be studied onlyig the manifestations of human intelligence.” As the details already related concerning the life of different animals have enabled us to judge those instincts which are greatly developed ia species endowed with a fine organization become restricted as the organization is lowered. Every animal has an instinct to employ the instruments it possesses, and the nature of its instruments de. termines the kind of its operations. Man forms no exception to this rule. Could we imagine men gathered in a small isolated group who would fail to make use of their hands to fashion weapons, tools, utensils, to build a shelter with materials within their reach, to prepare clothing, if cold renders it necessary? A resemblance im the products of industry of tribes very far sepa rated has sometimes led to the supposition of am cient connections, or a common origin, when thé truth would have been found in the recognition of the fact that these individuals had obeyed the same instincts, without needing any tradition Intelligence everywhere shows itself joined with instinct; there is no instinct possible without aa intelligence to guide and rule it. Some have be lieved in two sorts of mutually independent phe nomena, for want of having studied the cireum stances of life in man, in the mammals, birdy and insects, in a comparative manner. Intell gence has its degrees, evident as regards indi viduals, far more evident as regards species, and precisely as in the organism its inferiority orit® perfection does not always relate to the whole but only to certain portions, so intelligence may remain high in certain points, and very weak in other points. It would be a singular see in the intelligence of animals only & propor tionate reduction of our own intelligence. Buffon a ee uae was ! fused jnatin not tl posse: ful in hands neede tion, | playe¢ Beave establ raise they d the ler to mal the pr indivic anothe accide: servati beaver posses: he is ¢ fon rex It | terror « of a mi of the tion, | of deve of vast timate impress researc’ fail to ¢ lectual planatic compar: seems | how mu the bra mind ; ; nizable merely | Volume tion of t extent o 800n as Organs ¢ being th tions in May be ; 4 impo compara

Page 437

> =a aes SS . was misled by a notion of that sort, when he re- fused to recognize anything more than mechanical jnatinct in the beaver, because that animal has not the sense of the dog or the fox. The beaver possesses tools fit for cutting wood in its power- ful incisor-teeth, a true trowel in its tail, and hands almost in its fore-paws. It has everything needed for building, and the instinct of construe- tion, too, and its intelligence is admirably dis- played in the series of acts required by its labors. Beavers choose the most suitable place for their establishment: on a river subject to floods they raise a dam before building their habitation ; they dispense with that labor on a lake where the level varies but little; they fell a tree so as to make it drop toward the waters, that is, on the proper side; they cut it up as they need; individuals divide the task, one driving the stakes, another plastering the mortar ; they guard against accidents and inundations. What a geries of ob- servations and reflections is necessary here! The beaver has a specialty, and in that specialty he possesses wonderful intelligence ; apart from that, he is commonplace enough, and certainly, as Buf- fon remarks, has not the sense of the dog. It is impossible to think without a kind of terror of what would become of the intelligence of a man deprived of all his senses. All our ideas of the outer world come to us by their interven- tion. The same senses, in very varying degrees of development, exist in animals ; but researches of vast range are indispensable before we can es- timate with complete exactness the shades in the impressions which the organs may transmit ; such researches will be made, and the result cannot fail to enlighten us as to phenomena of the intel- lectual order. The possibility of attaining an ex- planation of all the perceptions of beings by a comparative study of the organs of the senses seems manifest. We cannot as clearly discern how much light the anatomical investigation of the brain will throw upon the actions of the mind ; at present these actions are only recog- nizable by the manifestations that strike us. We merely note in a general way that the relative Volume of the brain and the degree of centraliza- tion of the nervous masses have a relation to the extent of the instincts and intelligence. But, as S0on as we shall have gained a precise idea of the Organs of sense and the faculties in each species, being then able to determine the range of percep- Hons in each animal in the most exact way, we oe be allowed to entertain the hope of reaching ‘2 Important result by studying the brain in a comparative manner in those species that are 28 THE CONDITIONS OF LIFE IN ANIMATED BEINGS. 433 known to be susceptible of the same perceptions, and in those species that have perceptions of a different kind. By proceeding in this way, sci- ence, which rejects any belief derived from im- agination, will not desert the paths of observa- tion and experiment. Well-organized beings have an astonishing memory, constantly observed by persons who love the company of animals: they remember a ben- efit, and particularly an injury. A dog recognizes the friend of the house after many years, and the places he sees again after long absence. The faculty of reasoning, comparing, understanding situations, is inseparable from memory. Wild animals show themselves trustful in localities where man lets them live in peace, and full of distrust in places where his presence has become formidable to them. The testimony of travelers who have explored uninhabited countries is valu- able to refer to. “It is a singular thing,” says Livingstone, “to notice the intelligence of wild animals. In countries where they are hunted | with firearms, they keep themselves in the most | open parts of the region, so as to see the hunter | at the greatest possible distance. It has so often | happesed to me when I had no weapons to get | near to animals without disturbing them, which took flight as soon as I came in sight armed with a gun, that I am satisfied they perfectly under- stand the danger they run in the latter case, and the security they may feel in presence of an un. armed man. Here, where they have only the ar- rows of the Balondas to fear, they remain during the day in the depths of the thickest forests, where the use of the bow is much more difficult.” It is curious to watch the efforts of an animal endeavoring to get an understanding of some- | thing. A glass is put on the ground, and a cat, _ coming up to it, shows great surprise and curi- osity at the sight of her reflection. She ap- proaches, supposing it to be another animal of her own species, and, not being able to touch it | with her nose, strikes at the glass with her claws. Meeting an obstacle, she goes to look be- hind the frame, and finding no one there, comes back and begins the same actions over again, still in vain; then, as if seized by a bright idea, her body quivering, her hair erect, she stands upright against the frame, striking it on both sides at once with her paws, as if to be sure not to fail in catching the puzzling presence. But after satisfying herself of the uselessness of her — manceuvres, she leaves the place, resigned to do without understanding, very much like an Arab to whom one had attempted to explain the system

Page 438

’ 434 of electric telegraphing. Notwithstanding this, the animal has given proof of something besides a mechanical instinct. It has been doubted whether animals were conscious of their acts, and yet, though attentive examinations have not been made, the commonest observation should remove any uncertainty in this respect. A dog has been trained not to touch provisions in the house he lives in, but sometimes he cannot resist the temptation; if he takes some dainty bit it is al- ways by stealth, and, if he is afraid of being caught, he makes off with all speed like a true robber. A cobaya, or Guinea-pig, an animal of rather limited intelligence, was living as a pet in a house. The poor little creature was passion- ately fond of fruit, and at its master’s dessert, while he was alone absorbed in reading, it would be put on the table covered with strawberries, apples, or pears, knowing that it was forbidden to take anything unless given to it. On some days, if it was not helped at once, the tempta- tion grew too strong; the least sign would check it, but tired of waiting it would come and rub its nose against its master’s arm, and crawl after him whining, if its appeals seemed not to be heard. Facts as conclusive might be recounted almost without end. The sentiments and passions show themselves in animals under almost all aspects. A dog conceives affection for one person, hatred for another, having all kinds of preferences and dislikes. A parrot receives the kindest treat- ment from all the members of the family that keeps it as a pet; for one of them it has nothing but fmendship, good-nature, and amusing ways ; with another it is indifferent, and to a third is ill-tempered. An intelligent animal is full of ten- derness in its love-making. The pleasing little song-birds are a charming study in their court- ship ; the emotion they feel is betrayed by signs of every kind, their breasts heave with unusual force, their little hearts beat quicker. Sentiment is the privilege of all the nobler creatures. It would be a great error to suppose that ani- mals are not sensible of beauty. At some times they even seem inspired by the desire to appear beautiful; stags and all the species of the feline race take a proud attitude; birds that have a handsome tuft, erect it, and those with showy tails, such as peacocks, display them, as if pos- sessed with a feeling of pride. Besides, it is evi- dent, from observation, that beauty in the indi- viduals of one sex must produce quite a strong impression on those of the other sex. They gain their greatest brilliancy at the time of pairing of the sexes, Fishes, in which only a few faint THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. gleams of intelligence are remarked, assume coh ors of surprising brilliancy at that season, Many i birds in their bridal plumage seem to have pat — on wedding-garments; the graceful ; the gay chaffinch, are brilliant with color ; the bullfinch, usually a dull rose, gleams in purple It would be a mistake to suppose that among finely-organized animals a male with power to choose should pair indifferently with any change female, or a female choose her mate withoutthe least regard to external beauty ; observation for bids such an opinion to be accepted. A distin guished amateur, Count Primoli, who loves binds and knows very many interesting things about their housekeeping, had obtained several of those huge pigeons produced by a series of selections and known by bird-fanciers under the namesof Dutch pigeons and Roman pigeons. The pairing season came, and it was their time for choosing a husband or a mate for each. There were some common pigeons in the neighborhood; and # happened that every large pigeon went in search of a small mate, while every large female tooka — male of small size. It is not amorg animals only that such things are seen. To keep up the breed, it was necessary to make communication with others impossible. The mammals and the most highly-endowed birds display pleasure at the thought of amuse ment, as hunting-dogs when they see the taken down, or spirited horses when getting nessed. They are susceptible of ennui, and we know that ennui is sometimes fatal, even @ beasts. The conditions of life are limited to merely material wants only among the lower specieh Mammals and birds delight in amusing them selves; often a kitten will not play alone and ip vites you by its manner to play with it. have fearful fits of rage, and the passion of n venge can excive them ina high degree; iter tends even to insects, such as wasps and bees him for whole hours. All creatures show faa ness; the bird whose task it is to buildan gets rid of the work if it finds an old nest W2 it can put in order easily, Some persons 28% had the idea of taking advantage of this lszines to retain small birds in places where they ba become rare, or even to tempt them back; a cial nests were put into trees and t with complete success. Most of the solitary? ne have their laziness too. Some species of @ which pursue an assailant and strive to | group, which are called anthidies, gave a0 naturalist an example of laziness that be noted, such intelligence does it prove #™ > - la general controy ser’s Ma what ar an appe that the ject—th: and his | own opi to notice a fair an Dr. ( Which he the | before th education

Page 439

AS " bo aS OO ON a ee d > B ‘ ¢ o 1 3, » : - 4 4 DR. CARPENTER strange insects. The anthidies usually furnish their nests with a sort of flannel which they make slowly out of the flock gathered from the fruit of the figwort, or from mullein; some insects of this kind, finding some flannel clothes drying in a field, went to cut fragments from them. Their work was done at ounce. Man, who is superior to the whole of creation in his general physical aptitudes, his intellectual powers, and the possession of speech, is subject in this world to the same laws as other creatures. It has often been complacently said that he alone makes progress, and a famous physiologist, who has given much attention to the functions of the brain, has expressed the thought in this senten- tious way: “ The animal never makes progress as a species; man only, as a species, makes prog- ress.” This seems to be equivalent to saying that men of to-day have a natural superiority over those of the age of Moses or the times of Pericles; in reality, this is confounding the hu- ON SPIRITUALISM. 435 man race with society, which does grow perfect and elevated by the labor of its members. In conclusion, that grand character of unity which results from the multitude of facts of the physical order, results alike from the multitude of facts in the intellectual order that are best ob- served and least open to discussion. Precisely as aptitudes and functions diminish in impor- tance when their instruments become simple, and vanish when the organs cease to exist, so the faculties of the intellectual order decrease as the organism is lowered. Nowhere do the phenome- na of life differ essentially ; here displaying them- selves with power, there in a feeble way, they disappear when the instruments for their produc- tion no longer exist. In animated beings the connection between all phenomena is extremely close, and by itself the recognition of this truth, which is a new advance won from study and rea- son, opens a new path for scientific investigation, and promises new illumination to the human mind, DR. CARPENTER ON SPIRITUALISM." By ALFRED RUSSELL WALLACE. HE two lectures which Dr. Carpenter gave last year at the London Institution were generally reported by the press and led to some controversy. They were then published in Fra- sr’s Magazine, and they are now republished with what are considered to be pieces justificatives in an appendix. We may therefore fairly assume that the author has here said his best on the sub- ject—that he has carefully considered his facts and his arguments—and that he can give, in his own opinion at least, good reasons for omitting to notice certain matters which seem essential to 4 fair and impartial review of the whole question. Dr. Carpenter enjoys the great advantage, which he well knows how to profit by, of being om the popular side, and of having been long before the public as an expounder of popular and tducational science. Everything he writes is widely read; and his reiterated assurances that nobody's opinion and nobody’s evidence on this Particular subject is of the least value unless they *“Mesmerism, Spiritualism, ete., historically and scien- tifeally considered. Being Two Lectures delivered at tte London Institution, with Preface and Appendix.” By B. Carpenter, C. B., M. D., F.R.8., etc., ete. NewYork: D. Appleton & Co. 1877. have had a certain special early training (of which, it is pretty generally understood, Dr. Carpenter is one of the few living representatives) have con- vinced many people that what he tells them must be true, and should, therefore, settle the whole matter. Fe has another advantage in the im- mense extent and complexity of the subject and the widely scattered and controversial nature of its literature. By ranging over this wide field and picking here and there a fact to support his views and a statement to damage his opponents, Dr. Carpenter has rendered it almost impossible to answer him on every point, without an amount of detail and research that would be repulsive to ordinary readers. It is necessary, therefore, to confine ourselves to the more important questions, where the facts are tolerably accessible and the matter can be brought to a definite issue ; though, if space permitted, there is hardly a page of the book in which we should not find expressions calling for strong animadversion, as, for example, the unfounded and totally false general assertion at page 6, that “ Believers in spiritualism make it a reproach against men of science that they entertain a prepossession in favor of the ascer- tained and universally admitted laws of Nature.”

Page 440

’ 436 Vague general assertions of this kind, without a | limbs, which he declared ought to have occurred particle of proof offered or which can be offered, | during the operations, did not occur. The medi, are alone sufficient to destroy the judicial or scien- tific claims of the work; but we have no intention of wasting space in further comment upon them. Dr. Carpenter lays especial stress on his char- acter of historian and man of science in relation to this inquiry. He parades this assumption in his title-page and at the very commencement of his preface. He claims, therefore, to review the case as a judge, giving full weight to the evidence on both sides, and pronouncing an impartial and well-considered judgment. He may, indeed, be- lieve that he has thus acted—for dominant ideas are very powerful—but any one, tolerably ac- quainted with the literature and history of these subjects for the last thirty years, will most as- suredly look upon this book as the work of an advocate rather than of a judge. In place of the impartial summary of the historian he will find the one-sided narrative of a partisan; and, instead of the careful weighing of fact and exper- iment characteristic of the man of science, he will find loose and inaccurate statements, and nega- tive results set up as conclusive against positive evidence. We will now proceed to demonstrate the truth of this grave accusation, and shall in every case refer to the authorities by means of which our statements can be tested. The first example of Dr. Carpenter’s “ histori- cal” mode of treating his subject which we shall adduce, is his account (pp. 13-15) of the rise of mesmerism in this country, owing to the suc- cessful performance of many surgical operations without pain during the mesmeric trance. Dr. Carpenter writes of this as not only an admitted fact, but (so far as any word in his pages shows) ! as a fact which was admitted from the first, and | fore strangers and antagonists prove anything? which never went through that ordeal of denial, | Dr Carpenter also occupies his readers’ atten | tion with accounts of hearsay stories which have misrepresentation, and abuse by medical men and physiologists, that other phenomena are still un- dergoing from a similar class of men. Yet Dr. Carpenter was in the thick of the fight and must know all about it. He must know that the great- est surgical and physiological authorities of that day—Sir Benjamin Brodie and Dr. Marshall Hall —opposed it with all the weight of their influ- ence, accused the patients of imposture, or as- serted that they might be “ naturally insensible to pain,” and spoke of the experiments of Dr. Elliotson and others as “ trumpery,” and as “ pol- luting the temple of science.” He must know, too, that Dr. Marshall Hall professed to demon- strate “ physiologically ” that the patients were impostors, because certain reflex actions of the THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. cal periodicals of the day were full of this, andg good summary may be found in Dr. Elliotgon’s “Surgical Operations without Pain,” ete., Lon don, 1848. Dr. Carpenter tells us how his fri Dr. Noble and Sir John Forbes, in 1845 accepted } and wrote in favor of the reality of the facts; but it was hardly “ historical” to tell us thig as the whole truth when, for several years previous ly, the most violent controversy, abuse, and even persecution, had raged on this very matter, Great physiological authorities were egregiously in the wrong then, and the natural inference to those who know the facts is, that other physiological authorities, who now deny equally well-attested facts, may be no more infallible than their prede cessors. Dr. Carpenter persistently denies that thereis any adequate evidence of the personal influence of the mesmerizer on the patient independentof the patient’s knowledge and expectation, and he believes himself to be very strong in the cases he adduces, in which this power has been tested and failed. But he quite ignores the fact that all who have ever investigated the higher phases of mes merism—such as influence at a distance, com munity of sensation, transference of the senses, or true clairvoyance—agree in maintaining that these phenomena are very uncertain, depending greatly on the state of body and mind of the patient, who is exceedingly susceptible to mental impressions, the presence of strangers, fatigue, or any unusual conditions. Failures continually occur, even when the mesmerizer and patient are, alone or when only intimate friends are present} how, then, can the negative fact of a failure be - turned out exaggerated or incorrect, and lays great stress on the “ disposition to 0 sources of fallacy” and to be “imposed om by cunning cheats,” which this shows. This may be admitted ; but it evidently has no bearing@ well authenticated and carefully observed facts, perfectly known to every student of the subject. Our author maintains, however, that such fads do not exist, and that “the evidence for these higher marvels has invariably broken dow submitted to the searching tests of perts.” Here the question arises, “trained experts?” Dr, Carpenter would mail tain that only skeptical medical men and pro fessed conjurers deserve that epithet, however ‘ ect hg ignot quisii tuatit we, 0 to in , orye acqué men with 1 quiry have the ¢: own h distan expec! ofay large « tion is unjust failure obviou except has re Lewis’: withou greates ete., p. stateme sel f-asse a found his pow I gain and in | after th referred faith” j of a fa This ms Carpent evade it, lieve tha assertion adequate tions as t hot wish the evid fitly dese at the Hi sleep wh. M. Husso

Page 441

DP Ae eee a oe SS a=w FP BamneTrTrTelUcemerelUc rl er rl!” DR. CARPENTER ON SPIRITUALISM. 437 tet should not come till half an hour later. He anticipated that the “‘ expectation” would be tuating phenomena of the nervous system. But | still stronger the second time than at first, and we, on the contrary, would only give that name | that the patient would be mesmerized. But the to inquirers who have experimented for months | result was quite the reverse. Notwithstanding ignorant they may be of all the conditions re- quisite for the study of these delicate and fluc- , or years on this very subject, and are thoroughly | every minute detail was repeated as on the pre- acquainted with all its difficulties. When such | vious day when the operator was in the next men are also physiologists, it is hardly consistent | room, the patient showed no signs whatever of RG PSP SRP SPKFSe Skeet were with the historical and scientific method of in- quiry to pass their evidence by in silence. I have already called Dr. Carpenter's attention to the case of the lady residing in Prof. Gregory’s own house, who was mesmerized at several streets’ distance by Mr. Lewis, without her knowledge or expectation. This is a piece of direct evidence of a very satisfactory kind, and outweighs a very large quantity of negative evidence; but no men- tion is made of it except the following utterly unjustifiable remark: ‘‘ His (Mr. Lewis’s) utter failure under the scrutiny of skeptical inquirers, obviously discredits all his previous statements, except to such as (like Mr. A. R. Wallace, who has recently expressed his full faith in Mr. Lewis's self-asserted powers) are ready to accept without question the slenderest evidence of the greatest marvels ” (‘‘ Mesmerism, Spiritualism,” ete, p. 24). Now, will it be believed that this statement, that I “ place full faith in Mr. Lewis’s wlf-asserted powers,” has not even the shadow of afoundation? I know nothing of Mr. Lewis or of his powers, self-asserted or otherwise, but what I gain from Prof. Gregory’s account of them; and in my letter to the Daily News, immediately after the delivery of Dr. Carpenter’s lectures, I referred to this account. I certainly have “ full fiith” in Prof. Gregory’s very careful narrative of a fact entirely within his own knowledge. This may be “the slenderest evidence” to Dr. Carpenter ; but, slender or not, he chooses to | evade it, and endeavors to make the public be- lieve that I, and others, accept the unsupported assertions of an unknown man. It is impossible adequately to characterize such reckless accusa- | tions as this without using language which I should Rot wish to use. Let us pass on, therefore, to the evidence which Dr. Carpenter declares to be fily described as “the slenderest.” M. Dupotet, atthe Hotel de Dieu, in Paris, put a patient to sleep when behind a partition, in the presence of M Husson and M. Recamier, the latter a com- plete skeptic. M. Recamier expressed a doubt that the circumstances might produce expecta- ton fn the patient, and himself proposed an ex- sleep, either natural or somnambulic (Teste’s | “ Animal Magnetism,” Spillan’s translation, p. 159). The commission appointed by the Acadé- | mie Royale de Médecine in 1826 sat for five years, | and investigated the whole subject of animal | magnetism. It was wholly composed of medical | men, and in their elaborate report, after giving | numerous cases, the following is one of their | conclusions : | “14, We are satisfied that it (magnetic sleep) | has been excited under circumstances where those | magnetized could not see and were entirely ig- | norant of the means employed to occasion it.” These were surely “ trained experts ;” yet they declare themselves sat'sfied of that, the evi- | dence for which, Dr. Carpenter says, has always broken down when tested. Baron Reichenbach’s researches are next dis- cussed, and are coolly dismissed with the remark , that “it at once became apparent to experienced | physicians that the whole phenomena were sub- jective, and that ‘sensitives’ like Von Reichen- bach’s can feel, see, or smell anything they were led to believe they would feel, see, or smell.” His evidence for this is, that Mr. Braid could make | his subjects do so, and that Dr. Carpenter had i seen him do it. One of them, for instance—an intellectual and able Manchester gentleman— “ could be brought to see flames issuing from the | poles of a magnet of any form or color that Mr. | Braid chose to name.” All this belongs to the | mere rudiments of mesmerism, and is known to | every operator. Two things, however, are essen- | tial: the patient or sensitive must be, or have | been, mesmerized, or electro-biologize# as it is ; commonly called, and the suggestion must be | actually made. Given these two conditions, and | no doubt twenty persons may be made to declare | that they see green flames issuing from the opera- | tor’s mouth ; but no single case has been adduced of persons in ordinary health, not subject to any operation of mesmerism, etc., being all caused to see this or any other thing in agreement, by being merely brought into a dark room and asked to describe accurately what they saw. Yet this is periment the next day, in which all the same con- | what Von Reichenbach did, and much ‘more. ditions should be observed, except that M. Dupo- | For, in order to confirm the evidence of the

Page 442

¢ 438 “ sensitives” first experimented on, he invited a large number of his friends and other persons in Vienna to come to his dark room, and the result was that about sixty persons, of various ages and conditions, saw and described exactly the same phenomena. Among these were a number of literary, official, and scientific men and their families, persons of a status fully equal to that of Dr. Carpenter and the Fellows of the Royal Society—such as Dr. Nied, a physician; Prof. Endlicher, Director of the Imperial Botanic Gar- den; Chevalier Hubert von Rainer, barrister; Mr. Karl Schuh, physicist; Dr. Ragsky, Professor of Chemistry; Mr. Franz Kollar and Dr. Diesing, Curators in the Imperial Natural History Museum, and many others. There was also an artist, Mr. Gustav Anschiitz, who could see the flames, and drew them in their various forms and combina- tions. Does Dr. Carpenter really ask his readers to believe that his explanation applies to these gentlemen ?—that they all quietly submitted to be told what they were to see, submissively said they saw it, and allowed the fact to be published at the time, without a word of protest on their part from that day to this? But a little exami- nation of the reports of their evidence shows that they did not follow each other like a flock of sheep, but that each had an individuality of per- ceptive power, some seeing one kind of flame better than another; while the variety of combi- nations of magnets submitted to them rendered anything like suggestion as to what they were to see quite impossible, unless it were a deliberate and willful imposture on the part of Baron von Reichenbach. But again, Dr. Carpenter objects to the want of tests, and especially his pet test of using an electro-magnet, and not letting the patients know whether the electric circuit which “makes” and “unmakes” the magnet was complete or broken. How far this test, had it been applied, would have satisfied the objector, may be imagined from his entirely fknoring all the tests, many of them at least as good, which were actually applied. The following are a few of these: Test 1. Von Rei- chenbach arranged with a friend to stand in another room with a stone wall between him and the patient’s bed, holding a powerful magnet, the armature of which was to be closed or opened at a given signal. The patient detected, on every occasion, whether the magnet was opened or closed. Test 2. M. Baumgartner, a professor of physics, after seeing the effects of magnets on patients, took from his pocket what he said was one of his most powerful magnets, to try its THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. effects. The patient, to Von Reichenbach's sald ishment, declared she found this magnet, on the contrary, very weak, and its action on her hardly — more perceptible than a piece of iron. M. Baum gartner then explained that this magnet, though originally very powerful, had been as completely as possible deprived of its magnetism, and that he had brought it as a test. Here were suggestion and expectation in full force, yet they did not inthe least affect the patient. (For these two tests, ae “Ashburner’s Translation of Reichenbach,” pp, 39,40.) Test 3. A large crystal (placed in a new position before each patient was brought into thé dark room) was always at once detected by means of its light, yellower and redder than that” from magnets (/oc. cit., p. 86). Test 4. A patient confined in a darkened passage held a wire which communicated with a room in which experiments were made on plates connected with this wire As these plates were exposed to sunlight or shade, the patient deseribed corresponding changes in the luminous appearances of ‘the end of the wire (loc. cit., p. 147). Test 5. The light from magnets, etc., was thrown on a sereei by a lens, so that the image could be instantly and noiselessly changed in size and position # pleasure. Twelve patients, eight of them healthy and new to the inquiry, saw the image, and @& scribed its alterations of size and position asthe lens or screen was shifted in the dark (loc, eit; p. 585). Dr. Carpenter’s only reply to all this is, that “Baron Reichenbach’s researches upom ‘Odyle’ were discredited a quarter of a century ago, alike by the united voice of scientific opiniaa in his own country, and by that of the mediedl profession here.” Even if this were the fact, it would bave nothing to do with the matter, whieh is one of experiment and evidence, not of the be- lief or disbelief of certain prejudiced persons, since to discredit is not to disprove. The J operations in mesmeric sleep were “ discredited” by the highest medical authorities in this country, and yet they were true. But Dr. Elliotson, Dr. Ashburner, and others, accepted Reichenbact’s discoveries; and some of the Vienna even, after seeing the experiments with § “whose honor, truthfulness, and they could vouch for,” also accepted ten proved. ee The fact of the luminosity of mag also independently established by Dr. Cha who, in his “Physiologie, Médecine, et BO® physique du Magnétisme,” published in B the very same year in which the account 0 Reichenbach’s observations first app

Page 443

Pe ee en, ee Se ee ae ee: ee See ee ee ee eA ee ee et Oe ee eI Tre, Ap AT yee A “Having placed before the somnambulists four small bars of iron, one of which was magnetized by the loadstone, they could always distinguish this one from the others, from its two ends being enveloped in a brilliant vapor. The light was more brilliant at one end (the north pole) than at the other. I could never deceive them; they al- ways recognized the nature of the poles, although when in their normal state they were in complete ignorance of the subject.” Surely here is a wonderful confirmation. One observer in France and another in Germany make the same observa- tion about the same time, and quite indepen- dently; and even the detail of the north pole being the more brilliant agrees with the state- ment of Reichenbach’s sensitives (“‘ Ashburner’s Trans.,” p. 20). Qur readers can now judge how far the his- toric and scientific method has been followed in Dr. Carpenter's treatment of the researches of Von Reichenbach, not one of the essential facts here stated (and there are hundreds like them) being so much as alluded to, while “suggestion,” “expectation,” and “imposture,” are offered as fully explaining everything. We cannot devote much time to the less important branches of the subject, but it is necessary to show that in every case Dr, Carpenter misstates facts, and sets nega- tive above positive evidence. Thus, as to the magnenometer ! and odometer of Mr. Rutter and Dr. Mayo, all the effects are imputed to expecta- tion and unconscious muscular action, and we have this positive statement: “It was found that the constancy of the vibrations depended entirely upon the operator’s watching their direction, and, further, that when such a change was made without the operator's knowledge in the conditions of the experiment, as ough, theoretically, to alter the direction of the oscillations, no such alteration took place.” Yet Mr. Rutter clearly states: 1. That the instrument can be affected through the hand of a third person with exactly the same re- sult (Rutter’s “ Human Electricity,” App., p. 54). 2, That the instrument is affected by a crystal on detached stand brought close to the instrument, but without contact (Joc. cit. p. 151). 3. That many persons, however “ expectant” and anxious % sueceed, have no power to move the instru- ment, 4. That substances unknown to the opera- ‘or, and even when held by a third party, caused ‘The magnenometer is a delicate pendulum, which, When its support is touched by certain persons, vibrates it & definite direction, the direction changing on the Motion suddenly stopping when different substances are at the same time by the operator. DR. CARPENTER ON SPIRITUALISM. 439 correct indications, and that an attempt to de- ceive by using a substance under a wrong name was detected by the movements of the instrument (loc. cit., Appendix, p. lvi.). Here, then, Mr. Rut- ter’s positive testimony is altogether ignored, while the negative results of another person are set forth as conclusive. Next we have the evi- dence for the divining-rod similarly treated. Dr. Mayo is quoted as supporting the view that the rod moved in accordance with the “expectations” of the operator, but on the preceding page of Dr. Mayo’s work other cases are given in which there was no expectation; and the fact that Dr. Mayo was well aware of this source of error, and was a physiologist and physician of high rank, entitles his opinion as to the reality of the action in other cases to great weight. Again, we have the testimony of Dr. Hutton, who saw the Hon. Lady Milbauke use the divining-rod on Woolwich Common, and who declares that it turned where he knew there was water, and that in other places where he believed there was none it did not turn; that the lady’s hands were closely watched, and that no motion of the fingers or hands could be detected, yet the rod turned so strongly and persistently that it became broken. No other person present could voluntarily or in- voluntarily cause the rod to turn in a similar way (Hutton’s “ Mathematica! Recreations,” ed. 1840, p. 711). The evidence on this’ subject is most voluminous, but we have adduced sufficient to show that Dr. Carpenter’s supposed demonstra- tion does not account for all the facts. We now come to the very interesting and im- portant subject of clairvoyance, which Dr. Car- penter introduces with a great deal of irrelevant matter calculated to prejudge the question. Thus, he tells his readers that “there are at the present time numbers of educated men and women who have so completely surrendered their ‘common sense’ to a dominant prepossession as to main- tain that any such monstrous fiction (as of a per- son being carried through the air in an hour from Edinburgh to London) ought to be believed, even upon the evidence of a single witness, if that witness be one upon whose testimony we should rely in the ordinary affairs of life!” He offers no proof of this statement, and we venture to say he can offer none, and it is only another ex- ample of that complete misrepresentation of the opinions of his opponents with which this book abounds. At page 71, however, we enter upon the subject itself, and at once encounter one of those curious examples of ignorance (or suppres- sion of evidence) for which Dr. Carpenter is so

Page 444

: 440 remarkable in his treatment of this subject. _We have been already told (p. 11) of the French Scientific Commission which about a hundred years ago investigated the pretensions of Mes- mer, and decided, as might have been anticipated, against him. Now we have the statement that “it was by the French Academy of Medicine, in which the mesmeric state had been previously discussed with reference to the performance of surgical operations, that this new and more ex- traordinary claim (clairvoyance) was first carefully sifted, in consequence of the offer made in 1837 by M. Burdin of a prize of 3,000 franes to any one who should be found capable of reading through opaque substances.” The result was negative. No clairvoyant succeeded under the conditions im- posed. The reader unaccustomed to Dr. Car- THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. which a thorough investigation has been made into those ‘higher phenomena’ of mesm the supposed proof has completely failed.” cannot be said that investigation by nine medi. cal men, carried on for five years with every means of observation and experiment, and elab. orately reported on, was not “ thorough ;” whence it follows that Dr. Carpenter must be ignorantof it, and our readers can draw their own inferenge as to the value of his opinion, and the dependenee to be placed on his scientific and historical treat | ment of this subject. | More than twenty-five pages of the book are | occupied with more or less detailed accounts of | the failures and alleged exposures of clairvoy. ants, while not a single case is given of a clair voyant having stood the test of rigid examina- penter’s historical method would naturally sup- | tion by a committee, or by medical or other ex pose this statement to be correct, and that clair- perts, and the implication is that none such are voyance was first carefully sifted in France after | to be found. But every inquirer knows that 1837, though he might well doubt if offering a | clairvoyance is a most delicate and uncertain prize for reading under rigid conditions was an | phenomenon, never to be certainly calculated-on, adequate means of sifting a faculty so eminently ‘and this is repeatedly stated in the works of Lea, variable, uncertain, and delicate, as clairvoyance | Gregory, Teste, Deleuze, and others. How, then, is admitted to be. What, then, will be his aston- | can any number of individual failures affect the ishment to find that this same “ Académie Royale | question of the reality of the comparatively rare de Médecine” had appointed a commisson of | sucecsses. As well deny that any rifleman ever eleven members in 1826, who inquired into the “hit the bull’s-eye at one thousand yards, because whole subject of mesmerism for five years, and in 1831 reported in full, and in favor of the reality of almost all the alleged phenomena, ineluding clairvoyance. Of the eleven members, nine at- tended the meetings and experiments, and all nine signed the report, which was therefore unanimous. This report, being full and elabo- rate, and the result of personal examination and experiment by medical men—the very “ trained and skeptical experts”” who are maintained by Dr. Carpenter to be the only adequate judges— is wholly ignored by him. In this report we find among the conclusions: “24. We have seen two somnambulists distinguish, with their eyes shut, objects placed before them: name cards, read books, writing, etc. This phenomenon took place even when the opening of the eyelids was accurately closed by means of the fingers.” ! Is it not strange that the “historian” of mesmer- ism, etc., should be totally ignorant of the ex- istence of this report, which is referred to in almost every work on the subject? Yet he must be thus ignorant, or he could never say, as he does in the very same page quoted above (p. 71), “that, in every instance (so far as I am aware) in 1“ Archives Générales de Médecine,” vol. xx.; also in Lee's “ Animal Magnetism,” pp. 13-29. | none can be sure of hitting it always, and ata moment’s notice. Several pages are devoted to | the failure of Alexis and Adolphe Didier under test-conditions in England, ending with the sneer | ing remark, “ Nothing, so far as I am aware, bas | ever been since heard of this par nobile fratram”™ | Would it (to use an established formula) surprise | Dr. Carpenter to hear that these gentlemenT® | mained in England a considerable time after the | date he alludes to, that they have ever since Te tained their power and reputation, and that both | still successfully practise medical clairvoyanee, | the one in London and the other in Paris? To | balance the few cases of failure by Alexis, Dr | Lee has given his personal observations of tea times as many successes, some of them of ithe 255-277). We can only find room here for te independent and complete tests. The firstis given by Sergeant Cox, as witnessed by himself, A party of experts was planned to test Aleti® A word was written by a friend in a distant town and enclosed in an envelope, without any of the party knowing what the word was. This envelope was inclosed successively in six others of thie handed to Alexis, who placed it on his most startling kind (“ Animal Magnetism,” PP brown paper, each sealed. This packet, #a and tent (“ V this false But this calle he n mon: conji pent He v knew the } did them on th was t and skill then Alexi wher prick: which on, | his so him, | declar adecl addin, impos tricks letters time ( peare¢ “ Anin On of by “Tack Plete ig ago as tation clairyo and sk: (Whose article Medica “boun

Page 445

we FT we eS SF OVrlUGMlUGlCUFU Or US.U YU O!.lFTEE e.UmmS.UUUY aa FaereseinrernmecreesaerFrs or wrremUmLrTThUOM | nn oy ae DR. CARPENTER and in three minutes and a half wrote the con- tents correctly, imitating the very handwriting. (“What am 1?” vol. ii., p. 167.) Now, unless this statement by Sergeant Cox is absolutely false, a thousand failures cannot outweigh it. But we liave, if possible, better evidence than this; and Dr. Carpenter knows it, because I called his attention to it in the Daily News. Yet he makes no allusion to it. I refer to the testi- mony of Robert Houdin, the greatest of modern conjurers, whose exploits are quoted by Dr. Car- penter, when they serve his purpose (pp. 76, iii). He was an absolute master of card-tricks, and knew all their possibilities. He was asked by the Marquis de Mirville to visit Alexis, which he did twice. them himself, but Alexis named them as they lay on the table, and even named the trump before it was turned up. This was repeated several times, and Houdin declared that neither chance nor skill could produce such wonderful results. He then took a book from his pocket and asked Alexis to read something eight pages beyond where it was opened, at a specified level. Alexis pricked the place with a pin, and read four words, which were found at the place pricked nine pages on, He then told Houdin numerous details as to his son, in some of which Houdin tried to deceive him, but in vain; and when it was over Houdin declared it “ stupefying,” and the next day signed adeclaration that tne facts reported were correct, adding, “ The more I reflect upon them, the more impossible do I find it to class them among the tricks which are the object of my art.” The two letters of Robert Houdin were published at the time (May, 1847) in Le Siecle, and have since ap- peared in many works, among others in Dr. Lee’s “Animal Magnetism ” (pp. 163 and 231). One of the supposed exposures made much of by Dr. Carpenter is that of Dr. Hewes’s “Jack,” which is suggestive as showing the com- plete ignorance of many experimenters thirty years ag0 as to the essential conditions of the manifes- tation of so delicate and abnormal a faculty as cirvovance—ignorance shared in by believers and skeptics alike. According to Dr. Carpenter (Whose account he informs me is taken from an urticle by Dr. Noble in the British and Foreign Medical Review of April, 1845), Jack’s eyes were “bound down by surgeons with strips of ad- hesive plaster, over which were folds of leather, again kept in place by other plasters.” Jack then read off, without the least hesitation, every- thing that was presented to him. But a young He took his own new cards, dealt | ester surgeon had his eyes done up in the ON SPIRITUALISM. 441 same manner, and, by working the muscles of his Jace till he had loosened the plasters, was enabled to read by looking upward. The conclusion was immediately jumped at that this was the way Jack did it, although no working of the muscles of the face had been observed, and no looking upward described. Instead, however, of repeat- ing the experiment under the same conditions, but more watchfully, it was proposed that the entire eyes should be covered up with a thick coat- ing of shoemakers’ wax! The boy objected and resisted, und it was put on by force; and then, the clairvoyant powers being annihilated, as might have been anticipated, there was great glorification among the skeptics ; and Dr. Carpen- ter indulges himself in a joke, telling us that Jack now “ plainly saw, even with his eyes shut, that his little game was up.”’ To any one who considers this case, even as related by Dr. Car- penter, it will be evident that the boy was a gepuine clairvoyant. Adhesive plaster, properly applied by a medical man on a passive subject, is not to be loosened by imperceptible working of the muscles; and it is too great a demand upon our credulity to ask us to believe that this oc- curred undetected by the acute medical skeptics watching the whole procedure. We have, how- ever, fortunately, another case to refer to, in which this very test was carried out to its proper conclusion by examining the state of the plaster after the clairvoyance, when the alleged looseness could be instantly detected. A clairvoyant boy at Plymouth was submitted to the examination of a skeptical committee, who appear to have done their work very thoroughly. First his eyes were examined, and it was found that the balls were so turned up that, even were the eyelids a little apart, ordinary vision was impossible.! Then he was closely watched, and, while the eye- lids were seen to be perfectly closed, he read easily. Then adhesive plaster was applied, care- fully warmed, in three layers, and it was watched to see that the adhesion was perfect all round the edges. Again the boy read what was pre- sented to him, sometimes easily, sometimes with difficulty. At the end of the experiments the plaster was taken off strip by strip by the com- mittee, and it was found to be perfectly secure, and the eyelids so completely glued together that it was a work of some difficulty to get them open again. This case is recorded, with the names of the committee, in the “ Zoist,” vol. iv., pp. 84-88 ; 1 This is a constant feature of the true mesmeric trance, but “Jack's” accusers seem to have known nothing about it.

Page 446

THE POPULAR SCIENCE 442 and I call the reader’s attention to the complete- ness of the test here, and its demonstration of the reality of clairvoyance, as compared with the loose experiment and hasty jumping-to-a-conclu- sion in the case which Dr. Carpenter thinks alone worthy of record. Dr. Carpenter next comes to the work of Prof. Gregory (“ Letters on Animal Magnetism”), and devotes several pages to assertions as to the professor’s “ credulity,” the “reprehensible fa- cility’ with which he accepted Major Buckley’s statements, the “ entire absence of detail” as to “ precautions against tricks,” and his utter fail- | ure to find a clairvoyant to obtain Sir James Simpson’s bank-note. “ And yet,” he says, re- ferring especially to myself, “there are even now men of high scientific distinction who ad- duce Prof. Gregory’s testimony on this subject as unimpeachable!” Readers who have accom- panied me so far, will at least hesitate to accept Dr. Carpenter’s dictum on this point, till they have heard what can be said on the other side. To give full details would occupy far too much space; I must, therefore, refer my readers to Prof. Gregory’s book for some cases, and give ‘ merely a brief outline of others. At page 394 (Case 29) is given in detail a most remarkable test-case, in which Prof. Gregory sent some hand- writing from Edinburgh to Dr. Haddock’s clair- voyant at Bolton, who gave in return a minute description of the writer, her appearance, dress, house, illness, medical treatment, etc. At page 401 another test of the same kind is described. At page 403 a number of such cases are summarized, and one very completely given in detail. At page 423 is an account of a clairvoyant boy at the house of Dr. Schmitz, rector of the High School at Edinburgh. This boy described Prof. Greg- ory’s house accurately, and the persons at that time in the dining-room (afterward ascertained to be correct). As a further test, Dr. Schmitz was asked to go into another room with his son and do anything he liked. The boy then de- scribed their motions, their jumping about, the son going out and coming in again, and the doc- tor beating his son with a roll of paper. When Dr. Schmitz returned, Prof. Gregory repeated all the boy had said, which the doctor, much as- tonished, declared to be correct in every particu- lar. At page 445 (Case 42) is an account of another clairvoyant, a mechanic, who described Prof. Gregory’s house in detail, and saw a lady reading a new book. On returning home the professor found that Mrs. Gregory had, at the MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. she hardly ever was.accustomed to use, and wag reading a new book which had been sent to her just before, but of which the professor knew nothing. At page 405 is a most remarkable cage of the recovery of a stolen watch, and detection of the thief in London by Dr. Haddock’s clair. voyant at Bolton. The letters all passed through | Sir Walter C. Trevelyan, who showed them to Prof. Gregory. At page 407 are the particulars of the extraordinary discovery of the locality of travelers by means of their handwriting only, sent from the Royal Geographical Society to Sir C. Trevelyan in Edinburgh, and by him to Bok | ton, he himself not knowing either the names of the travelers, or where they were. Many mor eases might be referred to, but these are sufficient to show that there is not that “ total absence of detail,” and of “ precautions,” in Prof. Gregory's experiments, which is Dr. Carpenter’s reason for entirely ignoring them. In addition to this we have the account of Dr. J. Haddock, a physician practising at Bolton, of the girl Emma, who for nearly two years was under his care, and resid- | ing in his house. Many of Prof. Gregory's ex | periments, and those of Sir Walter Trevelyan, ' were made through this girl, and a full account tire, been sitting in that particular chair, whigh. q | of her wonderful clairvoyant powers is given by _ Dr. Haddock in the appendix to his “ Somnolysm and Psycheism.” She could not read, and did not even know her letters. The discovery of the | stolen cash-box and identification of the entirely unsuspected thief are given in full by Dr, Had | dock, and are summarized in my “ Miracles and Modern Science,” page 64. Again, Dr. Herbert Mayo gives unexceptionable personal testimony to clairvoyance at pages 167, 172, and 178, of his book on “ Popular Superstitions.” Dr. Carpenter is very severe on Prof. Gregory for his belief in Major Buckley’s clairvoyants reading mottoes in nuts, ete., but Major Buckley | was a man of fortune and good position, whe | exercised his remarkable powers as a magnetizer | for the interest of it, and there is not the slight est grounds for suggesting his untrustworthines We have beside the confirmatory testimony of other persons, among them of Dr. Ashburmet, | who frequently took nuts purchased by himself, and had them correctly read by the clairvoyants “before they were opened. (“ Ashburner’ Phi. losophy of Animal Magnetism,” p. 304) Carpenter also doubts Prof. Gregory’s common — sitting in a particular chair in the drawing-room | sense in believing that a sealed letter had a We | read unopened by a clairvoyant when it mig sa w “have been opened and resealed ; but he on es ; (as ¢ bett my ' from her i ‘it is repe: ful sever looki Com cine : on the 1 (Quot 22.) could was 1 Frenc p. 22/ of Me somet aged, eyes a nothin caused of the ders Prof. ( it is t the pu public! money. magnet knowl

Page 447

Ee Ss. = ‘say that the envelopes were expressly arranged to | | cautions taken precluded any other than lucid ' | offered. Dr, Carpenter was very irate because I prevent their being opened without detection, and that the professor adds, “I have in my possession one of the envelopes thus read, which has since been opened, and Iam convinced that the pre- vision.””! Still more important, perhaps, is the testimony of many eminent physicians to the existence of these remarkable powers. Dr. Rostan, Parisian Professor of Medicine, in his article ‘“ Magné- tisme,” in the “ Dictionnaire de Médecine,” says | (as quoted by Dr. Lee): “There are few things | DR. CARPENTER ON SPIRITUALISM. 443 particular test impairing or destroying the lucid- ity. This is the reason why gentlemen and phy- sicians like Prof. Gregory, Major Buckley, and Dr. Haddock, who have had the command of clairvoyants, have not attempted to gain the bank-notes which have at various times been suggested at Glasgow—not as he seems to have understood that there was no note in Sir James Simpson’s envelope—but that the clairvoyants themselves, if they heard of it, might very well be excused if they thought it was a trick to im- pose upon them. I find now that in the other eS a ee ae ae ee ee Sle - better demonstrated than clairvoyance. I placed | case quoted by Dr. Carpenter—the note for one my watch at a distance of three or four inches : hundred pounds publicly stated to have been in- from the occiput of the somnambulist, and asked | closed by Sir Philip Crampton in a letter, and her if she saw anything. ‘Certainly,’ she replied, placed in a bank in Dublin, to become the prop- ‘itis a watch ; ten minutes to eight.’ M. Ferrus | erty of any clairvoyant who should read the whole repeated the experiment with the same success- | of it—this was actually the case. After six ful result. He turned the hands of his watch | months the letter was opened, and the manager several times, and we presented it to her without | of the bank certified that it contained no note at looking at it ; she was not once mistaken.” The | all, but a blank check! The correspondence on Commissioners of the Royal Académie de Méde- | the subject is published in the “ Zoist,” vol. x., cine applied the excellent test of holding a finger | p. 35. Dr. Carpenter’s indignation was therefore o each eyelid, when the clairvoyant still read | misplaced ; for, as a medical knight in Ireland the title of a book, and distinguished cards. did actually play such a trick, the mere suppo- (Quoted in Dr. Lee’s “ Animal Magnetism,” p. | sition, on my part, that ignorant clairvoyants 22.) Dr. Esdaile had a patient at Calcutta who, might think that a medical knight in Scotland could hear and see through the stomach. This | was capable of doing the same, was not a very was tested by himself with a watch, as in the | outrageous one. French case quoted above. (“ Zoist,” vol. viii., We now come to the last part of Dr. Carpen- p. 220.) Dr. Teste’s account of the clairvoyance | ter’s lecture—table-turning and spiritualism—and of Madame Hortense is very suggestive. She | here there is hardly any attempt to deal with the sometimes read with ease when completely band- | evidence. Instead of this we have irrelevant aged, and when a paper was held between her | matters put prominently forward, backed up by eyes and the object ; at other times she could see | sneers against believers, and false or unproved nothing, and the smallest fatigue or excitement | accusations against mediums. To begin with, caused this difference. This excessive delicacy | the old amusement of table-turning of fifteen or of the conditions for successful clairvoyance ren- | twenty years ago, with Faraday’s proof that it ders all public exhibitions unsatisfactory ; and | was often caused by unconscious muscular ac- Prof. Gregory “ protests against the notion that | tion, is again brought to the front. Table-tilting it is to be judged by the rough experiments of | is asserted to be caused in the same way, and an the public platform, or by such tests as can be | “indicator” is suggested for proving this; and publicly applied.” For the same reason direct | the whole matter is supposed to be settled because money-tests are always objected to by experiencd | magnetizers, the excitement produced by the | knowledge of the stake or the importance of the. no one, so far as Dr. Carpenter is aware, “ has ever ventured to affirm that he has thus demon- strated the absence of muscular pressure,” and, “ until such demonstrations shall have been given, ' Dr. Carpenter says that “ the unsealin@of letters and | 143 $ : : ting—ti i os itiendiog Gems Go ao to cmend Gaal tavtng bess | the tilting—like the turning—of tables may be opened” are practised in Continental post-oftices. No | unhesitatingly attributed to the unconscious mus- doubt this can be done with an ordinary letter, but it is no | cular action of the operators.” We suppose Dr. emacs that there are many ways of securing a letter | Carpenter will shield himself by the “thus” in a Dr lutely preclude its being done undetected, and the above sentence, though he knows very well . Carpenter omits to state that such precautions are P that a far more complete demonstration of the here expressly mentioned by Prof. Gregory as having been used in these experiments. | absence of muscular pressure than any indicator

Page 448

: 444 could afford has been repeatedly given, by mo- tion, both turning and tilting, of the table occur- ring without any contact whatever. Thus, in the Report of the Committee of the Dialectical So- ciety, we have (p. 378), Experiment 13, nine members present; all stood quite clear of the ta- ble, and observers were placed under it to see that it was not touched, yet it repeatedly moved along the floor, often in the direction asked for. It also jerked up from the floor ‘about an inch. This was repeated when all stood two fect from the table. Experiment 22. Six members present, the same thing occurred under varied conditions. Experiment 38 (p. 390). Eight members present ; the conditions were most rigid; the chairs were all turned with their backs to the table at a foot distant from it; every member present knelt on his chair with his hands behind his back; there was abundance of light, yet, under these test- conditions, the table moved several times in va- rious directions, visible to all present. Finally, the table was turned up and examined, and found to be an ordinary dining-table with no machinery or apparatus of any kind connected with it. Simi- lar movements without contact have been wit- nessed elsewhere and recorded by Sergeant Cox and by Mr. Crookes, as well as by many other per- sons ; yet the man who comes before the public as the “ historian” of this subject tells his au- dience and his readers that “ he is not aware that any one affirms that he has demonstrated the absence of muscular pressure!” How are we to reconcile this statement with Dr. Carpenter’s ref- erences to each of the books, papers, or letters, containing the facts above quoted or referred to? But we have evidence of a yet more conclusive character (from Dr. Carpenter’s own point of view), because it is that of a medical man who has made a special study of abnormal mental phenomena. Dr. Lockhart Robertson, for many years an editor of the Journal of Mental Science, and Superintendent of the Hayward’s Heath Asy- lum, declares that his own heavy oak dining-table was lifted up and moved about the room, and this not by any of the four persons present. Writing was also produced on blank paper which the me- dium “had not the slightest chance of touching” (“ Dialectical Report,” p. 248). Dr. Carpenter is always crying out for “skeptical experts,” but when they come—in the persons of Robert Hou- din and Dr. Lockhart Robertson—he takes very good care that, so far as he is concerned, the public shall not know of their existence. What, therefore, is the use of his asking me (in a note at p. 108) whether my table ever went up within | ceiling, and has felt them on his own & THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. its crinoline in the presence of a “ skeptical ex: pert?” The very fact that I secretly applied tests (see “ Miracles and Modern Spiritualism,” p, 184) shows that I was myself skeptical at this time, and several of my friends who witnessed the ex, periments were far more skeptical, but they were all satisfied of the completeness of the test. The reason why some skeptical men of science never witness these successful experiments is simply because they will not persevere. Neither Dr Carpenter nor Prof. Tyndall would come morg than once to my house to see the medium through whom these phenomena occurred, or I feel surg they might, after two or three sittings, have wit. nessed similar phenomena themselves. This has rendered all that Dr. Curperter has seen at odd times during so many years of little avail. He has had one, or at most two sittings with a me dium, and has taken the results, usually weak or negative, as proving imposture, and then hag gone no more. Quite recently this has happened with Dr. Slade and Mrs. Kane; and yet this mode of inquiry is set up as against that of men who hold scores of sittings for months together with the same medium; and, after guarding against every possibility of deception or delusion, obtail results which seem to Dr. Carpenter incredible, Mr. Crookes had a long series of sittings with Miss Kate Fox (now Mrs. Jencken) in his own house, and tested the phenomena in every way his ingenuity could devise. Dr. Carpenter was recently offered the same facilities with this lady and her sister, but as usual had only one sitting. Yet he thinks it fair and courteous to make @ rect accusations of imposture against both these ladies. He revives the absurd and utterly insufl- cient theory that the “raps” are produced by “a jerking or snapping action of particular tem dons of either the ankles, knees, or toes.” The utter childishness of this explanation is manifest to any one who has heard the sounds through any good medium. They vary from delicate tick- ings to noises like thumpings with the fist, slap pings with the hand, and blows with a hammer. They are often heard loudly on the ceiling or on a carpeted floor, and heard as well as felt on the backs or seats of chairs quite out of reach of the medium. One of the skeptical committees in America tested the Misses Fox by placing them barefooted on pillows, when the “raps” heard as distinctly as before on the floor and walls of the room. Mr. Crookes states that he has heard them on the floor, walls, ete, Miss Fox was suspended in a swing from Heh pend the n tried (“ Re com! pock place it wa ivory upon an ex quiry exaln prese sunlig ceptic cur it some!

Page 449

RO OR SSS’ = ee a SS ESE GSS OOO eC, CC OO OD el wT ic DR. CARPENTER He has also heard them on a sheet of paper sus- pended from one corner by a thread held between the medium’s fingers, A similar experiment was tried successfully by the Dialectical Committee (*Report,” p. 383), At a meeting of the same committee raps were heard on a book while in the pocket of a very skeptical member ; the book was placed on the table, and raps were again heard ; it was then held by two members supported on ivory paper-knives, when raps were still heard upon it (“ Report,” p. 386). Again, there is the evidence of Prof. Barrett, an experienced physicist, who entered on this in- quiry a complete skeptic. He tells us that he examined the raps or knockings occurring in the presence of a childten years of age—that in full sunlight, when every precaution to prevent de- ception had been taken—still the raps would oc- cur in different parts of the room, entirely out of reach of the child, whose hands and feet were sometimes closely watched, at other times held. The phenomena have been tested in every way that the ingenuity of skeptical friends could de- vise; and as Prof. Barrett is well acquainted with Dr. Carpenter’s writings on the subject and the explanations he gives, we have here another proof of the utter worthlessness of these explanations in presence of the facts themselves. The Hon, R. D. Owen has heard, in the pres- ence of Miss Fox, blows as if made by a strong man using a heavy bludgeon with all his force, blows such as would have killed a man or broken an ordinary table to pieces; while on another oc- casion the sounds resembied what would be pro- duced by a falling cannon-ball, and shook the house (“ Debatable Land,” p. 275); and Dr, Car- penter would really have us believe that all these wonderfully varied sounds under all these test- conditions are produced by “snapping tendons.” But what is evidently thought to be the most crushing blow is the declaration of Mrs. Culver given at length in the appendix. This person Was a connection of the Fox family, and she de- cared that the Misses Fox told her how it was all done, and asked her to assist them in deceiv- ing the visitors; two gentlemen certify to the character of Mrs. Culver. The answer to this slander is to be found in Capron’s “ Modern Spir- itualism,” p, 423. Mr. Capron was an intimate friend of the Fox family, and Catherine Fox was saying with him at Auburn, while her sisters Were at Rochester being examined and tested by the committee. Yet Mrs. Culver says it was Cath- ine who told her that “ when her feet were held by the Rochester committee the Dutch servant- ON SPIRITUALISM. 445 girl rapped with her knuckles under the floor from the cellar.” Here is falsehood with circum- stance ; for, first, Catherine was not there at all; secondly, the committee never met at the Foxes’ house, but in various public rooms at Rochester ; thirdly, the Fox family had no “ Dutch servant- girl” at any time, and at that time no servant- girl at all. The gentlemen who so kindly signed Mrs. Culver’s certificate of character did not live in the same town, and had no personal knowledge of her; and, lastly, I am informed that Mrs. Culver has since retracted the whole statement, and avowed it to be pure invention (see Mrs. Jenck- en's letter to Atheneum, June 9, 1877). It is to be remarked, too, that there are several impor- tant mistakes in Dr. Carpenter’s account. He says the “deposition” of Mrs. Culver was made not more than siz years ago, whereas it was really twenty-six years ago; and he says it was a “ de- position before the magistrates of the town in which she resided,” by which, of course, his read- ers will understand that it was on oath, whereas it was a mere statement before two witnesses, who, without adequate knowledge, certified to her respectability !? 1 Since the MS. of this article left my hands, I have seen Dr. Carpenter's letter in the Atheneum of June 16th, withdrawing the charges founded on the declaration of Mrs. Culver, which, it seems, Dr. Carpenter obtained from no less an authority than Mr. Maskelyne! the great conjurer and would-be “exposer™ of spiritualism. He still, however, maintains the validity of the explanation of the “raps” by Prof. Flint and his coadjutors, who are said to have proved that persons who have “ trained themselves to the trick” can produce an “exact imitation” of these sounds. This “exact imitation” is just what has never been proved, and the fact that a “training” is admitted to be required does not explain the sudden occurrence of these sounds as soon as the Fox family removed tempora- rily to the house at Hydesville. If Dr. Carpenter would refer to better and earlier authorities than Mr. Maskelyne and M. Louis Figuier, he would learn several matters of importance. He would find that Profs. Flint, Lee, and Coventry, after one hasty visit to the mediums, published their explanation of the “raps” in a letter to the Buffalo Commercial Advertiser, dated February 17, 1851, before making the investigation on the strength of which they issued their subsequent report, which, therefore, loses much of its value, since it interprets all the phenomena in accordance with a theory to which the reporters were already publicly committed. On this scanty evidence we are asked to believe that two girls, one of them only nine years old, set up an imposture which for a long time brought them nothing but insult and abuse, subjected their father to public rebuke from his minister, and made their mother seriously ill; and that they have continuously maintaine’ the same for, nearly thirty years, and in all this long period have never once been actually detected. But there are facts in the early history of these phenomena which demonstrate the falsehood of this supposition, but which Dr. Carpenter, as usual, does not know, or, if he

Page 450

446 THE POPULAR SCIENCE This is an example of the reprehensible eager- ness with which Dr. Carpenter accepts and retails mediums; and it will be well to consider here two other unfounded charges which, not for the first time, he brings forward and helps to perpet- uate. He tells us that “the ‘ Katie King’ impost- ure, which had deluded some of the leading spir- itualists in this country, as well as in the United States, was publicly exposed.” This alleged ex- posure was very similar to that of Mrs. Culver’s, but more precise and given on oath—but the oath was under a false name. A woman whose name was subsequently discovered to be Eliza White declared that she had herself personated the spir- it-form at several stated séances given by the two mediums Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, she’ having been engaged by them for the purpose; and she de- scribed a false panel made in the back of the cabinet by which she entered at the proper time from a bedroom in the rear. a gentleman conuected with the New York daily press, has proved that many of the particulars about herself and the Holmeses stated in Mrs. White's sworn declaration are false, and that she is therefore perjured. He has also proved that her former character is bad; that the photograph taken of “Katie King,” and which she says was taken from her, does not the least resemble her; that the cabinet used had no such movable panel as she alleged ; that the Holmeses’ manifestations went on just the same on many occasions when she was proved to be elsewhere; that she herself confessed she was offered a thousand dollars if knows, does not make public. These facts are, first, that two previous inhabitants of the house at Hydesville testi- fied to having heard similar noises in it; and, secondly, that on the night of March 31, 1848, Mrs. Fox and the children left the house, Mr. Fox only remaining, and that during all night and the following night, in presence of a continual influx of neighbors, the “raps” continued exactly the same as when the two girls were present. This crucial fact is to be found in all the early records, and it is sur- prising that it can have escaped Dr. Carpenter, since it is given in so popular a book as Mr. R. Dale Owen's “ Foot- falls on the Boundary of Another World” (p. 209). Mr. Owen visited the spot, and obtained a copy of the deposi- tions of twenty-one of the neighbors, which was drawn up and published a few weeks after the events. This un- disputed fact, taken in connection with the great variety of sounds—varying from taps, as with a knitting-needle, to blows, as with a cannon-ball or sledge-hammer—and the conditions under which they occur—as tested by Mr. Crookes and the Dialectical Committee. completely and finally dispose of the “ joint-and-gendon” theory as appli- cable to the ascertained facts. What, therefore, can be the use of continually trying to galvanize into life this thoroughly dead horse, along with its equally dead brother the table-turning “indicator?” But Colonel Olcott, | MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. she would expose the Holmeses ; and, lastly, ¢ | was said to require the personation of Mrs. White | The full details are given in Colonel Olcott’s “Peg, in Colonel Olcott’s own rooms, under the nell whatever falsehoods may be circulated against | rigid test-conditions, and with Mrs. Holmes only ¢ as a medium, the very same figure appeared thag | ple from the Other World,” pp. 425-478, ugk Another alleged exposure is introduced in the following terms: “I could tell you the particu: | lars, in my possession, of the detection of the imposture practised by one of the most notewon thy of these lady mediums in the distribution of: flowers . . . these flowers having really been pre: viously collected in a basin up-stairs and watered out of a decanter standing by—as was proved by’ the fact that an inquisitive skeptic having fam tively introduced into the water of the decanter a small quantity of ferrocyanide of potassium, its’ presence in the ‘dew’ of the flowers was after ward recognized by the appropriate chemical test’ {a per-salt of iron) which brought out Prussiag’ blue.” nit In his article on the “ Fallacies of Testimony,” in the Contemporary Review of January, 1876, where Dr. Carpenter first gave an account of this alleged exposure, it is stated that “a basinful of these flowers (hollyhocks) was found in a garret with a decanter of water beside it,” that the fem rocyanide was mixed with this water, and that all this was not hearsay, but a statement in writing in the hand of the “inquisitive skeptic” himaelf It turns out, however, that this part of the state ment was wholly untrue, as we know on the au» thority of a letter written by the lady of the house, | and afterward published, and Dr. Carpenter now | seems to have found this out himself; but, instead | of withdrawing it wholly (as in common fairness | he ought to have done), he still retains it ingen | iously modified into an inference, but so worded | as to look like the statement of a fact ; “these: | flowers kaving really been previously collected im | a basin,” etc.—“ as was proved ”—not by finding ' them, but by the chemical test! What an em’ | traordinary notion Dr. Carpenter must have of | what is “really” proof! Let us, however, looks | little further into this matter, of which moreis | known than Dr. Carpenter adduces, or than he | thinks advisable to make public. Dr. ‘informant was a member of the family in whose | house the medium was staying as a guest. He | had therefore full knowledge of the premises and | command over the servants, and could very have ascertained such facts as the bringing of ‘a large bunch of hollyhocks, asters, laurels, and. | other shrubs and flowers, into one of the ; ; _ tole: and and | biase kind chem flowe

Page 451

St pe Le = £ Ps Pea e -_- | bedrooms, and whether they disappeared from the room when the lady medium left it previous to the séance. This would have been direct evi- dence, and easily attainable by one of the family, but none such is forthcoming; instead of it we have the altogether inconclusive though scientific- looking chemical test. For it is evident that the flowers which appear must be brought from some- where, and may naturally be brought from the shortest distance. If there are flowers in the house, these may be brought—as a baked apple was actually brought when an apple was asked for, ac- cording to one of the reports of this very séance ; and if askeptic chooses to put chemicals with such flowers or baked apples beforehand, these chemi- cals may be detected when the flowers or apples are examined. The wonder of such séances does not at all lie in where the flowers are brought from, but in the precautions used. The medium’s hands, for instance, are always held (as they were in this instance), yet when thus held the flowers drop on to the table, and even particular flowers and fruits drop close to the persons who ask for them. This is the real fact to be explained when, as in this case, it happens in a private house; and the alleged chemical test has no bearing on this, But here the test itself is open to the gravest suspicion. The person who says he ap- plied it had struck a light in the middle of the séance, and discovered nothing. He was, then, in consequence of some offensive remarks, asked _ to leave the room, or the séance could not go on ; and subsequently high words passed between him and the medium. He is, therefore, not dn un- biased witness, and to support a charge of this kind we require independent testimony that the chemical in question was not applied to the flowers after they appeared at the séance. This is | the more necessary as we have now before us the | statement in writing by another resident in the house that some of the flowers were sent to a medical man in the town, and that no trace of ferrocyanide of potassium could be detected. The accuracy of the supposed tests is also ren- dered very doubtful by another fact. In the pub- lished account of the affair in the Bath and Chel- tnham Gazette, indorsed by Dr. Carpenter's in- formant (in a letter now before me) as being by a friend of his and substantially correct, it is stated that the “same authority ” who is said to have “demonstrated the presence of potassium ferrocyanide” on the flowers also examined some sind which fell on the table at the same sitting, and found it to contain salt, and therefore to be Sea-sand, and to agree microscopically with the DR. CARPENTER ON SPIRITUALISM. 447 sand from a sea-beach near which the medium had been staying a few days before. This reads very like truth, and looks very suspicious, but it happens that another gentleman who was pres- ent at the séance in question took away with him some of the sand for the purpose of subjecting it to microscopic examination; and from that gentleman—Mr. J. Traill Taylor, editor of the British Journal of Photography, and an occasion- al contributor to other scientific journals—I have received the following note on the subject: “I remember the séance to which you have alluded, and which was held on the evening of August 23, 1874, during the Belfast Meeting of the British Association, which I was attending. At that time, among other by-pursuits, I was engaged in the microscopical examination of sand of various kinds, and I omitted no opportunity of procuring samples. During my visit to Ireland I obtained specimens from the sea-coast of Counties Down and Armagh, as well as from the shores of Lough Neagh. When the shower of sand fell upon the table during the séance I appropriated a quantity of it for subsequent examination. The most careful inspection under the microscope satisfied me that it was absolutely identical with some that had been procured from the Antrim coast of Lough Neagh, while it differed in certain respects from that obtained at the sea-coast. Having sub sequently seen a communication on this subject in the English Mechanic (by a writer who, I be- lieve, had not been present at the séance), the purport of which was that the séance sand was similar to some obtained from a part of the sea- coast where the medium had been recently resid- ing, I again subjected these various sands to mi- croscopical examination, only to be confirmed in my previous conclusion. I followed this by a chemical test, as follows; I washed each sample of sand in a test-tube with distilled water, to which I then added a solution of nitrate of sil- ver. A precipitate of chloride of silver was ob- tained from all the samples of sea-sand, but no precipitate was formed by that which came from Lough Neagh nor by that obtained at the séance, which last, under this chemical test, behaved in a manner precisely similar to the Lough Neagh sample. I recollect that the result of this test was my feeling sure that the writer to whom [ have alluded had not had the same data as those in my possession for arriving at a conclusion. In about a year after that time I threw away over a dozen different samples of sand, including those to which I have referred, as I required for an- other purpose the boxes in which they were kept.”

Page 452

¢ 448 This clear and precise statement demonstrates ; theories. Although he professes to treat theguh, the untrustworthiness of the authority on whom | ject historically, we have shown how every par, | Dr. Carpenter relies, even if it does not indicate | cle of evidence is ignored which is too powerfy) THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. his disposition to manufacture evidence against | to be explained away. As examples of thig we the medium in question. more complete account of the whole episode now before them, our readers will, we are sure, admit At all events, with the | have referred, in more or less detail, to the de that the evidence is by no means free from sus- | picion, and is quite insufficient to justify its be- ing used to support a public charge of deliberate imposture, It also affords another example of how Dr. Carpenter jumps at explanations which are totally inapplicable to the facts in other cases, as, for example, to the production of flow- ers and ferns in my own room, as narrated in my “Miracles and Modern Spiritualism,” page 164, and to that in the house of Mr. T. Adolphus Trol- lope, as given in the “ Dialectical Report,” pages 277 and 372, in which case the medium had been carefully searched by Mrs. Trollope before the séance began. We have now only to notice the extraordinary appendix of piéces justificatives, which, strange to say, prove nothing, and have hardly any bearing on the main questions at issue. We have, for instance, six pages of extracts on early magie, the flagellants, and the dancing-mania ; followed by four pages about Mesmer; then an account of Mr. Lewes’s experiments before the Medical School, Aberdeen, which failed ; then eight pages on the effects of suggestion on hypnotized patients —effects thoroughly known to every operator, but having no bearing on the case of persons never hypnotized or mesmerized, and to whom no suggestion was made; after this come ten pages on the planchette, on which no one relies without collateral evidence ; and then an account of some foolish clergymen, who thought they had direct proof of Satanic agency; then comes Mrs. Cul- ver’s statement (called a “ deposition before mag- istrates”” in the text), to which we have already referred; then my own letter to the Spectator about Mr. G. H. Lewes’s supposed proof of the imposture of Mrs. Hayden; then the oft-told story of Dr. Carpenter’s interviews with Foster, from the Quarterly Review article; then more of Mr. Braid’s “ suggestion-and-expectancy ” exper- iments—and that is all. Not one solitary piece of careful investigation or unimpeachable evi- dence in these forty-two pages of what are an- nounced as pieces justificatives / Let us now summarize briefly the results of our examination of Dr. Carpenter’s book. We have given a few examples of how he has mis- represented the opinions of those opposed to his nial by high authorities of the reality of painless, surgical operation during the mesmeric sleep; ig the “ Report of the Académie Royale de Méde cine,” supporting the reality of clairvoyance and the other higher phenomena of mesmerism; te experiments on clairvoyance before French med eal skeptics; to the evidence of educated ang scientific men in Vienna, as to the truth of Re. chenbach’s observations; to the personal eye dence of Robert Houdin, Prof. Gregory, Dn Mayo, Dr. Haddock, Dr. Lee, Dr. Ashburner, Dr, Rostan, Dr. Teste, and Dr, Esdaile, as to tesig” demonstrating the reality of clairvoyance; to the evidence of the Dialectical Committee, of Dr Lockhart Robertson, Sergeant Cox, Mr. Crookes, — and myself, as to motion of solid bodies demom strably not caused by muscular action; to the evidence of the Dialectical Committee, of the Hon. Robert Dale Owen, Mr. Crookes, und Prof Barrett, as to raps demonstrably not caused by the muscles or tendons of the medium; to the | evidence of Mr. T. A. Trollope and myself ag to the production of flowers, demonstrably not brought by the medium—all of which evideneg, and everything analogous to it, is totally ignored by Dr. Carpenter. Again, this work, professing to be “scientific,” and therefore accurate as to, facts and precise as to references, has been shown to be full of misstatements and misreprey sentations, As examples, we have the statement that there is no evidence of the mesmerizers) power to act on a patient unconscious of bis: wish to do so, whereas I have shown that there is good medical evidence of this power; that Reichenbach did not submit his subjects to testi whereas I have quoted many admirable tests, a well as the independent test-observations of Du Charpignon ; that Rutter’s magnenometer never acted when the operator did not know the eu” stance influencing it, whereas Mr. Rutter state® clearly and positively that it did; that the Royal Academy of Medicine first investigated clairvoy ance in 1837 and declared it not proved, F they first investigated it in 1825, and a favorably ; that Prof. Gregory was credulouiy, and took no precautions against imposture, which I have shown to be not the fact. Again We have numerous errors and misstatements (alway against the mediums) in the accounts of Misses Fox and Mra. Culver, of the “ Ke cher state adeq pecis ploy cove est are “ of tk for fi Engl: this s Are! at le cones Greg of ¢a Barre skept Dr. C to be while ticism urer Hospi month that t ough) tion ; slowly he say under dishon ums h: Yet, ; “train self of meut t adduee eviden: clairvo forms | “utter! such p) being art; » Rayleig profess homens While “ idea ag We Painful hecessa

Page 453

£ oe Pg SE PSRePFAP SEP SAP RAABAS SE EE BE Se PP PS FT Pe - => =F TRe22ee F =f “Katie King” exposure, and of the flower-séance chemically exposed. And, lastly, we have the statement, repeated under many forms, that when adequate investigation has taken place, and es. pecially when “ trained experts” have been em- ployed, trick or imposture has always been dis- covered. But this I have shown to be the gross- est of all misstatements. Surely medical men are “ trained experts,” and we have nine members of the Royal Academy of Medicine investigating for five years, and a large number of French and English medical men devoting years of inquiry to this subject, and deciding that it is no¢ imposture. Are not eminent physicists trained experts, so far at least as the purely physical phenomena are concerned? But we have Prof. Hare, Prof. Gregory, and Mr. Crookes, who all devoted years of careful investigation to the subject; Prof. Barrett, who has come to it with a fresh and skeptical mind, stored with all the warnings that Dr. Carpenter can give him, and yet declares it to be reality, and neither imposture nor delusion ; while another recent convert from extreme skep- ticism on this subject is Dr. Carter Blake, Lect- urer on Comparative Anatomy at Westminster Hospital, who last year wrote me that, after months of careful examination, he was satisfied that the phenomena called “spiritual” are thor- oughly genuine and worthy of scientific examina- tion; that he has arrived at this conclusion very slowly, and, referring to his recent investigations, he says: “ Every experiment performed has been under the most rigorous test-conditions, and the dishonest element which some professional medi- ums have shown has been rigorously eliminated.” Yet, again, professional conjurers are surely “trained experts,” and Dr, Carpenter has him- self often referred to them as such, but the mo- ment they go against him he ignores them. I have adduced, for the second time, the remarkable evidence of Robert Houdin to the reality of the clairvoyance of Alexis; Mr. T. A. Trollope in- forms us that another celebrated conjurer, Bosco, “utterly scouted the idea of the possibility of such phenomena as I saw produced by Mr. Home being performed by any of the resources of his art;” and, lastly, at Glasgow, last year, Lord Rayleigh informed us that he took with him a professional conjurer to Dr. Slade’s, that the phe- homena happened with considerable perfection, while “the conjurer could not form the remotest idea as to how the effects were produced,” We have now concluded what has been a Painful task ; but in the interests of truth it was hecessary to show how completely untrustworthy 29 DR. CARPENTER ON SPIRITUALISM. 449 is the self-appointed guide that the public so blindly follow. By ample references I have af- forded to such of my readers as may be so in- clined the means of testing the correctness of my charges against Dr. Carpenter; and if they do so they will, I feel convinced, not only lose all faith in his explanations of these phenomena, but will also find how completely ignorant of this, as of most scientific subjects, are those writ- ers in our influential literary press who have, al- most without exception, praised this book as a fair and complete exposition of the subject on which it treats. It also seems to me that an important ques- tion of literary morality is here involved. While maintaining as strongly as any one that new or disputed theories should be subjected to the fullest and severest criticism, I yet hold that this should not involve either misrepresentation or what has been termed the “ conspiracy of si- lence.” It is, at the best, hard enough for new truths to make their way against the opposing forces of prepossession and indifference; and, bearing this in mind, I would ask whether it is in the interests of human progress and in accord- ance with right principles, that those who have the ear of the public sbould put forth, under the guise of impartial history, a thoroughly one-sided and erroneous account of a disputed question. It may be said that errors and misstatements can be exposed, and will only injure the author of them; but, unfortunately, this is not so. The popular view of a subject like this is sure of a wide circulation, and writers in the daily and weekly papers increase its publicity, whereas few read the answer, and the press decline or refuse to make it known.! As the very existence of the press depends on popularity, this is inevita- 1 A striking proof of this statement has been quite re- cently furnished us. The letter given below was sent by Dr. Slade to Prof. E. R. Lankester. It would seem to exhibit, in a high degree, the characteristics of truth, fair- ness, and charity. No answer was received. The press, moreover, refused to publish it, and the daily press, one and all, refused to insert it even as an advertisement ! * Prof. E. R. LANKESTER— “Dear Str: Dr. Slade, having in some measure re- covered from his very severe illness, and his engagement to St. Petersburg having been postponed (by desire of his friends there) till the autumn, desires me to make the fol- lowing offer : : “He is willing to return to London for the express and sole purpose of satisfying you that the slate-writing occurring in his presence is in no way produced by any trickery of his. For this purpose he will come to your house unaccompanied by any one, and will sit with you at your own table, using your own slate and pencil; or, if you prefer to come to his room, it will suit him as well.

Page 454

? 450 ble; but it none the less throws a great respon- sibility on those who possess this popularity if THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. “trader in knowledge” by his always loving truth better than his system. If our they mislead public opinion by inaccuracy or | will carefully weigh the facts now laid suppression of facts. In his article on “ Fallacies of Testimony ” Dr. Carpenter, quoting Schiller, says that the “real philosopher” is distinguished from the them, they will be able to decide how far De, Carpenter himself belongs to the first or to the second of these categories.— Quarterly Journal of Science. B: MM

A STUDY OF LOWER LIFE. S has well been observed, the phrase omne ignotum pro magnifico is not more appro- priate or true than its reverse or opposite. And it constitutes one of the greatest advantages of natural history study, that it directs our atten- tion to new and curious features in the common- est living forms around us, and, by aiding both our mental and physical perceptions, largely ex- tends the range of the most commonplace obser- vation. The “sight ” of the natural historian is, in fact, any thing but “ unassisted ;” but, on the “In the event of any arrangement being agreed upon, Slade would prefer that the matter should be kept strictly private. “As he never can guarantee results, you shall give him as many as six trials, and more if it shall be deemed advisable. “ And you shall be put to no charge or expense what- ever. “You on your part shall undertake that during the period of the sittings, and for one week afterward, you will neither take, nor cause to be taken, nor countenance, legal proceedings against him or me. “That if in the end you are satisfied that the slate- writing is produced otherwise than by trickery, you shall abstain altogether from further proceedings against us, and suffer us to remain in England, if we choose to do so, unmolested by you. “If, on the other hand, you are not satisfied, you shall be at liberty to proceed against us, after the expiration of one week from the conclusion of the six or more experi- ments, if we are still in England. You will observe that Slade is willing to go to you without witnesses of his own, and to trust entirely to your honor and good faith. “Conscious of his own innocence, he has no malice against you for the past. He believes that you were very naturally deceived by appearances, which, to one who had not previously verified the phenomena under more satis- factory conditions, may well have seemed suspicious. “Should we not hear from you within ten days from this date, Slade will conclude that you have declined his offer. “T have the honor to be, sir, your obedient servant, «J. Simmons, “87 Sput-steaat, Toe Haavs, May 7, 1877.”

~ contrary, discerns beauty and grace where vision of the latter description could perceive nothing worthy of attention or study. If Pope’s dictum that “the proper study of mankind is man" accepted as literally true, and as tending to limit human observation to the investigation of itsowa peculiarities, the zodlogist may fitly remind the poet that the study of lower forms not only assists our appreciation of human affairs, but sometimes actually explains and elucidates points in man’s history which otherwise would remit utterly obscure. Thus the spirit of a libenl science is most decided in its opposition tommy exclusiveness in the objects submitted toi scrutiny; since, recognizing the independence@f the various branches of knowledge, we learn that the advance of one study really means the i provement of all. , No better illustration of the manner in whit a simple study in biology may be made to forms text for the illustration of some facts and polit interesting to the world at large can well’ selected, than that comprised in the life-history of the little animal known as the Hydra, @ “common fresh-water polyp.” The examint tion of this common denizen of our pools ail ditches may convince the skeptical that the iseté of scientific study are not only varied and iste esting, but that they also sometimes lead w'™ contemplate phases of life and growth not very fat removed from some of the most important lems which can well occupy the consi és the human mind. ~— The hydra of the zodlogist by no calls to mind, as regards its form at any famous being of mythological lore; # ae will hereafter be noted, in certain of its fester

gre ligh to a of a a fa

the modern hydra may fitly bear compa! its mythical namesake. If we take

thot ceed a ler I thes sess tache weed free circle cate, and | strete hydra devel other ored | long, : distin< Th the hy ures, Wi ciation ganism at once shrinks mass, hydra j Ure in j We end tions of and tha delicate io numt is next 1 disturbe body an panded, conditio That oF attach

Page 455

keer sia am o. — bd ~eo#. « 2 = Sate BFE Se & = d the + only 3, ‘bat ibs from a quiet pool, which has become stagnant and overgrown with lower plant-life and water- weeds flourishing apace under the kindly influ- ences of the summer sun, and place this water along with a small quantity of the weeds in a clear glass vessel exposed to the light, we may be al- most sure to find that in due time certain small bodies of greenish color have attached themselves to the sides of the vessel. These bodies will con- gregate chiefly on the side of the vessel next the light, and, as regards their size, the beings referred to are seen to be by no means large. A length of about a quarter of an inch may be regarded as a fair statement of their average dimensions ; al- though occasionally a specimen may greatly ex- ceed the proportions of its neighbors, and exhibit a length of half an inch or more. Examined by the aid of a hand-lens, each of these little organisms or hydra is seen to pos- sess a tubular or cylindrical body, which is at- tached by one extremity to the glass or duck- weed, and which exhibits at the opposite and free extremity a mouth-opening, surrounded by a circle of arms or tentacles. These latter are deli- cate, thread-like organs, which in the undisturbed and natural state of the animal remain out- stretched in the water. In the common or green hydra, the tentacles are not disproportionately developed as regards the body, but in certain other forms or species, in which the body is col- ored brown (Hydra fusca), the tentacles are very long, and the animal obtains in consequence the distinctive name of the “ Long-armed Hydra.” The observation of the common incidents of the hydra’s life reveals certain interesting feat- ures, which assist us in some degree in the appre- ciation of the nature and structure of these or- ganisms. When the tentacles are touched, they at once contract and shorten, and the body also shrinks cr shrivels up into a somewhat rounded mass, This simple fact proves to us that the hydra is sensitive to outward impressions, a feat- ure in its history which is of high interest when we endeavor to understand the nature and rela- tions of the nervous system of higher animals; and that these animals are also sensitive to more delicate impressions is proved by their clustering ‘a numbers on that side of the glass vessel which 'snext the light. If the hydra is left in an un- disturbed condition after being irritated, the body and tentacles will become elongated and ex- panded, and will once more resume their normal condition, That the polyps are not permanently rooted ® attached to the weeds in which they are com- A STUDY OF LOWER LIFE. 451 monly found, may be proved by the simple ob- servation of their habits. They may be seen to detach themselves from fixed objects, and to move slowly about in leech-like fashion, or like the looping caterpillars, by alternately fixing and extending the mouth and root-extremity of the body; while occasionally they may be seen to. float listlessly, with extended tentacles, amid their native waters. When any minute animal, such as a water- flea, or some similar organism, comes in contact with the tentacles of the hydra, an interesting series of acts is witnessed. The tentacles are then observed to act as organs for the capture of prey, the victim being seized and conveyed by their contraction toward the mouth of the animal, within which cavity it finally disappears from view. That the hydra, therefore, possesses in- stincts common to all forms of animal life, high and low alike, and which lead it to supply the wants of its frame, cannot be doubted; and Schiller’s maxim that hunger is one of the pow- ers that rule the universe, may thus be aptly il- Justrated within the small domain and in the sim- ple life-history of the hydra. As might be expected, the prey at first strug- gles violently to escape from the clutches of its captor, but after a short period the efforts become less and less marked, and the. captive may be noted to become somewhat suddenly helpless and paralyzed. The observation of these details leads us to expect that the hydra possesses some offensive apparatus, through the action of which the capture of prey is facilitated. And an ex- amination, by aid of the microscope, of the tenta- cles of the polyp, and in fact of its body-sub- stance as well, would reveal the presence of nu- merous minute capsules, named “ thread-cells,” which are developed in the tissues of the body. Each of these curious little cells consiets of a tough outer membrane, within which a delicate thread or filament lies coiled up amid fluid. When one of these structures is irritated, as by pressure, the cell is observed to rupture, the thread being thrown out or everted, while the fluid at the same time escapes. A thread-cell of the hydra, in its ruptured condition, appears as an oval capsule having attached to one extremity the thread, which is provided at its base with three little spines or hooks. The consideration of the structure and functions of these thread- cells clearly indicates their offensive nature. Each may in fact be regarded as representing a miniature poison-apparatus ; the “thread” being the dart or sting, and the fluid constituting the

Page 456

¢ 452 ' venom, chance of escape from the attack of these cells ; since wounded by the threads, which doubtless become attached to its body by the hooks, and . poisoned by the fluid, even animals of tolerably large size, when compared with the hydra, may be seen to succumb to its attack. The polyps are thus seen to be singularly well provided as regards offensive apparatus, the particular form and action of which remind one, in some degree, of the famous “lasso” of Western nations. And it is at the same time interesting to note that thread-cells of essentially similar nature to those found in the hydra confer on the jelly-fishes and allied forms the stinging powers which render these beings the terror of tender-skinned bathers. The internal structure of our polyp is of the simplest possible description. It may seem strange to talk of an animal body which lives and grows without any of the structures or ma- chinery we are accustomed to associate with the higher animals. Yet the bydra exemplifies the former condition ; since we might accurately enough describe its body as consisting of a sim- ple tube, the interior of which contains no organs of any kind, and which communicates with the outer world through the mouth. If we further suppose that the walls of this tubular body are composed of two closely-applied layers or mem- branes—the outer somewhat dense and tough, and the inner of more delicate nature—we shall have formed a broad but accurate idea of the constitution of these polyps. When the prey or food is swallowed, it therefore passes into the in- terior of the tubular body, which evidently serves as a stomach-sac. Here the morsel is digested or dissolved, and, as the result of this process, a fluid perfectly adapted for the nourishment of the polyp is formed. This fluid or blood is kept circulating throughout the interior of the simple body, by the constant movements or vibrations of numerous minute processes named cilia, which exist like a fringe on the lining mem- brane of the body-cavity, and which therefore perform the functions of the heart of higher ani- mals. Thus it may be said that every part of the hydra’s body is brought directly into contact with this nutritive fluid, since we note that the fluid is transmitted from membrane to membrane and from cell to cell by the process of imbibi- tion. And in this simple manner does the hydra repair the continual waste of its parts; this pro- cess of waste being the inevitable result of the acts and functions of every living being, and the invariable concomitant of life itself. The prey of these polyps has little | ; THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. We have already noted that the hydra pos sesses the power of appreciating sensations, singe it shrinks when touched, and exhibits other proofs of its sensitiveness. In the possession of this power the polyp resembles some and most, if not all other animals, including mag himself. Broadly stated, this power which the hydra possesses may be regarded as presenting us with the idea of a nervous system in its sim plest phase. The functions of such a system may be summarized in the statement that it ig adapt ed for bringing the animal into relation with ity surroundings. We thus say that the nervous system exercises the function of “ relation ;” while, from the fact that the animal performs this function through impressions being made upoa it, we are also accustomed to speak of the nen vous power as exercising the function of “ irr. tability.” This power, in fact, stands mediately between the animal and the world in which it lives. The higher we ascend in the animal scale, the more perfectly do we find the nervous system adapted for placing the animal in posses sion of a knowledge of its environments; ab though, as will be presently remarked, the dif ferences between the nervous powers of higher and lower animals are to be considered rather differences of degree than of kind. But, as an examination of the hydra demon strates to us, the view just taken of the nervous functions can hardly be considered of a complete kind. For we find that the polyp when touched, is enabled to act upon the knowledge or sens® tion which the touch conveys ; since its tentacles contract, and its whole body shrinks as if in int tation and alarm. The reception of a sensation by the nervous system is therefore accompanied by a power of acting upon “ information ceived ;” and it cannot be doubted that a certain and definite correspondence must exist betwee the impression and the act it evokes. Indeed, among lower forms of animal life this correspond ence is not only exceedingly well marked, bat constitutes in itself the sum total of the nervous functions in such beings. But the highest alk mals, including man himself, may be said toae quire a knowledge of their surroundings in exactly similar manner. When we talk of ext cising our senses—or when, to use a comprehea sive term, we speak of “ feeling” —we are simply expressing the idea of obtaining a certain know edge of our environments, and as & result we are further enabled to act upon that knowledge it ways and fashions relative thereto. ie Some such ideas as those just stated: ing ber thro first we ¢ auto in li simp circu vous ter h pletel origit seque withir trollir by Pr is per in mai selves place or vol action: tinues mecha: compl anism As physics sarily ¢ pretati For it any oth acter ; is deve circums hess, or ple hol mental ,

Page 457

epRSEERSERSREZESE SSASPESRSEEH SESE R SESS rr See eT Teun P} es given rise to the conception—widely known and discussed in these days under the name of the “automatic doctrine ”’—that the acts of all ani- mals, including those of man—“ the paragon of animals,” as Hamlet terms him—bear in reality a much closer relation to their surroundings than they are generally supposed to possess. The simple acts of a hydra’s life, and the most in- tricate operations of the human mind; the ner- yous action which enables a polyp to obtain a particle of food ; and the nerve-changes evolving thoughts which emanate from minds like those of Goethe, Shakespeare, Newton, and Milton— thoughts which will reécho in the minds of men throughout all time—are thus held to present, when analyzed out to their fullest extent, a strik- ing community of origin. The polyp is said to be really an “automaton,” in that it simply acts through its nervous powers, as these powers are first acted upon by outer impressions ; and man, we are told, must also be held as sharing this automaton nature, since his acts are determined in like manner by outward circumstances, and simply by the succession or order in which these circumstances have been impressed upon his ner- vous centres. ‘‘ The question is,” as Dr. Carpen- ter has expressed it, “ whether the Ego is com- pletely under the necessary domination of his original or inherited tendencies modified by sub- sequent education, or whether he possesses within himself any power of directing and con- trolling these tendencies.” Or as the case is put by Prof. Huxley: “ Descartes’s line of argument is perfectly clear. He starts from reflex action in man, from the unquestionable fact that in our- selves codrdinate purposive actions may take place without the intervention of consciousness or volition, or even contrary to the latter. As actions of a certain degree of complexity,” con- tinues Huxley, “are brought about by mere mechanism, why may not actions of still greater complexity be the result of a more refined mech- anism ?” . As may readily be noted, this theory of the physical origin of man’s mental powers neces- sarily carries with it a special and peculiar inter- pretation of man’s moral nature and obligations. For it implies the belief that we cannot act in any other fashion than is determined by our char- acter; and this latter, in its turn, results from or is developed by the action of outer and physical circumstances upon the organism. Conscious- hess, or that knowledge of self which most peo- ple hold lies at the root and foundation of our mental existence, except as a secondary matter, A STUDY OF LOWER LIFE. 453 is thus put altogether out of court; and the powers of mind come in this view to represent so many effects of the long-continued action of experience and custom in inducing various men- tal states as the result of certain combinations of outer impressions. The fierce conflict to which the discussion of this automatic doctrine has given rise can be readily understood and explained. It is no light matter to assert that the mental powers and in- tellect of man are, after all, simply material in their nature and origin, and that they merely represent a high development and modification of the simple nervous impressions seen in lower states of existence. Yet there is a latent truth in this view of the matter, which, when recog- nized and brought into relation with facts and ideas external to such a theory, presents us with a rational explanation of the origin of man’s mental nature. Whatever may have been the origin of man’s intellect, there can firstly be no question of the impassable nature of the gulf which exists between the human type of mind and the instincts of all other forms of life. Even if man’s total origin from a lower form or forms were a proved fact, the recognition of the fact could never lessen by an iota our estimation of the infinite superiority of man, regarded as a thinking, intelligent being, over his nearest al- lies. Preconceived notions and ideas might, and probably would, revolt against such an idea of the origin of man’s mind; but the spirit of a liberal science would content itself with the fact that no considerations regarding its origin and development can detract from the high or im- measurable superiority of the human over every other type and form of nervous functions. Turning uext to inquire into the existence of autumatic or instinctive acts among animals, we may, in the first place, be surprised to note that in the hydra, sensitive although the polyp is seen to be to outward impressions, no traces of a nervous system or of analogous organs can be discerned. The polyps are thus literally sensi- tive, without possessing any appreciable or visible apparatus for exercising that sense. The hydra is, however, by no means alone in this respec *t. The sea-anemones, which are animals nearly re- lated to the hydra, are equally as sensitive as, if net more so than, the latter, since the anemones may be seen to withdraw their tentacles and to contract their bodies on being touched, or even if the light falling upon them be suddenly intercepted, as by the shadow of a passing cloud. Yet the anemones, like hydre, utterly want a nervous

Page 458

454 iE system, But certain plants may also not only | front-legs together with the legs lying behing exhibit symptoms of irritation or sensitiveness | the destroyed portion will continue to push the when touched, but may act upon their sensations | animal forward. Here the action of the hinde —a feature well exemplified by the drooping legs is purely automatic. But in the insect-clagg leaflets and leaf-stalk of the sensitive-plant, by | we find many examples of automatic acts, whigh the closure of the leaf of the Venus’s-flytrap, and | at first sight actually seem to suggest the deveh by definite movements of contractioh observed | opment of a high intelligence. The young im in other plants, resulting from alterations in tem- | sect, just liberated from its chrysalis state, per. perature. In plants, it is almost needless to re- | forms at once and perfectly all the operations mark, no nervous system has been demonstrated | of its life. And even in the case of the won to exist; and no botanist has even suggested the | derful operations exemplified by the ants, bees, possibility of the existence of nervous tissues | and their allies, we find examples of automatigm, THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. € within the limits of the vegetable creation. Yet, tested by the acts of their lives, we might truly | say to such plants, with Shakespeare— “. ... Sense you have, Else could you not have motion ;“ and, judging from the sensitiveness of the plants just mentioned, the conclusion appears inevitable that plants possess means for receiving and for acting upon sensations, and that in this light they may be fitly compared with the hydra and all | lower animals in which a nervous system has not been demonstrated to exist. It is perfectly clear that the acts of these plants, and of such animals as the hydra and sea-anemone, must be considered of a purely automatic kind. We cannot reasonably suppose that consciousness, or a knowledge of why or how the acts are performed, plays any part in the life-history of such forms, And, even if it be maintained that mere sensation and conscious- ness in this case are identical or closely allied, the latter quality must be so far removed in its nature from the consciousness of humanity as to render the comparison quite inadmissible. The hydra and its neighbors are in truth auto- mata pure and simple, in that they are stimu- lated by outward circumstances and respond to | such stimuli without possessing any appreciation of the why and wherefore of any act of their lives. But that automatic acts may represent the whole life, or a very large share of the actions, of animals much higher than these polyps, can readily be demonstrated. <A centipede, for ex- ample, when cut in halves, will exhibit lively and independent movements in each half of its body—a fact readily explained when we note that each joint of the animal’s body possesses a nerve-centre which suppiies the surround- ing parts with powers of movement. And, if the central portion of the nervous system of the animal be destroyed while its body remains intact, the front portion of the body and the The acts of these insects are in reality determined by surrounding conditions ; and each insect, des | titute of all previous knowledge, enters upon its duties and discharges them with unerring skill, immediately after its birth or when it hag attained its full development. Here, therefore, there can be no intelligent appreciation jo consciousness of the nature of the duties pen formed. Indeed, as Dr. Carpenter has well m marked in speaking of the adaptation of such | insects to their duties, “the very perfection of | the adaptation, again, is often of itself a suff. cient evidence of the unreasoning character of the beings which perform the work ; for, if we attribute it to their own intelligence, we must admit that this intelligence frequently equals, if it does not surpass, nn of the most accom plished human reasoner.’ Turning lastly to the investigation of mast actions as a type of those of higher animals gem erally, we find that physiology makes us a quainted with the performance of many aute matic acts and movements in the common exist ence of humanity. The earliest acts of the infant are purely automatic; they are performed without the slightest appreciation of their meat ing, and without any intelligent conception of their order and succession, that order and sue cession being really determined by the outward or physical conditions of life, The person who walks along the street absorbed in a reverie@ sciously to himself avoids his neighbors and the lamp-posts, is so far an automaton in that the complicated muscular movements of bis limbs and the general equilibrium of the body edge and will. And very many other might be cited in support of the allegation tit automatic acts and movements play & portant part in the existence of higher Thus we may hold it to be fully pre automatism has a veritable existence, and

day-dream, but who nevertheless and all uncon-—

being codrdinated independently of his know.

tio all form and { the a a cel ther | in th trol. moul make savag kind, hard) ing h trolle circut physi physi new | may, | mere | State | and ¢ moral

Page 459

> 3 at fy AS RSSPRSES SRS ERSPREKST STRESS SRS Pee e CSE SSC aT AP APRS SS eRe BS ina tht forms the basis of all nervous acts. That in itself it constitutes the essence of all the intel- jectual acts of man is, however, a conclusion by no means involved in the preceding statement. That the “ physical” act involved in the execu- tion of any movement—such an act being exem- plified by the change which nerve-tissue under- goes even in the act of thinking—is connected and associated with another action, the ‘‘ men- tal” act, cannot be doubted, if it be admitted at all that we possess a rational cognizance of our- selves and our actions. And that the “ mental” act in the higher animal may represent the actual source, origin, and cause, of the physical act, is also, as far as human intelligence can assure us, an undoubted fact. Hence we are forced to conclude that, however this mental act has originated in man, it has really come to assume a place, dominion, and power, in the constitution and working of his nervous system which are ut- terly unrepresented in any lower forms. If man may be proved or believed to be hereditarily the “slave of antecedent circumstances,” it must also be admitted that a new power has been de- veloped out of the action upon his nervous sys- tem of these same circumstances, this power being represented by the formation of the con- scious self-knowing Ego or Mind. That hered- itary influences and inherited constitution pos- sess a large share in moulding the mind, as they undoubtedly operate in producing a certain con- formation of body, is but a reasonable belief. And the formation of the character of the child, and through the development of the latter that of the adult mind also, must accordingly depend to a certain extent upon influences for which nei- ther is in any way responsible, and over which, in the first instance, neither can have any con- trol. That automatic acts derived from and moulded upon preceding acts of like character make up the chief part of human existence in a Savage state is a statement of readily-proved kind, since man in his primitive condition can hardly be supposed to speculate much concern- ing himself, but has his acts directed and con- trolled to a greater or less extent by outward circumstances and by the exigencies which his physical surroundings induce. But as in man’s physical development, so in his mental nature, hew features appear; and, explain it how we may, we are forced to recognize that out of the mere instinct and pure automatism of his earlier state have been developed that fuller knowledge and command of self which bring with them the moral sense and all the noble conceptions of his A STUDY OF LOWER LIFE. 455 race: a progress of mental development this, imitated by the mental advance of man as he emerges from the savage to the civilized state, and typified in a closer fashion still by the growth and progress of the infant's mind, from the indefinite mists of unconsciousness to the clearer light of a rational intelligence. The development of the child’s intellect in this view presents us with a panoramic picture of the stages through which we may conceive the mind of man to have passed in its progress from the condition of a hydra-like automaton to the high- er phase in which he obtains a knowledge of himself. And it seems to we that only through the ideas involved in some such theory of the origin of man’s mental powers can we reasonably explain the possession by lower animals of many qualities and traits of character which we are too apt to regard as peculiar to man. The com- munity of instincts in man and lower animals, in fact, affords a powerful argument in favor of the idea that the higher intellect of humanity has originated through the progressive development of lower instincts. Our survey of the relations and origin of nervous acts has led us far afield into the domain of metaphysics, and has in some measure alien- ated us from our more sober study of the com- monplace hydra. We have, however, noted that our polyp forms a text for the illustration of some points highly interesting to humanity at large, and in what remains to be told of its life- history we shall find exemplified several other features of a highly-interesting if not of a most remarkable kind. Of these latter features, probably the most notable relate to the various modes in which the hydra may reproduce its kind. We have al- ready observed how the animal makes provision for the wants of its own existence, and how it repairs the local and continually-occurring death of its parts by the reception and digestion of food, and by the circulation from cell to cell of the products of nutrition. Such a view of the polyp’s organization, however, presents us after all with a one-sided aspect; and, like most par- tial and incomplete surveys of things, our ideas of the polyp’s life-history are apt to become erroneous and liable to misconstruction. Every living being, in addition to the duty imposed upon it of repairing its individual loss of substance, has to bear a share in the reparation of the in- juries and losses which death is the means of in- flicting on its species or race, Through the pro- cesses of reproduction and development, new

Page 460

456 beings are ushered into the field of active life to | hydra-buds will break contact with the parenp take part in carrying on the life of the species, just as the process of nutrition made good the wants and supplied the exigencies of the single form. The Harveian motto, “ omne ex ovo,” holds good in the case of the hydra, inasmuch as we find that the animal in summer more especially may be seen to produce eggs, from which, through a process of regular and defined development, new hydre are produced. But we may concern our- selves less with this normal phase of develop- ment than with certain strange and out-of-the- way features which our polyp may be observed to exhibit. There are very few persons outside the ranks of biologists who would be inclined to associate a veritable process of “ budding” with the functions of an animal organism. Yet in the hydra, in a large number of its neighbors, and in a few other groups of the animal world, a verita- ble process of this nature occurs, whereby from a parent-body certain portions are gradually bud- ded out to assume in due time the form and like- ness of the being which has produced them. Thus, when the hydra is well nourished, little projections may be observed to sprout from the side of the body. As these projections increase in size, each is seen gradually to develop a mouth and little tentacles at its free end, and in due time presents us with the spectacle of a young hydra, which has budded from the parent, to which, save in size, it bears a close resemblance. Sometimes, also, it so happens that this young bud grows and multiplies like its parent, and produces a bud in its turn, So that we meet, in such a case, with a veritable genealogical tree, presenting us with three generations of hydra, adhering to each other, and connected by the closest ties of blood-relationship. Not only, therefore, is our hydra colored like a plant: it also imitates the plant-creation in certain aspects of its life-history, and by the process of budding converts itself from a single into a compound animal, While the young buds remain attached to the parent, free and perfect communication exists between the simple body-cavities of the connected individuals, and the compound organ- ism is thus nourished by as many mouths as there are animals in the colony. But this con- nected and compound state is not permanent in the hydra; although, as seen in the zodphytes, it presents us with a complicated and enduring fabric, numbering, it may be, many hundreds of included animals which have been produced by a process of budding. Sooner or later the young THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. | body, and will float away through the surrou objects, and to begin life on their own account, More astonishing by far, however, is it to find that we possess the means for propagating hydr at will. We may actually imitate the experiment performed of old by that redoubtable demi-god Hercules, since by the artificial division of one polyp we may give origin to new beings, and may multiply the species through the destruction of a single individuality. These curious results, also obtained by experimentation on the sem anemones, were first made known to the world at large by Trembley, an Englishman, who was tutor to the sous of Count Bentinck, and who also, while resident at Geneva about the middle of the last century, contrived to find time and opportunity for close observation of those polyps In 1744 Trembley published his memoir on the hydre, and we shall leave the ingenious naturalist to detail in his own language the method andre sults of his experiments. Surprised at the ew rious life-history and plasticity of these creatures under almost every condition, Trembley resolved to ascertain if the reproductive powers of hydra were further allied to those of plants in their ability to reproduce their like by being divided into “slips.” Having divided a hydra crosswise and nearer to the mouth than to the rooter tremity, he put the two parts into a flat glass which contained water four or five lines in depth, and in such a manner that each portion of the polyp could be easily observed through a strong magnifying-glass. “On the morning of the day after having cut the polyp, it seemed to me that on the edges of the second part, which had neither bead nor arms, three small points were issuing from these edges. This surprised me e& tremely, and I waited with impatience for the moment when I could clearly ascertain what they were. Next day they were sufficiently developed to leave no doubt on my mind that they were true arms. The following day two new arms made their appearance, and some days after’® third appeared, and I now could trace no differ ence between the first and second half of the po!yp which I had cut.” : Experimenters since Trembley’s time, bat fol lowing in the track of that ingenious observe, have cut and divided the hydra in almost every possible fashion, with the result of finding thet the polyp possesses an unlimited power, not of resisting injuries—the least of which water on their way to root themselves to fixed . be sufficient to insure the death of any ordinary ulti of t this stol it te til t Wh geni plac sim not larg in t bris ing. extr tere sine Ico port and by y and thro: com the ; ally { in le: Speci their previ stanc and whie

Page 461

oe ee oe ee ae SES8S35F 55 organism, plant, or animal—but of utilizing the results of mutilation in the multiplication of its race, But, as a final feature in the hydra’s his- tory, we must allude to one point which perhaps we should deem as even of a more extraordinary kind than the traits of character just described ; this point being exemplified by certain experi- ments of Trembley, in which he actually suc- ceeded in turning these polyps inside out, with- out in the slightest degree interfering with their ultimate vitality. In 1742 Trembley first suc- ceeded in his endeavor to place the polyp hors de combat, and his ruse or plan of procedure was of so ingenious a nature that we may again let him speak for himself. He tells us that he com- menced operations “by giving a worm to the polyp, and put it, when the stomach was well filled, into a little water, which filled the hollow of my left hand. I pressed it afterward with a gentle pinch toward the posterior extremities. In this manner I pressed the worm which was in the stomach against the mouth of the polyp, forcing it to open—continuing the pinching pressure un- til the worm was partly pressed out of the mouth. When the polyp was in this state I conducted it gently out of the water, without damaging it, and placed it upon the edge of my hand, which was simply moistened in order that the polyp should not stick to it. I forced it to contract itself more and more, and, in doing so, assisted in en- larging the mouth and stomach. I now took in my right hand a thick and pointless boar’s bristle, which I held as a lancet is held in bleed- ing. I approached its thicker end to the posterior extremity of the polyp, which I pressed until it en- tered the stomach, which it docs the more easily since it is empty at this place and much enlarged. Icontinued to advance the bristle, and in pro- portion as it advanced the polyp became more and more inverted. When it came to the worm, by which the mouth is kept open on one side, and the posterior part of the polyp is passed through the mouth, the creature is thus turned completely inside out ; the exterior superficies of the polyp has become the interior.” The operation thus described was occasion- ally frustrated in a manner by the hydre ; since, in less than an hour, Trembley observed some Specimens to succeed in restoring themselves to their natural position. This observer, however, prevented the latter result in one or two in- stances by spitting the polyp, a needle being passed through the body close under the mouth ; and when thus treated, the animal, with wisdom which humanity might sometimes advantageous- ‘A STUDY OF LOWER LIFE. 457 ly imitate, accommodated itself without murmur to the exigencies of its position. Trembley ap- pears to have taken the state of the appetite of his polyps as a very natural and rational test of their state of health after being operated upon ; since he remarks that a hydra which had been turned inside out ate “‘asmall worm two days after the operation;” while to conclude, he re- marks that “the same polyp may be succes- sively inverted, cut in sections, and turned back again, without being seriously injured.” After the recital of these experiments—to which, seeing that the hydra possesses no traces of a nervous system, the most tender-hearted anti-vivisection- ist could offer no objection—we may well ques- tion whether the hydra of zodlogy is not after all a more wonderful animal than its mythical and fabulous namesake. The attentive consideration of these features in our polyp’s biography naturally suggests some remarks on the nature of the beings which pos- sess powers so wondrous of resisting mutilation and of recovering from serious injury. In virtue of what description or amount of vitality, it may be asked, or on what supposition can we account for the amazing reparative powers of the hydra? The answer to the question may be prefaced by the remark that the hydre are not singular in respect of their fertility under apparently disad- vantageous circumstances. As already remarked, and as the writer can testify from experiment, the sea-anemones may be subjected to the ordeal of trial by slicing and chopping with favorable results, as far as the artificial increase of the race is concerned. But animals occupying a much higher place in the scale of animal society may also exhibit reparative powers of a singular and extensive kind. A starfish, for example, need not in the slightest degree be disconcerted by the loss of its rays, for these astronomical beings may be met with on the sea-beach in the condition of grim old warriors who have left por- tions of their organization on numerous battle- fields, and possessing, it may be, but a single in- tact ray; the other four rays having most likely served voracious codfishes as dainty if some- what tough morsels. Or, again, the crabs and lobsters may be cited as examples of animals to whom the loss of a limb, less or more, makes but little difference. Indeed, the lobsters seem to part with even the largest of their members on very slight provocation; for a sudden noise, such as the report of cannon, has been known to serve as the exciting cause of dismemberment. Or, lastly, to select animals of a higher grade

Page 462

THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. 458 still, it is well known that our familiar eft or | this power of existing separate from other to newt may lose half of its tail without suffering | forms the feature in virtue of which the organi wl any permanent loss ; anatural process of repara- | zation of the hydra becomes so plastic under thg th tion and growth in the starfish, in the crab and | most trying conditions, and so well adapted ij W lobster, and in the newt, in due time providing | virtue of its inherent powers to rebuild the dig ed new members for old ones. Man in one sense | organized fabric. In man and higher animals; tic may well envy the reparative powers of his in- | on the other hand, we find exemplified a form of N: ferior neighbors ; since even in the comparatively | vital government represented most nearly by the ca small matter of teeth he has to place himself | limited monarchy. Here, while each portionof ha under the tender mercies of the dentist in event | the organism possesses a certain share in the com wl of loss, and must view with hopeless gaze the | stitution and management of affairs, some parts, disappearance of the last joint of a finger or tce. | and notably the nervous system, take precedence al Although the physiologist is unable in the | of and serve to unite and combine the other for present state of his science to explain the exact | The principle of regulation and interdependence inc and intimate manner in which the hydra and | thus involved simply renders it impossible for‘all mé other animals reproduce their tissues, we may | parts to possess equal reparative powers, Hence, twi nevertheless, by a very homely simile, contrive to | lost parts are not commonly replaced in highet nol gain a broad idea of the nature of these repara- | animals, for the reason that the loss has entailed ing tive powers. We thus must firstly note that the | a separation from other parts, possessing no im mo process is simply one of nutrition, or nutritive herent powers of reproduction within themselves, int growth carried out to a high degree of develop- | and has divided the sustenance and life of the lost phi ment. We are dealing in fact, in such cases, | parts from that of the entire, connected, and im pro with an increase of the ordinary powers and pro- | terdependent system. ply cesses whereby, as we have already stated, the The process of growth and the harmonious the bodily waste is made good. But at the same time relation of organs and parts, observed in the ere. we note that these powers and processes vary | hydra and in most other living beings, suggest, as reg throughout the animal world, doubtless in obedi- | a final feature worthy of note, the consideration van ence to some law which determines the closer in- of what is implied in the growth and increase of ter, terdependence of the different parts of animals _ living organisms generally. The body of the hydta cha the higher we advance in the zodlogical scale. | was, at an early stage of our investigation, seen tot To put the matter in its plainest light, we may | to be composed of tissues, and these tissues, you compare the organization of the hydra and its | again, to be made up of minute elements or cells, stor neighbors to that of the “republic.” The essen- | The growth of the hydra, therefore, in reality, buil tial feature of this form of human association I | means the increase of each of its minute parts} stor take to be comprised in the broad statement that | and, when we reflect on the law of growth thas ther one man or member of the republic is as good as | evolved, we may be puzzled to account for of men any other man or member, and that each man | explain the intimate nature of the mysterious prog (theoretically) has an equal voice with his neigh- | power which is seen to operate in controlling ficia bor in the conduct and rule of the state. In that | and directing in so remarkble a manner the fan 233 form of government to which the name of “lim- | tions of this humble organism. In the bydrs ality ited monarchy” is applied, the leveling and equal- | then, as representing a single organism, or, still last izing tendencies of the republic are wanting. | better, in the zodphyte, which consists of a colony actu Every one person is not equal in rank or value to | numbering, it may be, hundreds of animals, united edifi every other person ; but, although each has theo- | in a close structural relationship, or in the bodies stan retically his definite place and voice in the rule | of higher animals still, we find the principle of the sion and management of the state, some assume a | perfect codperation of many different parts to one , higher rank and power than others. Applying | harmonious end, namely, the maintenance of the latio the comparison to the case before us, we can form | organism, beautifully exemplified. In most of the the } at least an intelligent conception of the relative | grave affairs of life man strives to secure the'e> ent, nature of the powers of the lower and higher | operation of his fellows; but humanity, unfortt — keep animal. The hydra emphatically represents an | nately for the success of its schemes, exhibits mat] ¢ Here animal democracy—a veritable republic. One | little weaknesses and failings, and the common tei P now part is as good as any other part, when demands | dency of one mind to assert its supremacy over i be are made upon it for reparation and growth; and | another may result in the demolition of the coop D.D, this quality of self-support and independence, | erative idea. Man might, therefore, well & lebose

Page 463

Fa FP Fa ePrFaete RF ee rnueao se Fr Fe eS pTREGAP TSS SSC SHORES NERS eA EE SS _ ae to imitate the unselfish union of aims and ends which a zodphyte colony exemplifies, or which the vital mechanism of his own tissues illustrates, When the political economist shall have succeed- ed in inaugurating a scheme of human codpera- tion for any purpose, on the successful model of Nature’s colonies in lower life, he will have good cause to congratulate himself and his fellows on having solved one of the paramount difficulties which beset his day and generation. But, lastly, the true nature of the growth of a living being can only be fully understood if we for a moment compare that process with the increase of a lifeless body. No better, truer, or more eloquent description of the differences be- tween the growth of the living and that of the non-living could well be found than in the follow- ing passages, culled from an essay,' by one of the most liberal and advanced scholars of our day, intended to illustrate the progressive nature of philosophic science. “There is one kind of progress,” says the writer, “which consists sim- ply of addition of the same to the same, or of the external accumulation of materials. But in- crease by addition, even though it be ordered or regulated addition, is not the highest kind of ad- vancement. Pile heap on heap of inorganic mat- ter, and you have a result in which nothing is changed; the lowest stratum of the pile remains to the last what it was at the first; you keep all you ever had in solid permanence. Add stone to stone or brick to brick, till the house you have built stands complete from foundation to cope- stone; and here, though in order and system there may be a shadow of something higher than | mere quantity, there is still only addition without progress. You have here also what the super- ficial mind covets as the sign of value in its pos- essions—permanent results, solid and stable re- ality. Every stone you place there remains to the last cut, hewed, shaped, in all its hard external actuality, what it was at the first; and the whole edifice, in its definite outward completeness, stands, it may be, for ages, a permanent posses- sion of the world, “But when you turn from inorganie accumu- A STUDY OF LOWER LIFE. lation or addition of quantities to organic growth, the kind of progress you get is altogether differ- | ent. Here you never for a single day or hour | keep firm possession of what you once had. | Here there is never-resting mutation. What you | now have is no sooner reached than it begins to | '“Progressiveness of the Sciences,” by John Caird, D.D., Principal of Glasgow University, Glasgow: Mac- | lehose, 1875, 459 slip away from your grasp. One form of exist- ence comes into being only to be abolished and obliterated by that which succeeds it. Seed or germ, peeping bud, rising stem, leaf and blossom, flower and fruit, are things that do not continue side by side as part of a permanent store, but each owes its present existence to the annulling of that which was before. You cannot possess at one and the same time the tender grace of the vernal woods and the rich profusion of color and blossom of the later growth of summer; and if you are ever to gather in the fruit, for that you must be content that the gay blossoms should shrivel up and drop away. Yet, though in or- ganic development you cannot retain the past, it is not destroyed or annihilated. In a deeper way than by actual matter-of-fact presence and pres- ervation, it continues. Each present phase of the living organism has in it the vital result of all that it has been. The past is gone, but the organism could not have become what it is with- out the past. Every by-gone moment of its exist- ence still lives in it, not, indeed, as it was—but absorbed, transformed, worked up into the es- sence of its new and higher being. And when the perfection of the organism is reached, the unity of the perfectly-developed life is one which gathers up into itself, not by juxtaposition or summation, but in a far deeper way, the concen- trated results of all its by-gone history. And by how much life is nobler than dead matter, by so much are the results and fruits of life the mani- festation of a nobler kind of progress than that which is got by the accumulation of things which ar2 at once permanent and lifeless, and perma- nent because they are lifeless.” The hydra, equally with the higher animal, and the lowliest plant equally with the lordly oak, present the distinctions and differences thus forcibly expressed as existing between living and non-living matter. There is thus a constant re- placement of old particles by new ones; and this change is not, after all, a mere replacement, but also includes and carries with it a process of growth and increase—of which latter, as seen in the living being, perhaps the most wonderful feature is that whereby, amid all the constant changes which living and being involve, the ani- mal or plant should preserve and retain the form in which it was, so to speak, originally limned. A study of the denizens of a stagnant pool may thus be shown to lead up, unconsciously it may be, but also naturally, to some matters of weighty consideration and interest, even to the

Page 464

‘ 460 most unscientific of observers. And it will be found not the least characteristic and valuable feature of all such studies, that they serve as literal starting-points and as vantage-grounds THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. whence we may shape an intellectual course, lead. ing us by many and diverse radii from limited perceptions and finite aims, outward and upward to the Infinite itself—Cornhill Magazine, THE TRIAL OF Br ALEXANDER EN have too much forgotten that the cen- tral event in history assumed the form of a judicial trial, The prodigious influence of the life and personality of Jesus of Nazareth is ad- mitted by all. And his tragical death, early and passionately accepted by Christianity as the sig- nificant fact of his career, has become more than any other incident the starting-point of modern history—his tomb, as Lamartine put it, was the grave of the old world and the cradle of the new. But that memorable transaction was the execu- tion of.a capital sentence, proceeding upon a two- fold criminal trial—upon one process conducted according to Hebrew and one according to Roman | law. In its judicial aspect, as in some others, it is peculiar— perhaps unique. There have been many judicial tragedies recorded in history. Capi- tal trials, like those of Socrates, of King Charles of England, and of Mary of Scotland, have always had a fascination for men. And this trial has impressed and attracted the world more than any or all of these. But I wish to point out that it has in addition a purely legal interest which no one of them possesses. By common consent of lawyers, the most august of all jurisprudences is that of ancient Rome. But perhaps the most pe- culiar of all jurisprudences, and in the eyes of Christendom the most venerable as well as pecul- iar, is that of the Jewish commonwealth. Now, when these two famous and diverse systems hap- pen for one moment to meet, the investigation of the transaction from a legal point of view is ne- cessarily interesting. And, when the two systems mect in the most striking and influential event that has ever happened, its investigation becomes not only interesting but important. It becomes, probably, the most interesting isolated problem which historical jurisprudence can present. The questions, for example, are at once raised : “Were there two trials or only one? Was the JESUS CHRIST. TAYLOR INNES. second a mere review of the first, or was thé — first a mere preliminary to the second? Wer the forms, in the one case of Hebrew, in the other of Roman, law, observed, or attempted to be observed? And was there in either case an attempt, with or without form, to attain substan tial justice? Again, were the charges preferred before the Hebrew and Roman tribunals the same? What was the crime for which the ae cused died? Was the decision in either case right in form, and attained by steps in conform ity with the process binding or observed at the time? And was it right in substance—i. e., was it in conformity with the Hebrew law, or the Roman law, as those laws then stood ? These questions of law proceed of course upon an assumed history of fact. The historyis abundantly familiar; and, fortunately, there is no special necessity that we should commence this inquiry by an examination of the sources, Men are not agreed how far back they can actly trace the three earlier gospels on the one hand, or the later gospel of John on the other. But the detail, verisimilitude, and authoritative calm of these documents impress the reader with a sense of the closest proximity to the life whose course is narrated. And they have no competi tors. A few words in Tacitus, a disputed sel tence or two in Josephus, occasional execrations scattered throughout the Talmud — these, and such as these, are the outside references to #&® reer which burned itself in detail into the hearts of a generation of surviving disciples, and thence into the imagination of the world; and which, no doubt generally represented in these records as it was originally conceived, is there represeik » ed with extraordinary life-likeness and power. To some readers it will appear ® singt- lar advantage that in the documents on this spe cial subject there is no reference to miracle. bh none of the four records of the trial is them” s ac! the tion sati oth wea wer of t char eous later “ W he 1 Isra lishe the « It hs

Page 465

aWroerearerseserak FP Fae Fa KrF ete eees ° eta e@aeerTrsaseyYyY ee Fr ro fe & ®@ (after the first arrest) any touch of the super- natural in that sense of the word, The whole narrative of external fact might have been told of any morning’s work of the Sanhedrim, of any forenoon condemnation by the procurator. We may not, indeed, stretch this too far. The judi- cial narrative, unbroken by actual portent or marvel, maintains in each gospel the same tone of supernatural consciousness which in previous pages, apparently without surprise, or break, or sense of effort, passes into actual external mir- acle, Yet it remains true that, in the fragment of fourfold history with which we at present deal, there is nothing which the most determined enemy of the supernatural needs as such to re- gard even with suspicion. In truth, the inci- dents of the trial are most natural and probable, and, in so far as the four traditions agree, there seems no excuse for doubting the history. Of course, the four do not agree minutely here any more than in other parts of the narrative. The verbal variations of utterances reported in the gospels warn us to expect similar variations in the narration of facts. And, accordingly, we find such variations in the present case; some of them more than usually puzzling, and per- haps incapable of reconciliation. Yet, as we shall see, they do not seriously vary the legal problem ; and the fourfold independence of the narratives by no means tends to make us doubt the truth of the history which they contain. In- deed, we may at once confess that the basis of fact on which we are to discuss the legal ques- tion before us is exceptionally clear, simple, and satisfactory. The sources of the law, on the other hand, may in each case require some pre- liminary remarks. I—THE HEBREW TRIAL. All readers know that the Hebrew common- wealth, and the institutions which regulated it, were pervaded by a deep sentiment of justice, righteousness, and law. But all are not aware of the extent to which that sentiment, and its characteristic maxim, “ Thou shalt do no unright- eousness in judgment,” were developed in the later history of the people.. In the more ancient part of the traditions of the Fathers we read: “When a judge decides not according to truth, he makes the majesty of God to depart from Israel. But if he judges according to truth, were it only for one hour, it is as if he estab- lished the whole world, for it is in judgment that the divine presence in Israel has its habitation.” It has recently been pointed out to English read- THE TRIAL OF JESUS CHRIST. 461 ers, that that whole vast later literature of the Jews which we call the Talmud is “‘ emphatically a Corpus Juris—a cyclopedia of all law,” which may best be judged by analogy and comparison with other legal codes, more especially with that of Rome and its commentaries, It contains many other things, but this is its basis. And what is more important for us to notice is, that this legal basis is the older part. The whole Talmud con- siats of forty folios—a mass of discussion, illus- tration, and commentary. But the central part of it, which is comprised in twelve volumes, is called the Mishna. And the Mishna is nearly wholly law.’ It was, indeed, of old, translated as the second or oral law—the devrépwois—a de- tailed traditional commentary on the law of Moses, to which it professed complete subjection while practically superseding it as a code.* Mr, Deutsch, in striving to give English readers an idea of the multiplicity and confusion of the Talmud, likens it to Hansard: “the Parliamen- tary discussions or episodes answering to the Ge- mara or general commentary, while the Bills or Acts are called the Mishna.” The distinction of course is, that in Hansard the legislative acts are the result and termination of the discussions, while in the Talmud the Mishna or law is the older portion and the starting-point. Accord- ingly, while portions of the general Talmud com- mentary did not come into existence for centu- ries after the introduction of Christianity, the Mishna or central portion is generally admitted to have been compiled by Rabbi Judah, some- where about a. p, 200. But it was compiled as an oral law which had been growing in use and authority ever since the return of the nation from Babylon—as a “brief abstract of about eight hundred years’ legal production.” Hence, modern Jewish writers refer to it without hesita- tion as including the code of criminal law which was in existence at the date of the high-priest- ship of Annas and Caiaphas. Of course this cannot be matter of demonstration in the case 1 The quotations in this paper are made from the edi- tion of the Mishna by Surenhusius (Amsterdam, 1672); and especially from the chapter or tractate “De Syne- driis,” in the fourth of its twelve volumes. I accept the Latin translation of the editor, and have only occasionally verified a word of the original. 2 The Mishna (De Synedriis, x., 3) lays down the gen- eral principle, “Gravius peccatur cirea verba seribaram quam verba legis.” Asan enthusiastic and recent trans- lator paraphrases it,“ He who teaches against the Penta- teuch is not condemned to death, for all men know the Bible. But if he teaches against the doctors he is con- demned.”— Rabbinowicz, Législation criminelle du Tal- ; mud. Paris.

Page 466

462 of all portions of a book which was not finally reduced to writing until two centuries had passed. But the evidence shows that the development of the Mishna in this special direction was excep- tionally early and strong. Its earliest period co- incided with the time of “the Men of the Great Synagogue,” stretching from the return from the captivity to about B. c. 220, Their work has been summed up in the leading aphorism of the “ Pirké Avoth,” which runs, “ Be cautious and slow in judgment, send forth many disciples, and make a fence round the law.” And this age, which inculcated caution in judicial action be- fore all other things, was succeeded by the so- called age of “the Sanhedrim,” which for the next four hundred years worked out that caution in detail. In nothing is the Mishna more ex- press that in the contrast recognized at this early time between civil and criminal proceedings— judgments “ of money” and judgments “of the life.” Even with regard to the former, their rules strike the modern legal mind as leaning to the side of pedantic caution. But with regard to criminal, and especially to capital cases, there can be no doubt that long before the time of Jesus the value set by the law upon the life of a Hebrew citizen had led to extraordinary precau- tions. What have been called the four great rules of their criminal jurisprudence—“strict- ness in the accusation, publicity in the discus- sion, full freedom granted to the accused, and assurance against all dangers or errors of tes- timony ” *—are carried out even in the Mishna in minute and scrupulous rules, leaning almost ostentatiously in every point to the side of the accused, and having force most of all in the case of atrial for life. Indeed, so far does this go, that modern Jews have been disposed to rep- resent capital punishment as abhorrent to the whole genius of Hebrew jurisprudence. We read in the oral law the saying of Eleazar the son of Azarias, that “the Sanhedrim, which so often as once in seven years condemns a man to death, is a slaughter-house.”* And more star- tling still, when we remember the Hebrew dread of all anthropomorphism in speaking of the Divine, is that terrible sentence of Rabbi Meir: “What doth God say (if one may speak of God after the manner of men) when a malefactor suf- 1 Mishna, “Capita Patrum,” i, 1. The same prece- dence is observed in the chief saying of their great repre- sentative, Simon the Just—*On three things stands the world—on law, on worship, and on charity."—Cup. Pa- trum, 1., 2. 2 Salvador, “ Inst. de Moise.” i., 365. § Mishna, “ Treatise Makhoth.” THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. fers the anguish due to his crime. He says, My head and my limbs are pained. And if hesg speaks of the suffering of the guilty, what mugt he utter when the righteous is condemned? And so, to save the innocent blood, to round and shelter the sacred house of life, rule after rule was laid down in successive lines of circumvallation, and presumptions in favor of the accused were accumulated, until a false convie. tion became almost impossible. The question whether the Hebrew trial wag according to their own rules of law has perhapg not been exhaustively considered by any one writer, though it has been touched upon by many. The most celebrated discussion upon. it was raised by a learned Spanish Jew, M. Salva. dor, who in 1822, in the first edition of a work since twice republished under the title of “Hig: toire des Institutions de Moise,” * gave two exec lent chapters on the penal law of the later Jews and on their administration of justice, and fok lowed them up by a dissertation to show that the Jugement de Jésus was according to law. He admitted the facts as stated in the gospels, and founded on the law as stated in the Mishna; and from these sources professed to prove that, while the result may have been unfortunate if Jesus was really the Messiah, the process followed and the result arrived at were alike necessary, if the: tribunal adhered to its own law. Salvador was answered in a brilliant treatise by a distinguished member of the French bar, M. Dupin (ainé). Hey however (like an able American writer, Mr. Greem leaf), devoted himself rather to the substantial injustice of the trial than to its form according to the jurisprudence concerned ; and in the third edition of his “ Institutions,” published in 1862) Salvador maintains and reprints the whole pose tions originally laid down. His argument falls short, however, on the most essentiul points & obviously that it eannot be made the basis of discussion. I propose, therefore, to treat the question anew, going girectly to the sources.¢f) fact and law, and referring occasionally to Salva dor as to other writers. £D wal On a Thursday night in that month of March, the Thursday toward the end of the passovet week, unquestionably took place the arrest—the first step before most modern trials. The quet. tion has been raised whether the arrest was legah- There is no reason to doubt that it was “7 1 Mishna, “De Synedriis,” vi., 5. oe 2 The third edition, in two volumes (Michel Fréres, Paris), is that here quoted.

Page 467

o - %. ear y 0 t + e le f e 7 Sees es FCSStSLESSA SR CS SS CECA SOR eee wees Bin. oda’ THE TRIAL OF JESUS CHRIST. / 463 thority of the high-priest ; and the addition of a ] result of our decision of it is, that, if the exam- Roman speira to the officers of the Temple must have been procured by Jewish authority, and thus tends rather to favor legality. But was ar- rest before trial at all lawful by Jewish law? It seems not to have been so unless resistance or escape was apprehended. In this case no escape was intended, but resistance, though not intend- ed, was looked for; and the lawfulness of the ar- rest really turns on the question whether it was to be the preface to a regular trial ornot. If so, the legal course after it was that followed a little later by the captors of Peter and John, who “put them in ward until the next day, because it was now eventide.” It was to be otherwise here. An ezamination by night followed the arrest. Jesus was first led by his armed escort to the presence of Annas, by far the most influential member of the Sanhedrim. For in that body there now sat no less than five of his sons, all of whom either had held, or were in a few years to hold, the supreme dignity of high-priest. The old man had exercised that great office twenty years before, and had, perhaps, in the absence of the Roman governor,! stretched his powers, as his son afterward did, to the extent of carrying out capital sentences. At all events, the indig- nant procurator insisted on his removal from of- fice; but, though Annas gave a formal consent, he merely transferred the chair of the great council to the younger members of his family.? It was now held by his energetic son-in-law Caia- phas, the aged head of the house remaining, in the estimation of orthodox Jews, the de jure high-priest. By Annas Jesus was sent bound to Caiaphas, perhaps only to another department | of the sacerdotal palace. But before one or other of these princes of the church the accused Was certainly subjected to a preliminary investi- gation before any witnesses were called. It is extremely difficult to decide whether this exam- ination by “ the high-priest,” recorded by Jobn alone, was made by Annas or by Caiaphas 3—so difficult, that it is fortunate that scarcely any legal question turns upon the point.t The chief ! Valerius Gratus, Pilate’s predecessor. See Josephus, “ Antiquities,” xviii, 2, 1, and xx., 9, 1. ** Like flies on 2 sore” was the comment of the Em- peror Tiberius on the rapid succession in which one high-priest after another alighted upon Jerusalem during his reign. *It depends partly on whether the word dmwéorecAev, in John xviii. 24, means “sent” or “had sent.” See the fall discussion of it in Andrews’s “ Life of Our Lord.” Dupin objects that Annas was not a magistrate, and ination detailed by John took place before An- nas, it was separated by an interval of place, and also of time, from the subsequent proceedings before Caiaphas. In that case it is more prob- able that the examination of witnesses, the con- fession, and condemnation, which took place be- fore the younger and titular high-priest, were somewhat later in the night, or even toward morning, and followed the form and order of a regular public trial, If, on the other hand, An- nas at once sent on the prisoner to Caiaphas, and if the examination recorded was by the latter, it may have been immediately followed by the production of witnesses, and by the adjuration and condemnation ; and in this case it is likely that a considerable interval succeeded these pro- ceedings before a formal or public meeting of council in the morning confirmed the informal condemnation of the night. But the main point with regard to the high-priest’s examination is independent of the question who the examiner was, It appears in any case to have been wholly illegal. In some countries—in France, for exam- ple, and in Scotland—the accused is led before a magistrate, and subjected to official interroga- tories before he is remitted to his public trial. In others, and in the Hebrew law, it is not so, It was there the right of the accused to be free from all such personal investigation until he was brought for trial before his congregated breth- ren.! This rule of publicity seems to have been derived from principles both as to judges and witnesses. “Be not a sole judge,” was one of the most famous aphorisms, “for there is no sole judge but One.”? Still more clear was it, not from the Mishna only, but from the Pentateuch, that there was to be no such thing as a sole wit- ness; and that the “two or three witnesses” at whose mouth every matter must be established must appear publicly to give their testimony.* Their deposition was the beginning of every pro- ceeding; and, until it was publicly given against a man, he was held to be, in the judgment of law, not merely innocent, but scarcely accused. It is this principle which gives the fullest expla- certainly that would add to the irregularity of interrogat- ing the accused. 1“Un principe perpétuellement reproduit dans les écritures hébraiques, résume déja les deux conditions de publicite et de liberté. On ne soumettait pas homme ac- cusé A des interrogatoires occultes, oh dans son trouble Tinnocent peut fournir des armes mortels contre lui.”— Salvador’s “ Institutions,” i., 366. 2 Mishna, Pirké Avoth, iv., 8. 3 Deuteronomy xix. 15-18,

Page 468

¢ 464 THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. nation of the answers of Jesus of Nazareth to , the four evangelists give a confused account of the midnight questions of the high-priest. The what took place. Matthew and Mark, Omitting ecclesiastical magistrate, probably sitting pri- | the seemingly private interrogation of which we vately, and certainly before witnesses were called, have already spoken, distinctly narrate a doy. asks Jesus of his disciples and of his doctrine. | ble and very striking trial by night—first by “Jesus answered him, I spake openly to the witnesses, and then by an attempt to obtains world; I ever taught in the synagogue, and in | confession; but all before the high-priest, the the temple, whither the Jews always resort; and scribes, and the elders, to whom Mark adds in secret have I said nothing.' Why askest thou | “ all the chief priests.” Their narrative reads ag me? ask them which heard me, what I have said | if the first part of this trial might have takey unto them: behold, they know what I said.” place almost as soon as the prisoner was brought It was in every word the voice of pure He- | from the mount of Olives. At all events, in their brew justice, founding upon the broad principle ; narrative it took place by night, while in the of their judicial procedure, and recalling an un- , morning there was a second and separate “ con just judge to the first duty of his great office. | sultation” of a similar but seemingly larger and But, as one who studied that nation in older | more authoritative meeting.’ John, on the other times observed, ‘‘ When a vile man is exalted, hand, narrates the interrogation by the high. the wicked walk on every side” around him; and _ priest, the transfer from Annas to Caiaphas, and when the accused had thus claimed his rights, } the delivery to Pilate in the morning, but does one of the officers of court—a class usually spe- | not allude to any trial before the council. These cially alive to the observance of form, and of that | two representations, though not contradictory, alone—“ struck Jesus with the palm of his hand, | are unsatisfactory and inconsistent ; and the tr saying, Answerest thou the high-priest so?” | dition of Luke, which differs from both, com. The reply of Jesus is exceedingly striking. In it | pletes the confusion, but helps us to a result, he again resolutely took his stand on the plat- | He omits the earlier part of the alleged trial—the form of the legal rights of a Hebrew—a ground | interrogation of witnesses ; but narrates the con- from which he afterward no doubt rose to a | fession atid condemnation as at one meeting of higher, but which he certainly never abandoned : | the council, which took place “as soon as it was: “If I have spoken evil, bear witness of the evil: ; day,” and after which the whole multitude “led but if well, why smitest thou me?” him to Pilate.” Putting all these representa The words are no doubt a protest for freedom | tions together, there is no difficulty in arrivingat of speech and liberty to the accused. But they | the order of the historical transactions, though appeal again to the same principle of the Hebrew | there will always be insuperable difficulty @ law—that by which witnesses took upon them- | those who insist on their legal validity and regu selves the whole burden and respousibility, and | larity. The visit to Annas and the transfer especially the whole initiative, of every accusa- | Caiaphas came first, with the interrogation of the tion, even as they were obliged to appear at the | accused by one or other of the high-priests, close, and with their own hands to hurl the | About this earlier hour certainly took place the stones, And the renewed protest was so far | denial of Peter related by all the evangelists, effectual. For now the witnesses came forward, | while some time must have been consumed in, or, at least, they were summoned to bear their | sending for witnesses and summoning either the testimony; and only when they came forward | whole council or its members. That the whole can a formal trial be said to have commenced. council did not meet at night is unquestionable: But did all this not take place by night ? And | that a certain number of them were present by was a trial by night legal ? night with Caiaphas is equally clear. Assuming On the question of fact, it is well known that | that there was a final and formal meeting of the - | whole Sanhedrim at its usual morning =a 1 These words recall a very curions provision of the | , : Swi of the Mishna ( De Synedriis, vii., 10), as to the Mfesith, or private barely possible hat the vine come : “ seductor—i. e , laicus seducens laicum”—a phrase which s eve is, no doubt, translated in the gospel words “deceiver of | fore it. But it is much more likely on the evr the people.” In the case of such a one, who says, private- eid ly, “ Let us go after other gods,” the rule as to laying no 1 Byneus (De Monte Christi) holds & second trial fa snares for the accused was superseded. The person at- | the morning, But the view (recently repeated by Dr. tempted to be seduced might profess to acquiesce, and so Farrar), that Luke narrates a different scene from tat hide other witnesses to overhear the Mesith, and testify | given in nearly the same words by the early evangelist ; against him. | is searcely tenable. | ration, confession, and sentence, took place be

Page 469

— Sle dence that it took place earlier, when a consider- able number, quite enough to be popularly called a council, were already assembled. place some time during the night. It will always remain doubtful whether this took place before a | . . . ! considerable meeting of the council or its com- mittee on the one hand, or before Caiaphas and _ a few of his friends on the other. Nor is it of | much consequence. The confusion of represen- | tation is quite natural. For, according to all the | THE TRIAL OF JESUS CHRIST. And, in any | case, it is certain that that still earlier transac- tion—the examination of witnesses and the de- | liberation on their evidence—must have taken | 465 The crucifixion of Jesus took place, as has scarcely ever been doubted, on the Friday, the day before a Sabbath which was also “an high day ;” and the meeting of the council took place on the same Friday morning.’ Such a meeting on such a day was forbidden, If indeed it only met to register an acquittal, it was lawful. But if the court was unable at once to acquit, it was bound to adjourn for at least four-and-twenty hours be- fore meeting for final judgment, and such a final meeting could not be on the Sabbath. The ne- cessity of the adjournment of a capital trial to secure the rights of the accused is shown very cS 3 2 ewe eS fs ee UF ee ©. oe ee ee oe ee | = SSePaerPae Stern r = - rules of Hebrew law, such a transaction in the | clearly by the detailed regulations of the Mishna : * night was absolutely illegal, incapable of being | silicosis iat iaiita aia i sacted in either form, and incapabl . a _ cee’ | him. But if not, his judgment is put off to the ing re > to produce an impression | : : P yes pened ee seg, mE nes following day. Meantime the judges meet to- of justice upon the minds of the people. ere / | gether, and eating little meat, and drinking no The law is laid down in a passage of the | wine during that whole day, they confer upon the Mishna,! which contrasts capital trials with ques- | cause? On the following morning they return tions of money. It is so striking that the whole | into court” and vote over again with the like pre- paragraph may be quoted, though it is with the cautions as before. . . . “If judgment is at last concluding words that we have now to deal: | pronounced, they bring out the man sentenced, to | stone him. The place of punishment is to be “ Money trials and trials for life have the same | apart from the place of judgment (for it is said in rules of inquiry and investigation. But they differ , Leviticus xxiv. 14, ‘ Bring the blasphemer without in procedure, in the following points ; The former | thecamp’). In the mean time, an officer is to stand require only three, the latter three-and-twenty | at the door of the court with a handkerchief in his judges. In the former it matters not on which | hand; another, mounted on horseback, follows the side the judges speak who give the first opinions: | procession so far, but halts at the farthest point in the latter, those who are in favor of acquittal | where he can see the man with the handkerchief. must speak first. In the former, a majority of one [The judges remain sitting], and if any one offers isalways enough: in the latter, a majority of one himself to prove that the condemned man is in- is enough to acquit, but it requires a majority of | nocent, he at the door waves the handkerchief, two to condemn. In the former a decision may be | and the horseman instantly gallops after the con- quashed on review (for error) no matter which | demned and recalls him for his defense.* way it has gone: in the latter a condemnation | way be quashed, but not an acquittal. In the | former disciples of the law present in fhe court may speak (as assessors) on either side: in the latter they may speak in favor of the accused, but | not against him. In the former a judge who has | indicated his opinion, no matter on which side, | may change his mind: in the latter he who has | given his voice for guilt may change his mind, but | not he who has given his voice for acquittal. The | These regulations, taken not from the com- mentary on the oral law, but from the Mishna it- self, probably existed in full detail during the high-priesthood of Caiaphas. There is no reason to doubt that at least the general rule, which pre. scribes adjourning the trial from one day to an- other, bound the judges of Jesus of Nazareth. In no case was such a rule so absolutely necessary tal = eRe f2-t. cd Sormer (money trials) are commenced only in the daytime, but may be concluded after nightfall ; the latter (capital trials) are commenced only in the daytime, and must also be concluded Yuring the day. | The former may be concluded by acquittal or con- demnation on the day on which they have begun: the latter may be concluded on that day if there isa | wntence of acquittal, but must be postponed to a sec- ond day if there is to be a condemnation, And for this reason capital trials are not held on the day be- Sore a Sabbath or a Seast-day.” 1 Mishna, De Synedriis, iv., 1. 30 to justice, as where the accused, arrested after nightfall, had been put upon his trial by day- 1 We thus escape, in our present investigation, the ex- tremely difficult and famous questions whether the Friday was the 14th or 15th Nisan, and on which day of that week the passover was eaten. If the Friday was the 15th, it was the passover or feast-day, when it seems to have been unlawful to judge at all.—_Mishna, Moed Katon, v.,2. 2 Mishna, De Synedriis, v., 5, and vi, 1. 3 “Beatus judex qui fermentat judicium suum.”— Gemara on Mishna, De Synedriis, c., 1. 4 A striking commentary on this graphic law will oe- cur to English readers who remember the interposition | of Daniel in the “ History of Susanna,” verses 46 and 49, .

Page 470

466 break, without the least opportunity of summon- ing witnesses for his defense. But what the Gemara describes as the atrocity of thus antici- pating the day of death of the accused ! was ex- ceeded in open injustice by the earlier outrage of commencing, and probably substantially conclud- ing, the real trial under cloud of night. That would have been an intolerable scandal even in the case of an ordinary civil suit. Such a suit could only be called and commenced during the day, though upon occasion it might be prolonged after the shadows had fallen until a verdict were returned.? But a grave criminal case—and cer- tainly a capital case of crime—was to be begun, and resumed or continued, and finished, only in the light of day. And of all criminal cases, that a trial in which a son of Israel, acknowledged to be mighty in deed and word before all the peo- ple, was to be judged for his life—that such a trial should be begun and finished and sentence for- mally pronounced, between midnight and morning, was a violence done to the forms and rules of Hebrew law as well as to the principles of jus- tice. And the circumstance that this huge blot is wholly ignored by Salvador * makes it very un- necessary to notice in detail his defense of other parts of the supposed formal judicial proceeding. Yet there can be no doubt that at some un- timely hour, between Thursday night and Friday morning, the form and somewhat more than the form, of a trial by Hebrew law did take place. The judges, unjust as they were, were men trained in that law of minute scruples and mighty sanc- tions; and they would have felt it impossible to dispense with process and form altogether. The last words we caught from Jesus were his demand for open accusation and trial: “ Why askest thou me? ask them which heard me.” And we shall hear no further utterance until the close. For when this demand for public justice was met by a nocturnal trial, the accused declined to take part in it. Meantime much was going on. The members of the council present sought for wit- ness against Jesus. Matthew says they sought for false witness. But even the former was a 1“ Proferre diem morti damnati nefas est.”—Mishna De Synedriis, iv. 1. Note 8 by Cocceius. 2 Even this is forbidden by another text in the treatise “ Nidah,” and the jurists have had to settle the question of their relative authority. 3 He narrates the trial and condemnation as taking place before a full meeting of the Sanhedrim, and adds (vol. i., 891), ** Le conseil se rassembla de nouveau dans la mati- née du lendemain ow du surlendemain, la juris- prudence lexigeait. pour confirmer la sentence ou l'annu- ler.” This is mere invention of the history. . THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. scandalous indecorum. Hebrew judges, agoge have seen, were eminently counsel for the». cused. And one of the strangest sights the world has ever seen must have been the adjuratiomgr solemn address to the witnesses who came speak against the life of Jesus, by the magistraty who had—no doubt with perfect sincerityhel it expedient that one man should die for the peo. ple. That form of adjuration or solemn appeal still exists in the body of the law.! It wagith duty of the high-priest to pronounce it toveseh witness in a capital case, and so to put theme oath. Who can measure the effect of its utte, ance by the sacred judge of Israel upon men who, while the words were uttered, were forced to gaze into the face of him whose life it guarded? “Forget not, O witness, that it is one thing t give evidence in a trial as to money, and in a trial for life. In a money suit, if thy withem bearing shall do wrong, money may repair that wrong. But in this trial for life, if thou sinnéit, the blood of the accused, and the blood of hissesd to the end of time, shall be imputed unto thee: 4, Therefore was Adam created one man and alone, to teach thee, that if any witness shall destroy one soul out of Israel, he is held by the Scripture tobe as if he had destroyed the world ; and he whosayes one such soul to be as if he had saved the word . Fora man, from one signet-ring, may off many impressions, and all of them shall be ee actly alike. But he, the King of the kings of Kings, he the holy and the blessed, has struck off ff his type of the first man the forms of all shall live ; yet so that no one human being is wht ly alike to any other. Wherefore let us thinkand believe that the whole world is created fora mam (such as he whose life hangs on thy words)” ~ The Son of man whose life was surrounded by the law with this tremendous sanction stood # lent before those witnesses; and, whatever Wil the reason, their testimony was found ineffectual, What was the Hebrew law of evidence? mud divides all oral evidence into— 1. A vain testimony. 2. A standing testimony. 8. An adequate testimony; or (pehapé testimony of them that agree together.’ The evidence of the earlier witnesses WH0™ that night were examined seems to have aside as belonging to the first class; for ® testimony ” was not even accepted pro al retained until afterward confirmed. A “ staa® : Ba re 1 Mishna, De Synedriis, iv., 5. “ Intro vyocatis a incutiunt testibus.”—ii.. 6. 2 Ibid., v., 3,4. And see Lightfoot’s Hor. = xiv. 56. a ff we ae & ae oa ee te ss: Th in: evi sli ex] nes onl proba of th distin of gre the m quiry : all thi; . 1Un ‘Tar, me Bot * acc 2 Sah * The among t

Page 471

eres eeSERL oF Ss ee sBhGes EREREDS cbRarek aA Rees TEBE testimony,” on the other hand, was admitted in the mean time and provisionally, but not held valid until confirmed by others. To this intermediate rank attained the evidence of that witness who at length came forward to speak to the early ut- terance of Jesus about the destruction and re- building of the temple. And when following him another came, the question was at once raised whether the testimony of both did not amount to the third and complete order of evidence, known as “the testimony of them that agree together.” “But neither so,” says Mark, using the exact technical term, “ neither so did their witness agree together.”' This may undoubtedly have been a mere discrepancy in their narration of facts, THE TRIAL OF JESUS CHRIST. 467 what the indictment, upon which he stood before the council? Up to this point we have had no intimation on that subject. In modern times that would be an extraordinary state of matters. To try a man, especially for his life, without specifying beforehand the crime on which he is to be tried, is justly held to be an outrage. Some of the greatest events in English constitutional history turn on the illegality of “ general war- rants””—the illegality, that is, not of trying a man without specifying his crime—the most ar- bitrary of our kings did not venture to do that— but of even committing him for trial without specifying his accusation in the warrant of com- mittal. But we must not judge Jewish law, or, That discrepancy cannot have been great, accord- ing to our modern ideas. For Mark gives the evidence of both in one indiscriminating sentence. | And Matthew does the same in another sentence, | slightly different. Neither of them makes any explicit distinction between what the two wit- nesses said. Let us suppose that the discrepan- ey between the two (alleged by Mark) amounted | only to this, that the one said, in Matthew’s phrase, “I am able to destroy the temple of God,” and the other, “I will destroy this temple.” Itis by no means clear that even such a difference as this might not have been sufficient to aullify their testimony. For in a Hebrew criminal trial “the least discordance between the evidence of the witnesses was held to destroy its value;”* and this rule, like others, was pushed to that childish extreme which we now call Judaical. A mere | verbal distinction may have sometimes been a fatal objection in the mind of even such a judge as Caiaphas. But the evidence of men who are hot reported to have said anything extreme, but | whom the evangelists, departing from their usual reserve, distinctly call “false witnesses,” * was | probably reckless and inaccurate. And it is just possible that the variation between the reports of the two evangelists covers not a mere verbal distinction, but a substantial and serious difficulty, of great importance for the conduct of the case. For at this point we are confronted by one of the most important questions in the whole in- quiry: What was the crime for which Jesus was all this time being tried? What was the charge, . ? Unless Mark, when he says their testimonies were ov« ‘ea, means that they were not “adequate,” rather than Bot “ accordant,” _ Salvader’s “ Institutions,” i., 373. There were gradations among false witnesses as among true—especially as they were consciously or uncon- oa false. See Lightfoot on the Talmudic and techni- meaning of the word, Hor, Heb., Matthew xxvi., 60. indeed, early law of any nation, by our modern rules. Hebrew law, as we have seen, gave a pe- culiarly important position to the witnesses. I believe we shall not fully realize that position unless we remember that, at least in the earlier days of that law, the evidence of the leading wit- nesses constituted the charge. There was no other charge: no more formal indictment. Until they spoke, and spoke in the public assembly, the prisoner was scarcely an accused man. When they spoke, and the evidence of the two agreed together, it formed the legal charge, libel, or in- dictment, as well as the evidence for its truth, This, to us paradoxical but really simple and natural origin of a Hebrew criminal process, is nowhere better illustrated than in that ancient cause célébre of Naboth the Jezreelite: “ They proclaimed a fast, and set Naboth on high among the people. And there came in two men, children of Belial, and sat before him; and the men of Belial witnessed against him, even against Naboth, in the presence of the people, saying, Naboth did blaspheme God and the king. Then they carried him forth out of the city, and stoned him with stones that he died.” The essential points of a Hebrew trial for life are here given with admi- rable terseness.' But in the case of Naboth the false witnesses suborned by the Sidonian queen are represented as using the technical word, or nomen juris, of blasphemy. In the trial of Jesus the only witnesses distinctly spoken to reported a particular utterance of the accused, What crime was this utterance intended by the accusers, or the judges, to infer? There are two distinct meanings which may have been innuen- doed. According to one of them, the words, “I will destroy this temple that is made with hands, and within three days I will build another made ! See also Josephus's account of the trial of Zacharias the son of Baruch: “ De Bello Judaico,” iv., 5, 4.

Page 472

¢ 468 without hands,” may have been represented as | the voice of one come to attack the existing in- stitutions—to “ destroy the law and the prophets.” We have a most important commentary on this in the parallel accusation of Stephen a few months later: “We have heard him say, that this Jesus of Nazareth shall destroy this place, and shall change the customs which Moses delivered us.” But, according to another view, the same reported utterance—especially in the modified form of Matthew, “I am able to destroy the tem- ple of God ”—may have been intended as a charge of arrogating superhuman power. So his origi- nal auditors felt it. “ Forty-and-six years was | this temple in building, and wilt thou rear it | again in three days?” The two charges, it will | be observed, though very distinct, are not incon- | sistent. May he not have been charged both with | attempting to change the national institutions and with pretensions to miraculous power? The difficulty in this supposition is that we have been seeking in these charges for the one crime upon which Jesus was finally condemned. But, if we look more narrowly at the supposed difficulty, we may find what we have been seeking. Jesus | was finally condemned for “ blasphemy,” because | he made himself the Messiah and the Son of | God, making thus higher personal claims than | even the witnesses against him had suggested. That was the crime, therefore, toward which one of the intended accusations—that as to superhu- man power—may be held to have pointed. But | what of the other? The unexpected but satis- factory answer is, that it fell under precisely the | same legal category, or nomen juris—that of blasphemy. This might be suggested to us by the witnesses against Stephen, who describe as “blasphemous words” the deliberate utterances | of the deacon as fo the passing away of the holy | place and the law. But I believe that it will be | found there is no Hebrew category of crime under | which the attempt to supersede the old institu- tions could so naturally come as that denoted by the term blasphemy. The witnesses, therefore, may have had this somewhat in view from the beginning, as the judges almost certainly had; and it is not too soon to devote a few sentencs to the question what so important a legal word means, Blasphemy is not profanity—it is profanity which, as the name imports, strikes directly against God.' This is the original sense of the word, and it is that to which we have returned in 1 The Hebrew words seem to carry the same implica- THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. tion of verbal offense and insult. modern days. But throughout the countries of Europe, ruled by civil and canon law, b has long since taken on a secondary and eon, structive meaning. It stands in their law-books at the head of the enumeration of crimes gs “treason against the Deity,” taking precedencg even of treason against the state. And this crimen lese majestatis divine, like the crime of treason against earthly rulers, has often, under the head of constructive treason, taken great and dangerous latitude.! Now, whether it is necessary thing for ordinary nations and juris prudences to have in their statute-book suchs crime as treason against God at all, we need not inquire. One thing is certain: in the Hebpew commonwealth and under Hebrew law it was — necessary. For that commonwealth was the one pure theocracy, and all its priests, prophets, _ judges, and kings, were the mere courtiers and ministers of the invisible King, whose word was Israel's constitution and law. In such a consti. tution blasphemy, or the verbal renunciation of God, was in the proper sense high-treason; and any attempt to subvert the great institutions of his government was constructive treason. Now, neither the crime of the “false prophet” of the | true God, nor that of “the idolater” or seducer to the worship of strange gods, seems to have attained to the generality and eminence of the name of blasphemy in Jewish law. That the word was used in the age of Caiaphas to designate alleged attempts against the Divine system of ligion is certain. That it had become the proper nomen juris for all such constructive treason#l have not seen conclusively proved ; but it seems highly probable. . We cannot, therefore, hold, as has sometimes been done, that these witnesses brought forward a special and isolated charge with regard to'the temple, and that on the failure of it the coundll passed unfairly to other and disconnected count The special charge was at least in the line of the whole procedure contemplated.’ For, unless we are to become wholly unhistorical in our criticism, we must believe that the general course of this night’s proceedings was prearranged Dy the leading members of the Sanhedrim, and that they and not the witnesses really conducted the prosecution. The evidence is overw J Re 3 1 The canon law definition of blasphemy puts its omg nal meaning last, and puts first that it is ascribing 109% “ quod Illi non convenit.”’ oo 2 Exactly as the charge against Stephen was in the™ 4 of his subsequent and sudden condemnation. ie 3 John vii. 25, 30, 45; viii. 40; ix. 22; xi 47,07, Ae xxi, 23,46. Luke xx. 20, Matt. xxvi. 3, ef seg. DO 0 OO QO sceolUrhM c his lis da cie suc at tory

Page 473

RSsese oe Tu = » Fe @heee beak BlRsS ees Ress bareereeas ed by that at repeated meetings of what the fourth gospel even calls a council, and what may have been formal meetings of the acting committee of that body, the suppression, and if need be the death, of Jesus had been resolved upon. And in these preliminary proceedings it was not merely his acts as a prophet, or as an opposer of exist- ing institutions, that were deliberated upon. His claim to be the Christ, and even (as his nearer followers had long ago acknowledged him to be) the Son of God—whatever that mysterious claim might mean—had during the second part of his career! pressed heavily upon the Hebrew con- science, especially in Jerusalem. The decision alleged in the fourth gospel, “That if any man did confess that he was the Christ, he should be put out of the synagogue,” does not indeed negative that claim. It may only, as Neander holds, have reserved it for the judgment of the one competent tribunal, the great council of the nation; while it forbade all private persons, what- ever their individual views, from in the mean time publicly anticipating the solemn verdict. But it combines with innumerable other parts of the history to show the agitating questions which pressed on the minds of the judges as they listened to witness after witness in that early dawn. The evidence, all agree, was not found suffi- cient—perhaps not found “ relevant” *—to infer a conviction upon it alone. The rule of law in such a case was clear, that the accused must be at once liberated. And, even had the inculpa- tory evidence been found sufficient, the next step by the rules of the court was to call witnesses for the defense. Such a proposal would, of course, have been a mockery in a trial at such an hour, What was actually done was an at- tempt to cross-examine the accused. “ Answer- est thou nothing? What is it which these wit- bess against thee?” are the exact words of the high-priest repeated in two of the narratives. But he “ held his peace, and answered nothing.” The interrogation was unlawful. But I am not able to represent this silence as caused by indig- nation at the errors of the accusers, or the un- fairness of the judges. That the ordinary rights of every accused Hebrew had been present to the mind of Jesus we have already seen. But that * Too little studied of recent years—e. g., in both Re- nan and “ Eece Homo.” 8 Which of these is the meaning of the Hebrew word reas ‘on waprypra—an even testimony ? There seems to have been no advocate for the defense, Known as Baal-rib, or Dominus Litis.—Friedlieb, “ Ar- cheol,” $7, THE TRIAL OF JESUS CHRIST. 469 he had any expectation of escaping, or even any desire at this stage to do so, there is no evidence whatever. All the narratives combine to show that he had for some time been consciously mov- ing on to a tragical and tremendous close of his brief career. His utterances in anticipation of it during the previous weeks, and especially on the preceding day, have held the world spell- bound in each succeeding generation. A similar height of self-possession marks him at this final hour. The inaccurate or malicious recollections of what he had said three years before were noth- ing now to him. He had not come to Jerusalem to perish by a mistake ; and, if we are to fill that silence with thoughts at all, we may suppose that they had reference to the scene that now sur- rounded him. For there, at last, were gathered before him the children of the house of Israel, represented in their supreme council and great assembly. To this people he had always held himself sent and commissioned. Now, at last they have met; and all the ages of Israel’s past rise in the mind of him who stands to be judged —or to judge. At what hour the great concluding scene, so vividly described by three of the evangelists, took place, it is impossible to say.’ Plainly enough, the private and public examinations of the witnesses must have occupied a considerable time, and whether or not these had been attended by “all the council,” or a portion of its members, it is quite certain that by this time—at the point where these examinations were discontinued—a large number of the “ great Sanhedrim ” was met. The members of that body numbered seventy- one; the “little Sanhedrim,” which was probably a committee or cabinet formed out of the larger, numbered only twenty-three.” It is very possible that the smaller body may have been summoned at a somewhat earlier hour by Caiaphas, and it may be that no other ever assembled. Still the narratives rather suggest that the great council, which alone could at this time try a man for his life, and which alone could at any time judge a prophet,’ was also called. Let us concede to the language of the evangelists that so much of the 1“They say their phylacteries,” says the Talmud Berachoth, i., 2), “from the first daylight to the third hour,” at which last time the “lesser Sanhedrim™ could meet, while the greater sat only “ after the daily morning sacrifice."— Maimonides on ch. De Synedriis, tii. Luke seems to fix the first daylight as the time when they | actually did “lead him into their council "—the arraign- ment. 2 Mishna, De Synedriis, i. 6. The quorum of the San- hedrim was twenty-three, %“ Tribus, pseudo-prophetes, sacerdos magnus, non

Page 474

470 law was observed. We must, in that case, imag- ine the council as sitting in the hall Gazith, half within and half without the holy place.’ The seats were placed in a circle, and half of the seventy sat on the right and half on the left of the president or Nasi, who, on this occasion, was the High-Priest Caiaphas, At his one hand sat the “father of the court,” at the other the “save.” Two scribes waited at the table to record the sentence: two officers guarded the prisoner, who stood in front of the president. Among the semicircular crowd of judges, Caia- phas and his friends represented the great Sad- ducean element. The Sadducees, as rationalists, had no particular enmity to Jesus, over and above their general distaste for the introduction of the divine as an element in human affairs. But, as the aristocratic and official party, they were most keenly alive to the disorganization which that element often produces, and were always disposed to suppress it before it had got to a dangerous length. The previous appeal of the high-priest to the sa/us popuwli as overriding all individual claims of right—** Ye know nothing at all, nor consider that it is expedient for us that one man die for the people, and that the whole nation perish not”—was one full of rea- son. His plan seems to have been founded on a just and sound view of the temper of his own nation and of the Roman authorities, a clear- sighted and comprehensive view, omitting no ele- ment that ought to be taken into account, ez- cept the existence of God and his nearness to men. But in the working out of that plan a certain exasperation must by this time have mingled with the calm determination to get rid of a saintly fellow-citizen. The Pharisees, on the other hand, were an equally large part of the council, and their patriotic and religious feel- ings had originally been far more appealed to by the preaching of Jesus. But the inward strug- gle which had certainly preceded their rejection of his claims had caused that rejection to be fol- lowed, according to the ordinary laws of human nature, by a growing hostility, which by this time was a very active hatred. It was they, the zeal- ots of the council, who, no doubt, took the initia- tive in the extraordinary and tumultuous scene which closed the sitting. During the later exam- ination of witnesses Jesus had been silent; but the thought of his Messianic and divine claim pressed upon his judges with overwhelming nisi a septuaginta et unius judicum consessu judicantur.” —Mishna, De Synedrias, i., 5. 1 But see Lightfoot and others. THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. force, and broke out at last into passionate uttep, ance. The discrepancy between the evangelists at this point only brings out the whole scene more historically. “Art thou the Christ? tg us,” they cried ; and the irrepressible exclam. tions of the judicial crowd described in one gos. pel were only put an end to by the solemn adja. ration of their president, recorded in another, To the eager and hostile questions of the coun. cil, Jesus answered at first in a twofold utter ance: “IfI tell you, ye will not believe.” - Wag he thinking sadly of their forgotten duty to weigh his claims, and of a result to himself, or to them? But he adds: “ And if I also ask you,” ashehad done a few days before in the temple, when they had demanded his authority, “if I, instead, put my questions to you, ye will not answer me, and ye will not release” your prisoner. It was true; but the council was long past being turned from its purpose by the reference which, I think, these words again have to judicial fairness and the or. der of justice. They saw in his face the lightof that more than earthly claim which his lips only for a few moments delayed to make ; and witha mixture of terrible and hateful emotions starting to their feet, “Then said they all, Art thou, then, the Son of God?” But above that crowd of aged and evil faces was now seen rising the High Priest of Israel, and all voices sunk away as the chief magistrate and judge of the sacred nation demanded, in the name of the God whose office he bore, an answer to his most solemn adjuration, “T adjure thee by the living God, that thow tél us whether thou be the Christ, the Son of the Blessed!” It was the question for which mea had waited so long; and now the answer came, “T am,” the Christ, the Son of God: and, tum ing to the crowd who sat in their places of power around him, he added, “ Hereafter shall ye seethe Son of man sitting on the right hand of power, and coming in the.clouds of heaven.” When® king declared himself in Israel, the manner Wa that he stood in the temple by a pillar, and the people of the land receiving him rejoiced with hosanna and song, with palm-branch and. with trumpet. And if this was the manner of s king how should the King-Messiah be received? But when a man blasphemed the name of God, the ordinance in Israel was that every man W® — heard it should rend his garment from the top” downward—rend it into two parts which might again never be sewed into one. And scarcely bad Jesus witnessed his confession before toe” “ many witnesses,” when the high-priest, stam — ing in his place, rent his clothes, saying? z hath | we of blasp swere death be gu So are v¢ main ness ¢ judici Nothii this. no on is a fi nora, he sa} the ac forma! and tl Assur come | Sanhe tion? ber th phemy sult to 800, 01 In the words erence go on | questic be the it was. was thi tremen a false were tr of the proved sion co Messial was as ! The the accu usual wa “De Ju other tre linus’s T ? Mis tenent \ phete va “ Notre Taceusé.’ sort ofthe M Phemus,

Page 475

THE TRIAL OF JESUS CHRIST. 471 hath spoken blasphemy ; what further need have | every reformer, and of every prophet ; though an we of witnesses? Behold, now ye have heard his | answer in the affirmative was held to be the most blasphemy. What think ye?” And they an swered and said, “He is Iso Maveru—a man of death.” . . . “Then they all condemned him to be guilty of death.” So passed that great condemnation. There | are very few points with regard to it which re- main to be noticed. One relates to the lawful- | ness of the high-priest’s adjuration, and to the judicial use of the confession of the accused.' | Nothing can be clearer than the Talmudists on | this, “Our law,” says Maimonides, “ condemns | no one to death upon his own confession.” “It is a fundamental principle with us,” says Barte- nora, “ that no one can damage himself by what | he says in judgment.” Putting the question to the accused was therefore the last violation of formal justice. Still, the question has been put, and the answer has been given. Quid juris? | Assuming that the claim made by Jesus had | come in the same form, but lawfully, before the Sanhedrim, were they shut up to this condemna- tion? In answering this we have first to remem- | ber the distinctions already taken between blas- phemy, in its simple meaning of profanity or in- | sult to God, and blasphemy as equivalent to trea- , son, overt or constructive, against the theocracy. | In the former sense there was no case here. The words of the great accused were full of fMflial rev- | erence for the Father. We have, therefore, to | goon to the latter sense, and to face the grave | question, Was it high treason in a Jew to claim to be the Messias, the Son of God? Most certainly it was—unless it was true. And if blasphemy was the proper word by which to designate so tremendously audacious a claim, then was such a false claim also blasphemous. But what if it were true? In such a case the falsehood was of the essence of the crime, and had to be proved or assumed before the judicial conclu- sion could be reached. The mere claim to be the Messiah was no crime. “ Art thou the Cbrist ?” was asked continually, of John, of Jesus, of ' The adjuration was of course equivalent to putting the accused upon oath, and indeed seems to have been the usual way in which that was done. ee Selden’s chapter | “De Juramentis” in his book on Sanhedrims, and the other treatises on the same subject in vol. xxvi. of Ugo- linus's Thesaur's, * Mishna, De Synedriis, vi. 2, note. So Cocceius: “Ita tenent Magistri, neminem ex propria confessione aut pro- | phet# vaticinio esse neci dandum.” And even Salvador: | “Notre loi ne condamne jamais sur le simple aveu de Taceusé,” Of blasphemy in this proper sense, the cautious rule | ofthe Mishna must be understood : “ Nemo tenetur blas- | phemus, nisi expressit nomen,”—De Synedriia, vii. 5, daring claim that human lips could frame. What relation indeed the Messiah of the Jews was sup- posed to have to their unseen King, and how far the dignity, not unknown to that age, of “ Son of God,” could freely be applied to the expected Christ, are questions on which vast learning has been expended. We shall equally err if we sup- pose that these words had in their ears all the meaning with which subsequent theology has in- vested them, or if we forget that the purpose and bearing of the accused gave them, on this last as | on previous occasions, a unique and divine sig- | . _ nificance. But the twofold clainm—made seem- ingly in response to the grouping of the two ideas (Art thou “ the Christ, the Son of God ?”’) by the high-priest himself—could never release a He brew tribunal from the duty of weighing a claim to Messiahship. The proper response of an un- believing judge, like Caiaphas, when his adjura- | tion was answered by confession, was, “‘ What ' sign shewest thou then, that we may see and be- lieve thee?” And when instead he rent his clothes, with the words, “ What need ye further witnesses ?’’ it was either the preconcerted plan by which to terminate the whole semblance of judicial procedure, or, perkaps, a sudden inspira- tion of evil, spoken a second time not wholly of himself, in a moment when the ¢old, hard, cruel thoughts, which had so long smouldered in the unjust judge, blazed up at the touch of confront- ing righteousness into final and murderous par- oxysm, We pass next to the Roman tribunal. But our conclusion on the question of Hebrew law | must be this: that a process begun, continued, and apparently finished, in the course of one night ; with witnesses against the accused who were sought for by the judges, but whose evidence was not sustained even by them; commencing with interrogatories which Hebrew law does not sanction, and ending with a demand for confes- sion which its doctors expressly forbid; all fol- lowed, twenty-four hours too soon, by a sentence which described a claim to be the fulfiller of the hopes of Israel as blasphemy—that such a pro- cess had neither the form nor the fairness of a judicial trial. But though it wanted judicial fairness and form, it may nevertheless have been a real and important transaction, There is no reason to think that the council mistook the claim of Jesus. And there is every reason to be- lieve that their condemnation truly expressed the nation’s rejection of his claim.—Conlemporary Review.

Page 476

‘ 472 THE POPULAR SCIENCE VITAL HOUGH we have not the slightest concep- tion of what life is in itself, and consequent- ly could not define it, we may, for the sake of convenience, think of it in this paper as some kind of force. “In the wonderful story,” says Prof. Huxley, in his “ Lay Sermons,” “of the ‘Peau de Cha- grin,’ the hero becomes possessed of a magical wild ass’s skin, which yields him the means of gratifying all his wishes. But its surface repre- sents the duration of the proprictor’s life; anc, for every satisfied desire, the skin shrinks in proportion to the intensity of fruition, until at length life and the last handbreadth of the peau de chagrin disappear with the gratification of a last wish, Protoplasm or the physical basis of life is a veritable peau de chagrin, and for every vital act it is somewhat the smaller, All work implies waste, and the work of life results, direct- ly or indirectly, in the waste of protoplasm. Every word uttered by a speaker costs him some physical loss ; and, in the strictest sense, he burns that others may have light—so much eloquence, so much of his body resolved into carbonic acid, water, and urea. It is clear that this process of expenditure cannot go on forever. But, happily, the protoplasmic peau de chagrin differs in its capacity of being repaired and brought back to its full size, after every exertion. For example, this present lecture is conceivably expressible by the number of grains of protoplasm and other bodily substance wasted in maintaining my vital process during its delivery. My peau de chagrin will be distinctly smaller at the end of the dis- course than it was at the beginning. By-and-by I shall have recourse to the substance commonly called mutton, for the purpose of stretching it back to its original size.” This explanation may be very philosophical, but it is only a roundabout way of saying that, within reasonable bounds, we can recover the effects of exhaustion by proper food and rest; which, as a fact, people are pretty well acquainted with. The error to be avoided is, in any shape, to make such a pull on the constitution as to be beyond the reach of recovery. Life-force, or call it protoplasm, is an inherent quantity not to be heedlessly wasted; and this truth becomes more apparent the older we grow. Why is one man greater, in the sense of being more powerful Because he knows how to get than another? MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. FORCE. out of himself a greater amount of work with less waste of life-force. We see from experience that the more men have todo the more they can do. And this pare. dox is only reasonable, for it is the necessity of great work that forces upon us systematic habits, and teaches us to economize the power that is ig us, With the cares of an empire on their shouk ders, prime-ministers can make time to write novels, Homeric studies, anti-papal pamphlets, It is the busy-idle man who never loses an oppor tunity of assuring you that “he has nct a moment in the day to himself, and that really he has no time to look round him.” Of course idle people have ' no time to spare, because they have never learned how to save the odd minutes of the day, and be cause their vital energy is expended in fuss rather than in work. “Te hath no leisure,” says George Herbert, “who useth it not ;” that is to say, he who does not save time for his work when he can is always in a hurry. One of the most sublime concep. tions of the Deity we can form is, that He is never idle and never in a hurry. The following words from a newspaper de scription of the sublime calmness of power mani fested by the huge hydraulic crane used to lift Fraser’s celebrated eighty-one ton gun, we take as our type of the powerful man who knows how to economize his vital force instead of wasting it by fussing: “Is there not something sublime im an hydraulic crane which lifts a Titanic engine of destruction weighing eighty-one tons to a com siderable height above the pier, with as noiseless! a calm and as much absence of apparent stress or strain as if it had been a boy-soldier’s pop-gua? When we further read of the hydraulic monster holding up its terrible burden motionless in mid- air until it is photographed, and then lowering: it gently and quietly on a sort of extemporized’ cradle without the least appearance of difficulty, one can readily understand that the mental im pression produced on the bystanders must have been so solemn as to manifest itself in most elo quent silence.” With the same freedom from, excitement and difficulty does the strong man who saves his force for worthy objects raise MP morally and physically depressed nations, take cities, or, what is harder to do still, rule his ow® It is the fashion nowadays to say that people are killed or turned into lunatics by Ove ie A spirit. : work, compl vital f man a pressu indole trance action. We ne did ne was 0c place \ he did inventi found, doing | And w a too-e that th able th idleness them u: there a ness ths by over to order health. Let which w has bee! the brig a thousa habit th: those w pondene that any great sti be char: America silly it se have acq become | room anc because | cause sor to the hi, As if it should ga rage, tha actly to t One ¢ him when of life; h But,” he just enter

Page 477

<a VITAL FORCE. 473 work, and no doubt there is much truth in the | myself a little past it!” How is it that such complaint. Nevertheless, it would seem that vital force is wasted almost as much by the idle man as by him who overworks himself, at high- pressure for the purpose of “ getting on.” It is indolence which exhausts, by allowing the en- trance of fretful thoughts into the mind; not action, in which there is health and pleasure. We never knew a man without a profession who did not seem always to be busy. It may be he was occupied in worrying about the dinner or the place where he should spend his holiday—which he did not work for—in correcting his wife, in inventing pleasures, and abusing them when found, in turning the house upside down by doing little jobs foolishly supposed to be useful. And women, too, when stretched on the rack of a too-easy chair, are they not forced to confess that there is as much vital force required to en- able them to endure the “ pains and penalties of idleness,” as would, if rightly directed, render them useful, and therefore happy ? The fact is, there are far more who die of selfishness and idle- ness than of overwork, for where men break down by overwork it is generally from not taking care to order their lives and obey the physical laws of health. Let us consider a few of the many ways in which we waste the stuff that life is made of. It has been well said that “ the habit of looking on the bright side of things is worth far more than a thousand pounds a year;” and certainly it is a habit that must add many years to the lives of those who acquire it. Really every fit of des- pondency and every rage takes so much out of us that any one who indulges in either without a great struggle to prevent himself doing so should be characterized as little less than—to use an American expression—“a fearful fool.” How silly it seems, even to ourselves, after cooling, to have acquired a nervous headache, and to have become generally done up, stamping round the room and showing other signs of foolish anger, because the dinner was five minutes late, or be- cause some one’s respect for us did not quite rise t» the high standard measured by our egotism! As if it were not far more important that we should save our vital energy, and not get into a rage, than that the dinner should be served ex- actly to the moment. One day a'friend of Lord Palmerston asked him when he considered a man to be in the prime of life; bis immediate reply was “ seventy-nine. But,” he added, with a playful smile, “as I have Just entered into my eightieth year, perhaps I am

men work on vigorously to the end? Because they treasure their ever-diminishing vital force. They studiedly refrain from making a pull on the constitution. Reaching the borders of seventy years of age, they as good as say to themselves, “We must now take care what we are about.” Of course, they make sacrifices, avoid a number of treacherous gayeties, and, living simply, they perhaps give some cause of offense, for the world does not approve of singularity. But let those laugh who win. They hold the censorious obser- vations of critics in derision, and maintain the even tenor of their way. In other words, they conserve their vital force, and try to keep above- ground as long as possible. Blustering natures forgetful of the great truth that “ power itself hath not one-half the might of gentleness,” miss the ends for which they strive just because the force that is in them is not properly economized. Then as regards temper: any man who allows that to master him wastes as much energy as would enable him to remove the cause of anger or overcome an opponent. The little boy of eight years old who, in the country, is often seen driv- ing a team of four immense dray-horses, is one of the innumerable instances of the power of reason over mere brute-force, which should in- duce violent tempers to become caim from policy, if from no higher motive. ae. Many people squander their life's energy by not living enough in the present. They enjoy themselves badly and work badly, because they are either regretting mistakes committed in the past, or anticipating future sorrows. Now, cer- tainly no waste of force is so fooli=h as this, be- cause if our our mistakes are curable, the same energy would counteract their bad effects as we expend in regretting ; and, if they are incurable, why think any more about them? None buta child cries over spilt milk. The mischief is done, and let it be forgotton, only taking care for the future. Sometimes people keep fretting about troubles that may never take place, and spend life's energy on absolutely nothing. Real worry from torturations of various sorts is quite enough, and causes a greater draught on our vital force than hard work, Let us not, therefore, aggravate matters by anticipations of troubles that are little better than visionary. In looking ahead, it is of immense importance not to enter into any transaction in which there are wild risks of cruel disaster. There we touch on the grand worry of the age—a violent haste to get rich! Who shall say how much the un-

Page 478

474 THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT, naturally rapid heart-beats with which rash spec- ulators in shares in highly-varnished but &treme- ly doubtful undertakings receive telegraphic mes- sages of bad or good fortune must use up their life’s force? Hearts beating themselves to death! Rushing to trains, jumping up-stairs, eating too fast, going to work before digestion has been completed—these are habits acquired naturally in days when it is the fashion to live at high-pressure ; but such habits are surely not unavoidable, and would be avoided if we thor- oughly valued our vital force. There are persons of a nervous temperament who seem to be always upon wires. Nature has given them energy ; but their physique is in many cases inadequate to supply the demands made | upon it. The steam is there, but the boiler is too weak. Duke d’Alva, according to Fuller, must have been of this nature. “ He was one of a lean body and visage, as if his eager soul, biting for anger at the clo of his body, desired to fret a passage through it.” The same thought was | wittily expressed by Sydney Smith, when he ex- | claimed : “ Why, look there, at Jeffrey ; and there is my little friend ——, who has not body enough to cover his mind decently with; his intellect is improperly oxposed.” Now, these are just the sort of people who should not kill themselves, for, though wrapped in small parcels, they are good goods. They owe it asa duty to themselves and others not to allow their fiery souls “ to fret their pygmy bodies to decay ”—not to throw too much zeal into trifles, in order that they may have a supply of life-foree for things important. He who desires to wear well must take for his motto “Nothing in excess.” Such a one, as we have had occasion more than once to urge, avoids din- ners of many courses, goes to bed before twelve o'clock, and does not devote his energy to the endurance of overheated assemblies. When young men around him have got athletics on the brain, he keeps his head and health by exercising only moderately. He is not ambitious of being in an- other’s place, but tries quietly to adorn his own. “Give me innocence; make others great!” | | | | When others are killing themselves to get money, and to get it quickly, that with it they may make a show, he prays the prayer of Agur, “ Give me neither poverty nor riches,” for he thinks more of the substance than of the shadow. This is the truly wise and successful man, and to him shalf a be given, by the divine laws of Nature, riches “ (that is, contentment) and honor (that is, self.re. exceed spect), and a long life, because he did not waste seemin the steam by which the machine was worked, In Ignora homely proverb, “ he kept his breath to cool his dinary porridge,” and most probably was a disciple of and set Izaak Walton. neither At this point, perhaps, the secret thoughts of of it Hi some who have not yet learned how “ it is alto. will cle gether a serious matter to be alive,” may take ber of this shape: “ What, after all,” they may ask, them o “is the good of economizing life’s force? Often conceal I hardly know what to do with myself, nor have Basion I much purpose in life beyond eating, drinking, in whic and sleeping.” To such thoughts we should give or by s¢ somewhat of the following answer: There isa hundred work for every single person in the world, and his ing and happiness as well as his duty lies in doing that - we work well. This is a consideration which should ie communicate a zest to our feelings about life, bet We should rejoice, as experience teaches us, that i =n each of us has the means of being useful, and sy thus of being happy. None is left out, however lg humble may be our position and limited our fae gpg ulties, for we all can do our best; and though hae | success may not be ours, it is enough if we have ye ae deserved it. Certainly, if there be any purpose kind of in the universe, a day will come when we shall oll individu: have to answer such questions as these: “You r on , , : Starting were given a certain amount of life-force; what Siieie te have you done with it? Where are your works? te deca Did you try to make the little corner in which that you were placed happier and better than it was = before you came into it?” It is said that Queen ‘ Elizabeth, when dying, exclaimed, “ My kingdom in “a for a moment!” and one day we shall all Pd ai nothing so valuable as the smallest amount 0 i. “~ | that force without which we cannot live—Chate by the i bers’s Journal. ea many per carried ay Promised, part of r —fools. useful, ] compreh mar S. Re es in absurd must take We hi & perusal ism, Spiri

Page 479

a ee oS PREDOMINANT DELUSIONS. 475 PREDOMINANT DELUSIONS. EEING is believing! Such is an old saw, not usually called in question, and yet it is exceedingly fallacious. A great many phenomena seemingly true by the eyesight are not true at all. Ignorance and prejudice have led to very extraor- dinary mistakes, We speak of the sun rising and setting, because it appears to do so, but it neither sets nor rises. The earth turns in front of it like a roast turning before a fire. A conjurer will clearly show you that he will bring any num- ber of egzs out of an empty hat. He only brings them out of his sleeve, where they were cunningly concealed. And so on with a great many other illusions, all seemingly fair and above-board, but in which we are imposed on either by our senses, or by some fallacy in reasoning. Less than two hundred years ago, courts of justice were hang- ing and burning thousands of old women for be- ing witches—all on a sort of evidence which in the present day would only be laughed at. The world now knows better than believe such trash, but it took a Jong time to learn; and even yet this highly-experienced and much-complimented world occasionally falls into the most absurd erazes; or perhaps we should more correctly say, there are large numbers of tolerably edu- cated but credulous people, who, with a taste for the wonderful, are ever ready to believe in any kind of nonsense that turns up. These worthy individuals are, of course, not without excuse. Starting with the principle that there may be forces in Nature which science has as yet failed to disclose, we should be cautious in asserting that any particular phenomenon that seems in- comprehensible is a result of mere illusion or im- posture. Let every mysterious demonstration, they say, be impartially inquired into. Quite correct. The misfortune, however, is, that before the mat- ters in question have been examined impartially by the light of science, the craze gets ahead, and many persons, weakly allowing themselves to be carried away by their feelings, get painfully com- promised, and are by the more cool and cautious part of mankind set down as little better than —fools. Very hard! But the warning offered is useful. If people of good standing will believe in absurdities without proper examination, they must take the consequences. We have been led to make these remarks by ® perusal of the lately-issued work, “ Mesmer- ism, Spiritualism, ete., historically and scientifi- cally considered,” by Dr. W. B. Carpenter. In this ably-written and eminently readable small volume, the author brings to bear a long experi- ence in scientifie inquiry into the popular crazes and impostures of the last forty years, beginning with mesmerism and table-turning, and ending with spiritualism in the several shapes it has as- sumed. We commend the book to the serious consideration of the credulous, Tracing the his- tory of marvels of different kinds, Dr. Carpenter states that the whole has been “a long succession of epidemic delusions, the form of which has changed from time to time, while their essential nature has remained the same throughout; and that the condition which underlies them all is the subjection of the mind to a dominant idea, There is a constitutional tendency in many minds to be seized by some strange notion, which takes entire possession of them ; so that all the actions of the individual ‘ thus possessed ’ are results of its oper- ation.” Placed on this footing, the predominant delusion, be it a belief in witchcraft, mesmerism, or spiritualism, is a kind of monomaniacal frenzy. An absurd idea has got possession of the indi- vidual, and no reasoning with him to the contrary will have any effect in driving it out. He will ab- solutely get out of temper if his fanciful notions are so much as questioned. Usually the mono- mania spreads ; and the more who suffer them- selves to be affected the keener and more demon- strative does the delusion become. Certain fran- tic religious ferments in past and recent times have been due to nothing else than strange con- tagious influences, of which, after a time, when passion has subsided, all are pretty well ashamed, and fain to stifle out of disagreeable remem- brance. We happen to have seen several of these prevalent crazes, droll in some respects, but very pitiable. After such mental disturbances, things, happily, shake themselves right at last, and all goes on as usual. The fever has sub- sided. Often able and estimable men suffer them- selves to be affected by the prevailing craze, and lead on others as imitators. It is now about forty years since, when, by invitation to a friend’s house, we were present at an evening séance, in which an eminent professor at one of our univer- sities entertained the company with what he con- fidently believed to be mesmeric experiments, such as sending persons to sleep, or rendering

Page 480

476 THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. them temporarily mute, by bidding them “ tie | shows how clairvoyants have imposed on publig their tongue.” Here was a man skilled in a ; assemblies by tricks which could be scen through branch of physical science, but of eager tempera- | by skeptical observers, Miss Martineau, ag jg ment, and with a rage for novelty, lending him- | well known, had a profound belief in the marvelg self indiscreetly to certain popular delusions | of mesmerism, This lady had 2 servant, J—,to which bad originated in the crazed fancy of a | whom were imputed wonderful powers of clairvoy. charlatan. Mesmeric experiments of this sort | ance. On one occasion, while in the mesmerie were for a time a favorite amusement. They re- | sleep, she gave “ the particulars of the wreck of minded us of the superstition in the old legends, | vessel, of which her cousin was one of the crew; in which “ glamour” is said to have been cast | as also of the previous loss of a boy overboard; over weak-minded individuals. This ancient ! with which particulars, it was positively affirmed glamour consisted in producing, by looks and gest- | by Miss Martineau, and believed by many on her ures, a negation of self-assertion, The operator | authority, that the girl could not have been pre threw the patient into a kind of spellbound or | viously informed, as her aunt had only brought dreamy condition without any power of correct the account to the house when the séance wag reasoning. It was the conquest of the strong | nearly terminated. On being asked, says Miss and resolute will over the weak and irresolute, , Martineau, two evenings afterward, when again in through the effects of a kind of jugglery. | sleep, ‘whether she knew what she related by Mesmeric sleep, as it is called, is ordinarily hearing her aunt telling the people below,’ J-—— produced by seemingly mystic passes of the | replied: ‘No; I saw the place and the people hands, and an intense concentration of looks on themselves—like a vision.’ And Miss Martinean the eyes of the person operated upon. In it | believed her.” After all, the girl was proved to there is nothing marvelous, Dr. Carpenter ex- | be an impostor. A medical friend, on makings plains that it “ corresponds precisely in character | rigorous investigation, discovered “ unequivoeally with what is known in medicine as ‘hysteric | that J ’s aunt had told the whole story te coma ;’ the insensibility being as profound while her sister, in whose house Miss Martineau was it lasts as in the coma of narcotic poisoning, or | residing, about three hours before the stance; pressure on the brain, but coming on and passing | and that, though J. was not then in the off with such suddenness as to show that it is | room, the circumstances were fully discussed in dependent upon some transient condition of the | her presence before she was summoned to the sensorium, which, with our present knowledge, | mesmeric performance. Thus not only was we can pretty certainly assign to a reduction in | J completely discredited as a seer, but the supply of blood, caused by a sort of spas- | the value of all testimony to such marvels was modic contraction of the blood-vessels.” This | seriously lowered when so intelligent a witnessas explanation, on a physiological basis, considera- | Harriet Martineau could be so completely led bly reduces the mystic character of those mes- | astray by her prepossessions as to put forth state meric marvels in which the late Dr. Elliotson in- | ments as facts, which were at once upset by the dulged at his public séances in Conduit Street. | careful inquiry which she ought to have made It does not, however, as we imagine, detract from | before committing herself to them.” the medical value that may be attached to the A preconceived determination or proneness calming of the nervous system by what is spoken to believe in the reality of any seeming marvel of as mesmeric sleep. Mr. Braid, a practising | without any other evidence than the senses, goes surgeon in Manchester, ingeniously fell on the de- | a great way to explain the stories that are fondly vice of producing a profound mesmeric slumber | cherished by the dupes of spiritualism, The ef by simply causing individuals to fix their gaze de- ‘ror lies in takmg things for granted, At om terminedly at a cork stuck at the top of their time people were all agog as to the wonders of nose, It was not surprising that people should | table-turning, and it is amusing to remember how have been lulled by being subjected to this species | the wonder was speedily exploded by the appli of hypnotism. Ordinary sleep may in most in- | ances suggested by Faraday. He concl stances be induced by keeping the lower extrem- | showed that the operators, however honest, Ul ities perfectly still, and determinedly fixing atten- , consciously exerted a muscular action, causing tion on the act of breathing through the nostrils. the table to turn in the direction previously com Speaking from experience, we offer this as a hint ceived. The whole thing was a curious piece @ to the habitually sleepless. | self-deception. Dupes of spiritualistic mam In the amusing book before us, the author ators are similarly self-deceived. They go a _ ee: ances ble m: come stead a con ists hi effecte and © All turnin, planch dowed sisting which on pap said to the ope hands, as requ or une¢ the bo: get ans animate sorted 1 ism; ar spectac men si to hold world, Just branch | to be es very mu séances j Most pat wonders would h; convictic ure, and Td add t their tri “ Lights Home, w among th Operatior As show:

Page 481

PREDOMINANT DELUSIONS. ances in the fond hope of seeing incomprehensi- ble marvels by “ mediums ” and table-rappers, and come away believing that all has been real, in- stead of being only tricks worthy or unworthy of a conjurer. Certainly, at no séance of spiritual- ists have the performances excelled the wonders effected by those adepts in conjuring, Maskelyne and Cooke. Although exploded and discredited, table- turning has latterly come up in the new form of planchette, a fashionable toy alleged to be en- dowed with singularly mystic qualities. Con- sisting of a small and easily-moved board, in which a pencil is stuck with the point downward on paper or slate laid on a table, the machine is said to be capable of answering questions put to the operator who presses on the board with his hands, No doubt, the pencil will write answers as required, but it does so only by the conscious or unconscious muscular action of the hands on the board. This weak device of pretending to get answers to questions by the agency of an in- animate piece of wood and a pencil, has been re- sorted to by real or sham believers in spiritual- ism; and we are presented with the melancholy spectacle of decent-looking ladies and gentle- men sitting gravely round a table, affecting to hold a conversation with beings in the unseen world, Just as mesmerism lost its reputation as a branch of psychology, so has spiritualism begun to be estimated at its true value. It was always very much against it, that its professors held their séances in darkened apartments, and that for the most part they took money for the display of their wonders. The thing became a trade, and so it would have continued but for the prosecution and conviction of persons who stood guilty of impost- ure, and of taking money under false pretenses, To add to the discomfiture of trading spiritualists, their tricks have been exposed in the book, “Lights and Shadows of Spiritualism,” by D. D. Home, who, however, lets it be known that he is among the few genuine professors of the art whose operations are alleged to be beyond suspicion ! As shown by Dr, Carpenter, deception is not con- 477 fined to those who practise for gain. He speaks of young ladies who take pleasure in imposing on elderly persons by tricks of an ingenious kind, “T could tell,” says he, “the particulars, in my possession, of the detection of the imposture practised by one of the most noteworthy of these lady-mediums, in the distribution of flowers which she averred to be brought in by the ‘ spirits’ ina dark séance, fresh from the garden and wet with the dew of heaven; these flowers having really been previously collected in a basin up-stairs, and watered out of a decanter standing by—as was proved by the fact that an inquisitive skeptic having furtively introduced into the water of the decanter a small quantity of a nearly colorless salt (ferrocyanide of potassium), its presence in the dew of the flowers was afterward recognized by the appropriate chemical test (a per-salt of iron), which brought out ‘ Prussian-blue,’ ” Other instances are presented of deceptions practised in private séances ; but for these and much that illustrates the whole tenor of the de- lusion, we must refer to the work itself. We re- strict ourselves to quoting only one, but a very pertinent remark ; “ It is affirmed, such exposures prove nothing against the genuineness of any new manifestation. But I affirm that to any one ac- customed to weigh the value of evidence, the fact that the testimony in favor of a whole series of antecedent claims has been completely upset, seriously invalidates (as I have shown in regard to mesmeric clairvoyance) the trustworthiness of the testimony in favor of any new claimant to ‘occult’ powers, Why should I believe the tes- timony of any believer in the genuineness of D’s performances, when he has been obliged to admit that he has been egregiously deceived in the cases of A, B, and C?” For this instructive and admirably written work, offering a lucid philosophical explanation of the source of predominant delusions, which are apt to be turned to a bad account by the de- signing, and are in every sense mischievous, as conveying erroneous notions of natural phenom- ena, the learned author deserves the hearty thanks of the community.— Chambers’s Journal.

Page 482

478 CURIOSITIES OF THE VOICE. OME years ago, a delightfully interesting book was written by Sir Charles Bell on “The Hu- man Hand.” There might be fully as interesting a work written on the mechanism of the human voice, in which would be equally demonstrated the power, wisdom, and goodness of the Creator. We offera few observations on the subject. Until recently there were mysteries difficult to explain concern- ing the wonderful inflections in the voice. Now, it is thoroughly understood how words are pro- duced, and how the throat is able to send forth a wide variety 6f charming notes in singing. We begin by mentioning that Dr. Mandl has devoted himself to the study of the organs of speech, and from his work on “The Larynx” we give some interesting particulars. Investigators have long been occupied with researches ; but, until they had seen the larynx of a living being, one thing only was proved—that the voice was formed in the glottis. For fifty years of this century they were trying by mirrors and other appliances to examine the interior of this organ, but without results, Suddenly an inspiration came into the head of a celebrated singer, whose name awakens charming remembrances among old amateurs. This was M. Manuel Garcia. Ignorant of all the trouble which surgeons had taken in order to ob- serve the movements of the throat in the act of singing, he conceived the idea of looking at him- self. By the help of two mirrors, the one reflect- ing the image on to the other, he saw. the whole of his larynx depicted. In ecstasy before the glass, he determined to pursue the accidental discovery which had been so long dreamed of. But the autumn had set in, and the sun’s rays, which were necessary to success, did not lend their aid. London with its fogs forced him to try artificial light, the results of which were un- successful, and therefore he could only profit by fine days; yet he soon recognized how isolated sounds were produced. In 1855 the Royal So- ciety received some communications from him on these curious studies. The subject was at once taken up with great activity, especially in Vienna, where success was far from equaling the hopes of the doctors. The caprices of solar light and the defects of artificial threw them into a state of despair. By all means they must improve their mirrors. Czermak, the Professor of Physiology at Pesth, taking an ex- ample from the instrument used in examining the THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. eye, the ophthalmoscope, had recourse to a con. cave mirror which concentrated the light. From this time there was no difficulty but to perfect the lenses. Czermak, having acquired great skill in the use of his laryngoscope, visited the pring. pal cities of Germany, where his demonstrations deeply interested surgeons and physiologists, He was warmly received in Paris in 1860, where he showed not only the whole length of his larynx, but also the interior of the trachea or windpipe as far as its bifurcation; a spectace truly astonishing to those who witness it for the * first time. It is not possible to examine theo gan of the voice with the same facility in ally man must have had some experience before he can do it. y A slight sketch of this organ will perhaps make the subject clearer. From the breast there rises to the middle of the neck the passage for the air between the lungs and the mouth; atone end it is divided into numerous branches, called the bronchial tubes; at the upper end, like the capital of a column, is seen the larynx, resembling an angular box; strong cartilages make it very resistent ; and the interior is lined with a mucous membrane forming folds, named the vocal lips, These separate, lengthen, or shorten, in the form tion of various sounds. The largest of the four cartilages rises in an annular form, and protects the whole structure. It is but slightly shown ia the neck of the female, but strongly marked inthe man, and is popularly called Adam’s apple. Like everything else, the larynx presents in i differences : a fine development is an indication of a powerful voice ; as the child grows up there is a sudden alteration and increase of size; butt always remains smaller in the woman than in the man ; the angles are less sharp, the muscles wet er, the cartilages thinner and more supple, which accounts for the sharp, treble notes im voices. Singing demands a different kind of activityin the organs from speaking. In society, where edt cation requires a submission to rule, singing B® longs to the domain of art; but, in a Pp’ .. state, all nations have theirsongs. Musical 4 drives away weariness, lessens fatigue, detaga@ the mind from the painful realities of life,am braces up the courage to meet danger. march to their war-songs; the laborer tening to a joyous carol. In the solitary ¢ 4 Pa the ne some | is rais chant. re regula: in sing should short | longed and rel artiste standin emits, tiplied, tion of formed the voi cannot Profess positior themse! It is gins by changes and hig issues, orifice | two ext lips apr orifice i are sow! line, T stretch and mo: a smalle higher | ful, but The about t easily b Teach t! three a1 of this who hea and inte been pr voice of at last | In gener culture ; Warbles passes | glory an the fame

Page 483

the needle-woman accompanies her work with some love-ditty ; and in divine worship the heart js raised above earthly things by the solemn chant. A strong physical constitution, and a perfect regularity in the functions of the organs used in singing, are inappreciable advantages. They should be capable of rendering an inspiration short and easy, the expiration slow and pro- longed; there is a struggle between retaining and releasing the air, and with the well-endowed artiste the larynx preserves its position, notwith- standing the great variety of sounds which it emits. But the evolutions of the parts are mul- tiplied, the vocal lips vibrate, and the configura- tion of the cavity modifies the sounds which are formed in. the glottis, and determine the tone of the voice. The most energetic efforts of the will cannot change this tone in any sensible manner. Professors injure their pupils by prescribing the position of the mouth, from which perhaps they themselves derive an advantage. It is interesting to watch the play of the or- gins by the help of the laryngoscope, and see the changes which succeed one another in the low and high notes. At the moment when the sound issues, the glottis is exactly closed; then the orifice becomes a very long figure, pointed at the two extremities. As the sound rises, the vocal lips approach each other, and seem to divide the orifice into two parts ; then as the highest notes are sounded, there is but a slit the width of a line. The vocal lips change like the glottis ; they stretch out, harden, thicken, and vibrate more and more as the voice rises, a smaller larynx, and shorter vocal lips, can sing higher notes than men, with a tone less power- ful, but sweeter, more uniform, and melodious. The ordinary limits of the voice comprehend about two octaves of the musical scale: it can easily be increased to two and a half; but some reach the very exceptional range of three, and three anda half. Thus, at the commencement of this century, Catalani astonished every one who heard her, as a sort of prodigy. Suppleness and intensity may be acquired by practice, as has ' been proved in the case of many singers: the Voice of Marie Garcia was harsh, but it became ut last the delicious one of Madame Malibran. In general, the natural gift is manifested without — the child endowed with this great charm roles like a bird for amusement ; a lover of art Passes by, listens with surprise, and promises glory and fortune to the rival of the lark. Thus the famous Rubini won his triumphs. Occasion- CURIOSITIES OF THE VOICE. Women, who have | 479 ally the singer has in a moment lost all power, " and an enchanting voice will disappear never to return ; such a misfortune befell Cornelia Fal- con. Those who have watched the formation of vowels and consonants, can describe very precise- ly the positions which the lips, tongue, and palate, take in articulation. Yet almost identical sounds can be produced with different positions. As we all know, the teeth are a great help to pronuncia- tion, but a person who has lost all his teeth can modify the play of the lips and tongue and ex- press himself intelligibly. Actors imitate the voice of public characters so as to make the illu- sion complete. The ventriloquist can make his voice issue as if from a cavern. @Vhen misfor- tune has deprived a man of the whole or part of his tongue, he can still hold a conversation, though the sounds are never particularly agree- able. All this shows that there is nothing ab- solute in the actions which form words, though in general the same organs play similar parts. Those who were born deaf have ceased to be dumb by interpreting the movements of the mouth with wonderful certainty ; they guess the words of the speaker instead of hearing them, and so learn to speak by imitation, their speak- ing, however, being seldom well modulated. There are now several institutions where the poor creat- ures who have been deprived of one of their senses can acquire a means of communicating with their companions without the tedious intervention of writing. The master indicates to the child how he must open his mouth, place his tongue and lips ; he then draws the pupil’s hand over his own larynx, so that he may feel the movement. Those who, like the writer, have seen this reading from the lips, will be struck with the surprising deli- cacy of the impressions made on the eye which has been thus cultivated. In comparison with the human voice, that of animals seems poor indeed. The barking of the dog, the mewing of the cat, the bleating of sheep, cannot be called language, in the proper sense. Yet the larynx of these creatures is on the same plan as that of man. Among monkeys the resemblance is perfect. To all appearance the impossibility of speaking is due to the forma- tion of the lips and tongue. In 1715 Leibnitz announced to the French Academy that he had met with a common peasant's dog that could re- peat thirty words after its master. In spite of such an authority, we must always say when we most admire the intelligence of this faithful com- panion, “He only wants words.” So well en-

Page 484

: 480 dowed with memory, affection, and intelligence, he can only express his joy by sharp, short ex- pirations of air through the glottis. Howling is a prolonged note in the pharynx, excited by deep grief or pain, Yet they in common with many other animals can communicate with each other in a marvelous manner when they wish to or- ganize an expedition. A dead bullock was lying in a waste far from all habitations, when a solitary dog, attracted by the smell, came and fed upon it; immediately he returned to the village and called together his acquaintances. In less than an hour the bones were picked clean by the troop. Opportunities for studying the language of wild animals are rare: they fly from man, and when in captivity they become nearly silent, only uttering a few cries or murmurs. Travelers have sometimes been able to watch the graceful move- ments of the smaller African apes. Living in the branches of trees, they descend with great prudence. An old male, who is the chief, climbs to the top and looks all around; if satisfied, he utters guttural sounds to tranquillize his band ; but, if he perceive danger, there is a special ery, an advertisement which does not deceive, and immediately they all disperse. On one occasion a naturalist watched a solitary monkcy as he dis- covered an orange-tree laden with fruit. With- out returning, he uttered short cries; his com- panions understood the signal, and in a moment they were collected under the tree, only too happy to share its beautiful fruit. Some kinds possess a curious appendage, a sort of aérial pouch, which opens into the interior of the larynx and makes a tremendous sound, These howling apes, also called Stentors, inhabit the deepest forests of the New World; and their cries, according to Humboldt, may be heard at the distance of one or two miles. If it be ever possible to observe the play of the larynx of animals during the emission of sounds, the subject will be a very curious one. The difficulty seems almost insurmountable, as THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. their good-will must be enlisted; yet M. full of confidence in his use of the laryn, does not despair, After man, among animated Nature, the birds occupy the highest rank in Ng. ture’s concerts; they make the woods, the gar. dens, and the fields, resound with their merry" warbles, Cuvier discovered the exact place from which their note issues, They possess a double larynx, the one creating the sounds, the other x. sounding them: naturalists call the apparatus, drum, Thus two lips form the vocal cords, which are stretched or relaxed by a very complicated action of the muscles, This accounts for the immense variety of sounds among birds, replying to the diversity in the structure of the larynx, The greater number of small birds have cries of joy or fear, appeals for help, cries of war, All these explosions of voice borrow the sounds of vowels and consonants, and show how easy and natural is articulation among them. Those spe cies which are distinguished as song-birds have a very complicated vocal apparatus, For the quality of tone, power, brilliancy, and sweetness, the nightingale stands unrivaled; yet it does not acquire this talent without long practice, the young ones being generally mediocre. The par rots which live in large numbers under the bright- est suns, have a love for chattering which cap tivity does not lessen. Attentive to every voles and noise, they imitate them with extraordinary facility ; and the phenomenon 6f their articulate ing words is still unexplained. it is supposed that there is a peculiar activity in the upper larynx. As a rule, they attach no meaning what they say ; but there are exceptions, When very intelligent and well instructed, these birds—_ such as Mr. Truefitt’s late parrot, an accountol which appeared in this Journal in 1874—cal_ give a suitable answer to certain questions, Our notes on this interesting study come toa close. Man is well served by his voice; words are the necessity of every-day life ; singing is its pleasure and recreation, whether the performent are human beings or birds.— Chambers’s 3 AC 7 j vancem¢ the fort beautifu enough, passes f lighted | prised tl to resist been gr: are prep beauty 0 of its pr and its | quently 1 records ¢ now read hold of i of scienti we, as m famous it history, fi mechanis effect of struction peace mo It is a I fear, a the choice: one whos branches ly for the been calli knowing there are ply what must, ther and your j Thave Which I ar biological the Forms ies have b bearings 0 cal questi: 1 Inangu the British . at its Plymo

Page 485

NE eer ae te DEVELOPMENT OF THE FORMS OF ANIMAL LIFE. 481 DEVELOPMENT OF THE FORMS OF ANIMAL LIFE.’ By Pror. ALLEN THOMSON, M. D., LL. D., F. R.8., F. R. 8. E. FTER ithe long interval of six-and-thirty years the British Association for the Ad- yancement of Science holds its annual meeting, the forty-seventh since its foundation, in this beautiful and interesting locality; and, strangely enough, on this occasion, as on the former, it passes from Glasgow to Plymouth, We are de- lighted to be assembled here, and are even sur- | prised that the Association has been able so long to resist the power of attraction by which it has been gravitating toward this place. While we are prepared to be charmed by the surpassing But before proceeding with the discussion of my | Special subject, it is my desire to call your atten- | ' beauty of its scenery, and know the deep interest of its prehistoric vestiges, its historic memories, and its artistic associations, we have been fre- quently reminded of its scientific vigilance by the records of its active scientific work; and we are now ready and anxious to witness all we can be- hold of its energy and success in the application of scientific discovery to the practical arts. Should we,as might be expected in a place hitherto so famous in its relations to our naval and military | | tion shortly to the remarkable change in the manner of viewing biological questions which has taken place in this country during the last half- century—a change so great, indeed, that it can scarcely be fully appreciated except by those who have lived through the period of its occur- rence. In the three earlier decades of this century it was the common belief, in this country at least, shared by men of science as well as by the larger body of persons who had given no special atten- | tion to the subject, that the various forms of plants and animals recognized by naturalists in their systematic arrangements of genera and spe- cies were permanently fixed and unalterable; that they were not subject to greater changes than might occur as occasional variations, and that ' such was the tendency to the maintenance of history, find most prominent those relating to the mechanism of war, we shall still hope that the effect of greater perfection in the engines of de- struction may only be the means of rendering peace more permanent and secure. { | uniformity in their specific characters that, when varieties did arise, there was a natural disposition to the return, in the course of succeeding genera- tions, to the fixed form and nature supposed to belong to the parental stock; and it was also a necessary part of this view of the permanency of species that each was considered to have been It is a source of regret to myself, and may be, | originally produced from an individual having I fear, a cause of detriment to this meeting, that the choice of a president should have fallen upon the exact form which its descendants ever after- ward retained. To this scientific dogma was one Whose constant occupation with very special | further added the quasi-religious view that in the branches of science has fitted him so inadequate- | exercise of infinite wisdom and goodness, the ly for the distinguished position to which he has | Creator, when he called the successive species of been called. I can only derive comfort from | plants and animals into existence, conferred upon | each precisely the organization and the properties | adapting it best for the kind of life for which it ply what may be wanting on my part; and I knowing that, wherever it may be necessary, there are many others present most able to sup- must, therefore, at once bespeak their assistance and your indulzence, Thave selected for the subject of the remarks Which Iam about to offer for your acceptance a biological topic, namely, the “ Development of the Forms of Animal Life,” with which my stud- les have been occupied, and which has important bearings on some of the more interesting biologi- cal questions now agitating the scientific world. 1 the peangural address of Prof. Thomson, as President of ew Association for the Advancement of Science, Ymouth meeting, delivered August 15, 1877. 31 | | was designed in the general scheme of creation. This was the older doctrine of “ Direct Creation,” of “ Teleological Relation,’ and of “ Final Causes ;”’ and those only who have known the firm hold which such views had over the public mind in past times can understand the almost unqualified approbation with which the reasoning on these questions in writings like the “ Bridge- water Treatises ” (not to mention older books on natural theology) was received in their time, as well as the very opposite feelings excited by every work which presented a different view of the plan | of creation.

Page 486

482 THE POPULAR SCIENCE On the Continent of Europe, it is true, some bold speculators, such as Goethe, Oken, Lamarck, and Geoffroy St.-Hilaire, had in the end of the last and commencement of this century broached the doctrine that there is in living beings a con- tinuous series of gradations as well as a consist- ent and general plan of organization; and that the creation, therefore, or origin of the different forms of plants and animals must have been the result of a gradual process of development or of derivation one from another, the whole standing connected together in certain causal relations. | But in Britain such views, though known and not altogether repulsive to a few, obtained little favor, and, by some strange process of reasoning, were looked upon by the great majority as little short of impious questionings of the supreme power of the Almighty. How different is the position of matters in this respect in our day !—when the cautious natu- ralist receives and adopts with the greatest re- serve the statement of fixed and permanent spe- cific characters as belonging to the different forms of organized beings, and is fully persuaded of the constant tendency to variation which all species show even in the present condition of the earth, and of the still greater liability to change which must have existed in the earlier period of its formation—when the belief prevails that so far from being the direct product of distinct acts of creation, the various forms of plants and animals have been gradually evolved in a slow gradation of increasing complexity ; and when it is recog- nized by a large majority of naturalists that the explanation of this wonderful relation of connec- tion between previously-existing and later forms is to be found in the constant tendency to varia- tion during development and growth, and the perpetuation of such variations by hereditary transmission through successive generations in the long but incalculable lapse of the earth’s nat- ural mutations. These, as you must all be aware, are in their essential features the views now known as Darwinism, which were first simultane- ously brought forward by Wallace and Darwin in 1858, and which, after being more fully elaborated in the works of the latter and ably supported by the former, secured, in the incredibly short space of ten or twelve years, the general approval of a | large portion of the scientific world. The change of opinion is, in fact, now such that there are few scientifie works on natural history, wheth- er of a special or more general character, in which the relation which the facts of science bear to the newer doctrines is not carefully pointed MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. 7 out; that, with the general public too, the wordy “Evolution” and “ Development ” have ceased t» excite the feelings, amounting almost to horror, which they at first produced in the minds of those to whom they were equally unfamiliar ang suspicious; and that even in popular literatup and ephemeral effusions direct or metaphorical illustrations are drawn in such terms of the Dar | winian theory as “ struggle for existence,” “nat, | ral selection,” “survival of the fittest,” “here. | ty,” “atavism,” and the like. It cannot be doubted that in this country, on the Continent, the influence of authority had much to do with the persistence of the olde teleological views; and, as has been well remarked by Haeckel, one of the ablest and keenest sup | porters of the modern doctrine, the combinedia. | fluence more especially of the opinions held by three of the greatest naturalists and biologists who have ever lived, viz., Linnzus, Haller, af Cuvier, men unsurpassed in the learning of thé time, and the authors of important discoveriesia a wide range of biological science, was decidedly adverse to the free current of speculative thought upon*the more general doctrines of biology. And , if it were warrantable to attribute so greats change of opinion as that to which I have advert ed as occurring in my own time to the influence of any single intellect, it must be admitted that it is justly due to the vast range and of his knowledge of scientific facts, the quick ap preciation of their mutual interdependenee, and above all the unexampled clearness and candor | in statement, of Charles Darwin. But while we readily acknowledge the large share which Darwin has had in guiding seientiie thought into the newer tracks of biological doe trine, we shall also be disposed to allow that the | slow and difficult process of emancipation fea | the thralldom of dogmatic opinion in regard tos | system of creation, and the adoption of large and independent views more consistent with obserm tion, reason, philosophy, and religion, has | been possible under the effect of the gene progress of scientific knowledge and the : tion of sounder methods of applying its - to the explanation of natural phenomena. . I have already referred to Goethe, Oken, marck, and Geoffroy St.-Hilaire, as | most prominent of the earlier pioneers modern or reformed conceptions of | laws. But were it desirable to mark the of opinion by quoting other authors and Is whose contributions have mainly supp ' materials out of which the new fabrie : « : ‘ constr logue ¢ be fot shapin countr the pla and a belong as thos many Herber though’ Let been fo logical | may sti differen sequenc their int cur in 01 observat our guid that the: adoption body of To at my rema the prog the scien doctrines tion of 0 not less | has witne especially that of de Thus, laws of N: vation an ably expo Grove, the stitution, 1 in chemis Speculatio tution anc Must asso and of Ch 1 It wou! of the earlic new channel # Creation,” Ourselves th to be throw: Scount of ¢ tempt at the ‘gainst the its reasoning,

Page 487

— —=- i eed Dt ee 8&Reeoreae BsYvee | ‘ ; constructed, I should have to produce a long cata- logue of distinguished names, among which would be found those of Lyell and Owen, as earliest shaping the doctrines and guiding opinion in this country ; Johannes Miiller and Von Baer, as taking the places of Haller and Cuvier on the Continent ; and a host of other faithful workers in biology belonging to the earlier part of this century, such as those of G. Treviranus, J. F. Meckel, Carus, and many more.' To Huxley more especially, and to Herbert Spencer, the greatest influence on British thought in the same direction is to be ascribed. Let us hope that in these times, when it has been found necessary to modify the older teleo- logical views to so great an extent, although there may still be much that is unknown, and wide differences,of opinion in regard to the nature and sequence of natural phenomena and the mode of their interpretation, all naturalists will now con- cur in one important principle, viz., that truthful observation and candid judgment must alone be our guides in the interpretation of Nature, and that that theory of creation is most deserving of our adoption which is most consistent with the whole body of facts carefully observed and compéfred. To attempt to trace, within the limits to which my remarks must be confined, the influence which the progress of knowledge has exercised upon the scientific and general conception of biological doctrines would be impossible, for the modifica- tion of opinion on these subjects has proceeded not less from the rapid advance which our age has witnessed in the progress of general science, especially of physics and chemistry, than from that of departments belonging to biology itself. Thus, to go no further than the most general laws of Nature, the whole doctrine of the conser- vation and transmutation of force in physics, so ably expounded to this Association by Mr. Justice Grove, the theory of compound radicals and sub- stitution, with the discovery of organic synthesis, in chemistry, and the more recent advance in speculation with regard to the molecular consti- tution and properties of matter, with which we must associate the names of our last President and of Clerk Maxwell, in completely changing * It would also he unjust to omit to mention here one of the earliest attempts to bring British opinion into a new channel, by the remarkable work entitled “ Vestiges Creation,” which appeared in 1844, or to conceal from ourselves the unmerited ridicule and obloquy attempted t be thrown upon the author, not perhaps so much on ‘count of the many inaccuracies unavoidable in an at- tempt at the time to overtake so large a field, as directed against the dangerous tendencies supposed to lurk in its reasoning, DEVELOPMENT OF THE FORMS OF ANIMAL LIFE. 483 | the aspect of physical and chemical sciences within the last thirty-five years, have paved the way for views of the constitution and action of organized bodies very different from those which could be formed at the time of the first meeting of the Association in this place. And if, con- fining ourselves to the department of biology, we add the discovery by microscopical observation of the minuter elementary forms of organization, more especially as flowing from the comprehen- sive views of organized structure promulgated by Schleiden and Schwann nearly forty years ago, the later discovery and investigation of living protoplasmic substances, the accumulated evi- dence of progressive types of animal and vege- table forms in the succession of superimposed strata composing the crust of the earth, the re- cent discoveries as to the conditions of life at great depths in the ocean, the vast body of knowl- edge brought together by the labors of anatomists and physiologists as to the structure and func- tions of almost every plant and animal, and (still more, perhaps, than any other single branch of biological inquiry) if we note the rapid and im- mense progress which has been made during the last fifty years in the study of the entirely modern science of the development of living beings—we shall be able to form some conception of the enormous extension in our time of the basis of observation and fact from which biological phe- nomena may now be surveyed, and from which just views may be formed as to their mutual re- lations and general nature. It is now familiarly known that almost all (if not indeed all) the plants and animals existing on the earth’s surface derive their origin from par- ents or previously-existing beings whose form and nature they closely reproduce in their life’s history. By far the greater number spring from germs in the form of visible and known spores, seeds, or eggs. A few may be traced to germs, or to vestiges of the parental body, the exact na- ture of which may be doubtéul; and some, in- cluding even a certain number of those also pro- duced from known germs, are either constantly or occasionally multiplied by budding, or by a process of cleavage, or direct and visible division of the parent body. The germ constituting the basis of new forma- tion, whether it have the form of spore, seed, or ovum, is of the simplest kind of organization, and the process by which a new plant or animal is produced is necessarily one of gradual change and of advance from a simpler to a more com. plex form of structure: it is one of “ evolution,”

Page 488

484 THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. or, as I would rather name it, “development.” ) which entirely excluded the possibility of they ganic li But before proceeding to discuss the subject of | being descended from germs, or equivalent forms. appear development in the higher animals, it is right to | tive particles, belonging to preéxisting bodies of vaguel} advert to the preliminary and often-debated ques- | a similar kind. I can do no more now tha act inf tion, which naturally presents itself, viz.: Do all | name the authors of the most conclusive evading living or organized beings, without exception, | ments on this subject, which I do nearly in the we mig spring from germs, or from any kind of organized | order of the publication of their researches, been co matter that has belonged to parents? or may | those of Mr. W. N. Hartley in 1872, Messrs, Pode and ch there not be some, especially among the simpler | and Ray Lankester in 1873, Dr. Burdon-Sanden bodies. forms (with' regard indeed to which alone there | son in that and the following years, Dr. W. Rob. to the ¢ has of late been any question), which are pro- | erts in 1874, Prof. Lister in 1875, and most te view ge duced by the direct combination of their compo- | cently of Prof. Tyndall, Prof. Cohn, and of Messrs, terials « nent elements, in the way of the so-called spon- Dallinger and Drysdale." subject taneous or equivocal generation, heterogenesis or But, admitting that the evidence from dired ty aboli abiogenesis ? experiment is such as entirely to shut us out from period, The importance of the right solution of this entertaining the view that spontaneous gener germs f problem is not confined merely to the discovery | tion occurs in the present condition of the earth by meat — ° | : ° . i of the mode of origin of the lowly organisms | we are not relieved from the difficulty of explait sides th which have been the more immediate object of , ing how living organisms or their germs first thet the investigation by naturalists in recent times, but is | made their appearance; nor are we debarned pad hig one of much wider significance, seeing that, if it from attempting to form hypotheses as to how thing ” shall be satisfactorily proved or even rendered this may have taken place. First, upon the the = probable that in the course of cosmical develop- ory of evolution, which, strictly carried out, sup which th ment all the various kinds of plants and animals poses the more complex organisms to be derived The have been gradually produced by evolution out from the more simple, it might be held that the leaves u of preéxisting simpler forms, and thus the whole | conditions affecting the combination of the pr- first daw series of organized beings in Nature has been | mary elements of matter into organic forms may of the ea shown to be one of hereditary connection and ' at one time have been different from those which es tend ¢ derivation, then it would follow that the history | now prevail ; and that, under those different com P of the origin of the simplest organisms may be ' ditions, abiogenesis may have been possible, and i the fa ’ | . , the key to that of the first commencement of life may have operated to lay the foundations of ~_ “a : even if ¢ upon the ’ss 6 Jati earth 2 surface, and the explanation of | 1 I may refer to Dr. Bastian’s paper in Nature of Jum presence t . relation in which the whole succeeding prog- 39, 1870, and to his two works, “The Origin of the Low sediment enies stand to their parental stocks. | est Organisms,” and “The Beginnings of Life.” Mp nn 4 From the very lucid and masterly view of this | Hartley's researches, which were commenced a am , , rage i “ ak subject given by Prof. Huxley in his address to | “scribed in # paper printed in the Pree ote the Association at Li e tl Royal Society for 1872, and in his “ Lectures on Air, at least i a ; Iverpoo!, so recently aS IM edition, 1876, where an interesting account of the whole metamory 1870, in which the conclusion he formed was _ subject will be found. The experiments of Mr. Pode, gone has based very much on the exhaustive and admi- Oxford, and Prof. Ray Lankester, are described in s paper ions rable researches of Pasteur, I might almost have ° the “ Development of Bacteria in Organic Infusions" — dispensed with kine furth f .. the Royal Society * Proceedings” for 1878, p. 94% De. Nor h a we making further reference ad It Burdon-Sanderson’s researches are contained in thet of detern now, but for the very confident statements since ports of the medical officer of the Privy Council, and} table or ¢ made by the supporters of the doctrine of abio- various papers in Nature. Dr W. Roberts's ~< ath genesis, among whom Dr. Bastian stands most Printed in the “Transactions ” of the Royal ‘ase mss rominent in this country, and for the vircum WM eRAte. ps, Hut Ra ' — P sca ys “Germ Theory of Putrefaction and other F animals a stance that the life-history of many of the lower Changes,” etc., is contained in the “Transactions” seal. en organisms was still imperfectly known. Royal Society of Edinburgh for 1875, p. 818, and 8 nae. pe During the last seven or eight years, however, | €ivenin Nature, Prof. Tyndall's an ematract * sagt . + | in his papers in the “ Proceedings” 0! Royal renew : s . , ene ed investigations by most competent in- " auring the last two years. The work of Prof bring tog quirers have followed one another in quick suc- Bresian, entitled “ Beitrige zur Biologie der Pilea from such cession, from a review of which we cannot but 1873-76, contains many memoirs bearing upon PT monia, int arrive at a conclusion adverse to the theory of Jeet, which have been partly eee <a . inference hetero sis, viz. J _ | Microscopical Journal, in which y od ; genesis, viz., that no development of or series of contributions extending from 1873 to the ; great maj ganisms, even of the most simple kind, has been tine the interesting observations of Mr. W.H. . must hay¢ satisfactorily observed to occur in circumstances

and Dr. J. Drysdale.

Page 489

eee ee ee TL EE ee ama ll Bterteaeewrreweaeanerefrterelmrlm€ DEVELOPMENT OF THE FORMS OF ANIMAL LIFE. ganic life in the simpler forms in which it at first appeared—a state of things which can only be vaguely surmised, but in regard to which no ex- act information can be obtained. Or, secondly, evading the difficulty of strict cosmical evolution, we might suppose that vital conditions may have been coeval with the first existence of physical and chemical properties in the rest of natural bodies. But this hypothesis would be exposed to the objection that, according to the cosmical view generally held by physicists, the whole ma- terials composing the earth have originally been 485 ontology is as yet silent on this interesting ques- tion; and, if we consider the remarkable ap- proach which is made in structure and proper- ties between the lowest and simplest members of the two kingdoms of organic Nature, so that at last all distinction between them seems entirely to vanish, and a set of organisms is found which partake equally of animal and vegetable charac- ters, or, rather, exhibit properties which are com- mon to them both, we shall hesitate to postulate confidently for the primitive antecedence of vege- | table life, although, perhaps, in later epochs the subject to incandescent heat. Nor is the difficul- preéxistence of vegetables may be looked upon ty abolished, but only removed to a more remote | #8 necessary to the life of more developed animal period, by the supposition of the transport of organisms. . germs from another planet or their introduction The reflection forces itself upon us that we by means of meteorites or meteoric dust ; for, be- | are just as ignorant of the mode of first origin of sides the objection arising from the circumstance | all the compounds of the inorganic elements as that these bodies must have been subjected toa we are of that of living matter; and we may very high temperature, we should still have every- | therefore be excused if we suspend all theory and thing to learn as to the way in which the germs | conjecture until we shall be guided to more reli- arose in the far-distant regions of space from | able hypotheses through the plain track of obser- which they have been conveyed. | vation and experiment. The incompleteness of the geological record * The practical applications of the increased leaves us in the dark as to the time at which the knowledge of the origin of minute animal and first dawnings of life appeared in the lower strata vegetable organisins are so numerous that it would of the earth’s surface. The most recent research- | occupy a much longer time than is at my dispos- es tend to carry the origin of life back to a much | al to give any detailed account of them; but they earlier period than was at one time believed, and ; are of such immense importance in their com- if the famous Hozodn be admitted as evidence, | mercial, social, and sanitary relations, that they even into that of the Laurentian strata, But | ought never to be lost sight of. even if doubts should prevail with regard to the | It is now proved beyond doubt that the origin presence of definite organized forms in the older | of putrefaction and fermentation is dependent on sedimentary strata, the occurrence in them of the presence in the substances which are the seat carbon in the form of graphite in large quantities | of change in these processes, or in the surround- makes the previous existence of living organisms | ing air, of the germs of minute organisms of an at least possible, and it may be that the complete | animal or vegetable nature, and that the mainte- metamorphosis which these rocks have under- | nance of the chemical changes in which these gone has entirely removed all definite traces of | processes mainly consist is coincident with and Organization. casually (if not essentially) dependent upon the Nor have we the means from geological data | growth and multiplication of these organisms. of determining whether the beings of the vege- Prof. Lister had the merit of being the first table or of the animal kingdom first made their | to apply the germ-theory of putrefaction to ex- appearance. If we adopt the view which has for | plain the formation of putrid matters in the living some time been entertained by physiologists that | body; and he has founded on this theory the now animals are entirely dependent, directly or indi- | well-known antiseptic treatment of wounds, the rectly, on plants for the material which consti- | importance of which it would be difficult to over- tutes their living substance, and that plants, as | estimate. constructive agents, alone have the power to The success or failure of plans for the pres- bring together the elements of lifeless matter | ervation of meat and other articles of food with- from such states as carbonic acid, water, and am- | out question depends on the possibility of the monia, into the condition of the living solid, the | complete exclusion of the germs which are the inference would be inevitable, at least for the | cause of putrefaction and fermentation ; and their great majority of the animal creation, that they | management must therefore be founded on the must have been preceded by plants. But pale- | most accurate knowledge of these organisms, and

Page 490

, 486 the circumstances influencing the persistence of | the cavity of the embryo-sac, in which by this their vitality and the vigor of their growth. The theory of biogenesis has also lately been the guide in the investigation of the causes of various forms of disease, both in the lower ani- mals and in man, with the result of showing that in many of them the infective substance consists in all probability of germs of minute animal or vegetable organisms. There is very great probability, indeed, that all the zymotic diseases, by which we understand the various forms of fevers, have a similar origin. As has been well remarked by Baxter in an able paper on “The Action of Disinfectants,” the analogies of action of contagia are similar to those of septic organisms, not to processes simply of oxidation or deoxidation. These organisms, studied in suitable fluids, multiply indefinitely when introduced in all but infinitesimal propor- tions. Thus they are, as near as we can per- ceive, the very essence of contagia.! Leaving, however, these and many other gen- eral questions regarding the origin of the lowest forms of animal aad vegetable life, let us now turn our attention to the mode of development of a new being in those belonging to the higher groups. The general nature of the formative process, in all instances where fertilized germs are produced, will be best understood by a short sketch of the phenomena ascertained to occur in different kinds of plants. In the higher or phanerogamic plants it is generally well known that the combination of two parts of the flower is necessary to the pro- duction of a seed containing the embryo or young plant. Beginning with the discovery of the pol- len-tubes by Amici in 1823, the careful and minute investigations of a long line of illustrious vegetable physiologists have brought to light the details of the process by which fertilization is effected, and have shown in fact how the minute tulfe developed from the inner membrane of the pollen-granule, as soon as it falls upon the stig- matic tissue of the seed-bearing plant, insinuates itself by a rapid process of development between the cells of the style, and reaches at last the ovule, in the interior of which is the embryo-sac ; how, having passed into the micropyle, or orifice of the ovule, it makes its way to the embryo-sac; how a minute portion of the fertilizing substance of the fovilla transudes from the pollen-tube into 1 For the most interesting information on this subject, I cannot do better than refer to the very able reports by Dr. Burdon-Sanderson in the “Reports of the Medical Officer of the Privy Council,” 1873, 1874, and 1875. THE POPULAR SCIENCE M ONTHL Y.—SUPPLEMENT. | time a certain portion of the protoplasm has be. come differentiated into the germinal y thereby stimulating it to further growth and de velopment, the earliest phenomena of which mag}. fest themselves by the formation of an i cell-wall, and by the occurrence of cell-diyj which results in the formation of the embryoor plantule of the seed. Thus it appears that the essential part of the process of production in phanerogamic plants i the formation in the parent plant of cells of two different kinds, which by themselves have little or no independent power of further growth, but which, by their union, give rise to a product in which the power of development is raised to the highest degree. By further researches it is now known that the same law prevails in all the remaining mem bers of the vegetable kingdom, with the excep tion only of the very simplest forms,’ | In viewing the reproductive process in the series of cryptogamic plants, two facts at once strike us as remarkable in the modifications which are observed to accompany the formation ofa productive germ, namely, that the differ ence between the two productive elements be comes, as it were, more prominent, or more high ly specialized, in the cryptogamic than in the phanerogamic plants; and, second, that in the first Bey simpler and lower forms this difference gradually” disappears till it is lost in complete unifeoees the productive elements. Thus, in the whole tribe of the ferns and vat cular cryptogams, in the higher alge and fang, in the characex and in the mosses, the differ tiation of the productive elements is carried t# very high degree; for, while that belonging @ the embryo or germ presents the structure of & simple cell which remains at rest, or in @ com paratively passive state, and, absorbing into it self the substance of the other, becomes the sett of subsequent development the, other, corre sponding to the pollen of the staminiferous pha- nerogam, is usually separated from the its formation, and, having undergone & modification of structure by which it active moving cilia, it changes place, and rected toward the germinal structure, and, ing in contact with its elementary cell, is or less absorbed, or lost in the fertilizing J The protoplasm of the germinal cell, thus A 1 It will be observed that I leave entirely outol wes — the whole subject of the multiplication of plants PS ; ding or simple division. : on al chang is laic In grada produ est in natur lower the D we fir or for which plete { protoy usual]; embry ization shown fact tl the m: truded ordinai bryo is to be it Fro most e union | great 0 out any that th ence @: whole, ganizati table lif animal | divided at least combin: The primord plants, } essentia mediate tiplicatic previous sulting f Within union or attained Case of t many va the lowe A re relation |

Page 491

= OE SA aS a eS eC. UOC ll DOU SOOO Poe ee a a ree DEVELOPMENT OF THE on and fertilized, then proceeds to undergo the changes of development by which the foundation is laid for the new plant. In the alge and fungi, however, there are gradations of the differentiation of the two re- productive cells, which are of the greatest inter- est in leading to a comprehension of the general nature of the formative process. For in the lower and simpler forms of these plants, such as the Desmidiw, Mesocarpea, and other Conjugate, we find that there is no distinction in structure or form to be perceived between the two cells which unite or undergo conjugation ; and a com- plete fusion or intermixture of the two masses of protoplasm results in the production of a single, usually spherical, mass holding the place of an embryo. And that there is an absence of special- ization between the two uniting cells is clearly shown in both Desmidium and Mesocarpus, by the fact that the embryo or zygospore is formed in the mass resulting from the union of the pro- truded portions of the two cells; and in more ordinary cases, as in Spirogyra, where the em- bryo is formed in one of the two cells, it seems to be indifferent in which of them it is formed. From this, which may be regarded as the most elementary type of new production by the union of the two cells, the transition is not a great one to the development of a progeny with- outany such union. We might conjecture, then, that the capacity for separate or individual exist- ence extends in the lowest organisms to the whole, or to each structural element of their or- ganization, while, as we rise in the scale of vege- table life (and the same view might apply to the animal kingdom), this capacity is more and more divided between the two productive elements, or, at least, is only called into full action by their combination. The germinal element consists of a simple primordial cell, varying in different kinds of plants, but in all of them probably containing the essential substance protoplasm, and the most im- mediate result or effect of fertilization is the mu!- tiplication by repeated fissiparous division of the previously-existing cells. The new individual re- sulting from this cellular growth usually remains within the parent body, without, however, direct union or continuity of tissue, till the embryo has attained some advancement, as in the well-known case of the seeds of a phanerogam ; but there are many varieties in the mode of its disposal among the lower plants. A remarkable exception to the more direct relation of the process of fertilization to the for- FORMS OF ANIMAL LIFE. 487 mation of the new individual or embryo occurs in some plants, simulating in some respects that kind of variation in animal reproduction which has been named alternate generation. A well- known instance of this belongs to the vascular cryptogams. The prothallium of the ferns, for example, results from the development of so-called spores or unicellular buds, which are familiar as being formed in small capsules on the lower leaf- surface; and in this prothallium, when it has reached a certain stage of vegetation, there are formed the archegonia, containing the odspheres, or germ-cells, which are fertilized by the moving ciliated particles developed in the cells of the antheridia, leading to the production of a new spore-bearing plant. Recent researches have also called attention to the remarkable arrangements in phanerogamic plants for the prevention of fertilization of the pistils by pollen from the same flower, or even from the same plant. In the latter case this is effected by the separation of stamens and pistils | in different flowers on the same or on different plants. In the former case, where both organs occur in the same flower, the adaptations, whether of a mechanical or of a physiological character, by which self-fertilization is prevented, as ascer- tained by numerous recent investigations (among which those of Darwin are most conspicuous), are of the most varied and often the most compli- cated kind. Let us now turn to the consideration of the development of animals, and let me say in the outset that it will be necessary for me to confine my remarks chiefly to the higher or vertebrated animals, and to certain parts only of the histo- ry of their development; more particularly the structure and formation of the ovum or egg, its earlier developmental changes, and the relation of these to the formation of the new animal. | I cannot enter upon the consideration of this | topie without adverting to the very recent ac- ‘quisition of some- of the most important facts upon which this branch of knowledge is founded ; | and I feel it to be peculiarly appropriate, in the year of his death, to refer to a biologist whose | labors contributed more powerfully than those , of any other person to give to animal embryology the character of a systematic branch of science, | and to whom we owe some most important orig- | inal discoveries—I mean Karl Ernst von Baer, of Kénigsberg, St. Petersburg, and Dorpat. Of observers who, previous to Von Baer, were | mainly instrumental in preparing the way for the | creation of a more exact modern science of em-

Page 492

488 bryology, only two can be mentioned, viz., Caspar Frederick Wolff, of St. Petersburg, well known as the author of a work entitled “ Theoria Genera- tionis,”” published in 1759, by which the epigenesis, or actual formation of the organs in a new being, was first demonstrated; and Christian Pander, who by his researches made at Wiirzburg ex- plained, in a work published in 1817, the princi- pal changes by which the embryo arises and is formed. Von Baer was born in the Russian province of Esthonia, on February 29, 1792. After having been fifteen years professor in the Prussian Uni- versity of Kénigsberg, he was called to St. Pe- tersburg, and having some years later been ap- pointed to a newly-established professorship of Comparative Anatomy and Physiology, he re- mained in that city for nearly thirty years as the most zealous and able promotor of scientific edu- cation and research, stimulating and guiding all around him by his unexampled activity, compre- hensive and original views, sound judgment, and cordial codperation. In 1868, at the age of seven- ty-six, he retired to Dorpat, from the university of which he had received his degree in 1814, and continued still to occupy himself with working and writing in his favorite subjects, as well as interesting himself in everything that was related to educational and scientific progress, to very near the time of his death, which occurred on November 28, 1876, in his eighty-fifth year. Although Von Baer’s researches, according to the light in which we may now view them, con- tributed in no small degree to the introduction of the newer views of the morphological relations of organic structure which have culminated in the theory of descent, yet he was unwilling to adopt the views of Darwin; and one of his latest writings, completed in the last year of his life, was in vigorous opposition to that doctrine. It would have been most interesting and in- structive to trace the history of the progress of discovery in embryology from the period of Von Baer down to the present time, but such a his- tory would not be suitable to the purpose of this address ; and I can only venture here, in addition to Rathke, the colleague of Baer in Koénigaberg, to select two names out of the long list of distin- guished workers in this field during the last forty years, viz.: Thomas Bischoff, of Giessen and Munich, to whom we owe the greatest progress in the knowledge of the development of mammals, by his several memoirs, appearing from 1842 to 1854; and Robert Remak, of Berlin, whose re- searches on the development of birds and batra- THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. chia, appearing from 1850 to 1855, gave greatly increased exactness and extension to the general study of development. a The germinal element, from which, whemfe, tilized, the new animal is derived, is containg) within the animal ovum or egg—a compact ang definite mass of organic matter, in which, nop withstanding great apparent variations, there maintained throughout all the members of the animal kingdom, excepting the protozoa, whid are destitute of true ova, a greater uniformityig some respects than belongs to the germinal pro} uct of plants. , Usually more or less spherical in form, the animal ovum presents the essential characters¢f a “complete cell,” in the signification given by Schwann to that term. The germinal substance is inclosed by an ‘external vesicular membraneo cell-wall, Within this covering the cell-substena, generally named yolk or vitellus, from the anale gy of the fowl’s egg, consists, to a greater or les extent, of a mass of protoplasm, and imbeddedia this mass, in a determinate situation, there is found a smaller internal vesicular body, the ga minal vesicle or nucleus, with its more or less com stant or variable macula or nucleolus. Now, the first thing which strikes us asm markable connected with the ovum is the vey great variation in size as compared with thee» tire apimal, while in all of them the same simple or elementary structure is maintained. Theovum of mammals is, for example, a comparatively small body, of which the average diameter is aboutthe tha of an inch, and which consequently searee ly weighs more than a very minute fractionofs grain, which may be calculated perhaps onlyat the yzheo part. And further, in two animale differing so widely in size as the elephant andthe mouse, the weights of which may be held t stand toward each other in the proportion of 150,000 to one, there is scarcely any difference ia the size of the mature ovum. : On the other hand, if we compare this small ovum of the mammal with the yolk of the eggia the common fowl, the part to which it most nearly corresponds, it may be estimated that the lat ter body would contain above 8,000,000 of the smaller ova of a mammal. ' The attribute of size, however, in natural 0 jects ceases to excite feelings of wonder or sum prise as our knowledge of them increases, “j that be by familiar observation or by more tific research. We need not, at all events, an account of the apparent minuteness of the @7#™ of the mammifer, or of any other animal, | any ¢ amou! the n of the blane¢ we ar given posing a bod may b cules, smalle smalle visible there | quiren gist. Th necte¢ sition ova 0 large- there The 1 of bird fishes, brates minal small « the for on ths upperr er-yell line g nature Th in the minal | second terials access: nal fre young ciety in. and Na Genesis, Pp. 374, work, “ 1876, p. tive Lor

Page 493

OO OE OU SS ae ee eee ee a a ewe eS eee DEVELOPMENT OF THE FORMS OF ANIMAL LIFE. 489 any doubts as to the presence of a sufficient amount of germinal substance for explaining in the most materialistic fashion the transmission of the organic and other properties and resem. plances between the parent and offspring. For we are led to believe, by those who have recently given their attention to the size of molecules com- posing both living and dead matter, that in such a body as this minute ovum of the mammal there may be as many as five thousand_billions of mole- cules, and even if we restrict ourselves to the smaller germinal vesicle, and, indeed, to the smallest germinal particle which might be made visible by the highest microscopic enlargement, there are still sufficient molecules for all the re- quirements of the most exacting material biolo- gist.! This great disparity of size is, however, con- nected with an important difference in the dispo- sition of the yolk-substance, according to which ova may be distinguished as of two kinds—the large- and the small-yolked ova, between which there are also many intermediate gradations. The larger-yoked ova belong to the whole tribe of birds, scaly reptiles, osseous and cartilaginous fishes, and the cephalopods among the inverte- brates ; and are distinguished by the strictly ger- minal part or protoplasm being collected into a small disk, known familiarly as the cicatricula of the fowl’s egg, and to be seen as a whitish spot on that side of the yolk which naturally floats uppermost; while the rest of the yolk, of a deep- er-yellow color, contains a large quantity of vitel- line granules or globules of a different chemical nature from the protoplasm. The phenomena of embryonic development are, in the first instance at least, confined to the ger- minal disk, and the rest of the yolk serves in a secondary or more remote manner to furnish ma- terials for nourishment of the embryo and its accessory parts. Thus we distinguish the germi- nal from the nutritive or food yolk, or, as the younger Van Beneden has named them, the pro- toplasm and the deutoplasm. In the smaller ovum of the mammal, on the ! According to a calculation made by Mr. Sorby, the number of molecules in the germinal vesicle of the mam. | malian ovum is such that, if one molecule were to be lost | in every second of time, the whole would not be exhausted in seventeen years. (See Address to the Microscopie So- Cety in Journal of Microscopical Science, vol. xv, p. 225, and Nature, vol. xiii., p. 382. See also Darwin on Pan- Genesis, in his work on “ Variations,” ete. (1868), vol. il., P. 874, and the review by Ray Lankester of Haeckel’s work, “Perigenesis der Blastidule,” etc., in Nature for 1876, p. 235, and Ray Lankester’s essay on “ Compara- tive Longevity,” 1870.) other hand, it seems as if the whole, or nearly the whole, of the yolk weré protoplasmic or ger- minal, There may be some admixture of yolk- granules; but there is not the marked separation or limitation of the protoplasmic substance which is so distinct in birds, and the earliest changes of development extend to the whole component sub- stance of the yolk; or, in other words, the yolk is entirely germinal. Hence some have given the names of meroblastic and holoblastic, meaning partially and entirely germinal, to these two con- trasting forms of ova, There are many of the invertebrate animals of which the ova present the same entirely germinal arrangement as in those of mammals, and the amphioxus may be in- cluded in the same group. The amphibia stand in some measure between the two extremes; the purely protoplasmic or germinal part occupying one side, and the nutri- tive or vitelline the other. But among the inver- tebrates the gradations are often such as to make it difficult to determine under which group the ova should be placed. The genesis or formation of the ovum itself, if it be considered with reference to its first origin, carries us back to a very early period of the for- mation of the parent in which it is produced; and it is one of the most interesting problems to determine what is the source of the cells in the parent from which the ova origitfally spring. All that I can venture to say at present in regard to this point is, that the primordial ova or germs appear in the parental body while still embryonic, at a very early period of its development, and clearly derive their origin from a deeply-seated part of the formative cells which are undergoing transformation into the primitive organs; but the exact seat of the origin of the reproductive cells is still a matter of doubt. When the ovum attains its full maturity in the ovary, the seat of its formation within the parent, it is separated from that organ, and when perfected proceeds to undergo embryonic devel- opment; a marked difference in this respect ex- isting between the germinal product of the higher plants and animals. The period of maturation of the ovum is marked in the greater number of animals by a series of phenomena which have generally been interpreted as the extrusion or absorption of the grminal vesicle; and various observers have actually traced the steps of the process by which that vesicle appears to leave the yolk and is lost to sight, or has passed into the space between the yolk and its membrane in the shape of the

Page 494

¢ 490 THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. peculiar hyaline bodies named the polar or direct- | this first segment-sphere and its nucleus uy ing globules. But recent researches, afterward to be referred to, tend to show that some part, at least, of the substance of the germinal vesicle remains to form, when combined with the fertil- izing element, the newly-endowed basis of future development. Among the earliest changes to which the per- fect animal ovum is subject, I have first to refer to the segmentation of the germ, a series of phe- nomena the observation of which has been pro- ductive of most important results in leading to a comprehension of the intimate nature of the for- mative process, and which is of the deepest in- terest both in a morphological and histological point of view. This process, which was first dis- tinctly observed by Prevost and Dumas more than fifty years ago, and is now known to occur in all animal ova, consists essentially in the cleavage or splitting up of the protoplasmic substance of the yolk, by which it becomes rapidly subdivided into smaller and more numerous elements, so as at last to give rise to the production of an organ- ized stratum of cells out of which by subsequent changes the embryo is formed. The process of yolk-segmentation may at once be distinguished as of two kinds, according as it affects in the small-yolked ova the whole mass of the yolk simultaneously, or in the large-yolked ova is limited to only one part of it. The cleav- age process, in fact, affects the germinal and not the food yolk; so that, to take the two most con- trasting instances of the bird and mammal to which I have before referred, it appears that while the mammal’s ovum undergoes entire seg- mentation, this process is confined to the sub- stance of the cicatricula or germinal disk of the bird’s egg. This process is essentially one of cell-division, but it is also in some measure one of cell-formation. The best idea of its nature will be obtained from a short description of the total segmentation occurring in the mammal’s ovum, When, as before mentioned, the germinal vesi- cle has been in part extruded or lost to sight, the whole yolk-substance of the ovum forms a nearly uniform mass of finely granular protoplasm, in- closed within the external cell-membrane. With- in a few hours later a clear nucleus has arisen in this mass. To this more definite form of organi- zation, assumed by the germinal substance of the future animal which is about to be the subject of the segmenting process, the name of the first segment-sphere may be given. By the process of cleavage, which now begins, division into two nucleated spheres of smaller” size, the whole substance of the yolk, in a holo. blastic ovum, such as that of the mammal, being involved in the segmenting process. The second stage of division follows after the lapse of a few hours, and results in the formation of four nucleated segment-spheres ; and the prog. ess of division being repeated in a certain def. nite order, there result in the succeeding stages, that is, the third, fourth, fifth, and up to the tenth, the numbers of 8, 12, 16, 24, 32, 48, 64, and 9% nucleated yolk-spheres, germ-spheres, or forma tive cells. In the rabbit’s ovum the tenth stage is reached in less than three days ; and as during that time the size of the whole ovum has undergone very little increase, it follows that the spheres of each succeeding set, as they become more numerous, have diminished greatly in size. These segment. spheres are all destitute of external membrane, but are distinctly nucleated ; and their protoplas. mic substance is more or less granular, present ing the usual histological characters of growing cells. By the time that segmentation has reached the seventh or eighth stage, when thirty-two or forty-eight spheres have been formed, the ovum has assumed the appearance of a mulberry, in which the outer smaller spheres, closely massed together, project slightly and uniformly over the whole surface; while the interior of the ball is filled with cells of a somewhat larger size anda more opaque granular aspect, also resulting from the process of segmentation. Already, however, the mutual compression of the spheres or cells on the surface, by their crowding together, has led to the flattening of their adjacent sides; and by the time the tenth stage is reached, when the whole number of the cells is about ninety-six, the more advanced super ficial cells, having ranged themselves closely gether, form a neucleated cellular layer or cover ing of the yolk, inclosing within them the larger and more opaque cells, derived like the first from the segmenting process. In a more ad : stage, the deeper cells now referred to having also taken the form of a layer, there results at last the bilaminar blastoderm or embryonic membrane. The process of partial segmentation, such , occurs in the bird’s egg, though perhaps mentally the same as that of the mammal te viously described, stands in a different relay . to the parts of the whole yolk or egg, and quer segn tic 0 la, the | place thro the ¢ bran prog usual Corr segm leads layer seat ¢ derm inas I the d they they runni: the ge the d into t hext s at rig Then | subdir afterw segme tions pared globe: fissure succes clefts, come germir nuclea germir embry the he 1 Th tion was of Bagg The phe describe tion of t' out in hi and Roe were fir: liker's “

Page 495

> he a le Fhe quently differs in its general phenomena. The segmentation is mainly restricted in the meroblas- tic ova of birds to the germinal disk or cicatricu- la, and does not immediately involve any part of the larger remainder of the yolk. This takes place during the time of the descent of the yolk through the oviduct, when the yolk is receiving the covering of the white or albumen, the mem- brane and the shell, previous to being laid—a progress which, in the common domestic fowl, usually occupies less than twenty-four hours. Corresponding essentially to the more complete segmentation of the mammal’s ovum, the process leads to the same result in the production of two layers of nucleated formative cells in the original seat of a protoplasmic disk ; a bilaminar blasto- derm resulting as in the mammal’s ovum, though in a somewhat different relation to the yolk. | | DEVELOPMENT OF THE FORMS OF ANIMAL LIFE. 491 the cicatricula, now converted into this seg- mented blastoderm, is found to be considerably expanded by a rapid multiplication of its constitu- ent cells, and in as many more hours, by further changes in its substance, the first lineaments of the chick begin to make their appearance. Simi- lar changes affect the blastoderm of the mammal, and thus it appears that the result of segmenta- tion, in the bird as well as in the mammal and other animals, is the production of an organized laminar substratum, which is the seat of the sub- sequent embryonic development. I must still request your attention to some details connected with the process of segmenta- tion, which bear upon the question of the origin of the new cells, and on which recent research has thrown a new and unexpected light. With respect to the nature of the first seg- I wiil not fatigue you with a description of | ment-sphere of the ovum, and the source of its nucleus, as well as of the other segment-spheres the details of these phenomena, interesting as they may be, but only mention generally that they consist in the formation of deep fissures | or cells which follow each other in the successive steps of germ-subdivision, it appears probable running from the surface into the substance of | from the researches of several independent ob- the germ-disk. The first of these fissures crosses the disk in a determinate direction, dividing it into two nearly equal semicircular parts. In the next stage another fissure, crossing the first nearly at right angles, produces four angular segments. Then come four intervening radial fissures, which subdivide the four segments into eight; and next servers, and more especially of Edward Van ' Beneden and Oscar Hertwig, that, in the course of the extrusion of the germinal vesicle, a small portion of it remains behind in the form of a | minute mass of hyaline substance, to which Van afterward the central angles of these eight radial | segments are cut off from their peripheral por- tions by a different fissure, which may be com- pared to one of the parallels of latitude on the globe near the pole where the radial or longitude fissures converge. And so thereafter, by the Beneden has given the name of pronucleus, and that, as the result of the fertilizing process, there is formed a second similar hyaline globule or pronucleus, situated near the surface, which grad- ually travels toward the centre and unites with the first pronucleus, and that these two pronuclei, being fused together, form the true nucleus of succession and alternation of radial and circular | a | clefts, whigh, however, as they extend outward, | ' bryologists, is not dissipated, but only under- come soon to lose their regularity, the whole germinal disk is divided into the two layers of nucleated cells, constituting the blastoderma or germinal membrane of Pander and all subsequent embryologists.' If a laid egg be subjected to the first segment-sphere. According to this view the original germinal vesicle, when it disappears, or is lost to sight, as described by so many em- goes changes leading to the formation of the new and more highly-endowed nucleus of the first embryonic or segmental sphere. It further ap- pears that the subdivision of each segmenting the heat of incubation for eight or ten hours, | mass is preceded by a change and division of the 1The more exact nature of the process of segmenta- tion was first made known by the interesting researches of Bagge in 1841, and more especially of K8lliker in 1843. The phenomena of complete segmentation were first fully described in the mammai’s ovum in Bischoff's “ Descrip- tion of the Development of the Rabbit,” 1842, and followed out in his succeeding ‘** Memoirs on the Dog, Guinea-pig, and Roe-deer.” The phenomena of partial segmentation were first made known, in their more exact form, by K6l- liker's “ Researches on the Development of the Cephalo- poda,” published in 1844. In birds the process was first a by Bergmann in 1846, and more fully by Coste Ss. nucleus, and that this division of the nucleus is accompanied by the peculiar phenomenon of a double conical or spindle-shaped radial lineation of the protoplasm, which, if we were inclined to speculate as to its nature, secms almost as if it marked out the lines of molecular force acting in the organizing process. These lines, however, it will be understood, if visible with the microscope, even of the highest magnifying power yet attained, belong to much larger particles than those of the supposed molecules of the physicist; but con-

Page 496

’ 492 sidered in connection with what we know of the movements which frequently precede the act of division of the yolk-spheres, we seem in this phenomenon to have made some near approach | to the observation of the direction in which the molecular forces operating in organization may be supposed to act.’ With respect to the nature of the blastoderm, the organized cellular stratum resulting from seg- mentation, and its relation to the previous condi- tion of the ovum on the one hand, and the future embryo on the other, there is presented to us, by modern research, the interesting view that the blastoderm consists, after completion of the seg- menting process, of two layers of cells, an outer, 1 The observations referred to above as to the division THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. ! | of the nucleus are so novel, and of such deep interest, that | I am tempted to add here a short abstract of their more important results from a very clear account given of them by Dr. Joha Priestley, of Owens College, Manchester, in the Journal of Microscopical Science for April, 1876. The researches now referred to are those of Auerbach, Butschli, Strasburger, Hertwig, and Edward Van Beneden, and the following may be stated as the points in which they mainly agree: or upper, usually composed of smaller, clearer, and more compact nucleated cells, named egg. derm, or epiblast, and an inner, or lower, eon. sisting of cells which are somewhat larger, mogg. opaque, and granular, but also nucleated, and named endoderm, or hypoblast. In the meroblastic ova, such as those of birds, the bilaminar blastoderm is discoid and circum. scribed, as it lies on the yolk-surface, and only comes to envelop the whole of the food-yolk im the progress of later development; while in the holoblastic ova, and more especially in mammals, the blastoderm from the first extends over the whole surface of the yolk, and thus forms ag entire covering of the yolk known as the “ vegig. ular blastoderm ;” the space within being ocen pied by fluid, ; H&xley long ago presented the interesting view that these two layers are essentially the same in their morphological relations and his. tological structure with the double wall of the body in the simplest forms of animals above the protozoa; and Haeckel has more recently fol | lowed out this view, and supported it by his The nucleus when about to divide elongates into a | founded upon it his well-known Gastrea theory, spindle-shaped body, becomes irregular and indistinct, acquires a granular disk or zone in the plane of its equa- tor; this divides into two, and each half moves toward the pole of the spindle on its own side, there being radiated lines of protoplasm between the poles and the equatorial disk. The disk-segments are the new nuclei. and the subse- quent division of the cell takes place in the intermediate space. Although these observers still differ in opinion upon some of the details of this process, and especially as to the fate of the germinal vesicle, all of them seem to agree that there are two pronuclei or distinct hyaline parts of the yolk-protoplasm, a superficial and a deep one, engagee in the formation of the new nucleus, and both Hertwig and Van Beneden are of opinion that the two proceed from different productive elements. The radiated structure of the nuclei had been pre- viously recognized by Fol and Flemming, and further observed by Oellacher. Zool., vol. xxv. 2. Auerbach’s ebservations in his Organolog. Studien, 1874. 8. Strasburger’s observations in his memoir “ Ueber Zelibildung und Zelltheilung,” Jena, 1875. 4. Edward Van Beneden’s researches, partly in his memoir “On the Composition and Significance of the researches in the Caleareous Sponges, and has According to this view, all animals take their origin from a form of Gastrula, In the simpler tribes, as in the instance of the common fresh water polyp or hydra, they proceed no further than the gastrula stage, unless by mere enlarge ment and slight differentiation of the two primi tive layers of cell, representing the persistent ectoderm and endoderm.! If, pursuing this idea, we take a survey of ' the whole animal kingdom in its long gradation | Egg,” ete , presented to the Belgian Academy in 1868, | and more particularly in the extremely interesting pre- liminary account of “ Researches on the Development of | Mammalia,” ete., 1875; and in a separate paper in the Journal of Microscopical Science for April, 1876. 5. Oscar Hertwig's “ Memoirs” are contained in the Morpholog. Jahrbuch, 1875, and his most interesting and novel observations in the same work, 1877. "cent of Haeckel’s works, in which the views alluded e of increasing complexity of form and structure from the simplest animal up to man himself, we find that all the various modifications of organi structure which present themselves are found, ia the history of the individual or ontological devel } e . 1. Butschli’s researches are published in the Nov. Act | opment of the different members of the series, 10 Nat, Cur., 1873, and in the Zeitschr. fiir wissensch. | spring originally from two cellular lamin, ect derm and endoderm, the component elements of, which may again be traced back to the first seg- ment-sphere and primitive protoplasmic clement of the ovum. ; Time does not admit of my conducting you through the chain of observation and reasoning by which Haeckel seeks to convince us of the universal applicability of his theory, but I — >. 1 At this place I will only refer to one of the most 1 above are fully exposed in a series of most memoirs, viz., “Studien zur Gastrea-Theorie,” Jena avoit teres betw the ¢ in ve cial; Kow: and from Lank may notw whicl ciling the t may subsi: and t matio Ir ovum nar st tain § sultin cleave which about invag imme menta duced first, j inclos in the single divide distin of cell manifi later Thus, among occurs Van B the ral verteb spread progre mic co of cell: 11 ¢ Prof, & brate ar aus den 1876, in with th

Page 497

DEVELOPMENT OF THE FORMS OF ANIMAL LIFE. 493 avoid calling your attention to the extremely in- From the very novel and unexpected observa- teresting relation which has been shown to exist | tions of Van Beneden, it further appears that between the primary phases of development of | from the earliest period in the process of segmen- the ovum and the foundation of the blastoderm | tation in the mammal’s ovum it is possible to in very different groups of animals, more espe- | perceive a distinction. of two kinds of segment- cially by the researches of Haeckel himself, of | spheres, or cells, and that when this process is Kowalevsky, Edward van Beneden, and others, | traced back to its first stage it is found that the and which has received most efficient support | whole of the cells belonging to the ectoderm are the from the investigations and writings of E. Ray | progeny of, or result from, the division of the up- Lankester in our own country; so that now we | per of the two first-formed segments, and that the may indulge the well-grounded expectation that, | whole of the endodermic cells are the descendants notwithstanding the many and great difficulties | of the lower of the first two segmented cells, which doubtless still present themselves in recon- | This, however, is not an isolated fact belonging on- ciling various forms with the general principle of | ly to mammalian development, but one which very the theory, we are at least in the track which | nearly repeats a process ascertained to occur ina may lead to a consistent view of the relations | considerable number of the lower animals, and it subsisting between the ontogenetic, or individual, | seems to promise the means of greatly advancing and the phylogenetic, or race, history of the for- | the comprehension of the whole process of blas- mation of animals and of man.! todermic formation. Thus, ectoderm and endo- In all animals, then, above the protozoa, the | derm, or the primordial rudiments of the future ovum presents, in some form or other, the bilami- | animal and vegetative systems of the embryo, are nar structure of ectoderm and endoderm at a cer- | traced back as distinct from each other to the tain stage of its development, this structure re- | first stage of segmentation of the germ. sulting from a process of segmentation or cell- Accepting these facts as ascertained, they may cleavage; and there are three principal modes in | be regarded as of the deepest significance in the which the double condition of the layers is brought | phylogenetic history of animals ; for they appear about. In one of these it is by inward folding or | to open up the prospect of our being able to trace invagination of a part of the single layer of cells | transitions between the earliest embryonic forms | immediately resulting from the process of seg- | occurring in the most different kinds of ova, as mentation that the doubling of the layers is pro- | between the discoid or meroblastic, and the Ve- duced ; in the second, perhaps resolvable into the | sicular or holoblastic, through the intermediate first, it may be described rather as a process of ' series, which may be termed amphiblastic ova. inclosure of one set of cells within another ; while In the lowest-animals, the two layers already in the third the segmented cells, arranged as a | mentioned, viz., ectoderm and endoderm, are the single layer round a central cavity of the ovum, | only ones known to constitute the basis of de- divide themselves later into two layers. But the | velopmental organization; but as we rise in the distinction of ectodermiec and endodermic layers , scale of animals we find a new feature appearing of cells is maintained, whether it be primitive and | in their structure which is repeated also in the manifested from a very early period, or acquired history of the formation of the blastoderm in the later by a secondary process of differentiation, | higher animals up to man. This consists in the Thus, in man y mvertebrates, as also in Amphiorus formation of an intermediate layer or layers con- among the vertebrates, a distinct invagination | stituting the mesoderm, with which, in by far the occurs, while in mammals, as recently shown by | greater number, is connected the formation of Van Beneden’s most interesting observations in | Some of the most important bodily structures, the rabbit’s ovum, and probably also in some in- | Such as the osseous, muscular, and vascular sys- vertebrates, the cells of the ectoderm gradually | tems. spread over those of the endoderm during the I will not stop to discuss the very difficult Progress of segmentation, and thus the endoder- question of the first origin of the mesoderm, upon mie comes to be inclosed by the ectodermic layer ' which embryologists are not yet entirely agreed, of cells. | but will only remark that a view originally taken esac refer to the elaborate memoirs of | of this subject by the acute Von Baer appears tents end -sthadhaatenpee se sqane scene pn of the verte- | more and more to gain ground; and it is this— fs ned in the “ Arbeiten caf aus dem zooloz. zootom, Institut in Wirzburg.” 1875 and that the mesoderm, arising as a secondary struct- 1876, in which the conclusions arrived at do not coincide | Ue, that is, later than the two primary layers of With the views above stated. | ectoderm and endoderm (corresponding to the

Page 498

494 serous and mucous layers of Pander), is probably connected with or derived from both of these primitive layers, a view which it will afterward appear is equally important ontogenetically and phylogenetically. But whatever may be the first origin of the mesoblast, we know that in the vertebrata this layer, separating from between the other two, and acquiring rapidly by its cell-multiplication larger proportions and much greater complexity than belong to either ectoderm or endoderm, speedily undergoes further subdivision and dif- ferentiation in connection with the appearance of the embryonic organs which arise from it, and in this respect contrasts greatly with the sim- plicity of structure which remains in the de- veloped parts of the ectodermic and endodermic layers. Thus, while the ectoderm supplies the formative materials for the external covering or epidermis, together with the rudiments of the central nervous organs and principal sense-or- gans, and the endoderm by itself only gives rise to the epithelial lining of the alimentary canal and the cellular part of the glands connected with it, the mesoblast is the source of far more numerous and complex parts, viz., the whole of the true skin or corium, the vertebral column and osseous system, the external voluntary mus- cles and connective tissue, the muscular walls of the alimentary canal, the heart and blood-ves- sels, the kidneys, and the reproductive organs, thus forming much the greatest bulk of the body in the higher animals.! ( There is, however, a peculiarity in the mode of the earliest development of the mesoblast which is of great importance in connection with the general history of the disposition of parts in the animal body to which I must now refer. This consists in the division of the mesoblast in all but its central part into two Jamin, an outer or upper and an inner or lower, and the separation of these by an interval or cavity which corre- sponds to the space existing between the outer wall of our bodies and the deeper viscera; and which from the point of view of the vertebrate animals is called the pleuro-peritoneal cavity, but, 1 If we reserve the words ectoderm and endoderm to designate the two layers of the primary bilaminar blasto- derm, we may apply the terms epiblast and hypoblast to their derivatives after the formation of the mesoderm, and indicate the relations of the whole to the secondary or quadrilaminar blastoderm, by the accompanying table: Retoderm {--+00-++- Epiblast........ Blastoderm. Mesoderm. { 5° “= wee | Secondary Endoderm{ Hypoblast....... THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. y viewed in the more extended series of animals | down to the annuloida, may receive the more gen. eral appellation of pleuro-splanchnic or pariety visceral cavity, or, shortly, the calom. from an early period in the vertebrate embryo, and in a considerable number of the invertebrate, a division of the mesoderm takes place into the somato-pleural or outer lamina, and the splaneb. no-pleural or inner lamina; the outer being thé seat of formation of the dermal, muscular, and osseous systems—the volunto-motory of Remak} and the inner of the muscular wall of the aliment ary canal, as well as of the contractile substance of the heart and the vascular system generally, © It is interesting to find that there is a corre: spondence between the later division of the me soderm of the higher animals derived from the two primitive blastodermic lamina, and the origi nal absence of mesodermic structure in the low. est animals, followed by the gradual appearance, first of one layer (the external muscular in thé higher ccelenterata), and soon afterward by the two divisions or ‘Jamin with the intermediate coelom. In this account of what may be termed the organized foundation of the new being, I have entered into some detail, because I felt that our conception of any relation subsisting between the ontogenetic history of animals and their phylo genetic evolution can only be formed from the careful study of the earliest phenomena of em — bryonic organization. But, notwithstanding the many difficulties which unquestionably still block the way, I am inclined to think that there is great probability in the view of a common bilaminar origin for the embryo of all animals above thé protozoa, and that the vertebrate equally with the invertebrate animals may be shown to poe sess in the first stages of their blastodermie ot embryonic formation the two primitive layers of ectoderm and endoderm. ' To attempt, however, to pursue the history of, the development of animals in detail would be equivalent to inflicting upon you a complete sy tem of human and comparative anatomy. But” I cannot leave the subject abruptly without aa” endeavor to point out in the briefest ‘i manner the bearing of one or two of the " facts in embryology upon the general relation ontogeny and phylogeny. _ We are here brought into the contempisi®s — of those remarkable changes, all capable of observed and demonstrated, by which the plex organization of the body is gradually up out of the elementary materials furnished " the t been in its mirat ena a ferent not 0 contr: remal be led devel: consi tracec clear! that t the ai a con them answe corres velop! struct are ag rapidl illustr the e: anima As nome! which or twe which of eve It con: side o: from « in the there ; rapid] body ¢ they e protor as mi; actual resent! verteb within struct be der Osseou Th dermic portio side of blast a

Page 499

ies ee”, a eee the blastodermic layers—a process which has been looked upon by all those who have engaged in its study with the greatest interest and ad- miration. And if, by comparing these phenom- ena as observed in individuals belonging to dif- ferent classes and orders of animals, it is found not only that they are not different, but, on the contrary, that they present features of the most DEVELOPMENT OF THE FORMS OF ANIMAL LIFE. 495 is ascertained to commence near what afterward forms the first cervical vertebra, but does not extend into the base of the cranium, And it is most interesting to note in this cleavage the for- mation at so early a period of the succession of metameres or series of similar parts, which forms a main characteristic of vertebral organization. As intimately connected with the formation remarkable resemblance and conformity, we shall | of the vertebral column, the appearance of the be led to conclude that there is a general plan of development proved to extend to the members of considerable groups, and possibly capable of being traced from one group to another. clearly nothing else than another way of stating that there is a similar type of structure pervading the animals of each group, and a probability of a common type being ascertained to belong to | them all. The main question, therefore, to be answered is, whether there is or is not a general | correspondence between the phenomena of de- velopment and the gradation of type in animal structure upon which anatomists and zodlogists are agreed; and my object will now be to bring rapidly before you one or two of the most marked illustrations of the correspondence, drawn from the early history of development in the higher animals, As one of the examples of the earlier phe- nomena of development I may refer to the change which is perceptible as early as the eighteenth or twentieth hour of incubation in the chick, and which is reproduced in the course of development But this is | chorda dorsalis, or notochord, presents many points of peculiar interest in embryological in- quiries. The notochord is a continuous median column | or thread of cellular structure, running nearly the whole length of the rudimentary body of the embryo, and lying immediately below the cerebro- spinal canal. It occupies, in fact, the centre of the future bodies of the vertebra. It exists as a primordial structure in the embryo of all ver- tebrates, including man himself, and extending down to the amphioxus, and, according to the remarkable discovery of Kowalevsky in 1866, it is to be found among the invertebrates in the larva of the ascidia.! In amphioxus and the cyclostomatous fishes the notochord, growing with the rest of the body into a highly-developed form, acts as a substitute for the pillar of the bodies of the vertebra, no vertebral bodies being developed ; but in carti- laginous and osseous fishes various gradations of cartilaginous and osseous structures come to surround the notochord and give rise to the | of every member of the vertebrate sub-kingdom. It consists in the formation of cross-clefts on each side of the primitive neural cavity which divide off from each other a number of segments of this wall in the length of the axis of the embryo. At first there are only one or two such clefts; but they rapidly increase ina backward direction in the body of the embryo, and as development proceeds they extend into the tail itself. These are the protovertebree of embryologists, not corresponding, as might at first be supposed, with the true or actual vertebrae which are formed later, but rep- resenting in an interesting manner transverse vertebral segments of the body, and containing within each the elements of a great part of the structure belonging to the body-wall afterward to be developed, including the true cartilaginous or osseous vertebral arches, and the muscular plates. This change, however, belongs to the meso- dermic lamina, and cecurs in an elongated thick Portion of it, which makes its appearance on each simpler forms of vertebral bodies, which undergo more and more distinct development in the higher vertebrates. In all instances the substance form- ing the vertebral bodies is deposited on the sur- face of or outside the notochord and its sheath, so that this body remains for a time as a vestigial structure within the vertebral bodies of the high- er animals, The observations of Kowalevsky with respect to the existence of a notochord in the ascidias which have been confirmed by Kupfer and others, have produced a change little short of revolu- tionary in embryological and zodlogical views, leading as they do to the support of the hypoth- esis that the ascidia is an earlier stage in the phylogenetic history of the mammal and other vertebrates. The analogy between the amphioxus and ascidian larva is certainly most curious and striking as regards the relation of the notochord to other parts, and it is not difficult to conceive such a change in the form and position of the | side of the primitive neural canal between the epi- | organs in their passage from the embryonic to blast and the hypoblast, The transverse cleavage 1 “ Mémoires de Académie de St.-Pétersbourg,” vol. x.

Page 500

’ 496 the adult state as is not inconsistent with the supposition that the vertebrates and the ascidia may have had a common ancestral form. Kowa- levsky’s discovery opens up at least an entirely new path of inquiry; and we must be prepared to modify our views as to the entire separation of the vertebrates from the other groups of ani- mals, if we do not at once adopt the hypothesis that through the ascidian and other forms the origin of the vertebrates may be traced down- ward in the series to the lower grades of animal organization. The notochord extends a short way forward into the cranial basis, and an interesting question here presents itself, beginning with the specula- tions of Goethe and Oken, and still forming a subject of discussion, whether the series of cranial or cephalic bones is comparable to that of the vertebre. On the whole it appears to me that it is consistent with the most recent views of the development and anatomy of the head to hold the opinion that it is composed of parts which are to some extent homologous with verte- bral metameres.! The history of the formation of the vertebral column presents an interesting example of the correspondence in the development of the indi- vidual and the race, in that all the stages which have been referred to, as occurring in the grad- ual evolution of the vertebral column in the series of vertebrates, are repeated in the successive stages of the embryonic development of the high- er members of the serics. There is perhaps no part of the history of development in the vertebrates which illustrates in a more striking manner the similarity of plan which runs through the whole of them than that connected with what I may loosely call the region of the face and neck, including the apparatus of the jaws and gills. The embryonic parts I now refer to consist of a series of symmetrical pairs of plates which are developed at an early period below the cranium, and may, therefore, in stricter embryological terms, be styled the subcranial plates. Without attempting to follow out the remark- able changes which occur in the development of the nose and mouth in connection with the an- terior set of these plates, which, from being 1 See the interesting and valuable memoirs of W. K. Parker, “ On the Anatomy and Development of the Verte- brate Skull,” in “Transactions” of Royal Society, the re- searches of Gegenbaur, Mihalkovics, and more particularly the memoir by F. M. Balfour, “On the Development of the Elasmobranchs,” in the Journal of Anatomy and Physiology, vols. x. and xi. THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. #, placed before the mouth, are sometimes named preoral, I may here refer shortly to the vf of the plates situated behind the mouth, whi were discovered by Rathke in 1826, and formed the subject of an elaborate investigation by Ra chert in 1837. ¥ These plates consist of a series of symmetri. cal bars, four in number in mammals and binds placed immediately behind the mouth, separated by clefts passing through the wall of the throat and each traversed by a division of the great artery from the heart; thus constituting the type of a branchial apparatus, which in fishes and amphibia becomes converted into the well-known gills of these animals, while in reptiles, birds, and mammals, they undergo various changes leading to the formation of very different parts, which could not be recognized as having any relation to gill-structure but for the observation of their earlier embryonic condition. The history of this part of development also possesses great interest on account of the extraordinary degree of general resemblance which it gives to the embryos of the most different animals at a certain stageof advaneement—so great, indeed, that it requires# practised eye to distinguish between the embryos of very different orders of mammals, and evel” between some of them and the embryos of birds or reptiles, as well as in connection with the tran formations of the first pair of branchial apertures, which lead to the formation of the passage from the throat to the ear in the higher vertebrate” There is equal interest attached to the history f the development of the first pair of arches which include the basis of formation of the lower ja¥ with the so-called cartilage of Meckel, and whieh, while furnishing the bone which suspends the lower jaw in reptiles and birds, is converted in mammals into the hammer-bone of the eat. The other arches undergo transformations which are hardly less marvelous, and the whole series of changes is such as never fails to ; the embryological inquirer with a forcible idea of : the persistence of type and the inexhaustible 1 ; riety of changes to which simple and fu parts may be subject in the process of thelr de velopment. ye It is also of deep significance, in connection 4 with the foregoing phenomena, to observe 8 — increase in the number of the gill-bars and tures as we descend in the scale to the nous fishes and lampreys, and the still furt multiplication of these metameres or repeal”. — parts in the amphioxus; and it is, perhaps, @% q interesting to note that in the ascidia the g 3 rangen of the | The heart ¢ furnish relatio1 develoy out its groups In comple bloodet of the secure¢ the cla undivic further we com to state the chi mately bular f the pri order, « just no series « embryo animal: tractile tube, tl and the are for the sin fish, | divide the air. plete in ditions alized | another gradual repeatil observe complet ed anin

Page 501

ae. a rangement of the gills is exactly similar to that of the amphioxus. The study of the comparative anatomy of the heart and its mode of formation in the embryo furnishes also most striking illustrations of the relation between ontogenetic and phylogenetic development in the vertebrates, and is not with- out its applications to some of the invertebrate groups of animals. I need only recall to your recollection the completely double state of this organ in warm- blooded animals, by which a regular alternation DEVELOPMENT OF THE FORMS OF ANIMAL LIFE. 497 of the systemic and pulmonary circulations is secured, and the series of gradations through | the class of reptiles by which we arrive at the undivided ventricle of the amphibian, and the further transition in the latter animals by which | we come at last to the single heart of fishes ; and | to state that in the embryo of the higher animals | the changes by which the double heart is ulti- mately developed out of an extremely simple tu- | bular form into which it is at first moulded from | the primitive-formative cells are, in the inverse order, entirely analogous to those which I have | just now indicated as traceable in the descending | series of vertebrate animals; so that at first the embryonic heart of man and other warm-blooded animals is nothing more than a rhythmically con- tractile vascular tube. By the inflection of this | tube, the constriction of its wall at certain parts, | and the dilatation at others, the three chambers are formed which represent the single auricle, | the single ventricle, and the aortic bulb of the fish, By later changes a septum is formed to divide the auricles, becoming completed in all the air-breathing animals, but remaining incom- plete in the higher animals so long as the con- ditions of fwtal life prevent the return of arteri- alized blood to the left auricle. The growth of another septum within the ventricular portion | gradually divides that cavity into two ventricles, | repeating somewhat in its progress the variations | observed in different reptiles, and attaining its | complete state in the crocodile and warm-blood- | ed animals, I must not attempt to pursue this interesting sudject further, but I cannot avoid making ref- erence to the ins'ructive view presented by the embryological study of the nature of the malfor- mations to which the heart is subject, which, as many other instances, are due to the persist- eee of transitory conditions which belong to different Stages of progress in the development of the embryo. Nor ean I do more than allude to the interesting series of changes by which the 32 | | aortic bulb, remaining single in fishes, and serv- ing as the channel] through which the whole stream of blood leaving the heart is passed into the gills, becomes divided in the higher animals into the roots of the two great vessels, the aorta and the pulmonary artery, and the remarkable transformations of the vascular arches which proceed from the aortic bulb along the several branchial arches, and which, in the gills of fishes and aquatic amphibia, undergo that minute sub- division which belongs to the vascular distribution of gills, but which in the higher non-branchiated animals are the subject of very different and va- rious changes in the partial obliteration of some, and the enlargement of others, by which the per- manent vessels are produced. These changes and transformations have for many years been a subject of much interest to comparative anatomists, and will continue to be so, not only from their presenting to us one of the most remarkable examples of conformity in the plan of development and the type of perma- nent or completed organization in the whole series of vertebrated animals, but also because of the manifest dependence of the phenomena of their development upon external influences and atmospheric conditions which affect the respira- tion, nutrition, and modes of life, of the animal. Nor is the correspondencé to which I now refer entirely limited to the vértebrata. For here, again, through the amphioxus and the as- cidia, we come to see how an affinity may be traced between organs of circulation and respira- tion which at first appear to belong to very dif- ferent types. The heart of vertebrates is, as is well known, an essentially concentrated form of vascular development in the ventral aspect of the body ; while the heart of the invertebrate, wheth- | er in the more concentrated form existing in the articulata and muscula, or in a more subdivided shape prevalent in the annelida, is most frequent- ly dorsal; yet the main aorta of the vertebrates is also dorsal; and it is not impossible, through the intermediate form of amphioxus, to under- stand how the relation between the vertebrate and the invertebrate type of the blood-vascular system may be maintaiiced. But I am warned by the lapse of time that I must not attempt to pursue these illustrations further. In the statement which I have made of some of the more remarkable phenomena of organic production—too long, I fear, for your endurance, but much too brief to do justice to the subject—it has been my object mainly to

Page 502

ba 498 show that they are all more or less closely related together.by a chain of similarity of a very marked and unmistakable character; that in their sim- plest forms they are indeed, in so far as our pow- ers of observation enable us to know them, iden- tical; that in the lower grades of animal and vegetable life they are so similar as to pass by insensible gradations into each other; and that in the higher forms, while they diverge most widely in some of their aspects in the bodies be- longing to the two great kingdoms of organic | Nature, and in the larger groups distinguishable within each of them, yet it is still possible, from the fundamental similarity of the phenomena, to trace in the transitional forms of all their varie- ties one great general plan of organization. In its simplest and earliest form that plan | comprises a minute mass of the common nitro- genous hydrocarbon compound to which the name of protoplasm has been given, exhibiting | the vit.l properties of assimilation, reproduction, and irritability; the second stage in this plan is the nucleated and inclosed condition of the pro- toplasmic mass in the organized cell. We next recognize the differentiation of two productive elements, and their combination for the formation of a more highly-endowed organizing element in the embryonic germ-sphere or cell; and the fourth stage of advance in the complexity of the , organizing phenomena is in the multiplication of the fertilized embryo-cell, and its conversion into | continuous organized strata, by further histologi- cal changes in which the morphological founda. | tions of the future embryo or new being are laid. | I need not now recur to the further series of complications in the formative process by which» the bilaminar blastoderm is developed, and be- comes trilaminar or quadrilaminar, but only recall to your recollection that while these sev- eral states of the primordial condition of the incipient animal pass insensibly into each other, | there is a pervading similarity in the nature of the histological changes by which they are | reached, and that in the production of the end- less variations of form assumed by the organs and systems of different animals in the course of their development, the process of cell-production, multiplication, and differentiation, remains iden- tical. The more obvious morphological changes THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. of the vital conditions in which alone these prop. erties manifest themselves. The formative or organizing property, there. fore, resides in the living substance of every-or. ganized cell and in each of its component mole. cules, and is a necessary part of the physical and chemical constitution of the organizing elements in the conditions of life; and it scarcely needs to be said that these conditions may be ds varied as the countless numbers of the molecules which compose the smallest particles of their sub. stance. But, setting aside all speculation of a merely pangenetic kind, it appears to me that no one could have engaged in the study of embryo. logical development for any time without be. coming convinced that the phenomena which have been ascertained as to the first origin and formation of textures and organs in any indi- vidual animal are of so uniform a character as to indicate forcibly a law of connection and conti- _nuity between them; nor will his study of the ' phenomena of development in different animals have gone far before he is equally strongly con- | vinced of the similarity of plan in the develop. ment of the larger groups, and, to somé extent, of the whole. I consider it impossible, therefore, for any one to be a faithful student of embry- ology, in the present state of science, without at the same time becoming an evolutionist. There may still be many difficulties, some inconsisten- cies, and much to learn, and there may remain | beyond much which we shall never know; but I cannot conceive any doctrine professirig to bring the phenomena of embryonic development within a general law which is not, like the theory of Darwin, consistent with their fundamental iden- tity, their endless variability, their subjugation to varying external influences and conditions, and | with the possibility of the transmission of the vital conditions and properties, with all their variations, from individual to individual, and, ip the long lapse of ages, from race to race. I regard it, therefore, as no exaggerated rep- resentation of the present state of our knowledge to say that the ontogenetic development of the individual in the higher animals repeats in its | more general character, and in many of its spe cific phenomena, the phylogenetic developmentof the race. If we admit the progressive nature of are of so similar a character throughout the | the changes of development, their similarity in whole, and so nearly allied in the different larger groups, that we are led to regard them as placed in some very close and intimate relation to the inherent properties of the organic substance which is their seat, and the ever-present influence | different groups, and their common characters i | all animals, nay, even in some respects im both | plants and animals, we can scarcely refuse # recognize the possibility of continuous derivation ‘in the history of their origin; and however far we maj knowle omy, al nature | actual « be litile prejudi M’. a through and Fut guard th its creed common which su is the eff other m into whic duce, I tended t the sam produce, dency mi by the r nawure, t should hi verifiable assert, ni instance | of what I presented the sente superfluot accent of necessity | able cert: sibility fo mystical ¢ “we do 1 ae not r any reaso1 Poning thi 1 Se Mr IV. of the tinued and tine, 2 SuppLy

Page 503

ee ee SS A MODERN “SYMPOSIUM.” 499 we may be, by reason of the imperfection of our ; by the employment of such an hypothesis as that knowledge of paleontology, comparative anat- | of evolution that further investigation in these omy, and embryology, from realizing the precise | several departments will be promoted so as to nature of the chain of connection by which the | bring us to a fuller comprehension of the most actual descent has taken place, still there can | general law which regulates the adaptation of be little doubt remaining in the minds of any un- | structure to function in the universe. prejudiced student of embryology that it is only —WNature. A MODERN “SYMPOSIUM” THE SOUL AND FUTURE LIFE.’ N R. R. H. HUTTON.—The imaginative glow | nature.” After reading that admission, I was and- rhetorical vivacity which are visible | puzzled when I came to the assertion that “ we throughout Mr. Harrison’s essays on “‘The Soul | who know that a higher form of activity is only and Future Life ” are very remarkable, and should | to be reached by a subjective life in society, will guard those of us who recoil in amazement from continue to regard a perpetuity of sensation as its creed or no-creed from falling into the very | the true hell,” ! a sentence in which Mr. Harrison common mistake of assuming that the effect | would commonly be understood to mean that he which such ideas as these produce on ourselves | and all his friends, if they had a vote in the mat- is the effect which, apart from all question of the | ter, would give a unanimous suffrage against this other mental conditions surrounding the natures | “ perpetuity of sensation,” and, so far from try- into which they are received, they naturally pro- | ing to eliminate or postpone death, would be in- duce. It is clear, at least, that if they ever | clined to cling to and even basten it. For, in tended to produce on the author of these papers | this place at least, it is not the perpetuation of the same effect which they not only tend to | deteriorated energies of which, Mr. Harrison produce, but do produce, on myself, that ten- | speaks, but the perpetuation of life pure and dency must have been so completely neutralized | simple. Indeed, nothing puzzles me more in this by the redundant moral energy inherent in his | paper than the diametrical contradictions, both miure, that the characteristic effect which I | of feeling and thought, which appear to me to be should have ascribed to them is absolutely un- | embodied in it. Its main criticism on the com- verifiable, and, for anything we have the right to | mon view of immortality seems to be that the assert, non-existent. There is at least but one | desire for it is a grossly selfish desire. Nay, instance in which I should have traced any shade | nicknaming the conception of a future of eternal of what I may call the natural view of death as | praise, “the eternity of the tabor,” he calls it® a presented in the light of this creed, and that is | conception ‘so gross, so sensual, so indolent, so the sentence in which Mr. Harrison somewhat | selfish,” as to be worthy of nothing but scorn. superfluously disclaims—and, moreover, with an | I think he can never have taken the trouble to accent of hauteur, as though he resented the |‘ realize with any care what he is talking of. necessity of admitting that death is a disagree- | Whatever the conception embodied in what Mr. able certainty—his own or his creed’s respon- | Harrison cails “ ceaseless psalmody ”® may be— sibility for the fact of death, “We make no | and certainly it is not my idea of immortal life— mystical or fanciful divinity of death,” he says;* | it is the very opposite of selfish. No conception “we do not deny its terrors or its evils. We | of life can be gelfish of which the very essence is ae not responsible for it, and should welcome | adoration, that is, wonder, veneration, gratitude, ay reasonable prospect of eliminating or post- | to another. And gross as the conception neces- Poning this fatality that waits upon all organic | sarily suggested by psalm-singing is, to those | who interpret it, as we generally do, by the sten- * &e Mr. Frederic Harrison's papers in Nos. III.and | : ~ IV. of the SuppLemENt. This discussion will be con- | toTian shoutings of congregations who are often 7 and concluded in a future number of this maga- | thinking a great deal more of their own per- *ScrpLemext No. IV., p. 811. 1 Pp. 314, 2P. 314. 3 P. 818.

Page 504

¢ 500 the commonest candor to admit that this con- ception of immortality owes its origin entirely to men who were thinking of a life absorbed in the interior contemplation of a God full of all perfec- tions—a contemplation breaking out into thanks- giving only in the intensity of their love and adoration, Whatever else this conception of im- mortality may he, the very last phrase which can be justly applied to it is “gross” or “ selfish.” I fear that the positivists have left the Christian objects of their criticism so far behind that they have ceased not merely to realize what Christians mean, but have sincerely and completely forgot- ten that Christians ever had a meaning at all. That positivists should regard any belief in the “ beatific vision ” as a wild piece of fanaticism, I can understand, but that, entering into the mean- ing of that fanaticism, they should describe the desire for it as a gross piece of selfishness, I can- not understand; and I think it more reasonable, therefore, to assume that they have simply lost the key to the language of adoration. More- over, when I come to note Mr. Harrison’s own conception of the future life, it appears to me that it differs only from the Christian’s concep- tion by its infinite deficiencies, and in no respect by superior moral qualities of any kind. That conception is, in a word, posthumous energy. He holds that if we could get rid of the vulgar notion of a survival of personal sensations and of growing mental and moral faculties after death, we should consecrate the notion of posthumous activity, and anticipate with delight our “ coming incorporation with the glorious future of our race”! as we cannot possibly consecrate those great hopes now. But, in the first place, what is this “ glorious future of our race” which I am invited to contem- plate? It is the life ina better organized society of a vast number of these merely temporary creatures whose personal sensations, if they ever could be “ perpetuated,” Mr. Harrison regards as giving us the best conception of a “ true hell.” Now, if an improved and better organized future of ephemerals be so glorious to anticipate, what elements of glory are there in it which would not belong to the immortality looked forward to by the Christian—a far more improved future of end- lessly growing natures? Is it the mere fact that I shall myself belong to the one future which ren- ders it unworthy, while the absence of any “ per- petuity ” of my personal “sensations ” from the other renders it unselfish? I always supposed 1P, 318. THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. formances than of the object of their praise, it is | selfishness to consist, not in the desire for noble kind of life in which I might share, but jg the preference for my own happiness at the @& pense of some one else’s. If it is selfish to desing the perpetuation of a growing life, which not only does not, as far as I know, interfere with the volume of moral growth in others, but certainly contributes to it, then it must be the true unsef ishness to commit suicide at once, supposing sui. cide to be the finis to personal “sensation.” But then universal suicide would be inconsistent with the glorious future of our race, so I suppose it must at least be postponed till our own sensations have been so far “ perpetuated” as to leave heitg behind them. If Condorcet is to be held upt our admiration for anticipating on the edge of the grave his “coming incorporation with the glork ous future of his race,” i. e., with ourselves and our posterity, may we not infer that there ® something in ourselves, i. e., in human society @ it now exists, which is worthy of his vision something in which we need not think it “ selfish” to participate, even though our personal “ sensa tions ” do form a part of it? Where, then, dow the selfishness of desiring to share in a glorious future even through personal “sensations” be gin? The only reasonable or even intelligible am swer, as far as I can see, is this: as soon as that personal “sensation” for ourselves excludes & larger and wider growth for others, but no s00m er. But then no Christian ever supposed fora moment that his personal immortality could @ would interfere with any other being’s growth And if so, where is the selfishness? What’ Christian desires is a higher, truer, deeper union with God for all, himself included. If his own life drop out of that future, he supposes that there will be so much less that really does glorify. the true righteousness, and no com equivalent. If it be Mr. Harrison’s mission disclose to us that any perpetuity of sensation our own parts will positively exclude something much higher which would exist if we consented ® disappear, he may, I think, prove his case. in the absence of any attempt to do so, his ce tion that it is noble and unselfish to be more content—grateful—for ceasing to live any ® posthumous life seems to me simply irrational.» But, further, the equivalent which Mr. Ha offers me for becoming, as I had hoped to becom in another world, an altogether better member@” a better society, does not seem to me more avery doubtful good. My posthumous acuvl) 4 will be of all kinds, some of which I am glad anticipate, most of which I am very sorry to@ 4 ticipat absolu have k most ¢ nestne tivity i Restor humou very has be; asa ch humou longer death 1 my dea posthu justify have b pers, f vivid a activity with g Iam 1 on him. at all. posthu: when 1 But wh activity the oc which good re oursely which, ceeding humilia with it satisfac ration v wholly that inc race—g see why he prob put to cooling affair in indiffere ty. W porated of our r templati humous Mr. Har man ra

Page 505

Ce aT LL Pe Te en ee we ee he en ee ee ee Se SF Se 2. Pr. fs FT Pw ee @€ FF & pe Ig A MODERN “ SYMPOSIUM.” 501 ticipate, and much of which I anticipate with absolute indifference. Even our best actions have bad effects as well as good. Macaulay and most other historians held that the Puritan ear- nestness expended a good deal of posthumous ac- tivity in producing the license of the world of the Restoration. Our activity, indeed, is strictly post- humous in kind, even before our death, from the very moment in which it leaves our living mind and has begun to work beyond ourselves, - What I did asa childis, in this sense, as much producing post- humous effects, i. e., effects over which I can no longer exert any control, now, as what I do before death will be producing posthumous effects after my death. Now, a considerable proportion of these posthumous activities of ours, even when we can justify the original activity as all that it ought to have beef, are unfortunate. Mr. Harrison’s pa- pers, for instance, have already exerted a very vivid and very repulsive effect on my mind—an activity which I am sure he will not look upon with gratification, and Ido not doubt that what I am now writing will produce the same effect on him, and in that effect I shall take no delight at all. A certain proportion, therefore, of my posthumous activity is activity for evil, even when the activity itself is on the whole good. But when we come to throw in the posthumous activity for evil exerted by our evil actions and the occasional posthumous activity for good which evil also fortunately exerts, but for the good results of which we can take no credit to ourselves, the whole constitutes a mélange to which, as far as I am concerned, I look with ex- ceedingly mixed feelings, the chief element being humiliation, though there are faint lights mingled with it here and there. But as for any rapture of satisfaction in contemplating my “‘ coming incorpo- ration with the glorious future of our race,” I must wholly and entirely disclaim it. What I see in that incorporation of mine with the future of our race—glorious or the reverse, and I do not quite see why the positivist thinks it so glorious, since he probably holds that an absolute term must be put to it, if by no other cause, by the gradual cooling of the sun—is a very patchwork sort of affair indeed, a mere miscellany of bad, good, and indifferent, without organization and without uni- ty. What I shall be, for instance, when incor- porated, in Mr. Harrison’s phrase, with the future of our race, I have very little satisfaction in con- templating, except so far, perhaps, as my “ post- humous activity” may retard the acceptance of Mr. Harrison’s glorious anticipations for the hu- man race. One great reason for my personal wish for a perpetuity of volition and personal en- ergy is, that I may have a better opportunity, as fat as may lie in me, to undo the mischief I shall have done before death comes to my aid. The vision of “ posthumous activity” ought indeed, I fancy, to give even the best of us very little sat- isfaction. It may not be, and perhaps is not, so mischievous as the vision of “ posthumous fame,” but yet it is not the kind of vision which, to my mind, can properly occupy very much of our at- tention in this life. Surely the right thing for us to do is to concentrate attention on the life of the living moment—to make that the best we can —and then to leave its posthumous effects, after the life of the present has gone out of it, to that power which, far more than anything in it, trans- mutes at times even our evil into good, though sometimes, too, to superficial appearance at all events, even our good into evil. The desire for an immortal life—that is, for a perpetuation of the personal affections and of the will—seems to me a far nobler thing than any sort of anticipa- tion as to our posthumous activity; for high af- fections and a right will are good in themselves, and constitute, indeed, the only elements in Mr. Harrison’s “ glorious future of our race” to which I can attach much value—while posthumous ac- tivity may be either good or evil, and depends on conditions over which he who first puts the ac- tivity in motion often has no adequate control. And this reminds me of a phrase in Mr. Har- rison’s paper which I have studied over and over again without making out his meaning. I mean his statement that on his own hypothesis “ there is ample scope for the spiritual life, for moral re- sponsibility, for the world beyond the grave, és hopes and its duties, which remain to us perfect- ly real without the unintelligible hypothesis.” * Now, I suppose, by “the hopes” of “the world beyond the grave,” Mr. Harrison means the hopes we form for the “ future of our race,” and that I understand. But what does he mean by its “du- ties?” Not, surely, our duties beyond the grave, but the duties of those who survive us; for he expressly tells us that our mental and moral powers do not increase and grow, develop or vary within themselves—do not, in fact, survive at all except in their effects—and hence duties for us in the world beyond the grave are, I sup- pose, in his creed impossible. But if he only means that there will be duties for those who survive us after we are gone, I cannot see how that is in any respect a theme on which it is either profitable or consolatory for us to dwell by 1 No, IIL, p. 242.

Page 506

502 anticipation. One remark more: When Mr. Har- rison says! that it is quite as easy to learn to long for the moment when you shall become “ the immaterial principle of a comet,” or that you “really were the ether, and were about to take your place in space,” as to long for personal im- mortality—he is merely talking at random on a subject on which it is hardly seemly to talk at random. He knows that what we mean by the soul is that which lies at the bottom of the sense of personal identity—the thread of the continuity running through all our checkered life; and how it can be equally unmeaning to believe that this hitherto unbroken continuity will continue un- broken, and to believe that it is to be trans- formed into something else of a totally different | THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. workings of the human spirit are to become ques. tions of physiology, and if death is the end of g man, as it is the end of a sparrow. We not only assent to such protests, but we see very pressing need for makingthem. It is a corrupting doctring to open a brain, and to tell us that devotion is a definite molecular change in this and that convoly tion of gray pulp, and that, if man is the first of living animals, he passes away after a short space like the beasts that perish. And all doctrines, more or less, do tend to this, which offer physical theories as explaining moral phenomena, which deny man a spiritual in addition to a moral nature, | which limit his moral life to the span of his bodily organism, and which have no place for ‘ religion’ in the proper sense of the word,’’! Now, Mr. Harrison can hardly think it worth kind, I am not only unable to understand, but | while to attack imaginary opponents, so that I even to understand how he could seriously s0 | am Jed to believe that there must be some body conceive us. My notion of myself never had the least connection with the principle of any part of any comet, but it has the closest possible con- nection with thoughts, affections, and volitions, which, as far as I know, are not likely to perish with my body. I am sorry that Mr. Harrison who holds the “ corrupting doctrine ” “ that de. , votion is a definite molecular change in this and that convolution of gray pulp.” Nevertheless, | my conviction is shaken by a passage which oe ! should have disfigured his paper by sarcasms s0 | inapplicable and apparently so bitter as these. Pror. HUXLEY.—Mr. Harrison’s striking discourse on “The Soul and Future Life” has a certain resemblance to the famous essay on the snakes of Iceland. For its purport is to show that there is no soul, nor any future life, in the ordinary sense of the terms. With death, the personal activity of which the soul is the popular hypostasis is put into commission among pos- terity, and the future life is an immortality by deputy. Neither in these views nor in the arguments by which they are supported is there much nov- elty. But that which appears both novel and in- teresting to me is the author’s evidently sincere and heart-felt conviction that his powerful advo- cacy of soulless spirituality and mortal immortal- ity is consistent with the intellectual scorn and moral reprobation which he freely pours forth upon the “irrational and debasing physicism” of materialism and materialists, and with the wrath with which he visits what he is pleased to call the intrusion of physical science, especially of biology, into the domain of social phenomena. Listen to the storm : “* We’ certainly do reject, as earnestly as any school can, that which is most fairly called mate- rialism, and we will second every word of those who cry out that civilization is in danger if the 1 No, IV., p. 845, curs at page 239: “ No rational thinker now pre tends that imagination is simply the vibration of a particular fibre.” If no rational thinker pre. | tends this of imagination, why should any pre- tend it of devotion? And yet I cannot bring myself to think that all Mr. Harrison’s passion ate rhetoric is hurled at irrational thinkers: surely he might leave such to the soft influences of time and due medical treatment of their “ gray pulp ” in Colney Hatch or elsewhere. On the other hand, Mr. Harrison cannot pos- sibly be attacking those who hold that the feel- ing of devotion is the concomitant, or even the consequent, of a molecular change in the brain; for he tells us, in language the explicitness of which leaves nothing to be desired, that “To positive methods every fact of thinking re- veals itself as having functional relation with molecular change. Every factor of will or feel- ing is in similar relation with kindred molecular facts.’’ 2 On mature consideration, I feel shut up to one of two alternative hypotheses. Either the “corrupting doctrine” to which Mr. Harrison refers is held by no rational thinker—in whieh case, surely, neither he nor I need trouble our selves about it—or the phrase, “ Devotion i # definite molecular change in this and that conve lution of gray pulp,” means that devotion has & functional relation with such molecular change; in which case it is Mr. Harrison’s own view, and 1 No. IIL, p. 241. 2 P, 289, theref doctri I: thus « meani: son’s, trine ” less, d offer ] nomer Ne son Sa) “ XN consci tion, a Impair discolo hope, | and he his md a viole vomit. to clea his sin deaden strengt of a ne stant la and ull feeling. organis “ Tl tions al philoso into cor tion of lished ; process real phe ler “? But, ence be side, an the othe (let alo: organis1 dangero ties in| he warn But son, Fi due ital Volition

Page 507

aes A MODERN “SYMPOSIUM.” therefore, let us hope, cannot be a “ corrupting doctrine.” Iam not helped out of the difficulty I have thus candidly stated, when I try to get at the meaning of another hard saying of Mr. Harri- son’s, Which follows after the “corrupting doc- trine” paragraph ; “ And all doctrines, more or less, do tend to this [corrupting doctrine], which offer physical theories as explaining moral phe- nomena.” Nevertheless, on p. 239, No. IUI., Mr. Harri- son says with great force and tolerable accuracy : “Man is one, however compound. Fire his conscience, and he blushes. Check his circula- tion, and he thinks wildly, or thinks not at all. Impair his secretions, and moral sense is dulled, discolored, or depraved; his aspirations flag; his hope, love, faith, reel. Impair them still more, and he becomes a brute. A cup of drink degrades his moral nature below that of aswine. Again, a violent emotion of pity or horror makes him vomit. A lancet will restore him from delirium to clear thought. Excess of thought will waste his sinews. Excess of muscular exercise will deaden thought. An emotion will double the strength of his muscles. And at last the prick of a needle or a grain of mineral will in an in- stant lay to rest forever his body and its unity, and all the spontaneous activities of intelligence, feeling, and action, with which that compound organism was charged. “These are the obvious and ancient observe - tions about the human organism. But modern philosophy and science have carried these hints into complete explanations. By a vast accumula- tion of proof positive, thought at last has estab- lished a distinct correspondence between every process of thought or of feeling and some corpo- real phenomenon.” I ery with Shylock : “Tis very true, O wise and upright judge.” But, if the establishment of the correspond- ence between physical phenomena on the one side, and moral and intellectual phenomena on the other, is properly to be called an explanation (let alone a complete explanation) of the human organism, surely Mr. Harrison’s teachings come dangerously near that tender of physical theo- ries in explanation of moral phenomena which he warns us leads straight to corruption. But perhaps I have misinterpreted Mr. Harri- son. For a few lines further on we are told, with due italic emphasis, that “no man can explain volition by purely anatomical study.” ! I should 1 P, 289, 503 have thought that Mr. Harrison might have gone * much further than this. No man ever explained any physiological fact by purely anatomical study. Digestion cannot be so explained, nor respira- tion, nor reflex action. It would have been as relevant to affirm that volition could not be ex- plained by measuring an arc of the meridian. I am obliged to note the fact that Mr. Harri- son’s biological studies have not proceeded so far as to enable him to discriminate between the province of anatomy and that of physiology, be- cause it furnishes the key to an otherwise myste- rious utterance which occurs at page 631: ** A man whose whole thoughts are absorbed in cutting up dead monkeys and live frogs has no more business to dogmatize about religion than a mere chemist to improvise a zodlogy.” Quis negavit? But if, as, on Mr. Harrison’s own showing, is the case, the progress of science (not anatomical, but physiological) has “ estab- lished a distihet correspondence between every process of thought or of feeling and some cor- poreal phenomenon,” and if it is true that “im- paired secretions ” deprave the moral sense, and make “ hope, love, and faith reel,” surely the re- ligious feelings are brought within the range of physiological inquiry. If impaired secretions de- | prave the moral sense, it becomes an interesting | and important problem to ascertain what dis- | eased viscus may have been responsible for the priest in absolution ; and what condition of the gray pulp may have conferred on it such a patho- logical steadiness of faith as to create the hope of personal immortality, which Mr. Harrison stig- matizes as so selfishly immoral. I should not like to undertake the responsibil- ity of advising anybody to dogmatize about any- thing; but surely if, as Mr. Harrison so strongly urges,! “the whole range of man’s powers, from the finest spiritual sensibility down to a mere automatic contraction, falls into one coherent scheme, being all the multiform functions of a living organism in presence of its encircling con- ditions,” then the man who endeavors to ascer- tain the exact nature of these functions, and to determine the influence of conditions upon them, is more likely to be in a position to tell us some- thing worth hearing about them than one who is turned from such study by cheap pulpit thun- der touching the presumption of “ biological rea- soning about spiritual things.” Mr. Harrison, as we have seen, is not quite so clear as is desirable respecting the limits of the 1 Pp, 239. ©

Page 508

504 provinces of anatomy and physiology. Perhaps he will permit me to inform him that physiology is the science which treats of the functions of the living organism, ascertains their codrdinations and their correlations in the general chain of causes and effects, and traces out their depend- ence upon the physical states of the organs by which these functions are exercised. The ex- planation of a physiological function is the dem- onstration of the connection of that function with the molecular state of the organ which exerts the function. Thus the function of motion is ex- plained when the movements of the living body are found to have certain molecular changes for their invariable antecedents; the function of sen- sation is explained when the molecular changes, which are the invariable antecedents of sensa- tions, are discovered. The fact that it is impossible to comprehend how it is that a physical state gives rise to a men- tal state no more lessens the value of the expla- nation in the latter case than the fact that it is utterly impossible to comprehend how motion is communicated from one body to another weak- ens the force of the explanation of the motion of one billiard-ball by showing that another has hit it. The finest spiritual sensibility, says Mr. Har- rison (and I think that there is a fair presump- tion that he is right), is a function of a living or- ganism—is in relation with molecular facts. In that case, the physiologist may reply: “ It is my business to find out what these molecular facts are, and whether the relation between them and the said spiritual sensibility is one of antecedence in the molecular fact, and sequence in the spirit- ual fact, or vice versa. If the latter result comes out of my inquiries, I shall have made a contri- bution toward 4 moral theory of physical phe- nomena; if the former, I shall have done some- what toward buildirg up a physical theory of moral phenomena. But in any case I am not outstepping the limits of my proper province: my business is to get at the truth respecting such questions at all risks; and if you tell me that one of these two results is a corrupting doctrine, I can only say that I perceive the intended reproach conveyed by the observation, but that I fail to recognize its relevance. If the doctrine is true, its social septic or antiseptic properties are not my affair. My business as a biologist is with physiology, not with morals.” This plea of justification strikes me as com- plete; whence, then, the following outbreak of angry eloquence ?— THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. r “* The arrogant attempt to dispose of the deepest 1 moral truths of human nature on a bare physica} — or physiological basis is ulmost enough to justify ” the insurrection of some impatient theologiang against science itself.” ? “That strain again: it has a dying fall;” no wise similar to the sweet south upon a bank of violets, however, but like the death-wail of innu. merable “impatient theologians” as from the high “drum ecclesiastic” they view the waters of science flooding the Church on all hands, The beadles have long been washed away; escape by, pulpit-stairs is even becoming doubtful, without kirtling those outward investments which distin. guish the priest from the man so high that no one will see that there is anything but the man left. But Mr. Harrison is not an impatient theo logian—indeed, no theologian at all, unless, as he speaks of “soul” when he means certain bodily functions, and of “future life” when he -meang personal annihilation, he may make his master’s. grand étre supréme the subject of a theology; and one stumbles upon this well-worn fragment of too familiar declamation among his vigorous periods with the unpleasant surprise of one who finds a fly in a precious oiptment. There are people from whom one does not ex pect well-founded statement and thoughtful, how. ever keen, argumentation, embodied in precise language. From Mr. Harrison one does, Butl think he will be at a loss to answer the question, if I pray him to tell me of any representative of physical science who, either arrogantly or other wise, has ever attempted to dispose of moral, truths on a physical or physiological basis, If I am to take the sense of the words literally, 1 shall not dispute the arrogance of the attempt — to dispose of a moral truth on a bare, or even on a covered, physical or physiological basis; for, whether the truth is deep or shallow, I cannot conceive how the feat is to be performed. Co lumbus’s difficulty with the egg is as nothing to it. But I suppose what is meant is, that some arm gant people have tried to upset morality bythe — help of physics and physiology. I am sorry if such people exist, because I shall have to be much ruder to them than Mr. Harrison ig, T should not call them arrogant, any more than I should apply that epithet to a person whoa tempted to upset Euclid by the help of the Rig, Veda. Accuracy might be satisfied, if not pr priety, by calling such a person a fool; but it appears to me that it would be the height of im justice to term him arrogant. 1 P, 242, Wh ty, unde based t and, wh bation a matt acts. The main tl causes | and mu if it we result 0 cells in speaks agine tl will lea putting when 0 moral I: breache that eve truths | basis” | Iwo in the « thing ir the writ entreat ists, “ t] philosoy “submi electric is “mar ing by ¢ the spir I wi meant ti have co; scientifi inappro} Harriso1 disposed used at | with th terizes t acteristi Mr. Har Mr. | pared te him, tho —indeec that the the faith

Page 509

Whatever else they may be, the laws of morali- ty, under their scientific aspect, are generalizations based upon the observed phenomena of society ; and, whatever may be the nature of moral appro- bation and disapprobation, these feelings are, as a matter of experience, associated with certain acts. The consequences of men’s actions will re- main the same, however far our analysis of the causes which lead to them may be pushed ; theft and murder would be none the less objectionable if it were possible to prove that they were the result of the activity of special theft and murder cells in that “gray pulp” of which Mr. Harrison speaks so scornfully. Does any sane man im- agine that any quantity of physiological analysis will lead people to think breaking their legs or putting their hands into the fire desirable? And when men really believe that breaches of the moral law involve their penalties as surely as do | breaches of the physical law, is it to be supposed that even the very firmest disposal of their moral truths upon “a bare physical or physiological basis” will tempt them to incur those penalties ? I would gladly learn from Mr. Harrison where, in the course of his studies, he has found any- thing inconsistent with what I have just said in the writings of physicists or biologists. entreat him to tell us who are the true material- A MODERN “SYMPOSIUM.” I would 505 true affinity of nature, have met to part no more, Ecclesiastical to the core from the beginning, positivism is now exemplifying the law that the outward garment adjusts itself, sooner or later, to the inward man. From its founder onward, stricken with metaphysical incompetence, and equally incapable of appreciating tke true spirit of scientific method, it is now essaying to cover the nakedness of its philosophical materialism with the rags of a spiritualistic phraseology out of which the original sense has wholly departed, I understand and I respect the meaning of the word “soul,” as used by pagan and Christian philosophers for what they believe to be the im- perishable seat of human personality, bearing throughout eternity its burden of woe, or its capacity for adoration and luve. I confess that my dull moral sense does not enable me to see | anything base or selfish in the desire for a future life among the spirits of the just made perfect ; or even among a few such poor fallible souls as | one has known here below. | And if I am not satisfied with the evidence that is offered me that such a soul and such a future life exist, I am content to take what is to be had and to make the best of the brief span of | existence that is within my reach, without re- viling those whose faith is more robust and whose hopes are richer and fuller. But in the interests ists, “ the scientific specialists ” who “ neglect all | of scientific clearness, I object toay that I have philosophical and religious synthesis,” and who | a soul, when I mean, all the while, that my organ- “submit religion to the test of the scalpel or the | ism has certain mental functions which, like the dectric battery ;”” where the materialism which | rest, are dependent upon its molecular composi- is “marked by the ignoring of religion, the pass- | tion, and come to an end when I die; and I ob- ing by on the other side and shutting the eyes to | ject still more to affirm that I look to a future the spiritual history of mankind,” is to be found. | life, when all that I mean is, that the influence of ‘I will not believe that these phrases are | my sayings and doings will be more or less felt meant to apply to any scientific men of whom I | by a number of people after the physical compo- have cognizance, or to any recognized system of , nents of that organism are scattered to the four scientific thought—they would be too absurdly | winds, inappropriate—and I cannot believe that Mr. Throw a stone into the sea, and there is a Harrison indulges in empty rhetoric. But I am | sense in which it is true that the wavelets which disposed to think that they would not have been spread around it have an effect through all space used at all, except for that deep-seated sympathy | and all time. Shall we say that the stone has a with the “impatient theologian” which charac- | future life ? . terizes the positivist school, and crops out, char- It is not worth while to have broken away, acteristically enough, in more than ove part of | not without pain and grief, from beliefs which, Mr. Harrison's essay. true or false, embody great and fruitful concep- Mr. Harrison tells us that “positivism is pre- | tions, to fall back into the arms of a half-breed pared to meet the theologians.”' I agree with him, though not exactly in his sense of the words —indeed, I have formerly expressed the opinion that the meetitig took place long ago, and that the faithful lovers, impelled by the instinct of a 1 P, 242, between science: and theology, endowed, like most half-breeds, with the faults of both parents and the virtues of neither. And it is unwise by such a lapse to exvose one’s self to the temptation of holding with the hare and hunting with the hounds—of using the weapons of one progenitor

Page 510

506 to damage the other. I cannot but think that | tinct order of ideas. To this distinction the the members of the positivist school in this coun- | try stand in some danger of falling into that fatal | error; and I put it to them to consider whether | it is either consistent or becoming for those who hold that “the finest spiritual sensibility” is a mere bodily function, to join in the view-halloo, when the hunt is up against biological science— to use their voices in swelling the senseless cry | that “ civilization is in danger if the workings of the human spirit are to become questions of phys- iology.” Lorp BLACHFORD.—Mr. Harrison is of | opinion that the difference between Christians | and himself on this question of the soul and the future life “‘turns altogether on habits of thought.” What appears to the positivist flimsy | will, he says, seems to the Christian sublime, and | vice versa, “ simply because our minds have been trained in different logical methods,” and this apparently because positivism “pretends to no other basis than positive knowledge and scien- tific logic.” But if this is so, it is not, I think, quite consistent to conclude, as he does, that “it | is idle to dispute about our respective logical | methods, or to put this or that habit of mind in | a combat with that.” As to the combatants this may be true. But it surely is not idle, but very much to the purpose, for the information of those judges to whom the very act of publication ap- peals, to discuss habits and methods on which, it is declared, the difference altogether turns. I note, therefore, in limine what, as I go on, I shall have occasion to iliustrate, one or two differences between the methods of Mr. Harrison and those in which I have been trained. I have been taught to consider that certain words or ideas represent what are called by logi- cians substances, by Mr. Harrison, I think, enti- ties, and by others, as the case may be, persons, | beings, objects, or articles. Such are air, earth, men, horses, chairs, and tables. Their peculi- arity is that they have each of them a separate, | independent, substantive existence. They are. There are other words.or ideas which do not represent existing things, but qualities, relations, | consequences, processes, or occurrences, like vic- , tory, virtue, life, order, or destruction, which do but belong to substances, or result from them | without any distinct existence of their own. A | thing signified by a word of the former class | cannot possibly be identical or even homogeneous with a thing signified by a word of the second , class. <A fiddle is not only a different thing from

THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. English mind at some period of its history mugt have been imperfectly alive. If a Greek cop founded «riots with xricpa, an act with a thing, | it was the fault of the individual. But the Eng lish language, instead of precluding such a cop. fusion, almost, one would say, labors to agagate it. Such words as “ building,” “an. nouncement,” “preparation,” or “power,” ar equally available to signify either the act of construction or an edifice—either the act of pro claiming or a placard—either the act of prepar ing or a surgical specimen—either the ability to do something or the being in which that ability resides. Such imperfections of language infuse themselves into thought. And I venture to think that the slight superciliousness with which Mr, Harrison treats the doctrines which such persons as myself entertain respecting the soul is in some degree due to the fact that positive “ habits of thought” and “logical methods” do not recog. nize so completely as ours the distinction which I have described as that between a fiddle anda tune. Again, my own habit of mind is to distinguish more pointedly than Mr. Harrison does betweena unit and a complex whole. When I speak of an act of individual will, I seem to myself to speak of an indivisible act proceeding from a single being. The unity is not merely in my mode of representation, but in the thing signified. If speak of an act of the national will—say a deter” mination to declare war—I speak of the concur rence of a number of individual wills, each ace ing for itself, and under an infinite variety of influences, but so related to each other and acting in concert that it is convenient to repre sent them under the aggregate term “nation” I use a term which signifies unity of being, but I really mean nothing more than codperation, 0 correlated action and feeling. So, when I spealt of the happiness of humanity, I mean nothing” whatever but a number of particular happinesses of individual persons. Humanity is not a uni but a word which enables me to bring a number of units under view at once. In the case of material objects, I apprehend, unity is simply relative and artificial—a grain of corn is a ol relatively to a bushel and an aggregate to an atom. But I, believing myself to be®” spiritual being, call myself actually and without metaphor—one. es Mr. Harrison, who acknowledges the exist

ence of no being but matter, appears either a tune, but it belongs to another and totally dis- , deny the existence of any real unity whatever, &

to asc! things the mé¢ toward ure, a may th and re] I th be the The of the | thing » ly, to tl The existing my min My thing p things way of way of making organs | tible co Ital self, for know al neither sible to which I ceptible whether identity which f capable myself, | I fir prise no of pere ances, 1 formatic escopes, phere, a present ceivably tious pa collect t light; ti tions w! muscles of sensa Work ; ¢ ular mo significa: understa

Page 511

7 oe | Ses Vee eee eee 2 en ae So ee eee to ascribe that real unity to an aggregate of things or beings who resemble each other, like the members of the human race, or codperate toward a common result, like the parts of a pict- ure, a melody, or the human frame, and which may thus be conveniently viewed in combination, and represented by a single word or phrase. I think that the little which I have to say will be the clearer for these preliminary protests. The questions in hand relate first to the claim of the soul of man to be treated as an existing thing not bound by the laws of matter; second- ly, to the immortality of that existing thing. The claim of the soul to be considered as an existing and immaterial being presents itself to my mind as follows: My positive experience informs me of one thing percipient—myself; and of a multitude of things perceptible—perceptible, that is, not by way of consciousness, as Iam to myself, but by way of impression on other things—capable of making themselves felt through the channels and organs of sensation. These things thus percep- tible constitute the material world. I take no account of percipients other than my- self, for I can only conjecture about them what I know about myself. I take no account of things neither percipient nor perceptible, for it is impos- sible to do so. I know of nothing outside me of which I can say it is at once percipient and per- ceptible. But I inquire whether I am myself so— whether the existing being to which my sense of identity refers, in which my sensations reside, and which for these two reasons I call “myself,” is capable also of being perceived by beings outside myself, as the material world is perceived by me. I first observe that things perceptible com- prise not only objects, but instruments and media ’ of pereeption—an immense variety of contriv- ances, natural or artificial, for transmitting in- formation to the sensitive being. Such are tel- escopes, microscopes, ear-trumpets, the atmos- phere, and various other media which, if not at present the objects of direct sensation, may con- ceivably become so—and such, above all, are va- tious parts of the human body—the lenses which collect the vibrations which are the conditions of light; the tympanum which collects the vibra- tions which are the conditions of sound; the muscles which adjust these and other instruments of sensation to the precise performance of their work ; the nerves which convey to and fro molee- ular movements of the most incomprehensible fignificance and efficacy. Of all these it is, I understand, more and more evident, as science A MODERN “SYMPOSIUM.” 507 advances, that they are perceptible, but do not perceive. Ear, hand, eye, and nerves, are alike machinery—mere machinery for transmitting the movement of atoms to certain nervous centres— ascertained localities which (it is proper to ob- serve in passing), though small relatively to our- selves and our powers of investigation, may— since size is entirely relative—be absolutely large enough to contain little worlds in themselves. Here the investigation of things perceptible is stopped, abruptly and completely. Our inqui- ries into the size, composition, and movement of particles, have been pushed, for the present at any rate, as far as they will go. But at this point we come across a field of phenomena to which the attributes of atoms, size, movement, and physical composition, are wholly inapplicable— the phenomena of sensation or animal life. Science informs me that the movements of these perceptible atoms within my body bear a correspondence, strange, subtile, and precise, to the sensations of which I, as a percipient, am conscious ; a correspondence (it is again proper to observe in passing) which extends not only to perceptions, as in sight or hearing, but to reflec- tion and volition, as in sleep and drunkenness, The relation is not one of similarity. The vibra- tions of a white, black, or gray pulp are not in any sensible way similar to the perception of color or sound, or the imagination of a noble act. There is no visible—may I not say no conceivable ?— reason why one should depend on the other. Mo- tion and sensation interact, but they do not over- lap. There is no homogeneity between them. They stand apart. Physical science conducts us to the brink of the chasm which separates them, and by so doing only shows us its depth. I return then to the question, “ What am I?” My own habits of mind and logical methods cer- tainly require me to believe that I am something —something percipient—but am I perceptible? I find no reason for supposing it. I believe my- self to be surrounded by things percipient. Are they perceptible? Not tomy knowledge. Their existence is to me a-matter of inference from their perceptible appendages. Them—their very selves—I certainly cannot perceive. As far as I can understand things perceptible, I detect in them no quality—no capacity for any quality like that of percipiency, which, with its homogeneous faculties, intellect, affections, and so on, is the basis of my own nature. Physical science, while it develops the relation, seems absolutely to em- phasize and illuminate the ineradicable difference between the motions of a material and the sensa-

Page 512

508 tions of a living being. Of the attributes cf a percipient we have, each for himself, profound and immediate experience. Of the attributes of the perceptible we have, I suppose, distint scien- tific conceptions. Our notions of the one and our notions of the other appear to attach to a different order of being. It appears therefore to me that there is no reason to believe, and much reason for not believ- ing, that the percipient is perceptible under our present conditions of existence, or indeed under any conditions that our present faculties enable "us to imagine. And this is my case, which of course covers the whole animal creation. Perception must be an attribute of something, and there is reason for believing that this something is imperceptible. This is what I mean when I say that I have, or more properly that I am, a soul or spirit, or rather it is the point on which I join issue with those who say that I am not. I am not, as Mr. Harrison seems to suppose, running about in search of a “cause.” I am in- quiring into the nature of a being, and that being | myself. I am sure I am something. I am cer- tainly not the mere tangible structure of atoms which I affect, and by which I am affected after a wonderful fashion. In reflecting on the nature of my own operations I find nothing to suggest that my own being is subject to the same class of physical laws as the objects from which my sensations are derived, and I conclude that I am not subject to those iaws. The most substantial objection to this conclusion is conveyed, I con- ceive, in a sentence of Mr. Harrison’s: “To talk to us of mind, feeling, and will, continuing their functions in the absence of physical organs and visible organisms, is to use language which, to us at least, is pure nonsense.” . It is probably to those who talk thus that Mr. Harrison refers when he says that argument is useless. And in point of fact I have no answer but to call his notions anthropomorphic, and to charge him with want of a certain kind of imagi- nation. By imagination we commonly mean the creative faculty which enables a man to give a palpable shape to what he believes or thinks pos- sible; and this, I do not doubt, Mr. Harrison possesses in a high degree. But there is another kind of imagination which enables a man to em- brace the idea of a possibility to which no such palpable shape can be given, or rather of a world of possibilities beyond the range of his experience or the grasp of his faculties; as Mr. John Mill embraced the idea of a possible world in which THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. the connection of cause and effect should not exist. The want of this necessary though days gerous faculty makes a man the victim of viyid impressions, and disables him from beli what his impressions do not enable him to realize, Questions respecting metaphysical possibility turn much on the presence, or absence, or exag ger.tion, of this kind of imagination, And when one man has said, “I can perceive it possible? and another has said, “‘I cannot,” it is certainly difficult to get any further. To me it is not in the slightest degree diffienl to conceive the possible existence of a capable of love and knowledge without the physi. cal organs through which human beings derive their knowledge, nor in supposing myself to be such a being. Indeed, I seem actually to exen cise such a capacity (however I got it) when J shut my eyes and try to think out a moral of mathematical puzzle. If it is true that a partion lar corner of my brain is concerned in the mat ter, I accept the fact not as a self-evident truth (which would seem to be Mr. Harrison's position), but as a curious discovery of the anatomist, But having said this I have said everything, and, as Mr. Harrison must suppose that I deceive my. self, so I suppose that in his case the imagination which founds itself on experience is so active and vivid as to cloud or dwarf the imagination = proceeds beyond or beside experience. Mr. Harrison’s own theory I do not quite stand. He derides the idea, though he does not absolutely deny the possibility, of an immaterial entity which feels. And he appears to be sem sible of the difficulty of supposing that atomsof matter which assume the form of a gray pulp call feel. He holds accordingly, as I understand, that feeling, and all that follows from it, are there sults of an “ organism.” iy# If he had used the word “ organization)" should have concluded unhesitatingly that hewat- the victim of the Anglican confusion whieh I have above noticed, and that, in his own mind, he escaped the alternative difficulties of the case * by the common expedient of shifting, as occasio® required, from one sense of that word to the other. If pressed by the difficulty of imagining” sensation not resident in any specific sensitive thing, the word organization would supply to bis mind the idea of a thing, a sensitive agg ! My organized atoms. If, on the contrary, P on by the difficulty of supposing that these stom one or all, thought, the word would shift bf meaning and present the aspect not of am , gate bulk, but of orderly arrangement—not thing, things. Bu to indi that we the spi tute lif ganizec this he losophy that m the sine and ac “What what is stand, ¢ an harr an atte parts 0 which | those p ng. of bein; If this agree ¥ compos whom ¢ conditic admit t to drive Wit! materia! who hay ley that can be « in God, which |} aspiratic given to the reve to have promise tions, th Believin sight wh tude, an those gt great at care to Cess, or Rather | More on cal data told, But

Page 513

1S hn 5 Rida cesar A MODERN “ SYMPOSIUM.” 509 thing, or collection of things, but of a state of | true or false, I protest, with Mr. Hutton, against things. | the attempt to substitute for what, at any rate, is But the word “organism” is generally taken | a substantial idea, something which cau hardly to indicate a thing organized. And the choice of | be called even a shadow or echo of it. that word would seem to indicate that he ascribed | "Phe Christian conception of the world is this : the spiritual acts (so to call them) which consti- It is a world of moral as of physical waste. tute life to the aggregate bulk of the atoms or- | Much seed is sown which will not ripen, but ganized, or the appropriate part of them. But | some is sown that will. This planet is a seat, this he elsewhere seems to disclaim. “The phi- | among other things, of present goodness and losophy which treats man as man simply affirms that man loves, thinks, acts, not that ganglia, or the sinews, or any organ of man loves, and thinks, and acts.” Yes, but we recur to the question, “What is man?” If the ganglia do not think, what is it that does? Mr. Harrison, as I under- stand, answers that it is a consensus of faculties, an harmonious system of parts, and he denounces an attempt to introduce into this collocation of parts or faculties an underlying entity or being which shall possess those faculties or employ those parts. It is then not after all to a being or aggregate of beings, but to a relation or condition of beings, that will and thought and love belong. If this is Mr. Harrison’s meaning, I certainly agree with him that it is indeed impossible to compose a difference between two disputants of whom one holds, and the other denies, that a condition can think. If my opponent does not admit this to be an absurdity, I do not pretend to drive him any further. With regard to immortality, I have nothing material to add to what has been said by those who have preceded me. I agree with Prof. Hux- ley that the natural world supplies nothing which can be called evidence of a future life. Believing in God, I see in the constitution of the world which he has made, and in the yearnings and aspirations of that spiritual nature which he has given to man, much that commends to my belief the revelation of a future life which I believe him to have made. But it is in virtue of his clear Promise, not in virtue of these doubtful intima- tions, that I rely on the prospect of a future life. Believing that he is the author of that moral in- sight which in its ruder forms controls the multi- tude, and in its higher inspires the saint, I revere those great men who were able to forecast this great announcement, but I cannot and do not tare to reduce that forecast to any logical pro- | cess, or base it on any conclusive reasoning, | Rather I admire their power of divination the more on account of the narrowness of their logi- _— For myself, I believe because I am d, But whether the doctrine of immortality be | happiness. And this our goodness and happiness, | like our crime and misery, propagate or fail to propagate themselves during our lives and after | our deaths. But, apart from these earthly conse- | quences, which are much to us and all to the positivist, the little fragment of the universe on which we appear and disappear is, we believe, a | nursery for something greater. The capacities for love and knowledge, which in some of us at- | tain 4 certain development here, we must all feel to be capable, with greater opportunities, of an infinitely greater development; and Christians | believe that such a development is in fact re- | served for those who, in this short time of ap- prenticeship, take the proper steps for approach- | ing it. This conception of a glorious and increasing company, into which the best of men are con- tinually to be gathered to be associated with each | other (to say no more) in all that can make exist- ence happy and noble, may be a .dream, and Mr, Harrison may be right in calling it so. In de- | riding it he cannot be right. “The eternity of the tabor” he calls it! Has he never felt, or, at any rate, is he not able to conceive, a thrill of pleasure at a sympathetic interchange of look, or word, or touch, with a fellow-creature kind and noble and brilliant, and engaged in the exhibition of those qualities of heart and intellect which ‘make him what he is? Multiply and sustain _this—suppose yourself surrounded by beings _ with whom this interchange of sympathy is warm and perpetual. Intensify it. Increase indefinite- ly the excellence of one of those beings, the won- derful and attractive character of his operations, our own capacities of affection and intellect, the , Vividness of our conception, the breadth and firmness of our mental grasp, the sharp vigor of our admiration ; and, to exclude satiety, imagine if you like that the operations which we contem- plate and our relations to our companions are infinitely varied—a supposition for which the size of the known and unknown universe affords indefinite scope—or otherwise suppose that same- | ness ceases to tire, as the old Greek philosopher thought it might do if we we were better than we

Page 514

510 are (yetaBordh ndyrwy yAuKtrarovy 3: movnplay twa), or as it would do, I suppose, if we had no memory of the immediate past. Imagine all this as the very least that may be hoped, if our own powers of conception are as slight in respect to the nature of what is to be as our bodies are in relation to the physical universe. And remem- ber that, if practical duties are necessary for the perfection of life, the universe is not so small but that in some corner of it its Creator might always find something to do for the army of intelligences whom he has thus formed and exalted. _ All this, I repeat, may be‘a dream, but to characterize it as “the eternity of the tabor” shows surely a feebleness of conception or care- lessness of representation more worthy of a ready writer than of a serious thinker. And to place before us as a rival conception the fact that some of our good deeds will have indefinite conse- quences—to call this scanty and fading chain of effects, which we shall be as unable to perceive or control as we have been unable to anticipate— to call this a “ posthumous activity,” “an eter- nity of spiritual influence,” and a “life beyond the grave,” and finally, under the appellation of “incorporation into the glorious future of our race,” to claim for it a dignity and value parallel to that which would attach to the Christian’s ex- pectation (if solid) of a sensible life of exalted happiness for himself and all good men, is surely nothing more or less than extravagance founded on misnomer. With regard to the promised incorporation, I should really like’to know what is the exact pro- cess, or event, or condition, which Mr. Harrison considers himself to understand by the incorpora- tion of a consensus of faculties with a glorious future ; and whether he arrived at its apprehen- sion by way of “ positive knowledge,” or by way of “ scientific logic.” Mr. Harrison’s future life is disposed of by Prof. Huxley in a few words: “ Throw a stone into the sea, and there is a sense in which it is true that the wavelets which spread around it have an effect through all space and time. Shall we say that the stone has a future life ?” To this I only add the question whether I am not justified in saying that Mr. Harrison does not adequately distinguish between the nature of a fiddle and the nature of a tune, and would con- tend (if consistent) that a violin which had been burned to ashes would, notwithstanding, continue to exist, at least as long as a tune which had been played upon it survived ip the memory of any one who had heard it—the consensus of its THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. capacities being, it would seem, incorporated intg the glorious future of music. Hox. RODEN NOEL.—Death is a phenome non; but are we phenomena ? The question of immortality seems, philosoph. ically speaking, very much to resolve itself into that of personality. Are we persons, spirits, o are we things? Perhaps we are-a loose collee tion of successive qualities? That seems to be the latest conclusion of positive and Agnostig biological philosophy. The happy thought whieh, as Dr, Stirling suggests, was probably thrown out in a spirit of persiflage by Hume has been adopted in all seriousness by his followers. Mr. Harrison is very bitter with those who want to explain mental and moral phenomena by physiology, But, as Prof. Huxley remarks, he seems in many parts of his essay to do the same thing himself, What could Biichner, or Carl Vogt, say stronger than this? “At last, the prick of a needle, ora grain of mineral, will in an instant lay to rest forever man’s body and its unity, and all the spontaneous activities of intelligence, feeling, - and action, with which that compound organism was charged” (No. III, p. 239). Again, he says, the spiritual faculties are “ directly dependent on physical organs *—“‘ stand forth as functions of living organs in given conditions of the organism,” Again: “At last the man Newton dies, that § the body is dispersed into gas and dust” (No IV., p. 811). Mr. Harrison, then, though a pose tivist, bound to know only successive phenomena, seems to know the body as a material entity pos sessed of such functions as conscience, reason, imagination, perception—to know that Newton's body thought out the “ Principia,” and Shake speare’s conceived “ Hamlet.” Indeed, Agnosth cism generally, though with a show of humility, seems rather arbitrary in its selection of what we shall know, arid what we shall not; we must know something ; so we shall know that we have ideas and feelings, but not the personal identity that alone makes them intelligible, or we shall use the word, and yet speak as if the idea were a figment; we shall know qualities, but not sub stance; “functions” and “forces,” but not the some one or something of which they must be functicns and forces to be conceivable at alk Yet naturam expellas furca, etc. Common-ense” insists on retaining the fundamental laws of hw man thought, not being able to get rid of them; and hence the t«p-hazard, instead of systematic and orderly, fashion in which the new phi : deals with universal convictions, denying oe that they exist out of theology and métaphysige : Th ments that it ganglia But pe! togethe sensus, What i this “ h ing,” th unity, ii ena, an pared, the san nomena the phy heavy, and the ment of ete., int corresp moral « the twe they see and the body, 01 deed a in talki of ourse with mi; haps, to now exy bodies b daties, the tail Mr. | been ac We are” human | material & trace | This ren contenti But real lar intel! different of God you do 1 consciou er Being distingui and the this, too, hall ag Us from

Page 515

A MODERN “SYMPOSIUM.” 511 ’ Thus (in apparent contradiction to the state- | not enter. Are we our bodies? that seems to be ments quoted), on p. 242, No. III., we are told the point. Now, Ido not think positivism has But perhaps the essayist means that all the body together does so. He says a man is “the con- sensus, or combined activity of his faculties.” What is meant by this phraseology? It is just this “his,” this “consensus,” or “combined act- ing,” that is inconceivable without the focus of wity, in which many contemporaneous phenom- } ena, and many past and present, meet to be com- ) pared, remembered, identified, as belonging to the same self; so only can they be known phe- nomena at all, Well, do we find in examining the physical structure of man’s body as solid, ) heavy, extended, divisible, or its living organs and their-physical functions, or the rearrange- ment of molecules of carbon, nitrogen, hydrogen, ete, into living tissue, or its oxidation, anything corresponding to the consciousness of personal moral agency, and personal identity? We put the two classes of conception side by side, and | they seem to refuse to be identified—man as one and the same conscious moral agent—and his } body, or the bumps on his skull; or is man in- deed a function of his own body? Are we right ) in talking of our bodies as material things, and of ourselves as if we were not things, but persons | vith mights, rights, and duties? We ought, per- , haps, to talk—theologies and philosophies being now exploded—not of our having bodies, but of daties. Perhaps Dundreary was mistaken, and , the tail may wag the dog after all. Mr. Harrison says: “ Orthodoxy has so long been accustomed to take itself for granted, that We are apt to forget how very short a period of human history this sublimated essence” (the im- material sou!) “has been current. There is not atrace of it in the Bible in its present sense.” This reminds one rather of Mr. Matthew Arnold's bodies having us, and of bodies having rights or | that it is “ man who loves, thinks, acts; not the | any right to assume that we are, even on its own ganglia, or sinuses, or amy organ” that does so. | principles and professions. Mr. Harrison (No, III., p. 239) has a very forcible passage, in which he enlarges upon this theme: that “the laws of the separate functions of body, mind, or feeling, have visible relations to each other; are inextricably woven in with each other, act and react. . . . From the summit of spiritual life to the base of corporeal life, whether we pass up or down the gamut of hu- man forces, there runs one organic correlation and sympathy of parts. Touch the smallest fibre in the corporeal man, and in some infini- tesimal way we may: watch the effect in the moral man, When we rouse chords of the most glorious ecstasy of the soul, we may see the vibrations of them visibly thrilling upon the skin.” Here we are in the region of positive facts as specially made manifest by recent inves- tigation. And the orthodox schools need to rec- oguize the significance of such facts. The close interdependence of body and soul is a startling verity that must be looked in the face; and the discovery has, no doubt, gone far to shake the faith of many in human immortality, as well as in other momentous kindred truths. It has been so with myself. But I think the old dictum of , Bacon about the effect of a little and more knowl- | ' | | edge will be found applicable after all, Let us look these facts very steadily in the face. When we have thought for a long time, there is a feel- ing of pain in the head. That is a feeling, ob- serve, in our own conscious selves. Further, by — observation and experiment, it has been made certain that some molecular change in the ner- vous substance of the brain (to the renewal of which oxygenated blood is necessary) is going on, while the process of thinking takes place— though we are not conscious of it in our own case, except as a matter of inference. The thought itself seems, when we reflect on it, partly due to But really it does not much signify what particu- | the action of an external world or cosmos upon lar intellectual theories have been entertained by J contention that the Jews did not believe in God. 7 different men at different times about the nature ) | us; partly to our own “forms of thought,” or fixed ways of perceiving and thinking, which of God or of the soul: the question is whether have been ours so long as we can remember, and You do not find on the whole among them all a ‘which do not belong to us more than to other } consciousness or conviction that there is a High- | individual members of the human family; again * Being above them, together with a power of partly to our own past experience. But what ki distinguishing themselves from their own bodies, | is this material process accompanying thought, : and the world around them—in consequence of | which conceivably we might perceive if we could this, too, a belief in personal immortality. Many see the inside of our own bodies? Why it toocan mall ages believe that the dead have spoken to | only seem what it seems by virtue of our own ws from beyond the grave. But into that I will personal past experience, and our own human as

Page 516

¢ 512 well as individual modes of conceiving. Is not that “ positive” too? Will not men of science agree with me that such is the fact? In short, our bodies, on any view of them, Science herself has taught us, are percepts and concepts of ours— I don’t say of the “soul,” or the mind, or any béte noire of the sort, but of ourselves, who surely cannot be altogether bétes noires. They are as much percepts and concepts of ours as is the ma- terial world outside them. Are they colored? Color, we are told, is a sensation. Are they hard or soft? These are our sensations, and relative tous. The elements of our food enter into re- lations we name living ; their molecules enter into that condition of unstable equilibrium ; there is motion of parts fulfilling definite intelligible and constant uses, in some cases subject to our own intelligent direction. But all this is what appears to our intelligence, and it appears different, ac- cording to the stages of intelligence at which we arrive ; a good deal of it is hypothesis of our own minds. be told this ; it is now universally acknowledged by the competent. The atomic theory is a work- ing hypothesis of our minds only. Space and time are relative to our intelligence, to the suc- cession of our thoughts, to our own faculties of motion, motion being also a conception of ours. Our bodies, in fact, as positivists often tell us, and as we now venture to remind them, are phe- nomena, that is, orderly appearances to us. They further tell us generally that there is nothing which thus appears, or that we cannot know that there is anything beyond the appearance. What, then, according to positivism itself, is the most we are entitled to affirm with regard to the dead ? Simply that there are no appearances to us of a living personality in connection with those phe- nomena which we call a dead body, any more than there are in connection with the used-up materials of burned tissues that pass by osmosis into the capillaries, and away by excretory ducts. But are we entitled to affirm that the person is extinct—is dissolved—the one conscious self in whom these bodily phenomena centred (except so far as they centred in us), who was the focus of them, gave them form, made them what they were ; whose thoughts wandered up and down through eternity ; of whom, therefore, the bodily as well as mental and spiritual functions were functions, so far as the body entered into the conscious self at all? We can, on the contrary, only affirm that probably the person no longer perceives, and is conscious, in connection with this form we look upon, wherein so-called chem- Readers of Berkeley and Kant need not | | ness or inertness it appears to us material. Upon

THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. ' ical affinities now prevail altogether over called vital power. But even in life the body” always changing and decomposing—foreign stances are always becoming a new body, the old body becoming a foreign substance, Ye the person remains one and the same. ; positivism tries to eliminate persons, and all to appearances ; but this is too glaring a lation of common-sense, and I do not think his language Mr. Harrison quite means to do Well, by spirit, even by “soul,” most me assure him, only mean our own conscious pers sonal selves. For myself, indeed, I believe that there cannot be appearances without soi 7 to appear. But seeing that the material w isin harmony with our intelligence, and all the appearance of intelligent codpera parts with a view to ends, I believe, with a English thinker, whose loss we have to (James Hinton), that all this is the mani of life—of living spirits or persons, not of dead) inert matter, though from our own spiritual dead our own moral and spiritual life, in fact, depends” the measure of our knowledge and pereeption.d- can indeed admit with Mr. Harrison that probe bly there must always be to us the phen 7 the body, the external; but it may be different from what it seems now. We made one with the great Elohim, or Nature who create us, or we may still dead material bodily life. We now ourselves and to others as bodily, as Body, and soul or mind, are two opposite phiey nomenal poles of one reality, which is self a@ spirit; but though these phenomena may wath the creative, informing spirit, which underlies ally of which we partake, which is absolute, diving this can never be destroyed. ‘ In God well “7 move, and have our being.” It is held, ind by the new philosophy, that the temp physical, and the composite (elements of mallet and “feeling ”), are the basis of our higheream sciousness: on the contrary, I hold that thisdy” absurd, and that the one eternal conscic or spirit must be the basis of the physical, << 4 rr nk posite, and temporal ; is needed to give unity and harmony to the body. One is a little of agreeing with an old-fashioned thinker, ¥ an old-fashioned poet pronounced the “ first those who know,” that the spirit is org vital principle of the body, not vice versa. great difficulty, no doubt, is that apparent tion of the external into the personal, whet, # the essayist says, “impair a man’s + 0

and mor But it i into thi: we who | ean real must be it belons Moreove us as WE

Page 517

ee ON i Ee mT eR a Se em TE a a Pe A MODERN “ SYMPOSIUM.” and moral sense is dulled, discolored, depraved.” But it is our spiritual deadness that has put us into this physical condition ; and probably it is we who are responsible in a fuller sense than we can realize now for this effect upon us, which must be in the end too for purposes of discipline ; it belongs to our spiritual history and purpose. Moreover, this external world is not so foreign to us as we imagine ; it is spiritual, and between all spirit there is solidarity. Mr. Hinton observes (and here J agree with him rather than with Mr. Harrison) that the de- fect and falseness of our knowing must be in the knowing by only part of ourselves. Whereas sense had to be supplemented by intellect, and proved misleading without it, so intellect, even in the region of knowledge, has to be supplemented by moral sense, which is the highest faculty in us. Weare at present misled by a false view of the world, based on sense and intellect only. Death is but a hideous illusion of our deadness— “Death is the veil which those who live call life: We sleep, and it is lifted.” The true definition of the actual is that which is true for, which satisfies the whole being of hu- manity. We must ask of a doctrine, “ Does it an- swer in the moral region ?” if so, it is as true as we can have it with our present knowledge ; but, if the moral experiment fails, it is not true. Con- science has the highest authority about knowledge, asithas about conduct. Now apply this to the negations of positivism, and the belief Comte would substitute for faith in God, and personal immortality. Kant sufficiently proved that these are postulates required by Practical Reason, and on this ground he believed them. I am not blind to the beauty and nobleness of Comte’s moral ideal (not without debt to Christ’s) as expounded by himself, and here by Mr. Harrison. Still I say, The moral experiment fails. Some of us may seek to benefit the world, and then desire rest. But what of the maimed and broken and aimless lives around us? What of those we have lost, who were dearer to us than our own selves, full of fair- 33 513 est hope and promise, unaware annihilated in earliest dawn, whose dewy bud yet slept unfold- ed? If they were things, doubtless we might count them as so much manure, in which to grow those still more beautiful though still brief-flow- ering human aloes, which positivism, though knowing nothing but present phenomena, and de- nying God, is able confidently to promise us in some remote future. But alas! they seemed liv- ing spirits, able to hope for infinite love, progress- ive virtue, the beatific vision of God himself! And they really were—so much manure! Why, as has already been asked, are such’ ephemerals worth living for, however many of them there may be, whose lives are as an idle flash in the pan, always promising, yet failing to attain any sub- stantial or enduring good? What of these ago- nizing women and children, now the victims of Ot. toman blood-madness? What of all the cramped, unlovely, debased, or slow-tortured yet evanes- cent lives of myriads in our great cities? These cannot have the philosophic aspirations of culture. They have too often none at all. Go proclaint to them this gospel, supplementing it by the warn- ing that in the end there will remain only a huge block of ice in a “wide, gray, lampless, deep, unpeopled world!” I could believe in the pes- simism of Schopenhauer, not in this jaunty op- timism of Comte. Are we then indeed orphans? Will the tyrant go ever unpunished, the wrong ever unredressed, the poor and helpless remain always trampled and unhappy? Must the battle of good and evil in ourselves and others hang always trembling in the balance, forever undecided; or does it all mean nothing more than we see now, and is the glori- ous world but some ghastly illusion of insanity ? When “the fever called living is over at last,” is all indeed over? Thank God that through this Babel of discordant voices modern men can still hear his accents who said, ‘‘ Come unto me, all ye that are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” —Nineteenth Century.

Page 518

¢ 514 THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. THE SCRIPTURE DOCTRINE OF ANGELS.’ By Proressor W. ROBERTSON SMITH, or tHe University oF ABERDEEN. NGEL is a transcription of the Greek ByyeAos, a messenger, but in signification corresponds to the special theological sense which the latter word assumed among the Hellenistic Jews (and hence in the New Testament and io Christian writings), by being adopted as the translation of the Hebrew Ma?akh. Thus both name and notion of angel go back to the Old Testament. The Old Testament belief in angels has two sides, being, on the one hand, a particular de- velopment of the belief in special manifestations of God to man; and on the other hand, a belief in the existence of superhuman beings standing in a peculiar relation of nearness to God. These two sides of the doctrine are historically asso- ciated, and codperate in the later developments of Biblical angelology, but are not in all parts of the Old Testament fused into perfect unity of thought. The first side of the belief in angels is expressed in the word Malakh, a messenger or embassador ; more fully, messenger of Jehovah [English ver- sion, angel of the Lord], messenger of God. The whole Old Testament revelation moves in the paradox that God is invisible and inacces- sible to man, and yet approaches man in unmis- takable self-manifestation. This manifestation takes place in various ways, in the priestly ora- cle, in prophecy, in the glory of God within the sanctuary [shekhina]. But, in particular, the early history represents God as manifesting him- self by his messenger. In special crises “the messenger of Jehovah” calls from heaven to Hagar, or to Abraham (Genesis xxi., xxii.). Or, if God seeks to commune more fully with a man, his messenger appears and speaks to him. The narratives of such angelophanies vary in detail. Generally there is but one angel, but Abraham is visited by three (Genesis xviii.). Sometimes the dignity of the heavenly visitor is detected while he is present ; at other times he is mistaken for a prophet, and recognized only by something su- pernatural in his disappearance (Judges vi. 21, sq., xiii. 20). Jacob wrestles all night with a “ man” 1 This article, contributed to the “ Encyclopedia Bri- tannica” by Prof. Smith, was included with the article on the Bible in the indictment for heresy by the Free Church of Scotland. who at length with a touch dislocates his thigh (Genesis xxxii. 24, sgq.). At other times no hy man form is seen. It is the angel of Jehovah who speaks to Moses in the burning bush, and leads the Israelites in the pillar of cloud apd smoke (Exodus iii. 2, xiv. 19) In all this there is perfect indifference t the personality of the angel, who displays no individuality of character, refuses to give a name (Genesis xxxii.; Judges xiii.), acts simply as the mouth-piece of God. This is carried so far that in his mouth the pronoun J indicates Jehovah himself; while the narrative passes, without change of sense, from the statement, “ the angel of Jehovah appeared, spoke,” etc., to “Jehovah appeared, spoke.” (Compare, for example, Exo dus iii. verse 2 with verse 4; xiii. 21 with xiv, 19) Those who see the angel say they have seen God (Judges xiii. 22; Genesis xxxii. 30). The angel ophany is a theophany, as direct as is possible to man, The idea of a full representation of God to man, in all his revealed character, by means of an angel, comes out most clearly for the angel that leads Israel in the very old passage, Exodus xxiii, 20, sgg. This angel is sent before the people to keep them in the way, and bring them to Canaan. He speaks with divine a thority, and enforces his commands by divine sanctions, “for my name [i.e., the compass of my revealed qualities] is in him.” The question naturally arises, how the angel who possesses these high predicates stands related to angels who elsewhere appear, not representing the whole self-manifestation of God to his people, but die charging isolated commissions. The Biblical data for the solution of this question are vey seanty. An essential distinction between te “angel of the Lord,” who speaks in all things with full divine authority, and subordinate angels, is sought mainly in Genesis xviii. and in Exodus xxxii. 30, sqg., xxxiii., conipared with Isaiah Ixiii 9. In the former case, though two of the three angels leave Abraham, Jehovah goes his wy only on the departure of the third. Yet the two angels, when they come to Lot, are ap g direct a manifestation of God to him as the A was to Abraham (xix. 18, sgg.). And in the oi passage it has not been clearly made out there is really a distinction drawn between angel angel 0 notion which § tween . the Lo angels, Trinity- ent da} does no writers. base on trovers) special special is any : commis cases, D moment sphere 80 enti Old Te: angel is this las man so or acts, stronge: 15, 8g. The sonality on their whole ( certain- trine—t tive are but wer human assumpt where ¢ creation and it i connect endowec ogous t assumpt Samuel Most ch: is the y him, or, in Engli of the n in accor word so & subor majesty.

Page 519

ee fF = . Cte sean THE SCRIPTURE DOCTRINE OF ANGELS. 515 angel who represents God’s presence, and an angel of a lower kind who does not do so. The notion (long current in dogmatic theology, and which goes back to the earliest controversies be- tween Jews and Christians) that “the angel of the Lord,” as contradistinguished from created angels, is the Logos—the second person of the Trinity—has found defenders down to the pres- ent day (Hengstenberg, Keil, etc.), but certainly does not express the sense of the Old Testament writers. And it seems equally unprofitable to base on such passages as we have cited a con- troversy whether “the angel of Jehovah” is one special angel charged throughout history with special functions toward the covenant people, or is any angel who from time to time has a special commission, or is to be viewed, at least in some eases, not as a hypostatic being, but simply as a momentary sinking of the invisible God into the sphere of visibility. The function of the angel so entirely overshadows his personality that the Qid Testament does not ask who or what this angel is, but what he does. And the answer to this last question is, that he represents God to man so directly and fully that, when he speaks or acts, God himself is felt to speak or act. The strongest passage perhaps is Genesis xviii. 15, 8g. The disposition to look away from the per- sonality of the angels, and concentrate attention on their ministry, runs more or less through the whole Old Testament angelology. It is indeed certain—to pass to the second side of the doc- trine—that the angelic figures of the Bible narra- tive are not mere allegories of divine providence, but were regarded as possessing a certain super- human reality. But this reality is matter of assumption rather than of direct teaching. No- where do we find a clear statement as to the creation of the angels [Genesis ii. 1 is ambiguous, and it is scarcely legitimate in Psalm exlviii. to connect verse 2 with verse 5]. That they are endowed with special goodness and insight, anal- gous to human qualities, appears as a popular assumption, not as a doctrine of revelation (1 Samuel xxix. 9; 2 Samuel xiv. 17, xix. 27). Most characteristic for the nature of the angels is the poetic title “sons of God” (Bné Elo- him, or, with a slight modification, Bné Elim, in English version incorrectly “ mighty,” “sons of the mighty,” Psalm xxix. 1, lxxxix. 6), which, in accordance with the idiomatic force of the Word sons, may be paraphrased, “ Beings who in & subordinate way share something of divine majesty.” Perbaps in Psalm Ixxxii. the name Elohim itself varies with the more usual “sons of Elohim.” Taken collectively, the angels form the hosts of Jehovah (Psalm ciii. 21, ete.), or the host of heaven (1 Kings xxii. 19), names correlative to the new title of God, which springs up at the close of the period of the Judges, “ Jehovah [God of] hosts.” The notion of angels as divine armies is not like that of the individual “ mes- senger” closely connected with the theophanic history (yet compare Genesis xxxii. 1, 2; Joshua v. 18, sgg.), but belongs rather to the delineation of the majesty of God in poetry and prophecy. As the whole conception of the heavenly palace and throne is obviously symbolical, we must allow for conscious poetic art when the angels are represented surrounding God’s throne in the form of an assembly or privy council of holy ones (consecrated servants), praising his name, or re- ceiving his commands, and reporting their exe- cution (Psalms xxix., lxxxix. 6-8; 1 Kings xxii. 19, sgg. ; Jobi.). Similarly much must be allowed for the free play of fancy when in the last judg- ment against the enemies of his people Jehovah descends to battle with his heroes (Joel iv. 11), his holy ones (Zechariah xiv. 5), or when he tri- umphantly enters Zion amid myriads of heavenly war-chariots (Psalm Ixviii. 17). Compare Isaiah Ixvi. 15, Habakkuk iii., which show how closely such imagery is connected with the physical phenomena of the thunder-storm. With the development of the idea of count- less hosts of divine ministers is naturally associ- ated, in place of the old angelic theophany, the conception of an invisible agency of angels, who are henceforth seen only in vision or to eyes spe- cially opened (Numbers xxii. 31; 2 Kings vi. 17). To the guidance of Israel by the angel of Jeho- vah succeeds the belief in angelic guidance of individuals (Psalm xxxiv. 7), more or less poet- ically worked out (Psalm xci. 11). Conversely, pestilence and other judgments are angelic via- itations (2 Samuel xxiv.; 2 Kings xix. 385; Psalm Ixxviii. 49, where the “evil angels” of the English version are not wicked angels, but angels of evil). At length this is carried so far that all natural forces that serve God are viewed as his messengers—Psalm civ. 4: “He makes winds his messengers flaming fire his ministers.” This passage clearly shows the elasticity of the whole conception. Similar is the way in which the stars, which share with the angels the name “host of heaven,” appear associated with the latter (Job xxxviii. 7). Hence the later elemental angels, ,

Page 520

5 516 THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. 4 Angelic interpretation between God and man , critically inclined. Of other passages in later reappears in Job xxxiii. 23 (see iv. 13, sgg.), and Jewish literature it may suffice to refer to the converse with angels forms a large part of the full account of the creation of angels of Various. visionary setting of the later prophetical books | functions, presiding over various powers of Ne (Ezekiel, Zechariah), But these visions, to which | ture, in “The Book of Jubilees ” (see Roenseh, the prophets do not ascribe objective reality, il- | “Das Buch der Jubilien,” p. 259). % lustrate rather the religious imagination than the theology of the period. The idea of ranks and classes of angels, though naturally suggested by the conception of a host (see Joshua v. 13, sqq.), was up to this time undeveloped; for neither the purely sym- bolical cherubim, nor the unique and obscure seraphim of Isaiah vi., have in the Old Testa- | ment the meaning later conferred on them of dis- | tinct classes of angels. But the angels of Zech- ariah present something of a systematic scheme, though it seems unsafe, with Ewald and others, to see ia the seven eyes of Jehovah (iii. 9, iv. 10) a developed doctrine of seven chief angels (as in Tobit xii. 15; Revelation viii. 2), parallel to and | influenced by the Amesha-gpentas of the Eranian | mythology. The book of Daniel shows a much | Israel, Per- | fuller development in a similar line. sia, etc., have special angels (princes), whose contests represent those of human history (chap- | “ The great ters x., xii. ; see Isaiah xxiv. 21, sq.). prince who presides over” Israel is named Mi- chael (who is like God ?), and the angelus inter- pres is called Gabriel (man of God). The anal- | ogy of these notions to those of Zarathustrism is less decided than has often been supposed ; but the freedom which Old Testament writers allow | themselves in matters of imaginative representa- tion, to which these conceptions mainly belong, is such as to render foreign influence quite cred- - ible. The ranks, classes, and names of angels are a favorite topic of post-canonical and especiually of Apocalyptic literature. In the book of Enoch, cherubim, seraphim, and even the wheels of Eze- kiel’s vision, become distinct classes of angels; and Rafael (see Tobit xii. 5), Phanuel, Uriel, etc., are added to the names of individual archangels. Specially celebrated is the interpretation which this book gives of Genesis vi. 2, where the sons of God are understood as angels. This inter- pretation seems to have influenced Jude, verse | 6 (see 2 Peter ii. 4), was current in the early church as well as in Judaism, and (though the narrative so understood is quite unique in the | circle of Biblical ideas) is defended on philo- | logical grounds by the best recent scholars, the occurrence being viewed as history or as myth, according as the interpreter is theosophically or The angelology of the New Testament attaches | Gesely to the notions already developed. The | ministry of angels is, as in the Old Testament, | specially connected with the work of salvatigg _ (Hebrews i. 14), and with the person of Chrig | (John i. 51), to whom after the temptation (and _ at Gethsemane ?) angels minister, and who canat will command their aid (Matthew xxvi. 53). Js in the later Old Testament books, revelations by angels are given in vision or dream, but even waking eyes see the angel or angels who minister at the resurrection. So an angel delivers Peter (Acts xii.), ete. As in the Old Testament, the figure of angels is human, their raiment white and their aspect luminous. A multitude of angels appear singing praises at the nativity (Luke 13), and in general they sympathize with the repentance of sinners and the progress of the divine kingdom (Luke xv. 10; 1 Peter i 13} Gabriel reappears in Luke i. The belief in spe cial guardian angels of individuals appears a ‘eurrent (Acts xii. 15), but the words of Jesu (Matthew xviii. 10) hardly go farther than the statements of the Psalms. The angelic hostsof the prophetic eschatology are naturally trame ferred to the second coming (Parusia) of our Lord. The saints after the resurrection are like | the angels (Matthew xxii. 30; Luke xx. 36), da the Apocalypse angels play a great part. No table features, in addition to the seven highest ' angels (viii. 2), are the angels of the seven churches (who, however, are by many taken a& human figures, church officers), and the associé tion of special angels with cosmical forces, & §, ‘angels of fire and water (xvi. 5, xiv. 18). 5 same idea appears even more sharply expressed in the writings of Paul, if, as Ritschl has re dered plausible, the elements (elemental powers) of the world (Colossians ii. ; Galatians iv, 3) 4 the angels, and specially the angels of the lam This view is connected with the ch position of Paul and the Epistle to the Hebr that the inferiority of the old covenant is st by the fact that the law was given and ¢ i by angels (Galatians iii., iv.; Hebrews ij ae Acts vii. 58), an idea partly based on | xxiii, 20, sg., and partly on a transfe _ Sinai of the usual poetico - prophetic of a theophany — a transference sugge : 3 > +

Page 521

THE PRACTICAL SIDE OF COOPERATIVE HOUSEKEEPING. 517 Psalm Ixviii. 17, Deuteronomy xxxiii. 2, and act- ually carried out in the LXX. translation of the latter text, and in the current Jewish the- ology of the period. Angel-worship is con- demned in Colossians ii. (probably with refer- ence to Essene doctrine); see Revelation xix. 10. In Hebrews ii., and 1 Corinthians vi. 3, Chris- tians are superior to angels. Theological reflection on the doctrine of an- gels already begins among the Alexandrian Jews ; and Philo, who calls them “a chorus of unem- bodied souls” occupying the air, places them in close parallelism to his speculations on the divine ideas or powers. From this association the tran- sition is easy to Gnostic speculations, where the ranks of angels appear as produced by successive emanation, and thus serve to fill up the interval which Gnosticism puts between God and the world. In this connection we find also a doctrine of creation by angels (Basilides), and dualistic views of good and evil angels. Against these heresies the early Church emphasizes the creation of an- gels and the fall of the evil angels, but Origen tells us that up to his time the ecclesiastical doc- trine did not define ‘‘ quando isti creati sint vel quales aut quomodo sint.” On these topics, how- ever, many subtile questions arose, e. g., whether angels have bodies of an ethereal kind, whether hierarchy, based on Neoplatonic doctrines, is laid down in the work of Pseudo-Dionysius, “De Hierarchia Celesti” (fifth century), and exercised much influence on medieval theology, which ac- cepted the work as a genuine product of the apostolic age. The schoolmen treat of angels under the doctrine of creation, dividing rational creatures into angels, who are pure spirits, and men (“Sent.,” lib. ii., dist. i., sgg.); and the na- ture and powers of angels form the most noto- rious problems of the misdirected subtilty of the schools (see, e. g., Duns on the “ Second Book of Sentences”). Protestant theologians have always felt less interest in the subject, and generally re- duce the doctrine of angels to a mere appendix to the doctrine of creation or of God’s works. Recent writers often go much farther. Thus, Schleiermacher sums up the whole doctrine of angels by saying that the possible existence of angels should not influence conduct, and that revelations of their being are no more to be looked for. A reaction, partly rooted on the later philosophy of Schelling, has led several Ger- man theologians (Hofmann, etc.) to lay more weight on the doctrine. The Biblical doctrine of angels must be stud- ied with the aid of the best books on Biblical theology (Schulz, Oehler, Ewald, Weiss, etc.), and they were created before the world or along with | of the commentaries on special passages. The thelight, ete. Gradually angel-worship sprung up, book of Enoch is accessible in Dellmann’s trans- and in spite of the opposition of the best Fathers | lation, and other Jewish notions may be found in (Theodoret, Augustine, etc.) became firmly estab- | Eisenmenger. The literature of the subject, the- lished, and is still acknowledged in the Roman ological and theosophic, is immense.—(“‘ Encyclo- Catechism, An elaborate theory of the angelic | pedia Britannica,” new edition.) THE PRACTICAL SIDE OF COOPERATIVE HOUSEKEEPING. By ROSWELL FISHER. KR some years past the growing expense and troubles of ordinary housekeeping have driven thoughtful people to consider whether the great principles of association and codperation are not as applicable to domestic as to commer- cial undertakings. To-day the existence of several muse or less Successful attempts to carry the idea into practice shows that the subject has outgrown its purely speculative phase, and is therefore entitled to be considered one of the practical problems of the age, Notwithstanding, however, that there is a great and fast-growing interest taken in the sub- ject, more especially by harassed and weary house- keepers, there is still no little misconception abroad as to the character and scope of codpera- tive housekeeping, not only on the part of the public, but even on the part of some of those who have practically tried to solve the problem. The misconceptions most prevalent with the public seem to have arisen partly through the fault of those who have advocated the scheme as primarily a social or even socialist reform or

Page 522

bd 518 revolution, which has been quite sufficient to ex- cite the prejudices and antagonism of numbers; and partly from the natural instinct on the part of those to whom the idea is newly presented to judge the new scheme by past experiences of no inviting kind acquired in ordinary boarding- houses, hotels, or barracks. On the other hand, those who have made unsuccessful or partially successful experiments have altogether over- looked, or insufficiently apprehended at least, some of those conditions which I hope in the present essay to show are absolutely essential to the successful working of the system. My object is to present the inception and gradual growth of the scheme, merely as the application of well- known economical principles to domestic living, from which indeed, as from the introduction of steam, certain social advantages may or may not incidentally arise, but which are not necessary to its success. In pursuit of this purpose it is my intention to try and bring out those features and conditions which I believe to be absolutely essential to the successful working of the scheme in its various stages, rather than to draw a fancy sketch of the ideal Cojperative Mansion, or to describe one or more of the actual experiments which are now being made in and about London. The first idea which seems to spring up in the minds of those who desire domestic economy and efficiency—two phases of the same thing—is how clumsy, how troublesome, how extravagant are private kitchens and cooks with their parapher- nalia, Could not we with a well-arranged kitchen cook for several ordinary families with a great economy in plant, fuel, wages, and perhaps mar- keting; or, to put the question conversely, is it not clear that if several families club together to engage a common cook, kitchen, and appurte- nances, their table expenses could be very ma- terially reduced? It requires no argument to answer such questions in the affirmative, and, unless I am misinformed, several attempts have been made to act on this conclusion, with almost, if not altogether, complete failure. Nor could we reasonably expect a more successful result. If several families, either in one large or several ordinary houses, undertake a joint kitchen, they lnust not only adopt a common scale of table ex- penses, but must possess common tastes; other- wise their meals must be cooked and served on different scales, at different times, to the great | THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. establishment. Should all the lady heads undertake the management, or should they take it in turn, or should the whole conduct be rele gated to one? It needs no argument to show that, except in the rarest cases, any one of these three methods, or of any other demanding the services in management of the various heads of the families, would prove fatal, from the differ. ences of capacity, of tastes, and ‘of which would be possessed by the individual heads. We are therefore driven to the condm sion that the undertaking of a joint kitches establishment by a few families, though economi cal in principal, would almost inevitably fail ip practice. To return to the principle, however,it is clear that if ten associated families could theoretically be served with their food more economically than ten individual families, then, on ordinary wholesale principles, one hundred families could be served more cheaply than ten, and so on,.up to that point at which the most — expensive employés and articles of plant would need to be doubled. Then we may safely as sert that largeness of scale is almost essential for economy, and is absolutely essential for har mony and practical efficiency. For largeness of scale not only guarantees the possibility of meet ing various means and tastes, but, what is of even greater importance, it postulates profes sional, that is, paid management, which at once disposes of the difficulty of joint management by the lady heads with their different qualities and capacities. i$ Such a scale, however, as would afford the desired variety in the fare, and would economi- cally support trained professional management, would demand for economy and efficiency thatit should be carried on under conditions especially adapted to its largeness, and therefore a suitable kitchen and appurtenances would be required We have thus aimed at the establishment of a associated kitchen, which, dispensing with pb vate cooks and their appurtenances, may be said to mark the first stage of associated housekeqp ing. That such a kitchen could furnish & wide area of ordinary houses with well-cooked and het meals, no one who has any experience of foreigh traiteurs or of the college kitchens of Oxford and Cambridge will deny. ie There are doubtless great numbers who would willingly go so far in associated housekeeping, — but whose interests or prejudices would prevest - detriment of economy. Differences of means and | them going farther. In the interests, howevel@® tastes, however, would be trifles in comparison with the difficulties of managing such a joint | those who would wish to apply the same ciples to house service, it would require

Page 523

a eg al eR Yee Nos ep Ee MB Sin et ee Oe ee THE PRACTICAL SIDE OF COOPERATIVE HOUSEKEEPING. 519 skill to attach to the associated kitchen a staff of general house-servants, by whose organized ser- vices a greater efficiency and subdivision of labor, with their ensuing economy, might be obtained. The abolition of the private house service, as well as the private kitchen, marks the second stage of associated housekeeping. At this point the question naturally presents itself, “ Are our present dwellings so situated and arranged as to permit their tenants to get the greatest benefit from such an associated kitchen and chamber service?” Not only are they very far from being so, but it is notorious that they are go ill adapted from want of variety in their size and plan, together with their relatively enormous rents, to the growing wants and changing de- mands of modern life in large towns, that build- ings in flats, or apartments differing in the num- ber and arrangement of their rooms, such as have long been universal abroad, are becoming more common and more and more in demand, atall events in London. Such buildings, if con- structed with a due regard to variety of room arrangement, to economy in stairs and corridors, and to height, offer, quite apart from the com- mon kitchen and service, great advantages both in convenience and economy. Great height being one of the elements, lifts become an essential feature; and it then becomes an object so to lay out the building that, with a due regard to safety and efficiency, the greatest possible number of apartments shall be served by the fewest possible stairs and lifts with their attendant expenses. One stair and lift, which may be necessary for twenty apartments, may, with a slight increase of size, be equal to the re- quirements of one hundred apartments. But the very modifications of plan which would be neces- sary to afford the greatest efficiency and economy in the arrangement of the rooms, in the stairs, the lifts, the porters, engineers, ete., would also be those under which the codperative kitchen and general staff of house and chamber servants vould work to the greatest advantage. There- fore, if to the mansion, so built as to secure the greatest economy and comfort in its individual apartments or dwellings, the associated kitchen and staff be added, we find ourselves brought to the associated mansion—not, indeed, fully de- veloped, but sufficiently complete for practical Working. No sooner, however, is the idea of such an associated mansion grasped, than we Jump to the conclusion that in the interests of fconomy a coffee-room or general dining-room Would be, if not an essential, at least a desirable feature of such an establishment; for it is ob- vious that the one, two, or five hundred meals cooked in the common kitchen could be much more cheaply served in one or two large rooms than in as many rooms as there were meals. This introduction of the coffee-room at once affords us a fresh argument in favor of the assertion that largeness of scale is the first essential of the scheme, For if the number of meals to be served is small, economy practically demands that they shall be served as tables d’héte. This I believe to be undesirable—first, because it argues a common scale of living and common hours for eating; secondly, because, though dining at a table d’héte while on a tour is often amusing, it becomes as a daily system tiresome, and a possible fruitful source of unpleasantness between the people who sit next each other day after day. The great American hotels have long given up the éable @héte for what we may call the restaurant system of separate. tables. If my argument so far is sound, it may be stated as an axiom that the associated mansion, like the kitchen, must be at least on a scale large enough to support professional management, and from that point, within certain very wide limits, we may say the larger the scale the greater the economy and efficiency.' Many may here object that, after ali, the proposed mansion is only a modified grand hotel. Very true, but the modi- fications are most important, as a slight reference to the principles on which ordinary hotels and boarding-houses are conducted will show. In ordinary hotels and boarding-houses the object is to make the greatest possible profit. This profit is made both in the board and lodging, but it is generally well understood that the greater proportion is made in the board; therefore it is an object to accommodate the greatest possible number of boarders, which in turn raises the price of private sitting and reception rooms. The result of this is that where economy is an object, the luxury of private reception-rooms is foregone, and domestic privacy is almost destroyed. At the same time it is well to bear in mind that no more exclusive privacy can be enjoyed than in a great hotel, more especially perhaps in one of the co- lossal American caravansaries, always supposing that money is no object. In the associated man- 1 Subject to being built with due regard to the essen- tial conditions of size, and of the dwellings being so grouped as to afford the greatest privacy compatible with the efficient and economical working and administration | of the whole, the codperative mansion may take any form | or shape which the ingenuity of architects may be able to j devise,

Page 524

+ 520 sion, on the other hand, the object is to retain and even increase the opportunities for domestic privacy, while gaining the economic advantages of association. For this purpose it is essential that the rooms or dwellings should be taken quite independently of board. To bring this and the other distinguishing features of the proposed as- sociated codperative mansion into the strongest light, I shall try and give a short sketch of a family taking up its residence in such a mansion. On finding a suite of rooms answering their re- quirements in size and number, they ask the terms, and are told that the rent, taxes, and ser- vice of the suite, cost so much per annum. Thus in paying this one item the head of the family disposes at once of the rent of his dwelling, his share of the rent of the windows, stairs, and com- mon portion of the dwelling-parts of the house, his rates, water, gas, and perhaps general heating, his own house service, and his share of the com- mon service, such as porters, lift-attendants, and soon. For board they are referred to the res- taurant department. On consulting the tariff they find that they can either order each meal as in a club, or they can be boarded at so much per head per day, the price varying according to the number and class of meals which they take. In the latter case they would be able at a glance to calculate accurately their yearly average table- expenses, which would be a great advantage to numbers of people. They would further find that if there was a coffee-room the tariff would be rather lower there than if their meals were served in their private apartments.'' Here at once all the trouble of engaging cooks and buying food and utensils is disposed of. It is evident that if the family, on taking up their abode in such a mansion, preferred to pay the slight increase de- manded for dining in their own rooms, and never entered the coffee-room, they could live for years without knowing even by sight, much less by so- cial intercourse, any of the other members of the mansion. This at once disposes of the common misconception that almost forced social intercourse would be an essential feature of the associated mansion. It is also clear that such a system of living would at once free wives and mothers from the drudgery of housekeeping which at present weighs so heavily on their energies. If, in addi- tion to the economic advantages which would be presented by such a mansion, the opportunity for social intercourse was desired by the members, the addition of a general salon or drawing-room, 1 Of course, on account of the extra cost of so serving the meal. THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. and as many more common advantages ag the different constituencies might desire and for which they might be willing to pay, would present no difficulties, and though, I believe, a desirable in. cident of the scheme, is by no means essential to its success. In reference to the social possibili- ties of the associated mansion I may merely re. mark that the common assumption that in the introduction of a salon there would or might be a great increase to scandal and quarrels is, I be. lieve, totally opposed to the experience of large clubs and hotels. It is perfectly true that ins small coffee or drawing room, as in a small town or village, people are both likely all to know each other and to make their neighbors the sub. ject of remarks of very often not the most friend ly kind; whereas in a large coffee or drawing room, no less than in a large town, people need - not know each other, much less concern them selves about the doings and sayings of people to whom they are indifferent. From this it is clear that, no less on the social than on the economie side of the question, largeness of scale is essen tial to success, So far I have confined my argument to the endeavor to show clearly the advantages and the essential conditions of associated housekeeping, It is, however, no less important to show that, in order to gain the full advantages of economy, the system must bé worked on more or less coéper ative and not on commercial principles, Asse ciated housekeeping on commercial principles, carried eut more or less in the manner I have described in the great American and Continental and in some English hotels and mansions, is common and very successful fact, but hitherto has not succeeded in being at once economical and efficient. Nor is this surprising when "e — consider that the interests of the proprietors and of the tenants—that is, of the ‘Sellers and buyers : —have been and are, as in all trades, antagonis tic; therefore efficiency means dearness, cheap : ness means inefficiency. To illustrate this inreb erence to my argument, let us take first thecase 3 of the associated kitchen. If this is undertaken purely as a commercial enterprise, the chances — : are overwhelmingly great that when once the cum tomers had put down their private kitchen de either gradually fall off in the quality, or raise the price of his supplies. For reasons! I believe are clear, but rather long to here, the ordinary principles of competition fail to rectify this danger even in the partment, and had thus deeply committed # “3 selves to the new system, the entrepreneur ra

Page 525

? ¥ ‘G kitchen alone, and still more so in the associated mansion. There it is of great importance that the kitchen should be owned or rented and more or less managed by those who are to benefit by its establishment. I say more or less managed, because it is doubtful whether the experience of many clubs does not show that the purely co- operative management of a kitchen by the club committee is not, from waste, carelessness, ex- travagance, and pilfering, more costly than the profits which would be exacted by the caterer. I venture after much inquiry, discussion, and con- sideration, to offer two plans of management for the restaurant department, neither of which would greatly strain the energies or intelligence of the committee. In using the terms club and mem- bers in this connection, they must be understood to refer exclusively to the customers of the kitchen and tenants of the mansion, who, wheth- er they are or are not proprietors, must be them- selves, as in the case of the codperative stores» both buyers and sellers. In all cases the com- mittee should fix the rent of the kitchen with its appurtenances, and the coffee-room, if there was one; then in the first place they would farm the restaurant to the most satisfactory bidder, stating in their call for tenders the rent, the average daily attendance and requirements, and the prob- able extraordinary demands, and finally stating that the tenure of the office should be absolutely conditional on the successful tenderer satisfac- torily fulfilling his contract. In this case, as the contractor would have a far more certain demand than the ordinary hotel or restaurant keeper, or even club cook, he should be able to tender on very low terms; and as the tenure of a position offering certain profits would be conditional on the satisfactory fulfillment of his ‘contract, he would have the strongest inducements to main- tain the standard of his tender. On the alternative plan the club committee should themselves contract with wholesale pro- ducers and purveyors for the supply of the kitchen ; they should engage a chef and inferior employés at usual salaries, and should then fix the tariff at such a rate as should afford a fair margin of profit, of which profit the chef, and as many of the inferior employés as it might be deemed advisable to bind to the interest of the club, should get a certain percentage, and the balance should be distributed among the mem- bers on the usual eodperative principles—that is, M proportion to their purchases. Of these two Plans the former is the simplest, the latter the THE PRACTICAL SIDE OF COOPERATIVE HOUSEKEEPING. 521 More truly codperative. The restaurant depart. , ment being disposed of either as above suggest- ed, or in some equally satisfactory way, the en- gaging of the housekeeping staff and of a man- aging secretary should present no great difficul- ties, and needs no discussion. Before leaving the question of administration, it may be remarked that, in the case of the co- operative kitchen alone, or in that of a mansion which offered no opportunities for social inter- course, the financial position of the members would, as in any ordinary company, be the only necessary or desirable test for membership, and their directors or committee should be elected as in any other commercial or cojperative under- taking. If, however, the salon is a feature of the mansion, the social position of the members be- comes a question of importance, and admittance should be obtained by ballot or approval of the committee as in ordinary clubs. I have now endeavored to describe as shortly and clearly as possible the natural rise and growth of the idea of codperative housekeeping, showing that it is no socialist Utopia, but merely the application of modern economical principles and mechanical appliances in a somewhat new direction. I have sought to demonstrate that the conditions absolutely essential to success are —1. Largeness of scale; 2. The retention of do- mestic privacy by separation of the board and dwelling departments; and, 3. Its administration on at least modified coéperative and not on pure- ly commercial principles. These conditions are, I believe, equally demanded by, and equally ap- plicable to, all stages of the system, from the establishment of coéperative kitchens up to the creation and administration of that ideal codp- erative mansion of the, I trust, not very distant future, which, presenting to the world an impos- ing and even splendid exterior, shall offer to its one or two thousand members the individual en- joyment of a great variety of dwellings, differ- ing in the number, size, and position of their rooms according to the wants, taste, and means of their tenants, together with the common en- joyment of spacious, well-warmed, well-venti- lated halls, corridors, and staircases ; of lifts, of the services of porters, commissionnaires, and call-boys, of firemen and watchmen; which shall offer the opportunity of using a steam-laundry, a special post and telegraph office, of Turkish and other baths and lavatories, of a Kinder-Gar- ten and of a hospital suite; which shall offer the opportunity of enjoying large and small drawing and dining rooms, of music, dancing, and card rooms, of libraries and reading-rooms,

Page 526

’ 522 THE POPULAR SCIENCE of smoking and of billiard rooms, in which the individual members and families may either en- joy more completely than is now possible that amiable social isolation and exclusiveness which we are told is so dear to the true Briton, or, on the other hand, may, without extra trouble or ex- pense, enjoy as much as they wish of the society of their fellow-members—the whole, if conducted on true codperative principles, to be obtained at a smaller cost than we now pay for our unsatis- factory dwellings and servants, and with the fur- ther gain of an almost complete freedom from household cares. It is asserted that English people are too con. servative to adopt so fundamental a revolution in their ideas of dwellings and housekeeping. I answer, the facts show the contrary. Not only are great numbers of people, some from neces- sity, others from choice, more and more living in boarding-houses, hotels, and flats, but the con- tinued success of the well-known mansiors in Grosvenor Gardens for the past ten years, of the kindred erections in Victoria Street and else- where, which are being repeated with modern improvements on a considerable scale, as well as the great success of the vast pile at Queen Anne’s

Gate, is sufficient proof that the British public is | ready largely to avail itself of such dwellings and style of living as more or less closely approach the idea of codperative housekeeping, which it has been my object rather to put on a practical basis than to argue its advantages at length. Though I have discussed the question in this essay as if it were one purely affecting the upper-

MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. middle and upper classes, with whom it mugt probably begin, yet the system is even more dev sirable for the lower-middle and lower classes, who are, I believe, relatively more wastefully lodged and fed than their richer neighbors, It is true that the less educated are more prejm diced and less capable of clubbing together than the better educated classes ; but, judging from the success which has attended the efforts to get the artisans to give up their little homes or how els for homes in blocks, it will not, I venture to say, be very long before they will see the eco- nomic advantages of a common kitchen and the social advantages of a club-room, which would probably prove a successful and healthy rival to the public-house. In the present essay I have confined myself to laying down the principles which I believe are essential to the successful working of wholesale housekeeping. To fully develop the economié and social possibilities of the system, and to am swer fairly and completely all the objections which timid and conservative people urge against it, would take me far beyond the limits of a magazine article. In conclusion, I venture to say that I have the strongest reasons for believing that, if the public can only once fairly grasp the idea that codperative housekeeping is no social chimera, but is merely a recombination of the soundest and most successful facts, it will not be long before codperative mansions are not only. very common, but will be regarded as among thé very best investments in real property. " —Nineteenth Century”

THE COLORS OF ANIMALS AND PLANTS. ‘ By ALFRED RUSSEL WALLACE.

L—THE COLORS OF ANIMALS. < era is probably no one quality of natural | ground of a marvelous and ever-changing picture 9 objects from which we derive so much pure and intellectual enjoyment as from their colors. | The “ heavenly” blue of the firmament, the glow- ing tints of sunset, the exquisite purity of the snowy mountains, and the endless shades of green presented by the verdure-clad surface of the earth, are a never-failing source of pleasure to all who enjoy the inestimable gift of sight. Yet these constitute, as it were, but the frame and back- _ In contrast with these broad and soothing we have presented to us, in the vegetable and mal worlds, an infinite variety of objects ad with the most beautiful and most varied Flowers, insects, and birds, are the org most generally ornamented in this way; their symmetry of form, their variety of st and the lavish abundance with which they ¢ and enliven the earth, cause them to be obj

of ¢ pute man and pris a su

Page 527

universal admiration. The relation of this wealth of color to our mental and moral nature is indis- putable. The child and the savage alike admire the gay tints of flower, bird, and insect; while to many of us their contemplation brings a solace and enjoyment which is both intellectually and morally beneficial. It can then hardly excite sur- prise that this relation was long thought to afford a sufficient explanation of the phenomena of color in Nature; and although the fact that— “Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air” — might seem to throw some doubt on the sufficien- cy of the explanation, the answer was easy—that, in the progress of discovery, man would, sooner or later, find out and enjoy every beauty that the hidden recesses of the earth have in store for him. This theory received great support from the diffi- culty of conceiving any other use or meaning in the colors with which so many natural objects are adorned. Why should the homely gorse be clothed in golden raiment, and the prickly cac- tus be adorned with crimson bells ? Why should our fields be gay with buttercups, and the heath- er-clad mountains be clad in purple robes? Why should every land produce its own peculiar floral gems, and the Alpine rocks glow with beauty, if not for the contemplation and enjoyment of man ? What could be the use to the butterfly of its gayly- painted wings, or to the humming-bird of its jew- eled breast, except to add the final touches to a world-picture, calculated at once to please and to refine mankind? And even now, with all our re- cently-acquired knowledge of this subject, who shall say that these old-world views were not in- trinsically and fundamentally sound ; and that, al- though we now know that color has “uses” in Nature that we little dreamed of, yet the relation of those colors to our senses and emotions may be another and perhaps more important use which they subserve in the great system of the universe? We now propose to lay before our readers a general account of the more recent discoveries on this interesting subject; and, in doing so, it will be necessary first to give an outline of the more important facts as to the colors of organized be- THE COLORS OF ANIMALS AND PLANTS. ings; then to point out the cases in which it has | been shown that color is of use; and, lastly, to endeavor to throw some light on its nature, and | the general laws of its development. Among naturalists, color was long thought to be of little import, and to be quite untrustworthy 48 4 specific character. The numerous cases of | Variability of color led to this view. The occur- tence of white blackbirds, white peacocks, and | 523 black leopards; of white bluebells, and of white, blue, or pink milkworts, led to the belief that col- or was essentially unstable, that it could therefore be of little or no importance, and belonged to quite a different class of characters from form or structure. But it now begins to be perceived that these cases, though tolerably numerous, are, after all, exceptional ; and that color, as a rule, is a constant character. The great majority of spe- cies, both of animals and plants, are each distin- guished by peculiar tints which vary very little, while the minutest markings are often constant in thousands or millions of individuals. All our field — buttercups are invariably yellow, and our poppies red, while many of our butterflies and birds re- semble each other in every spot and streak of col- or through thousands of individuals, We also find that color is constant in whole genera and other groups of species. The Genistas are all yellow, the Erythrinas all red, many genera of Carabide are entirely black, whole families of birds—as the Dendrocolaptida—are brown, while among butterflies the numerous species of Lyceena are all more or less blue, those of Pontia white, and those of Callidryas yellow. An extensive survey of the organic world thus leads us to the conclusion that color is by no means so unim- portant or inconstant a character as at first sight it appears to be; and the more we examine it the more convinced we shall become that it must serve some purpose in Nature, and that besides charming us by its diversity and beauty it must be well worthy of our attentive study, and have many secrets to unfold to us. In order to group the great variety of facts relating to the colors of the organic world in some intelligible way, it will be best to consider how far the chief theories already proposed will account for them. One of the most obvious and most popular of these theories, and one which is still held, in part at least, by many eminent natu- ralists, is, that color is due to some direct action of the heat and light of the sun, thus at once accounting for the great number of brilliant birds, insects, and flowers, which are found between the tropics. But here we must ask whether it is really the fact that color is more. developed in tropical than in temperate climates, in proportion to the whole number of species; and, even if we find this to be so, we have to inquire whether there are not so many and such striking excep- tions to the rule as to indicate some other causes at work than the direct influence of solar light and heat. As this is a most important question, we must go into it somewhat fully.

Page 528

¢ THE POPULAR SCIENCE 524 It is undoubtedly the case that there are an immensely greater number of richly-colored birds and insects in tropical than in temperate and cold countries ; but it is by no means so certain that the proportion of colored to obscure species is much or any greater. Naturalists and col- lectors well know that the majority of tropical birds are dull-colored ; and there are whole fami- lies, comprising hundreds of species, not one of which exhibits a particle of bright color. Such are the Timaliide of the Eastern and the Dendro- colaptide of the Western Hemispheres. Again, many groups of birds, which are universally dis- tributed, are no more adorned with color in the tropical than in the temperate zone; such are thrushes, wrens, goat-suckers, hawks, grouse, plovers, and snipe; and if tropical light and heat have any direct coloring effect, it is certainly most extraordinary that in groups so varied in form, structure, and habits, as those just men- tioned, the tropical should be in no wise dis- tinguished in this respect from the temperate species. The brilliant tropical birds mostly be- long to groups which are wholly or almost wholly tropical—as the chatterers, toucans, trogons, and pittas ; but as there are, perhaps, an equal num- ber of groups which are wholly dull-colored, while others contain dull and bright colored spe- cies in nearly equal proportions, the evidence is by no means strong that tropical light or heat has anything to do with the matter. But there are also groups in which the cold and temperate zones produce finer-colored species than the tropics. Thus the arctic ducks and divers are handsomer than those of the tropical zone, while the king-duck of temperate America and the mandarin-duck of Northern China are the most beautifully colored of the whole family. In the pheasant family we have the gorgeous gold and silver pheasants in Northern China and Mongolia ; and the superb impeyan pheasant in the temper- ate Northwest Himalayas, as against the peacocks and fire-backed pheasants of tropical Asia. Then we have the curious fact that most of the bright- colored birds of the tropics are denizens of the forests, where they are shaded from the direct light of the sun, and that they abound near the equator, where cloudy skies are very prevalent ; while, on the other hand, places where light and heat are at a maximum have often dull-colored birds. Such are the Sahara and other deserts, where almost all the living things are sand- colored ; but the most curious case is that of the Galapagos Islands, situated under the equator, and not far aw South America, where the most MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. gorgeous colors abound, but which are yet ¢ acterized by prevailing dull and sombre tints birds, insects, and flowers, so that thev remi Mr. Darwin of the cold and barren plains of P gonia. Insects are wonderfully brilliant in tropis eal countries generally, and any one looking over a collection of South American or Malayan terflies would scout the idea of their being gj more gayly colored than the average of E species, and in this they would be und right. But on examination we should find tha all the more brilliantly colored groups were @m clusively tropical, and that, where a genus hase wide range, there is little difference in col between the species of cold and warm Thus the European Vanessides, including the beautiful “ peacock,” ‘“‘ Camberwell beauty,” and “red admiral” butterflies, are quite up to the average of tropical beauty in the same group and the remark will equally apply to the lite “blues” and “coppers;” while the Alpive “apollo” butterflies have a delicate beauty that can hardly be surpassed. In other inseets, whidl are less directly dependent on climate and vege tation, we find even greater anomalies. Inthe immense family of the Carabide or p ground-beetles, the northern forms fully eq they do not surpass, all that the tropics campn duce. Everywhere, too, in hot countries, are thousands of obscure species of insects if they were all collected, would not im bring down the average of color to much abeat the same level as that of temperate zones. But it is when we come to the ¥ world that the greatest misconception on subject prevails. In abundance and variety ot floral color the tropics are almost universally be lieved to be preémirent, not only absolutely, bab relatively to the whole mass of vegetation ait the total number of species. Twelve z observation among the vegetation of the Easte and Western tropics has, however, convineed # that this notion is entirely erroneous, and in proportion to the whole number of § of plants, those having gayly-colored flowers actually more abundant in the temperate than between the tropics. This will be be not so extravagant an assertion as it may appear, if we consider how many of the cho adornments of our greenhouses and flowe are really temperate as opposed to tropical The masses of color produced by our rho drons, azaleas, and camellias, our pelargoui@ calceolarias, and cinerarias—all strictly temp plants—can certainly not be surpassed, if

Page 529

THE COLORS OF ANIMALS AND PLANTS. can be equaled, by any productions of the trop- ies! But we may go further, and say that the hardy plants of our cold temperate zone equal, if they do not surpass, the productions of the tropics. Let us only remember such gorgeous tribes of flowers as the roses, peonies, holly- hocks, and antirrhinums ; the laburnum, Wis- taria, and lilac; the lilies, irises, and tulips ; the hyacinths, anemones, gentians, and poppies, and even our humble gorse, broom, and heather; and we may defy any tropical country to produce masses of floral color in greater abundance and variety. It may be true that individual tropical shrubs and flowers do surpass everything in the rest of the world, but that is to be expected, be- cause the tropical zone comprises a much greater land-area than the two temperate zones, while, owing to its more favorable climate, it produces astill larger proportion of species of plants, and a great number of peculiar natural orders. Direct observation in tropical forests, plains, and mountains, fully supports this view. Occa- sionally we are startled by some gorgeous mass of color, but as a rule we gaze upon an endless ex- panse of green foliage, only here and there enli- vened by not very conspicuous flowers. Even the orchids, whose gorgeous blossoms adorn our stoves, form no exception to this rule, It is only in favored spots that we find them in abundance ; the species with small and inconspicuous flowers great- ly preponderate ; and the flowering season of each kind being of short duration, they rarely produce any marked effect of color amid the vast masses of 1 It may be objected that most of the plants named are choice cultivated varieties, far surpassing in color the original stock, while the tropical plants are mostly unva- ried wild species, But this does not really much affect | For our florists’ gorgeous varieties | have all been produced under the influence of our cloudy | the question at issue. skies, and with even a still further deficiency of light, 525 foliage which surround them. An experienced col- lector in the Eastern tropics once told me that, al- though a single mountain in Java had produced three hundred species of Orchidex, only about two per cent. of the whole were sufficiently ornamental or showy to be worth sending home as a commer- cial speculation. The Alpine meadows and rock- slopes, the open plains of the Cape of Good Hope or of Australia, and the flower-prairies of North America, offer an amount and variety of floral color which can certainly not be surpassed, even if it can be equaled, between the tropics. It appears, therefore, that we may dismiss the theory that the development of color in Nature is directly dependent on, and in any way propor- tioned to, the amount of solar heat and light, as entirely unsupported by facts. Strange to say, however, there are some rare and little-known phenomena which prove that, in exceptional cases, light does directly affect the colors of natural ob- jects, and it will be as well to consider these be- fore passing on to other matters. A few years ago Mr. T. W. Wood called at- tention to the curious changes in the color of the chrysalis of the small cabbage-butterfly (Pontia rape) when the caterpillars were confined in boxes lined with different tints. Thus in black boxes they were very dark, in white boxes nearly white; and he further showed that similar changes occurred in a state of nature, chrysalises fixed against a whitewashed wall being nearly white, against a red-brick wall reddish, against a pitched paling nearly black. It has also been observed that the cocoon of the emperor-moth is either white or brown, according to the surrounding colors. But the most extraordinary example of this kind of change is that furnished by the chrys- alis of an African butterfly (Papilio Nireus), ob- ; d descri owing to the necessity of protecting them under glass | se = ee me — - “ee oe ti awe from our sudden changes of temperature; so that they | (wi 8 — pia ) = =e vansacwens © e are themselves an additional proof that tropical light and | Entomological Society,” 1874, page 519. The cat- heat are not needed for the production of intense and _ erpillar feeds on the orange-tree, and also on a varied color. ,;Another important consideration is, that these cultivated varieties in many cases displace a num- ber of wild species which are hardly, if at all, cultivated. Thus there are scores of species of wild hollyhocks vary- in color almost as much as the cultivated varieties, and same may be said of the pentstemons, rhododendrons, and many other flowers ; and if these were all brought together in well-grown specimens. they would produce 8 forest-tree ( Vepris lanceolata) which has a lighter green leaf, and its color corresponds with that of the leaves it feeds upon, being of a darker green when it feeds on the orange. The chrysalis is usually found suspended among the leafy twigs of its food-plant, or of some neighboring tree ; | | | | | | | | but it is probably often attached to larger branches, and Mrs. Barber has discovered that it ee e similar culture, rather than fifty has the property of acquiring the color, more or ment; the ro ao ee pt sed less accurately, of any natural object it may be in Perate flora is even now hardly known, except to botanists | Contact with, A number of the caterpillars were | placed in a case with a glass cover, one side of grand effect. But it is far easier, and more profitable, for our nurserymen to grow varieties of one or two species, and to a few amateurs,

Page 530

g 526 the case being formed by a red-brick wall, the other sides being of yellowish wood. They were fed on orange-leaves, and a branch of the bottle- brush-tree (Banksia, sp.) was also placed in the ease. When fully fed, some attached themselves to the orange-twigs, others to the bottle-brush- branch; and these all changed to green pup; but each corresponded exactly in tint to the leaves around it, the one being dark, the other a pale, faded green. Another attached itself to the wood, and the pupa became of the same yel- lowish color; while one fixed itself just where the wood and brick joined, and became one side red, the other side yellow! These remarkable changes would perhaps not have been credited, had it not been for the previous observations of Mr. Wood; but the two support each other, and oblige us to accept them as actual phenomena. It is a kind of natural photography, the particu- lar colored rays to which the fresh pupa is exposed, in its soft, semi-transparent condition, effecting such a chemical change in the organic juices as to produce the same tint in the hardened skin. It is interesting, however, to note that the range of color that can be acquired seems to be limited to those of natural objects to which the pupa is likely to be attached; for when Mrs. Barber sur- rounded one of the caterpillars with a piece of scarlet cloth no change of color at all was pro- duced, the pupa being of the usual green tint, but the small red spots with which it is marked were brighter than usual. In these caterpillars and pup, as well as in the great majority of cases in which a change of color occurs in animals, the action is quite in- voluntary; but among some of the higher animals the color of the integument can be modified at the will of the animal, or, at all events, by a re- flex action dependent on sensation. The most remarkable case of this kind occurs with the chameleon, which has the power of changing its color from dull white to a variety of tints. This singular power has been traced to two layers of pigment deeply seated in the skin, from which minute tubes, or capillary vessels, rise to the sur- face. The pigment-layers are bluish and yellow- ish, and by the pressure of suitable muscles these can be forced upward either together or separate- ly. When no pressure is exerted the color is dirty white, which changes to various tints of bluish, green, yellow, or brown, as more or less of either pigment is forced up and rendered visible. The animal is excessively sluggish and defenseless, and its power of changing its color to harmonize with surrounding objects is essential to its existence. THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. | the bright under-wings of many moths Here, too, as with the pupa of Papilio Nivew, colors such as scarlet or blue, which do not oggur in the immediate environment of the animal, can. not be produced. Somewhat similar changes of color occur in some prawns and flat-fish, accord. ing to the color of the bottom on which they rest. This is very striking in the chamelegp. shrimp (Jfysis Chameleon), which is gray when on sand, but brown or green when among se weed of these two colors. Experiment shows, however, that when blinded the change does not occur, so that here too we probably have a yo. untary or reflex sense-action. Many cases are known among insects in which the same species has a different tint according to its surroundings, this being particularly marked in some South African locusts which correspond with the color of the soil wherever they are found; while sey. eral caterpillars which feed on two or mor plants vary in color accordingly. Several such changes are quoted by Mr. R. Meldola, in @ paper on “Variable Protective Coloring in Insects” (“‘ Proceedings of the Zodlogical Society of Lon don,” 1873, page 153), and some of them may perhaps be due to a photographic action of the reflected light. In other cases, however, it has been shown that green chlorophyll remains changed in the tissues of leaf-eating insects, and being discernible through the transparent integ- ument produces the same color as that of the food-plant. These peculiar powers of change of conrall adaptation are, however, rare and quite tional. Asa rule there is no direct connection between the colors of organisms and the kindof light to which they are usually exposed. This is well seen in most fishes, and in such marine mals as porpoises, whose backs are always dark, although this part is exposed to the — white light of the sky and clouds, while bellies are very generally white, although are constantly subjected to the deep-blue’ é dusky-green light from the bottom. It is ee dent, however, that these two tints have beat acquired for concealment and protection. ing down on the dark back of a fish it is : invisible, while to an enemy looking up # below the light under-surface would be invisible against the light of the clouds and Again, the gorgeous colors of the butteri® — which inhabit the depths of tropical forests D&S no relation to the kind of light that falls them, coming as it does almost wholly #™®” au green foliage, dark-brown soil or blue sky; ®

Page 531

SS I) ee Bee Cee ee a - ee ae = a ee ee ee ee aor lr lt, galled ee 4 rw’ 7) CRBS on Re only exposed at night contrast remarkably with the sombre tints of the upper-wings which are more or Jess exposed to the various colors of surrounding Nature. We find, then, that neither the general influ- ence of solar light and heat, nor the special ac- tion of variously-tinted rays, are adequate causes for the worderful variety, intensity, and com- plexity of the colors that everywhere meet us in the animal and vegetable world. Let us, there- fore, take a wider view of these colors, grouping them into classes determined by what we know of their actual uses or special relations to the habits of their possessors. This, which may be termed the functional or biological classification of the colors of living organisms, seems to be best expressed by a division into five groups as follows : 1. Protective colors. y ate -* oe Animals. { 2. Warning colors. c pro ad b. Of defenseless creat- ures, mimicking a. 8. Sexual colors. 4, Typical colors. Plants.,.. 5. Attractive colors. The nature of the first two groups, protective and warning colors, has been so fully detailed and iJlustrated in my chapter on “ Mimicry and other Protective Resemblances among Animals ” (“Contributions to the Theory of Natural Selec- tion,” page 45), that very little need be added here except a few words of general explanation. Protective colors are exceedingly prevalent in Nature, comprising those of all the white arctic animals, the sandy-colored desert forms, and the green birds and insects of tropical forests. It also comprises thousands of cases of special resemblance—of birds to the surroundings of their nests, and especially of insects to the bark, leaves, flowers, or soil, on or amid which they dwell. Mammalia, fishes, and reptiles, as well as mollusca and other marine invertebrates, present similar phenomena; and the more the habits of animals are investigated, the more numerous are found to be the cases in which their colors tend to conceal them, either from their enemies or from the creatures they prey upon. One of the last-observed and most curious of these protec- tive resemblances has been communicated to me by Sir Charles Dilke. He was shown in Javaa Pink-colored mantis, which, when at rest, exactly resembled a pink orchis-flower. The mantis is a carnivorous insect which lies in wait for its prey, and by its resemblance to a flower the insects it feeds on would be actually attracted toward it. THE COLORS OF ANIMALS AND PLANTS. 527 This one is said to feed especially on butterflies, so that it is really a living trap and forms its own bait! All who have observed animals, and espe- cially insects, in their native haunts and atti- tudes, can understand how it is that an insect which in a cabinet looks exceedingly conspic- uous may yet, when alive in its peculiar atti- tude of repose and with its habitual surround- ings, be perfectly well concealed. We can hardly ever tell, by the mere inspection of an animal, whether its colors are protective or not. No one would imagine the exquisitely beautiful cater- pillar of the emperor-moth, which is green with pink, star-like spots, to be protectively colored ; yet when feeding on the heather it so harmonizes with the foliage and flowers as to be almost in- visible. Every day fresh cases of protective coloring are being discovered even in our own country, and it is becoming more and more evi- dent that the need of protection has played a very important part in determining the actual coloration of animals. The second class—the warning colors—are exceedingly interesting, because the object and effect of these is, not to conceal the object, but to make it conspicuous. To these creatures it is useful to be seen and recognized, the reason be- ing that they have a means of defense which, if known, will prevent their enemies from attacking them, though it is generally net sufficient to save their lives if they are actually attacked. The best examples of these specially protected creat- ures consist of two extensive families of butter- flies, the Danaide and Acreide, comprising many hundreds of species inhabiting the tropics of all parts of the world. These insects are generally large, are all conspicuously and often most gorge- ously colored, presenting almost every conceiv- able tint and pattern; they all fly slowly, and they never attempt to conceal themselves; yet no bird, spider, lizard, or monkey (all of which eat other butterflies), ever touches them. The reason simply is that they are not fit to eat, their juices having a powerful odor and taste that is absolutely disgusting to all these animals. Now, we see the reason of their showy colors and slow flight. It is good for them to be seen and recog- nized, for then they are never molested; but if they did not differ in form and coloring from other butterflies, or if they flew so quickly that their peculiarities could not be easily noticed, they would be captured, and though not eaten would be maimed or killed. As soon as the cause of the peculiarities of these butterflies was recognized, it was seen that the same explana-

Page 532

’ 528 tion applied to many other groups of animals. Thus bees and wasps and other stinging insects | as it were on false pretenses (division 5 of | mals with warning colors). This is what is ¢ are showily and distinctively colored; many soft and apparently defenseless beetles, and many gay-colored moths, were found to be as nau- seous as the above-named butterflies; other beetles, whose hard and glossy coats-of-mail render them unpalatable to insect-eating birds, are also sometimes showily colored; and the same rule was found to apply to caterpillars, all the brown and green (or protectively-colored species) being greedily eaten by birds, while showy kinds which never hide themselves—like those of the magpie-, mullein-, and burnet-moths—were utterly refused by insectivorous birds, lizards, frogs, and spiders (‘“‘Contributions to Theory of Natural Selection,” page 117). Some few analogous ex- amples are found among vertebrate animals. I will only mention here a very interesting case not given in my former work. In his delightful book entitled “The Naturalist in Nicaragua,” Mr. Belt tells us that there is in that country a frog which is very abundant, which hops about in the day- time, which never hides himself, and which is gorgeously colored with red and blue. Now, frogs are usually green, brown, or earth-colored, feed mostly at night, and are all eaten by snakes and birds, Having full faith in the theory of protec- tive and warning colors, to which he had himself contributed some valuable facts and observa- tions, Mr. Belt felt convinced that this frog must be uneatable. He therefore took one home, and threw it to his ducks and fowls; but all refused to touch it except one young duck, which took the frog in its mouth, but dropped it directly, and went about jerking its head as if trying to get rid of something nasty. Here the uneatableness of the frog was predicted from its colors and habits, and we can have no more convincing proof of the truth of the theory than such pre- visions. The universal avoidance by carnivorous ani- mals of all these specially protected groups, which are thus entirely free from the constant persecu- tion suffered by other creatures not so protected, would evidently render it advantageous for any of these latter which were subjected to extreme persecution to be mistaken for the former, and for this purpose it would be necessary that they should have the same colors, form, and habits. Strange to say, wherever there is an extensive group of directly protected forms (division a of animals with warning colors), there are sure to be found a few otherwise defenseless creatures which resemble them externally so as to be mis- THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. taken for them, and which thus gain prot “mimicry,” and it has already been very f treated of by Mr. Bates (its discoverer), by self, by Mr. Trimen, and others. Here it is necessary to state that the uneatable Daz and Acrewide are accompanied by a few speg of other groups of butterflies (Leptalide, ¥ lios, Diademas, and Moths) which are all eatable, but which escape attack by theire resemblance to some species of the une groups found in the same locality. In like ner there are a few eatable beeties which resemble species of uneatable groups ; and which are soft, imitate those which are un through their hardness. For the same wasps are imitated by moths, and ants fer tles; and even poisonous snakes are mi by harmless snakes, and dangerous hawks by fenseless cuckoos. How these curious imi have been brought about, and the laws govern them, have been discussed in the already referred to. The third class—sexual colors—comprise all cases in which the colors of the two sexes diffen, This difference is very general, and varies g 7 in amount, from a slight divergence of tint up a radical change of coloration. Differences @l this kind are found among all classes of an in which the sexes are separated, but they much more frequent in some groups than others. In mammalia, reptiles, and fishes, are comparatively rare and not great in whereas among birds they are very frequent very largely developed. So among insects, are abundant in butterflies, while they are paratively uncommon in beetles, wasps, and miptera. i The phenomena of sexual variations of as well as of color generally, are wonderful, similar in the two analogous yet totally unrelate groups of birds and butterflies ; and, as they offer ample materials, we shall confine our of the subject chiefly to them. The most mon case of difference of color between the is for the male to have the same general the females, but deeper and more intensi in many thrushes, finches, and hawks; and butterflies in the majority of our British In cases where the male is smaller the i cation of color is especially well pronow in many of the hawks and falcons, and in ' butterflies and moths in which the e¢ does not materially differ. In another ex'

Page 533

THE COLORS OF ANIMALS AND PLANTS. 529 series we have spots or patches of vivid color in 1 chief causes of the dull color of female birds when their partners are gayly colored. This subject is ful- ly argued in my “ Contributions,” etc., chapter vii. the male which are represented in the female by far less*brilliant tints or are altogether wantihg ; as exemplied in the gold-crest warbler, the green woodpecker, and most of the orange-tip butter- flies (Anthocharis). Proceeding with our survey we find greater and greater differences of color in the sexes, till we arrive at such extreme cases as some of the pheasants, the chatterers, tanagers, and birds-of-paradise, in which the male is adorned with the most gorgeous and vivid colors, while the female is usually dull brown, or olive-green, and often shows no approximation whatever to the varied tints of her partner. Similar phenom- ena occur among butterflies; and in both these classes there are also a considerable number of cases in which both sexes are highly colored in a different way. Thus many woodpeckers have the head in the male red, in the female yellow ; while some parrots have red spots in the male, replaced by blue in the female, as in Psittacula diopthalma. In many South American papilios green spots on the male are represented by red on the female; and in several species of the genus Epicalia orange bands in the male are replaced by blue in the female, a similar change | of color as in the small parrot above referred to. For fuller details of the varieties of sexual color- ation we refer our readers to Mr. Darwin’s “ De- scent of Man,” chapters x. to xviii.,and to chap- ters iii., iv., and vii., of my “ Contributions to the Theory of Natural Selection.” The fourth group—of typically-colored ani- mals—includes all species which are brilliantly or conspicuously colored in both sexes, and for whose particular colors we can assign no fanc- tion or use. It comprises an immense number of showy birds, such as kingfishers, barbets, toucans, lories, tits, and starlings; among in- sects most of the largest and handsomest butter- fies, innumerable bright-colored beetles, locusts, dragon-flies, and hymenoptera ; a few mammalia, as the zebras; a great number of marine fishes ; thousands of striped and spotted caterpillars; and abundance of mollusca, starfish, and other marine animals. Among these we have included some which, like the gaudy caterpillars, have warning colors ; but as that theory does not ex- Plain the particular colors or the varied patterns with which they are adorned, it is best to include themalso in this class. It isa suggestive fact that all the -brightly-colored birds mentioned above build in holes or form covered nests, so that the females do not need that protection during the §-Season, which I believe to be one of the 34 As the colors of plants and flowers are very different from those of animals, both in their dis- tribution and functions, it will be well to treat them separately: we will therefore now consider how the general facts of color here sketched out can be explained. We have first to inquire what is color, and how it is produced; what is known of the causes of change of color ; and what theory best accords with the whole assemblage of facts. The sensation of color is caused by vibrations or undulations of the ethereal medium of different lengths and velocities. The whole body of vibra- tions caused by the sun is termed radiation, and consists of sets of waves which vary considerably in their dimensions and their rate of vibration, but of which the middle portion only is capable of exciting in us sensations of light and color. Beginning with the largest and slowest rays or wave-vibrations, we have first those which pro- duce heat-sensations only; as they get smaller | and quicker, we perceive a dull-red color; and as the waves increase in rapidity of vibration and diminish in size, we get successively sensations of orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet, all fading imperceptibly into each other. Then come more invisible rays, of shorter wave-length and quicker vibration, which produce, solely or chiefly, chemical effects. The red rays, which first become visible, have been ascertained to vi- brate at the rate of 458 millions of millions of times in a second, the length of each wave being ssbovo of an inch; while the violet rays, which last remain visible, vibrate 727 millions of millions of times per second, and have a wave-length of sthrs of an inch. Although the waves vibrate at different rates, they are all propagated through the ether with the same velocity (192,000 miles per second), just as different musical sounds, which are produced by waves of air of different lengths and rates of vibration, travel at the same rate, so that a tune played several hundred yards off reaches the ear in correct time. There are, therefore, an almost infinite number of different color-producing vibrations, and these may be combined in an almost infinite variety of ways, so as to excite in us the sensation of all the va- tied colors and tints we are capable of perceiving. When all the different kinds of rays reach us in the proportion in which they exist in the light of the sun, they produce the sensation of white. If the rays which excite the sensation of any one

Page 534

¢ 530 color are prevented from reaching us, the re- maining rays in combination produce a sensation of color often very farremoved from white. Thus green rays being abstracted leave purple light; blue, orange-red light; violet, yellowish-green light, and so on. These pairs are termed com- plementary colors. And if portions of differently colored lights are abstracted in various degrees, we have produced all those infinite gradations of colors, and all those varied tints and hues, which are of such use to us in distinguishing external objects, and which form one of the great charms of our existence. Primary colors would there- fore be as numerous as the different wave-lengths of the visible radiations if we could appreciate all their differences, while secondary or com- pound colors caused by the simultaneous action of any combination of rays of different wave- lengths must be still more numerous. In order to account for the fact that all colors appear to us capable of being produced by combinations of three primary colors—red, green, and violet—it is believed that we have three sets of nerve-fibres in the retina, each of which is capable of being excited by all rays, but that one set is excited most by the larger or red waves, another by the medium or green waves, and the third set chiefly by the violet or small waves of light; and when all three sets are excited together in proper proportions we see: white. This view is sup- ported by the phenomena of color-blindness, which are explicable on the theory that one of these sets of nerve-fibres (usually that adapted to perceive red) has lost its sensibility, causing all colors to appear as if the red rays were abstracted from them. It is another property of these va- rious radiations that they are unequally refracted or bent in passing obliquely through transparent bodies, the longer waves being least refracted, the shorter most. Hence it becomes possible to analyze white or any other light into its compo- nent rays; a small ray of sunlight, for example, which would produce a round white spot on a wall, if passed through a prism is lengthened out into a band of colored light exactly correspond- ing to the colors of the rainbow. Any one color can thus be isolated and separately examined, and by means Of reflecting mirrors the separate colors can be again compounded in various ways, and the resulting colors observed. This band of colored light is called a spectrum, and the instru- ment by which the spectra of various kinds of light are examined is called a spectroscope. This branch of the subject has, however, no direct bearing on the mode in which the colors of living | THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. a * * | | | things are produced, and it has only been alluded a3 to in order to complete our sketch of the nature of color. The colors which we perceive in. materiaded stances are produced either by the absorption or by the interference of some of the rays which form white light. Pigmental or absorption colom are the most frequent, comprising all the opaque tints of flowers and insects, and all the colorsof dyes and pigments. They are caused by raysof 4 certain wave-lengths being absorbed, while the remaining rays are reflected and give rise to the sensation of color, When all the color-p rays are reflected in due proportion the colorof the object is white, when all are absorbed the” color is black. If blue rays only are absorbed the resulting color is orange-red ; and generally, whatever color an object appears to us, it is be cause the complementary colors are absorbedby it. The reason why rays of only certain refran gibilities are reflected and the rest of the incident light absorbed by each substance, is supposed to depend upon the molecular structure of the body, Chemical action almost always implies changeof molecular structure, hence chemical action isthe” most potent cause of change of color. Some times simple solution in water effects a marvel ous change, as in the case of the well-knom aniline dyes; the magenta and violet dyes exhib iting, when in the solid form, various a golden or bronzy metallic green. Heat, often produces change of color, and this J effecting any chemical change. Mr. Ackroyd bas recently investigated this subject,! and hes a that a large number of bodies are changed by heat, returning to their normal color when and that this change is almost always in thes rection of the less refrangible rays or longer lengths ; and he connects the change with ular expansion caused by heat. As examp be mentioned mercuric oxide, which is yellow, but which changes to orange, red, @ brown, when heated ; chromic oxide, green, and changes to yellow; cinnabar, is scarlet, and changes to puce; and 1 of copper, which is blue, and changes to gre and greenish-yellow. The coloring-matters animals are very varied. Copper has been #0® in the red of the wing of the turaco, an@ Sorby has detected no less than seven @ coloring-matters in birds’-eggs, several of are chemically related to those of blood The came colors are often produced by ¢ 1 “ Metachromatism, or Color-Change” (cae News, August, 1876). pated ue iv tini gtd ag fer by ing of chi act int tio the bir

Page 535

~™ eg RN ARO MR Ra A a Se etre ier: De tay tat ing ce 17 Bh ee WV at Tt si heer aah oh Bs eS ee ee THE COLORS OF ANIMALS AND PLANTS. ferent substances in different groups, as shown by the red of the wings of the burnet-moth chang- ing to yellow with muriatic acid, while the red of the red-admiral-butterfly undergoes no such change. These pigmental colors have a different char- acter in animals according to their position in the integument. Following Dr. Hagen’s classifica- tion, epidermal colors are those which exist in the external chitinized skin of insects, in the hairs of mammals, and, partially, in the feathers of birds. They are often very deep and rich, and do, not fade after death. The hypodermal colors are those which are situated in the inferior soft layer of the skin. These are often of lighter and more vivid tints, and usually fade after death. Many of the reds and yellows of butterflies and birds belong to this class, as well as the intensely vivid hues of the naked skin about the heads of many birds. These colors sometimes exude through the pores, forming an evanescent bloom on the surface. Interference colors are less frequent in the | | changes of color. These considerations render it | probable that color is a normal and even neces- organic world. They are caused in two ways: either by reflection from the two surfaces of transparent films, as seen in the soap-bubble and | in thin films of oil on water; or by fine striz, which produce colors either by reflected or trans- mitted light, as seen in mother-of-pearl, and in finely-ruled metallic surfaces. In both cases col- or is produced by light of one wave-length being neutralized, owing to one set of such waves being | 531 if rays of any one or more kinds are absorbed or neutralized, the resultant reflected light will be colored, and that this color may be infinitely varied according to the proportions in which dif- ferent rays are reflected or absorbed, we should expect that white would be, as it really is, com- paratively rare and exceptional in Nature. The same observation will apply to black, which arises from the absorption of all the different rays. Many of the complex substances which exist in animals and plants are subject to changes of color under the influence of light, heat, or chemi- cal change, and we know that chemical changes are continually occurring during the physiological processes of development and growth. We also find that every external character is subject to minute changes, which are generally perceptible to us in closely allied species; and we can there- fore have no doubt that the extension and thick- ness of the transparent lamelle, and the fineness of the strie or rugosities of the integuments, must be undergoing constant minute changes ; and these changes will very frequently produce sary result of the complex structure of animals and plants, and that those parts of an organism which are undergoing continual development and adaptation to new conditions, and are also con- tinually subject to the action ‘of light and heat, will be the parts in which changes of color wili most frequently appear. Now, there is little caused to be half a wave-length behind the other , doubt that the external changes of animals and set, as may be found explained in any treatise on physical optics. The result is, that the comple- mentary color of that neutralized is seen; and, as the thickness of the film or the fineness of the strie undergoes slight changes, almost any color can be produced. This is believed to be the origin of many of the glossy or metallic tints of insects, as well as of those of the feathers of some birds. The iridescent colors of the wings of dragon-flies are caused by the superposition of two or more transparent lamella ; while the shin- Ing blue of the purple-emperor and other butter- . flies, and the intensely metallic colors of hum- ming-birds, are probgbly due to fine strie. This outline sketch of the nature of color in the animal world, however imperfect, will at least Serve to show us how numerous and varied are the causes which perpetually tend to the produc- tion of color in animal tissues. If we consider that, in order to produce white, all the rays which fall “pen an object must be reflected in the same Proportions as they exist in solar light, whereas, plants in adaptation to the environment are much more numerous than the internal changes, as seen in the varied character of the integuments and appendages of animals—hair, horns, scales, feathers, etc.—and in plants, the leaves, bark, flowers, and fruit, with their various appendages —compared with the comparative uniformity of . the texture and composition of their internal tis- sues; and this accords with the uniformity of the tints of blood, muscle, nerve, and bone, throughout extensive groups, as compared with the great diversity of color of their external or- gans. It seems a fair conclusion that color per se may be considered to be normal, and to need no special accounting for, while the absence of color (that is, either white or black), or the preva- lence of certain colors to the constant exclusion of others, must be traced, like other modifications in the economy of living things, to the needs of the species. Or, looking at it in another aspect, we may say that amid the constant variations of animals and plants color is ever tending to vary

Page 536

’ 5382 ral selection is constantly eliminating such tints as are injurious to the species, or preserving and intensifying such as are useful. This view is in accordance with the well- known fact of colors which rarely or never ap- pear in the species in a state of nature continu- ally occurring among domesticated animals and cultivated plants; showing us that the capacity to develop color is ever present, so that almost any required tint can be produced which may, under changed conditions, be useful, in however small a degree. Let us now see how these principles wili en- able us to understand and explain the varied phenomena of color in Nature, taking them in the order of our functional classification of colors (page 527). Theory of Protective Colors.—We have seen that obscure or protective tints in their infinitely varied degrees are present in every part of the animal kingdom, whole families or genera being often thus colored. Now, the various brown, earthy, ashy, and other neutral tints, are those which would be most readily produced, because they are due to an irregular mixture of many kinds of rays; while pure tints require either rays of one kind only, or definite mixtures in proper proportions of two or more kinds of rays. This is well exemplified by the comparative diffi- culty of producing definite pure tints by the mixt- ure of two or more pigments, while a hap-hazard mixture of a number of these will be almost sure to produce browns, olives, or other neutral or dirty colors. An indefinite or irregular absorp- tion of some rays and reflection of others would, therefore, produce obscure tints; while pure and vivid colors would require a perfectly definite ab- sorption of one portion of the colored rays, leav- ing the remainder to produce the true comple- mentary color. This being the case we may expect these brown tints to occur when the need of protection is very slight or even when it does not exist at all, always supposing that bright colors are not in any way useful to the species. But whenever a pure color is protective, as green in tropical forests, or white among arctic snows, there is no difficulty in producing it, by natural selection acting on the innumerable slight varia- tions of tint which are ever occurring. Such variations may, as we have seen, be produced in a great variety of ways, either by chemical changes in the secretions or by molecular changes in surface-structure, and may be brought about by change of food, by the photographic action THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. and to appear where it is absent, and that natu- | of light, or by the normal process of gene variation. Protective colors, therefore, ho curious and complex they may be in certain ca offer no real difficulties. 2 Theory of Warning Colors.—These dite greatly from the last class, inasmuch as they present us with a variety of brilliant hues, often 4 of the greatest purity, and combined in % contrasts and conspicuous patterns. Their ue depends upon their boldness and visibility, nog on the presence of any one color; hence wefind _ among these groups some of the most exquisite: colored objects in Nature. Many of ‘the oe able caterpillars are strikingly beautiful; while the Danaide, Heliconide, and protected group of Papilionide, comprise a series of butter of the most brilliant and contrasted colors, The _ bright colors of many of the sca-anemones sea-slugs will probably be found to be in sense protective, serving as a warning of uneatableness. On our theory none of e colors offer any difficulty. Conspicuousness be ing useful, every variation tending to brig and purer colors was selected, the result being the beautiful variety and contrast we find. a: But when we come to those groups which gain protection solely by being mistaken for someof these brilliantly colored but uneatable creatures, 4 a difficulty really exists, and to many minds great as to be insuperable. It will be well, fore, to endeavor to explain how the resem in question may have been brought about. Tie most difficult case, which may be taken asa of the whole, is that of the genus Leptalis(ag of South American butterflies allied to our mon white and yellow kinds), many of the species of which are still white or yellow, which are all eatable by birds and other orous creatures. But there are also a nun species of Leptalis which are brilliantly red, low, and black, and which, hand for band: spot for spot, resemble some one of the D or Heliconide which inhabit the same @ and which are nauseous and uneatable. Now, common objection is, that a slight appre one of these protected butterflies would be use, while a greater sudden variation is missible on the theory of gradual change definite slight variations. This objection ¢ almost wholly on the supposition that first steps toward mimicry occurred, the Pe American Danaide were what they are now,™ the ancestors of the Leptalides were like dinary white or yellow Pieride to which they allied. But the danaioid butterflies of i JF. + eres ae ens weit mc © linea sft oe rare SOC ke

Page 537

THE COLORS OF ANIMALS AND PLANTS. 533 America are so immensely numerous and so | destruction of all adverse variations, and thus greatly varied, not only in color but in structure, | keep up in continually-increasing complexity the ‘ ae | mi | nie Me ; 3 ? that we may be sure they are of vast antiquity and have undergone great modification. A large number of them, however, are still of compara- tively plain colors, often rendered extremely ele- gant by the delicate transparency of the wing- membrane, but otherwise not at all conspicuous. Many have only dusky or purplish bands or spots, others have patches of reddish or yellowish-brown -—perhaps the commonest color among butter- flies—while a considerable number are tinged or spotted with yellow, also a very common color, and one especially characteristic of the Pieridae the family to which Leptalis belongs. We may therefore reasonably suppose that in the early stages of the development of the Danaide, when they first began to acquire those nauseous secre- tions which are now their protection, their colors were somewhat plain, either dusky with paler bands and spots, or yellowish with dark borders, and sometimes with reddish bands or spots. At this time they had probably shorter wings and a more rapid flight, just like the other unprotected families of butterflies. But as soon as they be- came decidedly unpalatable to any of their ene- mies, it would be an advantage to them to be readily distinguished from all the eatable kinds ; and as butterflies were no doubt already very varied in color, while all probably had wings adapted for pretty rapid or jerking flight, the best distinction might have been found in outline and habits ; whence would arise the preservation of those varieties whose longer wings, bodies, and antenne, and slower flight, rendered them notice- able—characters which now distinguish the whole _ group in every part of the world. Now, it would be at this stage that some of the weaker-flying Pieride which happened to resemble some of the Danaide around them in their yellow and dusky tints, and in the general outline of their wings, would be sometimes mistaken for them by the common enemy, and would thus gain an advan- tage in the struggle for existence. Admitting this one step to be made, and all the rest must inevitably follow from simple variation and sur- vival of the fittest. So soon as the nauseous but- terfly varied in form or color to such an extent that the corresponding eatable butterfly no longer closely resembled it, the latter would be exposed to attacks, and only those variations would be Preserved which kept up the resemblance. At the same time we may well suppose the enemies to become more acute and able to detect smaller differences than at first, This would lead to the outward mimicry which now so amazes us. Dur- ing the long ages in which this process has been going on, many a Jeptalis may have become ex- tinct from not varying sufficiently in the right direction, and at the right time, to keep up a pro- tective resemblance to its neighbor ; and this will accord with the comparatively small number of cases of true mimicry as compared with the fre- quency of those protective resemblances to vege- table or inorganic objects whose forms are less definite and colors less changeable. About a dozen other genera of butterflies and moths mimic the Danaide in various parts of the world, and exactly the same explanation will apply to all of them. They rgpresent those species of each group which, at the time when the Danaide first acquired their protective secretions, happened outwardly to resemble some of them, and have by concurrent variation, aided by a rigid selection, been able to keep up that resemblance to the present day.! Theory of Sexual Colors—In Mr. Darwin’s celebrated work, “ The Descent of Man and Se- lection in Relation to Sex,” he has treated of sex- ual color in combination with other sexual char- acters, and has arrived at the conclusion that all, or almost all, the colors of the higher animals (including among these insects and all vertebrates) are due to voluntary sexual selection ; and that diversity of color in the sexes is due, primarily, to the transmission of color-variations either to one sex only, or to both sexes, the difference de- pending on some unknown law, and not being due to natural selection. I have long held this portion of Mr. Darwin’s theory to be erroneous, and have argued that the primary cause of sexual diversity of color was the need of protection, repressing in the female those bright colors which are nominally produced in both sexes by general laws ; and I have attempt- ed to explain many of the more difficult cases on this principle (“A Theory of Birds’ Nests,” in “ Contributions,” ete., p. 231). As I have since given much thought to this subject, and have ar- rived at some views which appear to me to be of 1 For fuller information on this subject the reader should consult Mr. Bates's original paper, “ Contributions to an Insect-fauna of the Amazon Valley,” in “ Transac- tions of the Linnean Society,” vol. xxiii., p. 495; Mr. Tri- men’s paper in vol. xxvi., p. 497; the author's essay on “Mimicry,” etc., already referred to; and, in the absence of collections of butterflies, the plates of Heliconide and Leptalide, in Hewitson’s “ Exotic Butterflies,” and Fel- der’s “ Voyage of the Novara,” may be examined.

Page 538

bd 534 considerable importance, it will be well to sketch briefly the theory I now hold, and afterward show its application to some of the detailed cases ad- duced in Mr. Darwin's work. The very frequent superiority of the male bird or insect in brightness or intensity of color, even when the genera] tints and coloration are the same, now seems to me to be due to the greater vigor and activity and the higher vitality of the male. The colors of an animal usually fade dur- ing disease or weakness, while robust health and vigor add to their intensity. This intensity of coloration is most manifest in the male during the breeding-season, when the vitality is at a maxi- mum, It is also very manifest in those cases in which the male is smaller than the female, as in the hawks and in most butterflies and moths. The same phenomena occur, though in a less marked degree, among mammalia. Whenever there is a difference of color between the sexes the male is the darker or more strongly marked, and difference of intensity is most visible during the breeding-season (“‘ Descent of Man,” p. 533). Numerous cases among domestic animals also prove that there is an inherent tendency in the male to special developments of dermal append- ages and color, quite independently of sexual or any other form of selection. Thus, “the hump on the male zebu cattle of India, the tail of fat- tailed rams, the arched outline of the forehead in the males of several breeds of sheep, and the mane, the long hairs on the hind-legs, and the dewlap of the male of the Berbura goat,” are all adduced by Mr. Darwin as instances of charac- ters peculiar to the male, yet not derived from any parent ancestral form. Among domestic pigeons the character of the different breeds is often most strongly manifested in the male birds; the wattle of the carriers and the eye-wattles of the barbs are largest in the males, and male pouters distend their crops to a much greater extent than do the females, and the cock fantails often have a greater number of tail-feathers than the females. There are also some varieties of pigeons of which the males are striped or spotted with black, while the females are never so spotted (“ Animals and Plants under Domestication,” I., 161); yet in the parent stock of these pigeons there are no differences between the sexes either of plumage or color, and artificial selection has not been applied to produce them. The greater intensity of coloration in the male—which may be termed the normal sexual difference—would be further developed by the combats of the males for the possession of the THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. females. The most vigorous and energetic _ ally being able to rear most offspring, intensity of color, if dependent on or correlated with vigor, would terd to increase. But as differences of color depend upon minute chemical or struc ural differences in the organism, increasing vig or acting unequally on different portions of the integument, and often producing at the same time abnormal developments of hair, horns, scales, feathers, etc., would almost necessarily lead algo to variable distribution of color, and thus tothe. production of new tints and markings. These acquired colors would, as Mr. Darwin has shown, be transmitted to both sexes or to one only, ag cording as they first appeared at an early age, or in adults of one sex, and thus we may account for some of the most marked differences in this respect. With the exception of butterflies, the sexes are almost alike in the great majority of insects. The same is the case in mamma and reptiles, while the chief departure from the rule occurs in birds, though even here im vey many eases the law of sexual likeness prevail, But in all cases where the increasing develop ment of color became disadvantageous to the female, it would be checked by natural selection, and thus produce those numerous instances of protective coloring in the female only which cur in these two groups of animals. 5 There is also, I believe, a very indportapt purpose and use of the varied colors of the high: er animals, in the facility it affords for recognition by the sexes or by the young of the same and it is this use which probably fixes and @ termines the coloration in many cases. When differences of size and form are very slight, color affords the only means of recognition at 0 die tance or while in motion, and such a disti character must therefore be of especial flying insects which are continually in and encounter each other, as it were, by ace This view offers us an explanation of thee fact that among buiterflies the females of allied species in the same locality s differ considerably, while the males are mm alike; for as the males are the swiftest and th highest fliers and seek the females, it dently be advantageous for them to be recognize their true partners at some off. This peculiarity occurs with many of Papilio, Diadema, Adolias, and Coli birds such marked differences of color ated required, owing to their higher organization more perfect senses, which render easy by means of a combination of 3 Ses eo ee a

Page 539

Be Sree cy ETT ERE eS sk SE ae Ren Nes oe nee IR yl laa THE COLORS OF ANIMALS AND PLANTS. 535 differential characters. This principle may, per- haps, however, account for some anomalies of coloration among the higher animals. Thus, Mr. Darwin, while admitting that the hare and the rabbit are colored protectively, remarks that the latter, while running to its burrow, is made con- spicuous to the sportsman, and no doubt to all beasts of prey, by its upturned white tail. But this very conspicuousness while running away may be useful as a signal and guide to the young, who are thus enabled to escape danger by follow- ing the older rabbits, directly and without hesi- tation, to the safety of the burrow ; and this may be the more important from the semi-nocturnal habits of the animal. If this explanation is cor- rect, and it certainly seems probable, it may serve as a warning of how impossible it is, without exact knowledge of the habits of an animal and° a full consideration of all the circumstances, to decide that any particular coloration cannot be protective or in any way useful. Mr. Darwin him- self is not free from such assumptions. Thus, he says: “The zebra is conspicuously striped, and stripes cannot afford any protection on the open plains of South Africa.” But the zebra is a very swift animal, and, when in herds, by no means void of means of defense. The stripes, therefore, may be of use by enabling stragglers to distinguish their fellows at a distance, and they may'be even protective when the animal is at rest among her- bage—the only time when it would need protec- tive coloring. Until the habits of the zebra have been observed with special reference to this point, it is surely somewhat hasty to declare that the stripes “ cannot afford any protection.” The wonderful display and endless variety of color in which butterflies and birds so far exceed all other animals seem primarily due to the ex- cessive development and endless variations of the integumentary structures. No insects have such widely-expanded wings in proportion to their bodies as butterflies and moths; in none do the wings vary so much in size and form, and in none are they clothed with such a beautiful and highly-organized coating of scales. According to the general principles of the production of color already explained, these long-continued ex- pansions of membranes and developments of surface-structures must have led to numerous col- or-changes, which have been sometimes checked, sometimes fixed and utilized, sometimes intensi- fied, by natural selection, according to the needs of the animal. In birds, too, we have the won- derful clothing of plumage—the most highly-or- of all dermal appendages. The endless process- es of growth and change during the develop- ment of feathers, and the enormous extent of this delicately-organized surface, must have been highly favorable to the production of varied col- or-effects, which, when not injurious, have been merely fixed for purposes of specific identifica- tion, but have often been modified or suppressed whenever different tints were needed for purposes of protection. To voluntary sexual selection, that is, the actual choice by the females of the more brill- iantly-colored males, I believe very little if any effect is directly due. It is undoubtedly proved that in birds the females do sometimes exert a choice ; but the evidence of this fact collected by Mr, Darwin (“ Descent of Man,” chapter xiv.) does not prove that color determines that choice, while much of the strongest evidence is directly op- posed to this view. All the facts appear to be consistent with the choice depending on a variety of male characteristics, with some of which color is often correlated. Thus it is the opinion of some of the best observers that vigor and liveli- ness are most attractive, and these are, no doubt, usually associated with intensity of color. Again, the display of the various ornamental appendages of the male during courtship may be attractive ; but these appendages, with their bright colors or shaded patterns, are due probably to general laws of growth and to that superabundant vitality which we have seen to be a cause of color. But there are many considerations which seem to show that the possession of these ornamental appendages and bright colors in the male is not an important character functionally, and that it has not been produced by the action of voluntary sexual selection. Amid the copious mass of facts and opinions collected by Mr. Darwin as to the display of color and ornaments by the male birds, there is a total absence of any evidence that the females admire or even notice this dis- play. The hen, the turkey, and the pea-fowl, go on feeding while the male is displaying his finery, and there is reason to believe that it is his per- sistency and energy rather than his beauty which wins the day. Again, evidence collected by Mr. Darwin himself proves that each bird finds a mate under any circumstances. He gives a number of cases of one of a pair of birds being shot, and the survivor being always found paired again al- most immediately. This is sufficiently explained on the assumption that the destruction of birds by various causes is continually leaving widows ganized, the most varied, and the most expanded | and widowers in nearly equal proportions, and

Page 540

¢ 536 thus each one finds a fresh mate; and it leads to the conclusion that permanently-unpaired birds are very scarce ; so that, speaking broadly, every bird finds a mate and breeds. But this would almost or quite neutralize any effect of sexual | selection of color or ornament, since the less highly-colored birds would be at no disadvantage as regards leaving healthy offspring. If, how- ever, heightened color is correlated with health and vigor, and these healthy and vigorous birds provide best for their young, and leave offspring which, being equally healthy and vigorous, can best provide for themselves, then natural selec- tion becomes a preserver and intensifier of color. Another most important consideration is, that male butterflies rival or even excel the most gor- geous male birds in bright colors and elegant patterns; and among these there is literally not one particle of evidence that the female is in- fluenced by color, or even that she has any power of choice, while there is much direct evidence to the contrary (“‘ Descent of Man,” page 818). The weakness of the evidence for sexual selection among these insects is so palpable that Mr. Dar- win is obliged to supplement it by the singularly inconclusive argument that “unless the females prefer one male to another, the pairing must be left to mere chance, and this does not appear probable ” (Joc. cit., page 317). But he has just said, “The males sometimes fight together in rivalry, and many may be seen pursuing or crowding round the same female ;” while in the ease of the silk-moths, “the females appear not to evince the least choice in regard to their part- ners.” Surely, the plain inference from all this is, that males fight and struggle for the almost passive female, and that the most vigorous and energetic, the strongest-winged or the most per- severing, wins her. How can there be chance in this? Natural selection would here act, as in birds, in perpetuating the strongest and most vigorous males, and as these would usually be the more highly-colored of their race, the same results would be produced as regards the intensi- fication and variation of color in the one case as in the other. Let us now see how these principles will ap- ply to some of the cases adduced by Mr. Darwin in support of his theory of voluntary sexual se- lection. In “Descent of Man,” second edition, pp. 307 ~-816, we find an elaborate account of the various modes of coloring of butterflies and moths, prov- ing that the colored parts are always more or less displayed, and that they have some evident rela- THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. tion to an observer. Mr. Darwin then “From the several foregoing facts it is imp ble to admit that the brilliant colors of but flies, and of some few moths, have comm been acquired for the sake of protection, have seen that their colors and elegant pati are arranged and exhibited as if for disp Hence I am led to believe that the females p or are most excited by the more brilliant m: for on any other supposition the males would, far as we can see, be ornamented to no purpose” — (oc. cit., p. 316). Iam not aware that any one ever maintained that the brilliant colors of h terflies have “commonly been acquired for thé sake of protection,” yet Mr. Darwin has hin referred to cases in which the brilliant colori so placed as to serve for protection; as, for ample, the eye-spots on the hind-wings of 1 which are pierced by birds, and so save the parts of the insect, while the bright patch on the orange-tip butterflies, which Mr. Darwin ¢ are protective, may serve the same purpose, is, in fact, somewhat remarkable how veryg erally the black spots, ocelli, or bright patches’ of color, are on the tips, margins, or disks of the wings; and, as the insects are necessarily while flying, and this is the time when they most subject to attacks by insectivorous t the position of the more conspicuous parts some distance from the body may be a real tection to them. Again, Mr. Darwin admits the white color of the male ghost-moth may der it more easily seen by the female while about in the dusk, and if to this we add t will be also more readily distinguished from lied especies, we have a reason for diverse mentation in these insects quite sufficient to count for most of the facts, without believing ia the selection of brilliant males by the fem which there is not a particle of évidenee. facts given to show that butterflies and ofl sects can distinguish colors and are attracted’ colors similar to their own, are quite ec with the view that color, which continually to appear, is utilized for purposes of ident tion and distinction, when not required modified or suppressed for purposes of tion. The cases of the females of some of Theela, Callidryas, Colias, and which have more conspicuous markings t male, may be due to several causes: t0 greater distinction from other species, for tection from birds, as in the case of the under-wing moths, while sometimes—as in parchia—the lower intensity of coloring , cans ALN ee rains ' Suite ; a oe Ee PE ra | Ee Berle Be eit

Page 541

THE COLORS OF ANIMALS AND PLANTS. female may lead to more contrasted markings. Mr. Darwin thinks that here the males have se- lected the more beautiful females, although one chief fact in support of his theory of voluntary sexual selection is, that throughout the whole animal kingdom the males are usually so ardent that they will accept any female, while the fe- males are coy, and choose the handsomest males, whence it is believed the general brilliancy of males as compared with females has arisen. Perhaps the most curious cases of sexual dif- ference of color are those in which the female is very much more gayly colored than the male. This occurs most strikingly in some species of Pieris in South America, and of Diadema in the Malay islands, and in both cases the females re- semble species of the uneatable Danaide and Helicénide, and thus gain a protection. In the cease of Pieris pyrrha, P. malenka, and P. lorena, the males are plain white and black, while the females are orange, yellow, and black, and so banded and spotted as exactly to resemble species of Heliconide. Mr. Darwin admits thut these females have acquired these colors as a protection; but as there is no apparent cause for the strict limitation of the color to the female, he believes that it has been kept down in the male by its being unattractive to her. This appears to me to be a supposition opposed to the whole theory of sexual selection itself. For this theory is, that minute variations of color in the male are attractive to the female, have always been selected, and that thus the brill- iant male colors have been produced. But in this case he thinks that the female butterfly had a constant aversion to every trace of color, even when we must suppose it was constantly recur- ring during the successive variations which re- sulted in such a marvelous change in herself. But if we consider the fact that the females fre- quent the forests where the Heliconide abound, while the males fly much in the open, and assem- ble in great numbers with other white and yellow butterflies on the banks of rivers, may it not be possible that the appearance of orange stripes or patches would be as injurious to the male as it is useful to the female, by making him a more easy mark for insectivorous birds among his white companions? This seems a more probable sup- Position than the altogether hypothetical choice of the female, sometimes exercised in favor of and sometimes against every new variety of color in her partner. The full and interesting account given by Mr. Darwin of the colors and habits of male and fe- 537 male birds (“ Descent of Man,” chapters xiii. and xiv.) proves that in most, if not in all, cases the male birds fully display their ornamental plumage before the females, and in rivalry with each other ; but on the essential point of whether the female’s choice is determined by minute differences in these ornaments or in their colors, there appears to be an entire absence of evidence. In the sec- tion on “ Preference for Particular Males by the Females,” the facts quoted show indifference to color, except that some color similar to their own seems to be preferred. But in the case of the hen-canary, who chose a greenfinch in preference to either chaffinch or goldfinch, gay colors had evidently no preponderating attraction. There is some evidence adduced that female birds may, and probably do, choose their mates, but none whatever that the choice is determined by differ- ence of color; and no less than three eminent breeders informed Mr. Darwin that they “did not believe that the females prefer certain males on account of the beauty of their plumage.” Again, Mr. Darwin himself says, “As a general rule, color appears to have little influence on the pair- ing of pigeons.” The oft-quoted case of Sir R. Heron’s peahens which preferred an “old pied cock” to those normally colored, is a very un- fortunate one, because pied birds are just those that are not favored in a state of nature, or the breeds of wild birds would become as varied and mottled as our domestic varieties. If such irreg- ular fancies were not rare exceptions, the produc- tion of definite colors and patterns by the choice of the female birds, or in any other way, would be impossible. We now come to such wonderful develop- ments of plumage and color as are exhibited by the peacock and the Argus-pheasant; and I may here mention that it was the case of the latter bird, as fully discussed by Mr. Darwin, which first shook my belief in “ sexual,” or more prop- erly “female,” selection. The long series of gradations, by which the beautifully-shaded ocelli on the secondary wing-feathers of this bird have been produced, are clearly traced out, the result being a set of markings so exquisitely shaded as to represent “ balls lying loose within sockets” —purely artificial objects of which these birds could have no possible kngwledge. That this result should have been attained through thou- sands and tens of thousands of female birds all preferring those males whose markings varied slightly in this one direction, this uniformity of choice continuing through thousands and tens of thousands of generations, is to me absolutely in-

Page 542

¢ THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. 538 credible. And when, further, we remember that those which did not so vary would also, accord- ing to all the evidence, find mates and leave off- spring, the actual result seems quite impossible of attainment by such means.’ Without pretending to solve completely so difficult a problem, I would point out a circum- stance which seems to afford a clew. It is, that the most highly-colored and most richly-varied markings occur on those parts of the plumage which have undergone the greatest modification, or have acquired the most abnormal develop- ment. In the peacock the tail-coverts are enor- mously developed, and the “ eyes” are situated on the greatly-dilated ends. In the birds-of-para- dise, breast, or neck, or head, or tail feathers are greatly developed and highly colored. The hac- kles of the cock and the scaly breasts of hum- ming-birds are similar developments; while in the Argus-pheasant the secondary quills are so enormously lengthened and broadened as to have become almost useless for flight. Now, it is easily conceivable that, during this process of development, inequalities in the distribution of color may have arisen in different parts of the same feather, and that spots and bands may thus have become broadened out into shaded spots or ocelli, in the way indicated by Mr. Darwin, much as the spots and rings on a soap-bubble increase with increasing tenuity. This is the more prob- able, as in domestic fowls varieties tend to be- come symmetrical, quite independently of sexual selection.—(‘‘ Descent of Man,” p. 424.) If, now, we accept the evidence of Mr. Dar- win’s most trustworthy correspondents that the choice of the female, so far as she exerts any, falls upon the “ most vigorous, defiant, and met- tlesome male,” and if we further believe, what is certainly the case, that these are, as a rule, the most brightly colored and adorned with the finest developments of piumage, we have a real and not an hypothetical cause at work. For these most healthy, vigorous, and beautiful males will have the choice of the finest and most healthy females, will have the most numerous and healthy families, and will be able best to protect and rear those families. Natural selection, and what may be termed male selection, will tend to give them the advantage in the struggle for existence, and thus the fullest plumage and the finest colors will be transmitted, and tend to advance in each succeed- ing generation. There remains, however, what Mr. Darwin evidently considers his strongest argument—the display by the male of each species of its peculiar beauties of plumage and color. We have al no doubt, a very remarkable and very in’ fact; but this, too, may be explained by general principles, quite independent of any choice gr volition of the female bird. During pairing-time the male bird is in a state of great excitement, and full of exuberant energy. Even unorma, mented birds flutter their wings or spread them out, erect their tails or crests, and thus give vent to the nervous excitability with which they are overcharged, It is not improbable that cress and other erectile feathers may be Primerliai use in frightening away enemies, since they generally erected when angry or using) combat, Those individuals who were most pugnacious and defiant, and who brought these erectile plume most frequently and most powerfully into action, would tend to increase them by use, and leave them further developed in some of ther descendants. If, in the course of this de velopment, color appeared, we have every” reason to believe it would be most vivid — in these most pugnacious and energetic inde viduals, and as these would always have the advantage in the rivalry for mates (to which aé vantage the excess of color and plumage ‘might — sometimes conduce), there seems nothing to Lect ¥ vent a progressive development of these orn ments in all dominant races, that is, wheel there was such a surplus of vitality, and suck” complete adaptation to conditions, that thei convenience or danger produced by them img comparatively small as not to affect the superi® — 4 ity of the race over its nearest allies. If, thet, those portions of the plumage which were origk nally erected and displayed became developedand— colored, the actual display, under the influence of — jealousy or sexual excitement, becomes intelige — ble. The males, in their rivalry with each other, would see what plumes were most effective, t e each would endeavor to excel his enemy oo et voluntary exertion could effect it, just as theye C: deavor to rival each other in song, even times to the point of causing their own de tion. a There is also a general argument against t Darwin’s views on this question, founded om) nature and potency of “natural” as opp “sexual” selection, which appears to me itself almost conclusive of the whole m issue, Natural selection, or the survival fittest, acts perpetually and on an enormous Taking the offspring of each pair of birds the-average, only six annually, one-third of at most will be preserved, while the ’

Page 543

Pda Ne t+ O20 “ al ~ FA Menton sey nee: Neves NASER peace Pick ay ee THE, COLORS OF ANIMALS AND PLANTS. 539 which are least fitted will die. At intervals of a } difference is not sufficient, and is not always so few years, whenever unfavorable conditions oc- | distributed as to be most effective for this pur- cur, five-sixths, nine-tenths, or even a greater pro- | pose, and he believes that it is due to reversed portion of the whole yearly production are weed- | sexual selection, that is, to the female taking the ed out, leaving only the most perfect and best | usual réle of the male, and being chosen for her adapted to survive. Now, unless these survivors | brighter tints. We have already seen reason for are on the whole the most ornamental, this rigid | rejecting this latter theory in every case, and I selective power must neutralize and destroy any | also admit that my theory of protection is, in this influence that may be exerted by female selection. | case, only partially if at all applicable. But the For the utmost that can be claimed for this is, | general theory of intensity of color being due to that a small fraction of the least ornamented do | general vital energy is quite applicable; and the not obtain mates, while a few of the most orna- | fact that the superiority of the female in this re- foented may leave more than the average number | spect is quite exceptional, and is therefore proba- of offspring. Unless, therefore, there is the strict- | bly not of very ancient date in any one case, will est correlation between ornament and general per- | account for the difference of color thus produced fection, the former can have no permanent ad- | being always comparatively slight. vantage; and if there is (as I maintain) such a correlation, then the sexual selection of ornament Theory of Typical Colors.—The remaining for which there is little or no evidence becomes | kinds of animal colors—those which can neither needless, because natural selection, which is an | be classed as protective, warning, nor sexual—are admitted vera causa, will itself produce all the re- | for the most part readily explained on the general sults, In the case of butterflies the argument be- | principles of the development of color which we comes even stronger, because the fertility is so | have now laid down. It is a most suggestive fact much greater, and the weeding out of the unfit | that, in cases where color is required only as a takes place, to a great extent, in the egg and larva | warning, as among the uneatable caterpillars, we state. Unless the eggs and larve which escaped | find, not one or two glaring tints only, but every to produce the next generation were those which | kind of color disposed in elegant patterns, and would produce the more highly-colored butter- | exhibiting almost as much variety and beauty as flies, it is difficult to perceive how the slight pre- | among insects and birds. Yet here, not only is ponderance of color sometimes selected by the | sexual selection out of the question, but the need females should not be wholly neutralized by the | for recognition and identification by others of the extremely rigid selection for other qualities to | same species seems equally unnecessary. We can which the offspring in every stage are exposed, | then only impute this variety to the normal produc- The only way in which we can account for the | tion of color in organic forms, when fully exposed observed facts is, by the supposition that color | to light and air and undergoing great and rapid and ornament are strictly correlated with health, | developmental modification, Among more per- vigor, and general fitness to survive. We have | fect animals, where the need for recognition has shown that there is reason to believe that this ig been added, we find intensity and variety of color the case, and, if so, voluntary sexual selection be- | at its highest pitch among the South American comes as unnecessary as it would certainly be in- | butterflies of the families Heliconide and Danai- effective. de, as well as among the Nymphalide and Eryci- There is one other very curious case of sexual | nid, many of which obtain the necessary protec- coloring among birds—that, namely, in which the | tion in other ways. Among birds also, wherever female is decidedly brighter or more strongly | the habits are such that no special protection is marked than the male; as in the fighting quails | needed for the females, and where the species (Turniz), painted snipe (Rhynchea), two species | frequent the depths of tropical forests and are of phalarope (Phalaropus), and the common cas- | thus naturally protected from the swoop of birds sowary (Caswarius galeatus). In all these cases, | of prey, we find almost equally intense colora- it is known that the males take charge of and in- | tion; as in the trogons, barbets, and gapers, cubate the eggs, while the females are almost al- Of the mode of action of the general prin- ways larger and more pugnacious, In my “The- | ciples of color-development among animals, we ory of Birds’ Nests ” (“Natural Selection,” page | have an excellent example in the humming-birds. 251), limputed this difference of color to the great- | Of all birds these are at once the smallest, the er need for protection by the male bird while incu- most active, and the fullest of vital energy. When bating, to which Mr. Darwin has objected that the | poised in the air, their wings are invisible, owing

Page 544

? 540 to the rapidity of their motion, and when startled | they dart away with the rapidity of a flash of light. Such active creatures would not be an easy prey to any rapacious bird; and if one at length was captured, the morsel obtained would hardly repay the labor. We may be sure, there- fore, that they are practically unmolested. The immense variety they exhibit in structure, plu- mage, and color, indicates a high antiquity for the race, while their general abundance in individuals , shows that they are a dominant group, well adapt- ed to all the conditions of their existence. Here | we find everything necessary for the development | of color and accessory plumes. The surplus vital energy shown in their combats and excessive ac- tivity has expended itself in ever-increasing de- velopments of plumage, and greater and greater intensity of color, regulated only by the need for specific identification which would be especially re- quired in such small and mobile creatures. Thus may be explained those remarkable differences of | color between closely-allied species, one having a | crest like the tepaz, while in another it resembles the sapphire. The more vivid colors and more developed plumage of the males, I am now in- clined to think, may be wholly due to their greater vital energy, and to those general laws which lead to such superior developments even in do- mestic breeds; but in some cases the need of protection by the female while incubating, to which I formerly imputed the whole phenome- non, may have suppressed a portion of the orna- ment which she would otherwise have attained. Another real though as yet inexplicable cause of diversity of color is to be found in the influ- ence of locality. It js observed that species of | totally distinct groups are colored alike in one | district, while in another district the allied species all undergo the same change of color. Cases of this kind have been adduced by Mr. Bates, by Mr. Darwin, and by myself, and I have collected all the more curious and important examples in my “ Address to the Biological Section of the British Association” at Glasgow in 1876. The most probable cause for these simultaneous variations would seem to be the presence of peculiar ele- ments or chemical compounds in the soil, the water, or the atmosphere, or of special organic substances in the vegetation; and a wide field is | thus offered for chemical investigation in connec- | tion with this interesting subject. Yet, however we may explain it, the fact remains, of the same vivid colors in definite patterns being produced in quite unrelated groups, which only agree, so far as we yet know, in inhabiting the same locality. } THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. Let us now sum up the conclusion at we have arrived, as to the various modes in which _ color is produced or modified in the animal king dom. 3 The various causes of color in the ani world are, molecular and chemical change of substance of their integuments, or the actionon it of heat, light, or moisture. It is also produges by interference of light in superposed trangp ent lamella, or by excessively fine surface ; These elementary conditions for the producti of color are found everywhere in the si structures of animals, so that its presence m looked upon as normal, its absence as except Colors are fixed or modified in animals by ural selection for various purposes: obscure imitative colors for concealment—gaudy ec as a warning—and special markings either easy recognition by strayed individuals fem or young, or to direct attack from a vital part, in the large, brilliantly-marked wings of some bub terflies and moths. : Colors are produced or intensified by cesses of development—either where the int ment or its appendages undergo great ¢€ or modification, or where there is a surplus of vital energy, as in male animals generally, ; more especially at the breeding-season, Colors are also more or less influenced s variety of causes, such as the nature of the foo # be . eS Pa PS Mee Se Be On ene 7 tae AS Ca PE a 8 ee the photographic action of light, and also some unknown local action probably depende chemical peculiarities in the soil or vegetatie These various causes have acted and in a variety of ways, and have been modif conditions dependent on age or on sex, on@ 4 tition with new forms, or on geographical or de matic changes. In so complex a subject, which experiment and systematic inquiry done so little, we cannot expect to explain individual case, or solve every difficulty; but is believed that all the great features of coloration and many of the details become ex cable on the principles we have endeavored lay down. “hi It will perhaps be considered presumptt@ to put forth this sketch of the subject of ¢ in animals, as a substitute for one of Mr. win’s most highly elaborated theories voluntary or perceptive sexual selection; y@ venture to think that it is more in accom with the whole of the facts, and with the the of natural selection itself: and I would of my readers as may be sufficiently intere the subject to read again chapters xi. to X¥&

Page 545

futile Macnee) ati i le Set SPAR NE nse 8 Seg THE POLICY OF AGGRANDIZEMENT. the “Descent of Man,” and consider the whole theory from the point of view here laid down. The explanation of almost all the ornaments and colors of birds and insects as having been pro- duced by the perceptions and choice of the fe- males has, I believe, staggered many evolution- ists, but has been provisionally accepted because it was the only theory that even attempted to ex- plain. the facts. It may perhaps be a relief to some of them, as it has been to myself, to find that the phenomena can be shown to depend on the general laws of development, and on the ac- tion of “natural selection,” which theory will, I venture to think, be relieved from an abnormal excrescence, and gain additional vitality by the adoption of my view of the subject. Although we have arrived at the conclusion that tropical light and heat can in no sense be considered the cause of color, there remains to be explained the undoubted fact that all the more intense and gorgeous tints are manifested by the animal life of the tropics, while in some groups, such as butterflies and birds, there is a marked preponderance of highly-colored species. This is probably due to a variety of causes, some of which we can indicate, while others remain to be discovered. The luxuriant vegetation of the trop- ies throughout the entire year affords so much concealment, that color may there be safely de- veloped to a much greater extent than in climates where the trees are bare in winter, during which season the struggle for existence is most severe, and even the slightest disadvantage may prove fatal. Equally important, probably, has been the permanence of favorable conditions in the tropics, 541 allowing certain groupe to continue dominant for long periods, and thus to carry out in one un- broken line whatever developments of plumage or color may once have acquired an ascendency. Changes of climatal conditions, and preéminently the Glacial epoch, probably led to the extinction of a host of highly-developed and finely-colored insects and birds in temperate zones, just as we know that it led to the extinction of the larger and more powerful mammalia which formerly characterized the temperate zone in both hemi- spheres. This view is supported by the fact that it is among those groups only which are now ex- clusively tropical that all the more extraordinary developments of ornament and color are found. The local causes of color will also have acted best in regions where the climatal conditions re- mained constant, and where migration was un- necessary ; while whatever direct effect may be produced by light or heat will necessarily have acted more powerfully within the tropics. And, lastly, all these causes have been in action over an actually greater area in tropical than in temper- ate zones, while estimated potentially, in propor- tion to its life-sustaining power, the lands which enjoy a practically tropical climate (extending as they do considerably beyond the geographical tropics) are very much larger than the temper- ate regions of the earth. Combining the effects of all these various causes. we are quite able to understand the superiority of the tropical parts of the globe, not only in tke abundance and variety of their forms of life, but also as re- gards the ornamental appendages and vivid col- oration which these forms present.—Macmillan’s Magazine. THE POLICY OF AGGRANDIZEMENT. By Proresson GOLDWIN SMITH. Py tteven may be the result of the pres- ent campaign or of the present war, the Ottoman Empire is doomed. It was already doomed when England took up arms in its de- fense, and, in the supposed interest of her East- em possessions, became its quasi-protectress, the Sponsor for the engagements to its Christian sub- jects, which it has shamelessly violated, and the virtual surety for its now repudiated loans. The Internal causes of its decay are more certain and deadly in their operation than the attacks of ene- | mies from without, which, in fact, evoke and re- vive the only element of strength left in its com- position—the native valor of the Ottoman. It is | one of those military empires which have never become industrial, and which, the rush of con- quest being over, and the conquerors having set- tled down as the dominant race, subsisting on the labor of the conquered, have been hurried by corruption and sensuality to the grave. It has never shown the slightest sign of civilization— political, intellectual, or commercial. If there

Page 546

542 has been any trade in the empire, it has been among the sulject races, especially those whose yoke has been loosened, not among the Turks. Political organization has never got beyond the coarse and barbarous form of military satrapies, whose rule is cruelty, and whose taxation is rap- ine. Even for military science the Turk has recourse to the foreigner. There being no se- | curity for the fruits of labor, production has failed, and the blight of barrenness has spread | over some of the fairest regions of the earth. | The provinces are heterogeneous, and under such a system of government no progress toward as- similation could be made. A fatalist religion has repressed effort, even the effort necessary to save life from the plague. The same religion, by its political intolerance, has precluded the fusion of the conqueror with the conquered, and kept hos- tile races facing each other in every part of the empire. The numbers of the dominant race have | been always dwindling under the effects of vice | and of the military conscription, which, as the | slaves cannot be trusted with arms, falls on the masters alone. By the institution of the Jani- zaries, which constantly infused new blood into the military system, the period of conquest was artificially prolonged, and, in measuring the ra- pidity of Turkish decay, it should be borne in mind that less than two centuries ago the Turks were still conquerors. But, in the absence of external intervention, a century would probably have sufficed to complete the process of dissolu- tion; the ill-eemented provinces of the empire would have fallen apart, and the satraps would have defied the bow-string, and set up for them- selves. The revolt of Egypt was an example which, had things been left to their natural course, other pashas would have followed. Di- plomacy intervened, and held together the crum- bling mass. When the resources of fiscal rob- bery were exhausted, and the sheep of the rayah had been sheared in winter to pay his taxes, Eng- lish coffers, opened by the confident assurances of English ministers, supplied money, of which the greater part was squandered in barbarous and bestial luxury, while the rest provided a standing army, which, by rendering internal in- surrection against the tyranny hopeless, com- pelled the oppressed to stretch their hands for aid to a foreign liberator, and thus embroiled Europe; just as our ancestors under James IL, who had a standing army, were compelled to call in a foreign deliverer ; whereas, under Charles I., who had no standing army, they were able to re- THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. possible means of information at his command 2 | that in such questions the wisdom which styles dress their wrongs with their own hands. The present Turkish army may be victorious, but it will be the last, unless, by a miracle, confidence | cam be planted again in the bosoms of capitalists | who have been swindled. Russia would, perhaps, have acted more wisely had she paused awhilg a and allowed bankruptcy and repudiation to dg _ their work. The question is one, not of senth ment or religion, but of political science; and i . is a thing to be noted that a man so sagaciousig — a certain sphere as Palmerston, so adroit a man ager of party, so clever a diplomatist, with all | should have persuaded himself that the Ottomas _ Empire was in course of rapid regeneration, only needing loans to complete the process, and should — have induced his countrymen to lay down their money on the strength of that belief. It shows — itself practical, because it excludes general views — and considerations, may lead to conclusions the — reverse of wise. An ancient philosopher is said to have convinced his sneering countrymen ofthe — utility of his science by a successful speculation — in olives. We should be surprised to find that any one versed in the philosophy of history had been seduced into investing in Turkish bonds) @ Fall the Ottoman Empire will, by corruption, if not by the sword; and its fall will apparently bring on a crisis in the destinies of England, we will be called on to decide whether, out of the — wreck, she will take Egypt. If she does; sie will be committed far more deeply than ever the policy of aggrandizement ; foreign dominion " sustained by arms will assume a greatly-inereased g importance with her relatively to domestic oi — jects; and the spirit of her people will undergo 3 a corresponding change. Egypt obviously meas — ce Eastern Africa, probably, indeed almost certainly, Syria, from which the fatal canal is comm B almost as much as from Egypt; possibly € or some other convenient island. But it good deal more than this. It means that Eng is to undertake to secure against any pé attack the whole of the overland route to for, of course, there is no use in holding the when the avenue to it is in other hands, and Port Said is the gate, the avenue to it is the terranean. To India by the Cape we had, were, a private way, not leading by many doors, nor obliging you to appear as @¢ under the noses of rival nations; but the land route runs by the coasts of a whole maritime powers, to which will be added @ many, if she ever acquires Trieste, and (exasperated by our demonstrations of

Page 547

THE POLICY OF AGGRANDIZEMENT. if she ever acquires Constantinople; it is liable to attack from every port between Cherbourg and Port Said; its wardership will oblige us to flaunt the flag of our domination in the faces of all the dwellers on the Mediterranean. The present helplessness of France, no doubt, is our oppor- tunity; but we are credibly assured that her jealousy will be at once aroused, and that her hostility awaits us in the end. It is probable that in the present mood of the nation aggrandizement will carry the day. We say mood, and it does not seem that there has been any definite change of conviction such as new arguments produce since the time when more moderate views prevailed. But the nation is now flushed with wealth, and with the sense of power which wealth begets; it is infected with the military spirit which fills armed Europe; it has built a great fleet of iron-clads, and feels in- clined to show its power. The aristocratic party is in the ascendant, and British aristocracy, as well as Russian despotism, is willing to divert the mind of the people from progress at home to aggrandizement abroad. The knowledge that the Government is favorable to them stimulates to activity all enterprising spirits, and at the de- cisive moment they throw into the scale, by en- thusiastic and combined effort, a weight out of proportion to their mere numbers. In such a state of excitement are spirits of this sort at pres- ent, and so great has been the development of their ambition, that we read projects for making England mistress of all the water communications of the globe. What she would do with that magnificent possession we have not been in- formed. We need not to be informed what the other nations would do if they found all the water communications of the globe seized into the hands of one domineering power. There are politicians who, if they had their way, would make the battle of Dorking a reality in spite of Nature and of Fate. , Those who counsel England to seize on all the water communications of the globe seem to forget that, though still far the first of maritime powers, she is not, as she was at the close of the war with Napoleon, sole mistress of the seas. Other countries now have their navies, which, though singly not a match for hers, united must be a good deal more than a match, and which, moreover, would be free to strike with their full force, while she would have to disperse her force for the purpose of shielding unguarded depend- encies in all parts of the world. Nor is it in this respect only that her position is changed. . 548 Her naval and military power depends partly upon her superiority in wealth; her superiority in wealth depends in great measure on her su- premacy in manufactures, and this also has been greatly reduced by the development of manufact- ures in other countries since the Napoleonic wars. The commercial progress of other coun- tries, especially of France, where the military spirit seems to be gradually giving way to the commercial, threatens British interests, even Brit- ish interests in the East, more seriously than the approach of Russia to Herat. — That there are certain classes, administrative, military, and commercial, which have a special interest in a policy of aggrandizemert, no one needs to be told; our ears ring with the vocifer- ous demonstrations of the fact. What it seems particularly desirable to elicit, before the irrevo- cable step of occupying Egypt is taken, is the proof that foreign dominion is equally beneficial to the whole people. Beneficial, we mean, either in the way of material well-being or in the way of real moral and intellectual elevation. The mere pride of dominion we confess does not seem to us a sufficient object. Besides being radi- cally antagonistic to the tendencies of modern civilization, its enjoyment is confined to the few who play the game; it is not shared by the many who pay and bleed, scarcely conscious all the time of the existence of an empire. To all who have not entirely abandoned them- selves to the prevailing impulse it must be clear that aggrandizement is a question to which there are two sides. That there are two sides to it in a moral point of view, we all imply as often as we denounce on moral grounds the territorial ambition of Russia. But let us put the question of morality aside. In truth, it does not present itself in a very serious form so far as the occu- pation of Egypt is concerned. The general con- currence of the powers, at all events, if it could be obtained, might relieve us from any misgivings on that score. The khedive is, to the mass of his unhappy subjects, not a national sovereign, but an alien oppressor, whose dominion has no foundation but brute force, and whose power is exercised without the slightest regard for the welfare of the people. Anybody who can is morally at liberty to overturn him and relieve the victims of his oppression. There can be no doubt that English government, however it might - affect the destinies of the country in the end, would at present be an enormous change for the better. Nor is it easy to see who could cast a stone at us. Certainly not France, with Algeria

Page 548

544 in her hands. Bismarck is wise enough, he is sufficiently conscious of the conditions of real strength, and sufficiently in accord with the spirit of his age himself, to abstain from distant acquisitions ; but we need fear no moral protests on his part. And so with regard to the Empire of India, which is the thing mainly in question all the time, and for the sake of which, principally, these further acquisitions are proposed. Once acquired it must be kept; mere anarchy would be the consequence of our withdrawal from it; and its acquisition commenced in a period which, though not so very remote, was yet anterior, if not to international morality, certainly to the in- clusion within the pale of international morality of those who were not within the pale of Christen- dom. No government in Europe at that time would have shrunk from taking the territory of the pagans of Hindostan any more than they shrank from enslaving the pagans of Africa. France, since our censor, was at that time our competitor, and she herself took Algeria at a later day, when the light of a higher morality had at least dawned upon the civilized world. With the question of morality, we repeat, we have here nothing to do; but to the question of expediency also it must be admitted that there are two sides. The decay of empires is the theme of history. They decay because they are sustained not by the moral forces which sustain national happiness, and the nature of which is to increase in strength, but by physical force, the nature of which is to decline, if not positively yet (what comes to the same thing) relatively to the forces around it. There is no reason why British vir- tue, energy, and industry, should not continue as they are, or increase with the lapse of time ; and, therefore, there is no reason why the New-Zea- lander should ever moralize over the ruins of the British nation ; but the man of the future, who- ever he may be, is pretty sure one day to moral- ize over the ruins of the British Empire. We ourselves moralize over the ruined empire of Spain, and see clearly enough that the vast and scattered dependencies which were her pride, and which she imagined to be the sources of her strength, were really draining away her life-blood. We moralize over the effects of the error com- mitted by Venice in leaving the true path, the . path of commercial enterprise, to indulge a terri- torial ambition which led to the corruption of her government and, by the umbrage it gave to other powers, brought on her the League of Cam- bray. Yet we may be sure that every Spaniard THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. and every Venetian, in the days of Spanish eng a Venetian empire, would have felt himself bound i by loyalty and patriotism to uphold aggrandizg ~ ment and to denounce counsels of moderation ay BS a betrayal of the honor and greatness of the — country. eZ Palmerston’s Civis Romanus is one of many indications that the image of the Roman Empire _ still vaguely hovers before our minds. The Roman Empire belonged to an age before Huy manity, to an age in which morality was in the _ germ, to an age in which force was the only law ‘ and the only principle of organization, Coming — when it did, it formed a sort of matrix for 5 modern civilization, and thus served a purpose — : which conquest can never serve again. By unit ing all the nations round the Mediterranean under a common yoke it repressed war, the waa Ss primeval obstacle to the progress of humanity, — and rendered possible the diffusion of ideas, we sides breaking down generally the barriersof — tribal isolation. An attempt to reproduce itor anything like it, in these days would be an anach ronism of the most flagrant kind. It sstability depended upon the absence of any rival power, — when once the conquest of the Mediterranean na tions had been accomplished ; and, in this respect also, an imitation of it in a world divided among a number of great powers would be not om unseasonable as insane. It is worthy of remark, too, that the more advanced civilization even of Rome herself re less prone, if not actually opposed, to conquest Se In the golden age of the empire, which i menced with the accession of Nerva, though were frontier wars, and some extensions of a tory, as a consequence of those wars, the spit of improvement decidedly predominated that of aggrandizement, and the Antonines, they were alive now, would probably be “p philanthropists” and “ patriots of every ¢ but their own.” The idea of Roman conquest in the ni century is equal in irrationality as well as nate to that extreme theory of h which, totally ignoring historic progress, P to regenerate modern society by pou with the primeval sledge-hammer of Thor. world changes, and the methods proposed byt worshipers of force for organizing what) imagine, in spite of their daily experience, an anarchy, would be the most brutal anarchies themselves. At all events, there can be no barm im the advocates of a policy of aggrandize for the:

Page 549

THE POLICY OF AGGRANDIZEMENT. ly to state the case with which we may fairly as- sume they are prepared. England will then ad- yance her eagles not only with the assurance that some of her sons would be greatly gratified at present, but without misgiving as to the effect on the general welfare of her people for the future. Does conquest bring strength to Eugland ? That is the most obvious question, and for the ordinary advocates of aggrandizement the most important. To the Roman it brought strength, because it brought him both tribute and military contingents ; to the Spaniard it brought tribute, with which his armies were paid. But in the case of England modern sentiment interposes. England draws from her dependencies no tribute; large sums come from India, but they come into private hands. Sepoys were sent to Egypt at the time of the war with France, and Mr. Sidney Owen, in the preface to his “Selection from the Wellesley Dispatches,” contends that, though they 545 scattered ; its dependencies were incapable of incorporation, much more of assimilation, and the same is the case with ours. A line of com- munication with the East has to be maintained, to the length of which, and the forces threaten- | ing it at every point, attention has been already called. In England the strength of England lies. Why this thought should be unwelcome, it seems diffi- cult to say ; at any rate, such is the fact. In the days before free trade, monopoly of markets was a very intelligible and solid, though not a very laudable, appanage of empire. But free trade has thrown open the ports of the In- dies, East and West, to all nations alike, and, if England still has the lion’s share of the trade, it is not because she is the mistress, but because she is the great exporting nation. The commer- cial handling of the dependencies by planters, contractors, and others engaged in the internal production and trade, is, on the other hand, an advantage connected with political dominion. ! ! | | | | were not actually engaged, their presence pro- | duced an effect, and might be regarded as the | The only drawback from it is that English pro- symbol of a real addition to the military power | duction in the dependencies may exclude British of England. But rating this addition at the | imports, as in the case of the cotton-manufactures highest, and taking into consideration also any | of India, which are supplanting British goods in instance of the employment of negro regiments | the Indian market. from the West Indies, will it be contended that It is said, and with truth, that empire trains the accession of force derived by England from | soldiers and administrators. But are they not, her dependencies bears any proportion to the , for the most part, soldiers and administrators of force expended by her in acquiring and defending | a special kind? Algeria trained soldiers, and them ? her training is said to have been one of the causes India must be debited not only with all that of the military disasters which befell France. has been expended in her acquisition and defense, | Administrators generally end their official lives but with all that has been expended in securing in the dependency, and the benefit of the Indian access to her, and notably with a large portion of | Civil Service is therefore reaped more by the in- the cost of the Crimean War, But the expendi- | dividual Englishmen employed in it and their ture, whether of money or of blood, is not all; | families than by the country, except in so far as the whole foreign policy of England quivers with | the appointments may act as prizes in stimulat- alarm for India. We are being constantly drawn | ing education. Even were it otherwise, bureau- away from that which would otherwise be the | cracy, intensified by exclusiveness of race, and by manifest line of our interest by that besetting | severance from English society and opinion, would fear. Under its influence we have sullied our | scarcely be a good school for the service of a free civilization by an alliance with the foul decrepi- | nation. The author of “The Abode of Snow” tude of Turkey, and made an enemy of: Russia, | seems to be an acute observer, and he is certain- perhaps the only sincere friend we had in the ly not indifferent to the glory of British dominion, world. | or opposed to the extension of British influence. The Roman Empire, though colossal, was ge- | In a passage on official character in India, which, ographically united, and the provinces, as time | as its tenor is mixed, it may be fair to append in went On, were more Or less incorporated with the | a note, he draws a strong, and what seems a imperial state. The Russian Empire, though probably just, distinction between the effect of equally colossal, is also geographically united; it India on superior minds, or those immediately annexes conterminous regions, which are gradual- under their influence, and its effect on the mind ly incorporated, and will no doubt be thoroughly , of the ordinary official. His general estimate assimilated in the end. The Spanish Empire was may be somewhat adverse, and it may be fairly 35

Page 550

546 met perhaps by an appeal to the net results of Indian administration. But he brings certain peculiarities, and the circumstances which pio- duce them, distinctly under our view.! We have renounced for the present purpose 1“ Society everywhere in India labors under very great disadvantages, and varies very much according to the character of its ever-changing leaders. Sir Emerson Ten- nent has observed that it is, ‘ unhappily, the tendency of small sections of society to decompose when separated from the great vital mass, as pools stagnate and putrefy when cut off from the invigorating flow of the sea;* and he adds that the process is variable, so that a colonial so- ciety which is repulsive to-day may be attractive to-mor- row, or a contrary change may take place with one or two | departures or new arrivals. The same holds gocd in India; | and though Indian society can boast of some superiority to colonial (a superiority which is amusingly asserted on board mail-steamers), it has very great defects of its own, and in certain circumstances degenerates into the intoler- able. One tendency of life in India is to create an immense amount of conceit, and to make men assume airs of su- periority, not because of any superiority of mind or char- | acter, or on account of great services rendered to the state, but simply because long residence in the country, or in some particular district of it, has given them high appointments, or the advantage as regards local knowl- edge. Then, though military society has many good points, ‘ discipline must be observed,’‘and it was in per- fect good faith, and expressing his own opinion as well as that which he believed to be generally entertained, that an old Indian remarked to me, ‘ We don’t think much of any one’s opinions here until he is a lieutenant-colonel at least.’ Of course, in all countries opinions are often meas- ured by the position of the spokesman, but in Europe that is not so much the case as in India, and in our happier climes it is easy to shun the society of snobs, whether social or intellectual, without becoming a social pariah. This social tendency ‘s not corrected, but developed rather than otherwise, by a close bureaucracy, such as the Indian Civil Service—and there is no other element in the com- munity sufficiently strong to correct it—while it is almost justified by the extraordinary effect India has in rapidly producing intense conceit and insufferable presumption among Europeans of a low order of mind and ‘character, whatever classes of the community they may belong to. Nothing struck me more in that country than the contrast between its elevating and even ennobling effects on those Europeans whose minds were above a certain level, and its exactly contrary effects on almost all those who were be- low that level. What, then, Indian society has specially | to struggle against are two apparently opposite tendencies, a slavish respect for mere position, and for exceptional power and knowledge in particular directions; and, on the | other hand, excessive individual conceit and presumption. But these evil tendencies (which, curiously enough, be- long also to the Indian native character) are not opposed in any such way az to counteract each other. On the contrary, they are apt to foster and inflame each other, because the old Indian justly sees that he has opposed to him an immense deal of ignorant presumption, which ought to be severely repressed, while the democrat and the griffin instinctively feel that they are oppressed by an amount of tryrannical old-fogyism which would not be allowed to exist in any other country.”—(“ Abode of Snow,” by Andrew Wilson, p. 56.) | THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. s the consideration of morality, but we must be — allowed to consider the influence of empiregp the political character of the imperial country, Our free institutions with the character on whigh they rest, and the corruption of which they would not survive, are supposed, apart from sentiment, to be objects of paramount importance. Thead dition of an unconstitutional title to the constity. tional titles of the British sovereign seems aptly to symbolize a tendency already perceptible, and which that measure was perhaps partly intended to assist. Dependencies, even under the mildest system, must be governed on principles wholly different from those of a constitutional polity, and, though superior minds may be able to keep the | distinction between the two spheres always be fore them, and to don the despot without doffing the citizen, in ordinary minds the limes of sepa rate allegiance will become more or less blurred and the indefeasible sanctity of freedom will be ~ lost. The effect will be intensified by everyre bellion which breaks out in a dependency, and, after exciting the passions of the imperial nation, is quenched in servile blood. It was for this ree son that many people who were by no means admirers of the East India Company deprecated its abolition, and the political identification of India with England which necessarily ensued. The company being under the control of the British Government, the responsibility under the old system was the same, but the danger of po litical contagion was not so great. Angio-Indians, as a body, return rich; they must therefore have some political influence, and it would be interesting to know what their polite cal tendencies are, and what sort of citizens Ix — dia sends back to England. In former days, be fore the dependencies were controlled, both Bast | Indian nabobs and West Indian planters avenged the oppressed native upon the dominant race by playing a leading part in the corruption of the English Parliament. It was on the East Indi Bill and with the support of the nabobs that” George III. gained the victory over the ea tion which established his ascendency, and abled him to bring a train of calamities om country. , But the reflex influence may go deeper still affect not only those sentiments which lie at root of political liberty, but those which the root of all civilization. A conqueror sarily persuades himself that his yoke is that submission to it is loyalty, that insu against it is the worst of treasons. He that, as Pym said when Strafford pleaded =f $ t

Page 551

ee SEAT SRS PEER E CARS TECASESSRSES SES ESA THE POLICY OF AG@GGRANDIZEMENT. 547 Ireland was a conquered country and you might do what you pleased in it: “If the king, by the right of a conqueror, gives laws to his people, the people must by the same reason be restored to the right of the conquered to recover their liberty if they can.” The Scotch adore Wallace, but if they caught a Wallace in India they would blow him away from a gun. This inversion of morality by the conqueror in his own favor, with the effect which it produces on his character, is one of the ugliest features of conquest. The Sepoy was not a patriot, it is true, but he was an alien, and more than an alien, in race and in religion; he was a mercenary serving for noth- ing but his pay; to look for love and loyalty at his hands was looking for grapes on thistles; there could be no security for his fidelity but a vigilance | which had been relaxed, and precautions which had been neglected. His caste—that is, his social and religious existence—had been threatened, as | he imagined, by the greased cartridges. He had | further been worked upon by the fiendish cunning | of Nana Sahib, who had himself, it appears, been | turned from a sycophant into a malignant enemy by unskillful handling. The frenzy into which the Sepoys burst was of the sort to which all barbarians are liable, and for which you must be prepared if you choose to take barbarians into your service. The wholesale slaughter of these wretched men, in cold blood, when they had laid down their arms, and in some cases when they had apparently been guilty of little more than being carried away like animals by a stam. pede, may have been a political necessity of con- | quest, but it will never be described by impartial | history as an act of moral justice, and participa- | tion in it and in the hideous scenes of that pe- riod generally could hardly fail to affect the char- | acter of the Englishmen engaged. The work of | Dr. Russell is well known. Lieutenant Majendie’s “Up among the Pandies” is not so well known, | but it is a vivid, simple, and apparently truthful photograph of scenes which that officer himself witnessed. We give a couple of extracts below,! '“T have before adverted to the hardness of heart which in some cases was shown by our men, and to the careless and callous indifference with which they took away human life; and I will here relate one of several in- stances which came under my notice in illustration of this fact. After we had occupied the Iron Bridge for some days, and when we supposed that the houses in the neigh- borhood were quite clear of the enemy, we were aston- ished one evening by hearing a shot in one of the many buildings which we occupied, and, directly after, some of the soldiers rushing in dragged out a decrepit old man, Severely wounded in the thigh. It seems that the sentry, having heard somebody moving about the house, had and the reader will probably agree with Lieuten- ant Majendie that, let the guilt of the sufferers be what it would, the work of the executioners must have bred in them “ hardness of heart ” and “ callous indifference to taking human life.” Sup- challenged, and, receiving no answer, fired, and hit the poor old wretch in question in the leg. He was brought out, and soon surrounded by a noisy, gaping crowd of soldiers, who clamored loudly for his immediate execu- tion, expressing themselves in language more remarkable by its vigor than either its elegance or its humanity. ‘*Ave his nut off, said one; ‘ Hang the brute, cried an- other; ‘ Put him out of mess,’ said a third; ‘Give him a Cawnpore dinner’ (six inches of steel), cried a fourth; but the burden of all their cries was the same, and they meant death. The only person in the group who ap- peared unmoved and indifferent to what was going on was he who certainly had every right to be the most interest- ed. I mean the old man himself, whose stoicism one could not but admire. He must have read his fave a hundred | times over in the angry gestures and looks of his captors, but never once did he open his lips to supplicate for mer- cy, or betray either agitation or emotion, giving one the idea of a man bored by the noise and the proceedings generally, but not otherwise affected. His was a case which hardly demanded a long or elaborate trial. He was a native—he could give no account of himself—he had been found prowling about our position at night; stealth- | ily moving among houses, every one of which contained | a quantity of gunpowder, and where, for aught we knew, and as was more than probable, mines may have existed, which a spark dropped from his hand would have ignited | —or he was a spy, or—but what need of more? In this time of stern and summary justice (?) such evidence was more than ample; he was given over to two men, who | received orders to ‘destroy him* (the expression usually | employed on these occasions, and implying in itself how dreadfully common such executions had become), and they led him away, This point being settled, the soldiers returned to their games of cards and their pipes, and seemed to feel no further interest in the matter, except when the two executioners returned, and one of their com- rades carelessly asked, ‘ Well, Bill, what did yer do to | him?’ ‘Oh,’ said the man as he wiped the blood off an old tulwar, with an air of cool and horrible indifference which no words can convey —‘ oh, sliced his ‘ed off,’ resum- ing his rubber, and dropping the subject much as a man might who had drowned a litter of puppies” (page 222). This old man, it will be observed, was not a Sepoy, he was | only a native, and not the slightest attempt appears to | have been made to verify the suspicion as toa mine of gunpowder. In the next case the victim was a Sepoy, taken in a skirmish, in which a British officer of a Sikh regiment had fallen : “ Infariated beyond measure by the death of their offi- | cer, the Sikhs (assisted, I regret to say, by some English- men) proceeded to take their revenge on this one wretch- ed man. Seizing him by the two legs, they attempted to tear him in two. Failing in this, they dragged him along by the legs, stabbing him in the face with their bayonets as they went. I could see the poor wretch writh- ing as the blows fell upon him, and could hear his moans as his captors dug the sharp bayonets into his lacerated and trampled body, while his blood, trickling down, dyed the white sand over which he was being dragged. But the worst was yet to come: while still alive, though faint

Page 552

’ 548 THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTELY.—SUPPLEMENT. pose these rebels had been natives of Algeria, | and the executioners French Zouaves, should we , not have been confirmed in the belief that Alge- | ria was a doubtful gain to France ? The Sepoys were mutineers. But the people of Oude were not mutineers. They were fight- ing, most unwisely, no doubt, but not unnaturally, for their native dynasty. Their crime cannot be said to have been worse than that of the Scotch | Jacobites, who are now objects of historic sym- pathy; yet they were included in the undiscrim- inating slaughter. Lord Elgin was above the suspicion of pseu- | do-philanthropy, or of any weakness or illusion which could interfere with a rational pursuit of | British interests. For that reason we shall make | a free use of his testimony, as recorded in his | “Letters and Diary.” Visiting India, on his | way to China, at the time of the mutiny, he came | into contact with the spirit of sanguinary terror- | ism evoked among the dominant race; and the | impression which it made upon him is not doubt. | ful : * August 2ist.—It is a terrible business, how- | ever, this living among inferior races. I have sel- | dom from man or woman since I came to the East heard a sentence which was reconcilable with the | hypothesis that Christianity had ever come into | the world. Detestation, contempt, ferocity, ven- geance, whether Chinamen or Indians be the ob- ject. There are some three or four hundred ser- vants in this house. When one first passes by | their salaaming, one feels a little awkward. But | the feeling soon wears off, and one moves among | them with perfect indifference, treating them, not as dogs, because in that case one would whistle to them and pat them, but as machines with which | one can have no communion or sympathy. Of course, those who can speak the language are | somewhat more en rapport with the natives ; but very slightly so I take it. When the passions of fear and hatred are ingrafted on this indifference, the result is frightful: an absolute callousness to the sufferings of the objects of those passions, which must be witnessed to be understood and believed. and feeble from his many wounds, he was deliberately placed upon a small pile of dry sticks, which had been improvised for the purpose, and there held down, in spite of his dying struggles, which, becoming weaker and more feeble every moment, were, from their very faintness and fatile desperation, cruel to behold. Once, during this frightful operation, the wretched victim, maddened by | pain, managed to break away from his tormenters, and, already horribly burnt, fled a short distance, but he was immediately brought back and placed upon the fire, and | there held till life was extinct.” Englishmen were look- ing on all the time! | | an officer: . . | take the initiative, it is my opinion that therecan | hi are a contemptible race. | on this side of the Sutlej. dearest to him for an hour.’ ” “ August 22d,— tells me that yeatenill ' day, at dinner, the fact that Government had re | moved some commissioners who, not content with | hanging all the rebels they could lay their hands — | on, had been insulting them by destroying their | caste, telling them that after death they should be — cast to dogs to be devoured, etc., was mentioned, — A reverend gentleman could not understand the conduct of Government; could not see that there was any impropriety in torturing men’s souls; seemed to think that a good deal might be said for torturing their bodies as well. These are your teachers, O Israel! Imagine what the pupils be come under such leading !” (page 199), Subsequently, as governor-general, Lord Elgin — had the opportunity of learning more of these | events from sources which he deemed authentie: “The feeling of the natives of India toward Canning was in some measure due to a similar cause. The clamor for blood and indiscriminate vengeance which raged around him, and the abuse poured upon him because he would not listen to it, imparted in their eyes to acts which carried | justice to the very verge of severity the grace of clemency. I could give you plenty of proofs of this. . . . The following sentences occur in a let ter written from Delhi during our recent panic by — . ‘The native force here is much too small to be a source of anxiety, and, unless they * i be no important rising. The Mussulmans of Dek — Fanatics are very mare A The terrors of that FS period when every man who had two enemies was 7 sure to swing are not forgotten. The people de — ! clare that the work of Nadir Shah was as nothing | to it. His executions were completed in twelve — hours. But, for months after the last fall of Delhi, — no one was sure of his own life or that of the being — ; z We might fancy ourselves reading an account, of the reign of terror in Ireland after the rising ‘in 98, That all this is not English, that it is ut + | terly at variance with the general character of the English*people, is certain; every candid crite ic of English society would say so; but no char | acter is independent of circumstance, and if we choose to put ourselves into the circumstal 7 | of foreign conquerors, into the place of | Shahs, the natural consequences will ensue. | is nothing to save us from them, any more Wat | there was to save the Spanish conquerors of ico. From Egypt we shall infallibly be drawn _ to Abyssinia; and in Abyssinia, if not in Eg} | there is likely to be just as bloody work as # has been in Hindostan. Increased facilities of communication and ‘ —- = -_—-| ~~ ~~ - -

Page 553

THE POLICY OF AGGRANDIZEMENT. resentation now bring scenes enacted in a distant dependency completely home to the minds of the people in the imperial country, so as closely to identify them with all that they do not repudiate and condemn. And when did the people of an imperial country heartily repudiate and effectual- ly condemn acts necessary, or plausibly alleged to be necessary, to the maintenance of their own dominion ? In the Jamaica case we had a taste of the spirit which familiarity with slaughter in the case of the Indian rebels had evoked. All remember how Chief-Justice Cockburn charged in favor of outraged justice and humanity; how unavailing were his words; what homage was offered, and by what lips, to terrorism and murder; what sin- ister principles were propounded, and what omin- ous sentiments were expressed, not with reference to dependencies alone. Less serious, but still worthy of notice, is the corrupting effect of the pageantry, the servility, the sultanism, of which dependencies ave the li- censed sphere. Through the newspaper accounts of the Prince of Wales’s visit to India breathed something very like the spirit of a Byzantine court. Wise men laugh; but the crowd are im- pressed, and they do not say to themselves, “This is only for Hindostan or Egypt.” If ever an attempt is made to revive anything like “a real throne” in this country (and the idea is per- haps not so remote from possibility as would be generally imagined), it will derive any chance of success it may have in some measure from the influence of the Indian Empire. Therefore, before enthusiastic friends of Eng- land—and surely great enthusiasm may be predi- eated of those who can dwell with complacency on the idea of handing over not only the East but all Europe to the reactionary aristocracy of this country—before enthusiastic friends of Eng- land, we say, determine to give her Egypt, on the ground that she is the best representative of the principles of constitutional liberty, they ought to consider whether she is likely to continue the best representative of those principles when she has been charged with the functions of unconsti- tutional government in all parts of the globe. No political character could be stronger or more confirmed than that of the Roman, yet by empire it was radically changed. The spirit of enterprise, no doubt, is displayed and fostered by conquest. Far be it from us to depreciate its value or to disparage the pride which its achievements excite in the nation. But it may be directed to more objects than one. 549 Cook, Franklin, and Livingstone, showed enter- prise as well as the conquerors of the Indian Empire. It is the fashion to accuse the Americans of unlimited voracity, but they seem really to be about the only people that look at a thing before they swallow it. St. Domingo, from its natural wealth and capabilities, was a most tempting morsel, and it was almost forced down the throat of the nation by President Grant, who was then in an ambitious mood. But it was steadfastly re- jected on the ground that, though commercially rich, it was politically unwholesome, and would import a bad element into the Legislature of the United States. We have spoken, so far, of the interest of the conqueror, or the dominant race. But modern sentiment demands that the interest of the con- quered, or the subject race, shall also be consid- ered, and we may say with truth that no imperial country has ever acknowledged this obligation so fully as England. To India, English rule has given peace, saving our own wars and mutinies; a regular and equi- table though costly administration; greatly in- creased security for life and property; railroads; the abolition of dark and cruel superstitions, such as Suttee and Thuggee. Op the other hand, there are consequences which attend even the most humane of conquests; and, when one nation undertakes to provide happiness for another by overruling the natural course of things, measures conceived in the most beneficial spirit are apt to work out in unexpected ways, and to lead to mixed results. Conquest must always extinguish the military spirit of the conquered and their power of self- defense. Roman conquest did this systemati- cally, and, when the legions withdrew, bands of undisciplined though hardy barbarians stalked unresisted through the helpless provinces of the empire. British conquest has done the same thing, though not on system, and populations which we found warlike are now sheep, and would be the prey of the first wolf that descended on them, if British protection were withdrawn. But conquest must also kill all native germs of political life and all power of political self- organization. It is, of course, difficult to say what Nature would have produced, had India been left politically to itself, or rather had it been acted on by European influence only as Japan has been, not in the way of foreign domin- ion. Regarded from the Indian point of view, Akbar was probably not less beneficent than a

Page 554

: 550 THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. viceroy, and whatever improvements he might effect would be more likely to adhere to the soil. In the case of Egypt, it is true, there would, so far as the mass of the natives are concerned, be little in the way of military, and nothing in the way of political, life to extinguish. We should only render impossible that which might other- wise be possible, the gradual growth, under an independent government, of an Egyptian nation. To associate the conquered with the con- queror in the work of Indian government, and thus in time train India to self-rule, is a policy, the very conception of which attests the com- paratively beneficent spirit of British conquest. But before it can be really carried into effect, not only must great political difficulties be over- come, but a bridge must be thrown over a social gulf, so wide as to be apparently impassable. Real participation in government implies political equality between the races, and political equality cannot exist between those who are socially far apart. The higher and more sympathetic minds may be able to surmount the prejudice of race, and to act with a Hindoo as cordially as with an Englishman. But this cannot be expected of the ordinary officials of the dominant nation, much less of the lower class of Europeans and the common soldier. We have heard Lord Elgin cn the relations between the races. In another pas- sage (p. 417), speaking of a murder committed by a European on a native, he says that, though not deliberate, it had a feature just as bad, and char- acteristic of homicides committed by Europeans on natives, inasmuch as it was done “in wanton recklessness, almost without provocation, under an impulse which would have been resisted if the life of the native had been estimated at the value of that of a dog.” He goes on to mention an- other case, in which a native had been kicked to death for milking a goat which was alleged not to belong to him, and says that the local paper, instead of pitying the victim or his family, only complained of the hardship to which the homi- cide was subjected by having to go to Calcutta to answer for his conduct in hot weather, As- suredly, to make these two elements work to- gether politically would be no easy matter. The gulf between the Hindoo and the European is no doubt partly caused by the strange primeval mystery of Hindoo nature. In the use of the Egyptian Fellah there would be no great obstacle of this kind ; but the Fellah would probably be an object of still greater contempt than the Hindoo. From war we have saved India. But what if in doing so we have unwittingly aggravated the danger of famine? What if, in the calm but en. feebling security created by our rule, a helpless and shiftless population has multiplied without any limit but that of bare subsistence, to be the prey of this periodical destroyer, or to be rescued only by Government aid on an enormous scale? We may well feel proud both of the humanity which accepts the burden, and of the adminis. trative vigor with which it is borne. Yet this may be an instance of the tendency of interference with the course of Nature in other countries to work out in unexpected ways. Since England has taken India into her own hands, her sense of responsibility has compelled her to introduce improvements, administratige and educational, on the pattern of the best Euro- pean civilization. But can India afford this sys. tem? Can she afford it when she has to pay exile price for all her officials, and to give them all large pensions besides? She is gorgeous, but, in proportion to her population, poor. The Duke of Wellington is reported to have said of her: “She is a magnificent country, and it would bea shame to govern her ill ; but it would be ruinous to govern her well.” With an annual deficit always called extraordinary, yet regularly recur ring, is it certain that the duke’s saying will not prove true? Bankruptcy is a foe at least as much to be dreaded by the Anglo-Indian Govem- ment as the Russian legions which fancy sees descending from the clouds of the Himalayas, From bankruptcy the Indian Government is in fact saved only by the revenue from the opium traffic, which, as the present Secretary of State for India said in defending it, “involves incom veniences of principle, but is wrapped up in our finances.” Inconveniences of principle the traffie does seem to involve, when we consider that it is not merely, like the liquor-traffic in this coum te try, a trade licensed by Government, but a Gow ernment trade. semi-barbarous, but it is paternal; and there is” no reason for doubting the sincerity of its desir Fe to save the souls and bodies of its people from the ravages of this hellish drug. But we, im pelled by financial exigency, constrain the Chie nese to admit it and bombard Canton when they” refuse. The excuses put forward—that Go ment limits the traffic by undertaking it, that private villainy might commit the crime Government did not—would hardly impose up@ a child. Such, however, is the pillar of Ind finance and it can hardly be thought aé tine, unless morality and religion cease #® forces in the world, The Chinese Government is

Page 555

THE POLICY OF AGGRANDIZEMENT. The propagation of Christianity will hardly be alleged as the object of British conquest in India or anywhere else, especially as the governing class of the imperial nation is itself rapidly tending in a very different direction, Whatever else Chris- tianity may be, it is not a religion of conquest. Its founders, and that later body of apostles who evangelized and civilized the northern tribes, pre- sented themselves at all events as purely spiritual agencies, wholly unconnected with military power or with blowing rebels away from guns. A mem- ber of the Society for the Propagation of the Gos- pel would, perhaps, be shocked by the suggestion that whatever is best and most spiritual in the nature of a. Hindoo would be likely to restrain him from abandoning the religion of his fathers to embrace the religion of the conqueror. If the number of converts made by the Church of Eng- land in India, backed as she is by power and wealth, were compared with the number made by Xavier, taking the latter at the lowest possible estimate, the result would be by no means flatter- ing to political religion. Nor, if the testimony of the shrewdest observers may be trusted, are the converts of Xavier likely to have been less re- spectable or less sincere than those made by the Church of England. The political dominion of-India is a legacy from generations, the political aims, the commer- cial policy, the public morality, and the general conditions of which were different from ours. Whether, if it were offered to us now for the first time, we should do wisely in accepting it—whether it would not be better to secure free commercial access without political dominion—may be rea- sonably doubted. In fact, even the generations by which the empire was founded were drawn on for the most part, not only without design, but against their wishes, and were always trying to set a limit to the progress of conquest, though they could never succeed in doing so. But, by & course of events which there is little use in dis- cussing, as it cannot now be reversed, India has become ours; and nobody would now propose that we should either give it up or let it be taken from us. Independently of imperial pride, we are bound to maintain our hold on it by strong bonds both of duty and of interest. Our depart- ure, after suppressing the native governments and destroying the organizing forces, would con- sign the country to a sanguinary anarchy, and Place in jeopardy British property and invest- ? See the preface to Mr. Sidney Owen's “Selection from nate Wellesley’s Dispatches,” and the dispatches them- ves, | 551 ments, the aggregate value of which can hardly be less than four hundred millions. Still, of the two objects, India and England, the most spirited advocate of aggrandizement must allow that Eng- land is to be preferred, and therefore that there is a limit to the perils to be incurred, and the sacrifices to be made, for the sake of India. Some things have been mentioned which seem to show that this limit is not entirely beyond the horizon, and even that, unless Indian finances assume a more hopeful aspect, it may come very distinctly into view. There are two ways of keeping our hold on India. One, and no doubt the more certain while it lasts, is to forego internal improvement, and to lavish the earnings of our people in the mainte- nance of armaments large enough to command the Mediterranean, at the same time occupying Egypt and every place else that may be necessary in order literally to annex India to England by an unbroken line of British territories, fortresses, and waters. The other way is to keep on good terms with the Mediterranean nations. What- ever depends on amity must be to some extent precarious. But there is no apparent reason why this amity should be broken. Our possession of India does not hurt or menace the Mediterranean nations in the slightest degree; it benefits them, so long as we keep the Indian ports open to their trade, and it need not give them any sort of um- brage. To do wanton mischief may be in their power, but there is no ground for presuming that they will be inclined to do it, especially as they would obviously hurt themselves. As to the po- tentate, whoever he may be, through whose ter- ritory the Suez Canal runs, he will surely be no more tempted to destroy or close it than a turn- pike man is tempted to nail up his own gate. That Russia meditates an invasion of British India is a belief which, if it were not shared by some persons of mark, we should be inclined to calla chimera. Mere proximity does not denote hostile designs ; if it did, there would be no peace on earth. The natural barrier between the two empires is stronger than that between any other two conterminous countries in the world. If Russia, reckoning by mere miles, without regard to obstacles, is near to us, we are equally near to her; and if she has arrived at this position by continual additions of territory, we have done the same. Both empires have grown in the same manner, and one as naturally as the other, by ex- tension in a sort of nolitical vacuum, where noth- ing opposed them but the arms of barbarous or half-civilized powers. In each case, probably,

Page 556

’ 552 the growth has been to a great extent unde- signed, and even involuntary, though we persist in ascribing to deliberate and far-reaching ambi- tion on the part of Russia that which we know, on our own part, is to be ascribed to nothing of the kind. That either England or Russia, having reached the foot of the Himalayas by extending her empire over regions unoccupied by any civil- ized nation, will proceed to scale the Himalayas for the purpose of attacking another great Euro- pean power, is as little to be presumed as it is to be presumed that the tide will scale the cliff be- cause it has raced in over a sandy flat. The movements of Russia farther west are assignable to an obvious cause, and one totally unconnected with any imaginable designs on India. Every great and growing power is led by a natural im- pulse to make its way to an open sea, England would hardly submit to being corked up in the Dardanelles in order to gratify the jealous appre- hensions of Russia, and she cannot expect that Russia will complacently submit to being corked up in order to gratify hers. Suppose Russia, like ourselves, obtains the full freedom of the Medi- terranean. All diplomatists and Russophobists hold up their hands in horror at the thought. But what is the specific evil which would ensue ? Why is Sebastopol, or, if it came to that, Constan- tinople, so much more likely to be dangerous than Brest? If Russia is provoked, she will very likely give us trouble in India; but why should she be provoked ? It is assumed that the Suez Canal would be available in time of war. This is a point on which, of course, we cannot presume to form an opinion; but it lies so near the root of the whole question that it is to be hoped a deliberate opinion will be formed. To occupy Egypt in de- fiance of the wrath and future hostility of France, to go to the expense of creating armaments pow- erful enough to command the eastern Mediterra- nean, and then to see the object for which all this had been done practically annihilated by a few shillings’ worth of dynamite or the scuttling of an old ship, would be mortifying in the extreme. Already our nervous anxiety about the canal has brought an avalanche of calamity on the world. To avoid this war with all its horrors, and the danger of further conflagration which it involves, it was necessary that from the outset separate interests should be suppressed, and that the crisis should be treated as a European one, to be dealt with by the common councils of Europe. But hardly had it arrived when England avowed her intention of separately securing her own in- THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. terests, and pounced upon the Suez Canal. was the signal that a wreck had commeng and that everybody must look out for hir Everybody did look out for himself; body made his own game. Cordial codpe thenceforth was impossible, and the inevitable sult was this war—a war which puts back ue zation. Lord Derby has said that of British ing terests the greatest is peace, and what Lord Derby says is always wise. If we ask why Lord = did not make a sincere and resolute effort to serve the greatest of British interests by anal ing in common with Russia and the other powers the reforms to which Turkey was pledged, and which, if vigorously pressed, she would most cen tainly have conceded, the answer will partly be that this obvious line of policy was crossed by the alarm about the Suez Canal and the interests : of England in the East. wig Egypt no doubt differs greatly in some respects from India. But in Egypt, as in India, you would have a dominant and a subject race. You would have a foreign government ruling, on arbitrary principles, over people divided from the official by a wide social gulf. The reflex action om the — character of the imperial country would probably be much the same. In the course of empire, ove act of oul dizement leads to another. The conquest fa small territory round the British factories in India has led to the conquest of the whole county This, again, leads to the occupation of Egypt India being in the hands of England, no onewill deny that the occupation of Egypt, in case of @ break-up of the Turkish Empire, presents itself as a natural question for consideration. But the ie advocates of the measure must allow it to be fairly discussed, and not think to settle it by im pugning the patriotism of their opponents, t as we have already admitted, the nation is just now in a mood in which such appeals are fil to tell. If the party of moderation is in! the party of aggrandizement in anything, it is in love of the country, but in power of discer her true interests. It does not seem to itself # be advocating a policy of weakness. It hol that, as we said before, the strength of is in herself, and that she derives more strength from one of her own counties than does from all her foreign dependencies put 4 gether. It holds, in fact, that’ acquisition ritory which is not self-defending is extension® of strength, but of weakness; and in p the fact it may cite, among other things, the petual complaints of its opponents that the

Page 557

e 4 a 4 13 ee a ee WA, a RGR THE POLICY OF A pire is unfortified, and their unheeded cries for further expenditure in defenses.’ It avows that its main objects of interest are not external but internal, and that it is less solicitous about remote acquisitions, and those posts in Asia the names of which are dear and familiar to the pundits of Russophobia, than about the many millions of Englishmen who at present share only to a very miserable extent the advantages, moral, intellect- ual, or material, of English civilization. It does not admit that this is “parochialism,” unless England is a parish. It desires, at all events, to see the proof that aggrandizement is good for the whole English people. As to the question of courage or cowardice, which is sometimes raised in the fervor of debate, statesmen and journalists, however bellicose, do not go to the front; and the only way in which they can show courage of any kind is by manfully expressing what seem to them true opinions, though they may happen to be unpopular at the time. To make a perfectly clean breast, we will con- fess that there are some people who believe that the consecration of filibustering nationality is rather out of date; that the day of humanity has dawned, and that to resent its arrival is about as rational as to resent the arrival of autumn or anything else that the course of Nature brings. It is the more desirable that at this crisis, on which the policy of the future may depend, there should be a full discussion of the subject in the press (which is now, more truly than Parliament, the great council of the nation), and that the mind of England should be deliberately made up, be- cause otherwise her hand may be forced by agen- cies which the respectable advocates of aggran- dizement would disown, though they can hardly help warming them into life by encouraging the general tendency and decrying the principles which restrain it. For a description of these agencies we will once more have recourse to Lord Elgin, who encountered them in China, where they have more than once been successful in drawing England into a use of her power which, it is to be hoped, no party among us would have deliberately approved : “I never felt so ashamed of myself in my life, and Elliot remarked that the trip seemed to have | made me sad. There we were, accumulating the means of destruction under the very eyes, and | within the reach, of a population of about 1,000,000 | ? The Canadian Government was asked the other day, | by an eminent organ of aggrandizement, to quadruple its | military expenditure, and this in the face of a falling rev- enue. You might literally as well ask the Canadian Goy- ernment for their heads, GGRANDIZEMENT. 553 people, against whom these means of destruction were to be employed! ‘ Yes,’ I said to Elliot, ‘I am sad, because when I look at that town, I feel that Iam earning for myself a place in the Litany immediately after ‘‘ plague, pestilence, and fam- ine.” I believe, however, that, as far as I am concerned, it was impossible for me to do other- wise than as I have done. I could not have aban- doned the demand to enter the city after what happened last winter, without compromising our position in China altogether, and opening the way to calamities even greater than those now before us. I made my demands on Yeh as moderate as I could, so as to give him a chance of accepting ; al- though, if he had accepted, I knew that I should have brought on my head the imprecations both of the navy and army and of the civilians, the time being given by the missionaries and the women. And now Yeh having refused, I shall do whatever I can possibly do to secure the adoption of plans of attack, etc., which will lead to the least de- struction of life and property.’ . .. The weath- er is charming; the thermometer about 60° in the shade in the morning; the sun powerful, and the atmosphere beautifully clear. When we steamed up to Canton, and saw the rich alluvial banks: covered with the luxuriant evidences of un- rivaled industry and natural fertility combined ; beyond them, barren uplands, sprinkled with a soil of reddish tint, which gave them the appear- ance of heather slopes in the Highlands ; and be- yond these again, the white-cloud mountain-range, standing out bold and blue in the clear sunshine, I thought bitterly of those who, for the most selfish objects, are trampling under foot this ancient civil- ization.” —(‘* Letters and Journals,” page 212.) “Tam now off from Canton, never, I hope, to see it again. Two months I have been there, en- gaged in this painful service, checking, as I have been best able to do, the disposition to maltreat this unfortunate people. . . . On the whole I think I have been successful. There never was a Chinese town which suffered so little by the occupation of a hostile foree; and, considering the difficulties which our alliance with the French (though I have had all support from Gros, in so far as he can give it) has occasioned, it is a very signal success. The good people at Hong-Kong, etc., do not know whether to be incredulous or disgusted at this pol- icy”? (page 224). “The settlement here is against treaty. It | consists mainly of agents of the two great opium houses, Dent and Jardine, with their hangers-on. This, with a considerable business in the coolie trade—which consists in kidnapping wretched coolies, putting them on board ships where all the horrors of the slave-trade are reproduced, and sending them on specious promises to such places as Cuba—is the chief business of the ‘foreign’ merchants at Swatow” (page 226). ** Besides, I own that I have a conscientious

Page 558

THE POPULAR SCIENCE 554 feeling on the subject. I am sure that in our rela- tions with these Chinese we have acted scandal- ously, and I would not have been a party to the measures of violence which have been taken, if I had not believed that I could work out of them some good for them. Could I leave this, the real- ly noblest part of my task, to be worked out by others? Any one could have obtained the Treaty of Tieutsin. What was really meritorious was, that it should have been obtained at so small a cost of human suffering. But this is also what dis- credits it in the eyes of many, of almost all, here. If we had carried on war for some years, if we had carried misery and desolation all over the empire, | it would have been thought quite natural that the | emperor should have been reduced to accept the terms imposed upon him at Tientsin. But to do all this by means of a demonstration at Tientsin! | The announcement was received with a yell of de- rision by connoisseurs and baffled speculators in | tea’’ (page 280). “Have you read Russell’s book on the Indian mutiny? I have done so, and I recommend it to you. It has made me very sad; but it only con- firms what I believed before respecting the scan- MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. | dalous treatment which the natives received at og hands in India. Iam glad that he has had co: to speak out as he does on this point. Can I do anything to prevent England from calling down on herself God’s curse for brutalities committed on another feeble Oriental race? Or are all my exertions to result only in the extension of the area over which Englishmen are to exhibit how hollow and superficial are both their civilization” and their Christianity? The tone of the twoo three men connected with mercantile houses ig. China, whom I find on board, is all for blood and | Massacre on a great scale. I hope they will be disappointed ; but it is not a cheerful or hopeful prospect, look at it from what side one may” (page 825). | Lord Elgin, we repeat, was neither a pec | philanthropist nor a patriot of every country but | his own; he was wanting neither in British feel. ing nor te courage ; and the records of his ex perience deserve attention, as well as the snort ings of the war-horses on the Stock Exchange and | in Pall Mall. —Fortnightly Review, THE SKEPTICISM OF BELIEVERS. By LESLIE STEPHEN. OT long ago an interesting question was discussed by a respectable and presumably competent meeting. Why, it was asked, does not the spiritual warfare against the unbeliever meet with greater success? A “ materialistic atheism,” as a high authority assured us, is “in the air;”’ and the malign contagion spreads in spite of Bampton lecturers, Christian Evidence Societies, and other apologetic machinery. At all which it is hard not to exclaim, Sancta simpli- citas! Can you really not guess this very open secret? Men die of many diseases; creeds of one—the disease of being found out. Do you ever remember ‘that David Hume died a century ago, and that the matter which absorbs the in- tellects of the most zealous part of the clergy at the present day is the “ eastward position ?” When such a spectacle as the Folkestone case is presented to gods and men, what wonder that unbelief spreads? If a more articulate reply were requested, one might perhaps say that the old belief is perishing chiefly for two reasons: first, because it has become a sham belief; sec- ondly, because it is a negative belief. No man can make converts who does not believe what he | says; nor will he, as a general rule, make them rapidly, when his creed consists chiefly in deny- ‘ ing the strongest and most fruitful convictions of his neighbors, I shall not here inquire into — the first of these explanations; but it may be worth while briefly to defend the other, which, — indeed, is, at first sight, in greater need of de fense. of It sounds paradoxical to declare that the ore ry thodox belief is essentially skeptical. The ine 4 del is popularly identified with the Mephistophe les, whose essence it is to deny. He denies, itis said, a hereafter and a divine element in the present. That denial implies the abandonment 2) of the most cheering hopes and highest aspire tions of mankind. To bring the charge of ske] ticism against those who are fighting against m™ - terialism and atheism is at best to indulge in frivolous tu quoque. A parallel phrase, howeve is common on the lips of the orthodox. It isa commonplace to taunt skeptics with credulity, nor is the taunt without foundation. So lo men of science continue to dabble in the filth 0 “ spiritualism” it will have a meaning. Ac fessor is, after all, better than a medium; would ré grovel b Moreove mark is is some say that nonsens nonsens rejectior cient se it follos mean th is, of a contrad it falls ever, t closely. Ske; word— rigidly | sible st with sv isa leg theorie: succeed system, tio ad a skeptic sible th truth i known oppone certain and tw have s lief. I with sk cessive of the | viled ¢ dogma having denies regard ficatior cussed ought or tha the lai sary ti ment 1 canno' leges propri empir

Page 559

THE SKEPTICISM OF BELIEVERS. would rather revere the miracles of Lourdes than grovel before the trickery of a Yankee conjurer. Moreover, to leave a disgusting subject, the re- mark is really significant. To speak bratally (as is sometimes pleasant and healthy), one might say that faith is often used to signify belief in my nonsense; credulity, bolief in somebody else’s nonsense. Now, it is unfortunately true that the rejection of one kind of nonsense is not a suffi- cient security for the rejection of all nonsense ; it follows that skepticism and credulity may mean the very same thing: the acceptance, that is, of a doctrine which is skeptical so far as it contradicts my opinion, ard credulous so far as it falls in with yours. It is worth while, how- ever, to look at the matter a little more closely. Skepticism, in the most absolute sense of the word—a rejection of belief as belief—is, if not a rigidly unthinkable, at least a practically impos- sible state of mind. Metaphysicians may play with such a doctrine; as they may urge that it isa legitimate consequence of their opponents’ theories. Nobody doubts, however, that if they succeed in fastening that imputation upon any | system, they have established a legitimate reduc- tio ad absurdum. As a matter of fact, absolute skepticism does not exist. It is rather impos- sible than erroneous. There is a vast body of truth in regard to which the thinkers generally known as skeptical are fully as confident as their opponents. Mr. Mill, for example, was just as certain as Descartes in. any given case that two and two made four, whatever doubts he may have suggested as to the ultimate ground of be- lief. Indeed, the same thinkers who are charged with skepticism are equally charged with an ex- cessive belief in the invariability and certainty of the so-called “laws of Nature.” They are re- viled equally for being skeptical and for being dogmatic, for having too few convictions and for having too many. No man, of any school, really denies the possibility of attaining certainty in regard to all such propositions as admit of veri- fication by experience. The real problem dis- cussed is not—ought we to believe, but why ought we to believe that two and two make four, or that Rome exists, or that the planets obey the laws of gravitation? The believer in neces- sary truths asserts by the very form of his argu- ment that his adversaries do in fact believe, and cannot help believing, the truths which he al- leges to be necessary, though they may deny the Propriety of that epithet. The thorough-going empiricist may suggest that in some sense the | 555 most evident truths would cease to be valid un- der some other conditions ; but he does not de- ny them to be valid within the whole sphere of possible experience. By attacking the supposed distinction between different classes of belief, he really elevates the claims of empirical knowledge as much as he depresses that of a priori knowl- edge. We can no more alter the absolute inten- sity of belicfin general than we can change our centre of gravity without some external point of support. One set of thinkers holds that we must pierce to the absolute in order to provide foun- dation for the whole edifice of belief. Their an- tagonists declare that such a foundation can never be discovered, but they add that itis not needed, As the universe no longer requires the proverbial world-sustaining tortoise, so the world of belief requires no reference to anything out- side of experience. The pvint is obscured by the habit of speak- ing of “belief” absolutely, without describing its particular contents, and of proceeding to de- scribe it as in some sense a creditable, whereas unbelief is taken to be a discreditable, state of mind. The inaccuracy of the assumption follows from the obvious simple consideration that belief is unbelief. It is the very same thing seen from the other side. It is a mere question of acci- dental convenience whether a belief shall be ex- pressed positively or negatively ; whether I shall say, man is mortal, or man is not immortal. The believer at Rome is, by virtue of his belief, the skeptic at Mecca, and inversely. The believer in the Ptolemaic system has neither more nor fewer beliefs than the believer in the Copernican sys- tem; he has simply a different set of beliefs. To say, therefore, that belief gua belief is better or worse than unbelief involves a contradiction in terms. In the very act of asserting we deny ; and it isa transparent fallacy, though an example of a very common class of fallacy, to give an ab- solute and universal character to a proposition which by its very nature can be only true in a particular relation. Belief and unbelief being identical in nature, either is good just so far as it is reasonable or logical; that is to say, so far as it conforms to the rules which secure a conform- ity between the world of thought and the world of fact.. In spite of all the slipshod rhetoric about faith and reason, no other test is admis- sible or can even be put into coherent and artic- ulate shape. If we still speak of skepticism as a mental vice, we must mean a reluctance, not to believe in general, but to believe what is reason- able; and in this sense the most skeptical man is

Page 560

556 he who prefers the least weight of evidence to the greatest. The popular line of distinction corresponds, indeed, to a very important divergence of thought, though not, in any strict use of language, to a distinction between belief and unbelief. That man is generally called a believer (and I shall use the word in that sense) who asserts, while the unbeliever denies, the possibility of rising to a transcendental world. The sphere of the be- liever’s creed is therefore wider, it may be said, than that of the unbeliever. His world tran- scends or envelops that of his opponent, and he accepts a whole category of propositions in re- gard to which the unbeliever maintains the neu- tral attitude of absolute doubt. But this state- ment is at least inadequate. As a so-called dis- belief is simply a belief differently stated, so a belief about the other world, so far as it can be called a belief at all, and certainly so far as it can have any influence, is of necessity a belief about this. Beliefs belonging to the transcen- dental sphere may be of the highest importance so far as they modify or so far as they give strength and coherence to beliefs about the or- dinary world of experience. They give the ad- jective which modifies the meaning of the sub- stantive. But, except as influencing our conduct, belief about heaven and hell would be of no more importance than a belief about the inhabitants of Sirius, and, so far as it influences our conduct, it is capable of translation into terms of ordinary experience. That other world upon which the believer gazes is either a superfluity or is essen- tially a new light cast upon this world. You may, for various reasons, talk about the light abstractedly from the thing lighted, but it might as well be darkness except as revealing some new aspect of concrete objects. The dogmas of the believer may extend farther or pierce deeper than those of the unbeliever, but their vitality is entirely within the region to which both have access, The creed about the beyond, when not a set of words, is but another mode of stating a belief about the present. The vulgar epicurean infers from the shortness of life that eating and drinking are the only pleasures worth enjoyment. The ascetic infers from the same fact that sen- sual pleasures are worthless. Each has as defi- nite a creed as his rival, and as capable of ex- pression in peremptory terms. Whether we express doubts as to the reality of future or of present pleasures, or beliefs as to the reality of their evils, we may equally have a dogmatic creed capable of serving for a rule of conduct. Every THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. | genuine belief, in short, which refers to the tial scendental world, carries with it a reference to this, which may be accepted or denied by those who would in terms most narrow the sphere of belief, This illustration, however, suggests the really important distinction. Some creeds do in fact supply motives for consistent and vigorous ag. tion, while others produce a paralysis of the wil, This is not because one creed expresses an abso. ; lutely greater quantity of belief—if one may say so—than its rivals. Creeds which once prompted to the most energetic action have become simply obstructive, like Mohammedanism; and some of the most intense beliefs in the world, as some forms of fatalism, are more depressing than any doubts. But, as a general rule, creeds must their stimulating power when they tend to pre duce doubt in presence of the great emergencies , of life. If one creed gives a definite precept when its opposite leaves the mind undecided be tween conflicting precepts, the first will be best — adapted for energetic persons. Such a creed, moreover, can be most simply expressed in terms — of affirmation when its opposite most easily takes the negative form, It is more natural, that is,” $3 to give the positive form to the rule which pre scribes one out of a dozen courses of action to the rule which asserts them to be all equally — promising. And, in this sense, the positive is more likely to be stimulating than the negative — form, or, if we choose so to speak, belief than skepticism. We might infer that, as a ceases to possess its old power, the n which have always been latent in its = will tend to assume greater prominence. They must, in fact, become more distinctly operative — The creed is depressing when it restrains a frequently than it impels. But the tendeney® obscured by the habit of using the old forms; s0@ — the creed which is most skeptical in this se most incapable, that is, of suggesting p motives and efficient restraints—may still ex itself in the positive language. We must upon its real tendency, not by simply ex the form of its utterance, nor by asking li many beliefs it expresses, but by inquiring, well as we can, which side of the creed is most portant in relation to the conditions of the Such an inquiry will be facilitated by t into distinct light those implicit denials wh overlooked in the ordinary statements, 1 thus ask what it is that the Christian 1 now existing, actually denies, we may f find some explanation of its failure to unbeliever. ae cases. | of that it every st tic in the upon the ratiocina ever an ¢ curred, i: interferer his surp! should ta ence of f account | tianity. science W of Christ take a fac it to be al the man 1 operation the great somebody ties simil write Ho impossibl the legen: without t If it is sk skeptical Jehovah i In the is denied ; tie” refus cause the upon no who—wrc thority—s Volves a | and showe innocence the story belief imp lible, and may obtai honor its | those asst Who asser implicitly Creed but hot differ |

Page 561

THE SKEPTICISM OF BELIEVERS. 557 One or two familiar arguments from the evi- | eral principles of evidence. He merely asserts dence-writers may givea clew to the inquiry. A man believes in the immaculate conception. He denies, then, that a certain event took place in accordance with laws exemplified in all similar cases, He impugus in this instance the validity of that inductive process upon which he counts at every step in daily life. He is a scientific skep- tic in the strictest sense, for he is throwing doubt upon the trustworthiness of one of the primary ratiocinative processes. The same is true, when- ever an event, admitted by all parties to have oc- curred, is ascribed by one party to supernatural interference. An amiable apologist expressed his surprise the other day that men of science | . . | should take into account such trifles as the exist- ence of flint implements, and refuse to take into | account the’ existence of the Bible and of Chris- tianity. Surely he never heard of the men of science who denied the existence of the Bible and of Christianity. Which man really declines “to take a fact into account”’—the man who declares it to be altogether exceptional and supernatural, or the man who regards it as a result of the normal operation of recognized forces? Which implies the greatest “skepticism”’—the assertion that somebody-wrote the book of Genesis by facui- ties similar to those which enabled another to write Homer, or the assertion that it is utterly impossible that anybody would have written down the legends of the Garden of Eden and the Ark, | without the direct assistance of God Almighty ? If it is skeptical to deny one agency, it is equally skeptical to deny the other. What is given to Jehovah is taken from Moses. In the more common case of miracles, the fact is denied as well as the explanation. The “skep- tic” refuses to believe the myth of the Magi, be- cause the story involves impossibilities and rests | _ substantially the facts alleged, he has still to dis- upon no evidence. Somebody—we know not who—wrote—we know not when—on some au- | thority—we know not what—a story which in- volves a belief in doctrines shown to be false, and showed, by ignoring all difficulties, his entire innocence of critical principles. To disbelieve the story is called skeptical. Why? The dis- belief implies the assumption that evidence is fal- lible, and that, in particular, unfounded stories may obtain currency in a sect when they tend to honor its founder. Does any human being deny those assumptions? Nay, does not every one Who asserts the truth of this particular legend implicitly assert them in regard to every other creed but his own? The so-called skeptic does hot differ from the believer in regard to any gen- | the evidence to be non-existent in this particular ' case, and refuses to believe without evidence. | The phenomenon, admitted on all hands, is the existence of a certain narrative. One thinker classes it with authentic history ; the other classes it with a well-known variety of popular legend. Neither denies the existence of much authentic | history or of much groundless Jegend. If we ac- cept as the measure of the “ skepticism” inyolved the weight of evidence resisted, he is most skep- | tical who is most illogical; and it is as skeptical in one man to deny the capacity of the human imagination as in the other to deny the interven- tion of a supernatural agent. It is of course open to the believer to show that the rejection of this particular story involves ' the rejection of a whole narrative resting upon sufficient evidence. The argument is of the less importance, because miracles in this sense are now seldom alleged as evidence. People have become sensitive to the inconsistency involved in basing a theory of the universe upon the alleged exceptions to the general order. But another argument, now put forward with more confidence, illustrates in a more important case the skepti- _cism of believers. The character of Christ, we are told, is absolutely perfect. The moral code which he preached is equally perfect. The spir- itval force which he revealed is the only one capable of swaying human nature. The appear- ance of such a teacher, the promulgation of such a code, and the revelation of such truths, consti- tute an event in history so unique that it can be ex- | plained by nothing short of a divine intervention. Nay, the discontinuity implied is of so vast an order that nothing can explain the facts short of the stupendous miracle of the incarnation of the ruler of the universe. If the unbeliever grants cuss the real problem. Grant Christ to be per- fect—is the difference between him and the best of his race such that it must correspond to the difference between man and infinity? Grant his teaching to be of flawless purity and unrivaled power—are we to infer that nothing but the in- conceivable catastrophe suggested can explain the knowledge and the power displayed by the founder of Christianity ? The question is, briefly, whether the facts thus assumed are exceptional or miraculous, Every fact that ever did or will exist is in some sense exceptional; that is to say, it exemplifies the working of certain invariable laws under con- ditions not elsewhere precisely realized. Given

Page 562

‘ 558 the necessary conditions, we must always obtain extreme cases, which do not contradict, but con- firm, the general law. One comet has the most eccentric orbit; one man the most gigantic stat- ure; one artist the loftiest and finest genius. But the comet obeys the laws of gravitation as rigor- ously as the most domestic planet; the giant is a physiological curiosity, but does not imply any exception to physiological rules; and we admit that the genius of a Phidias implies, not the in- carnation of a god, but the occurrence of a spe- cial set of social and other conditions. A giant one thousand feet in height, made of ordinary flesh and blood, would be an impossibility, or, in other words, his existence would be miraculous ; but giants of eight or nine feet have existed, and may therefore exist, without implying any breach of natural law. The question of their possibility must be decided by our knowledge, derived by ordinary scientific processes, of the nature of flesh and blood and the limits of the variability of the species. Similarly, to prove the divinity of Christ by such reasoning, we must prove the superiority of Christ and of Christian morality to be not simply unmistakable, but to be so great that it is beyond the reach of the most exceptional nature placed under the most exceptional circumstances ; and, further, if the divinity of the Teacher is to be es- tablished, this superiority must be so great as to be fairly called infinite. Briefly, then, the be- liever denies, while the unbeliever asserts, that under appropriate conditions human nature may produce a Christ without any breach of the ordi- nary laws, though it may be that we are in pres- ence of an extreme case of those laws. The test by which the validity of either conclusion must be established is the correspondence of the rival | theories with our independent knowledge of man- kind. Hence it is easy to note the assumptions involved. The unbeliever, basing his judgment upon experience, has formed his estimate of hu- man nature from the facts before him. He sees that the race has produced many great religious teachers, among whom he may (or may not) reck- on Christ ta be the foremost. He believes that his creed can produce a Christ, because it has produced a Christ. It might conceivably appear that the classification of Christ as a man was er- roneous, and that there was an insuperable gulf between him and all who externally resembled him. The unbeliever denies the existence of this discrepancy, and holds that, though Christ may exceed the ordinary stature even more distinctly than Phidias exceeded the average sculptor or Shakespeare the average poet, the excess does THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. not exceed the recognized limits of variability of the race, as inferred from observation. Gening exists, and Christ was (on this hypothesis) the greatest of moral geniuses. The procedure of the — believer is different. He has assumed, more or less explicitly, that all virtue is supernatural; that Christianity and Judaism represent the true light which comes from God, of which a few seat tered beams alone have fallen upon other creeds, Human nature, then, is merely the residuum left, when all good impulses are assumed to come from without. Our nature, in this pure phrase,ig corrupt ; our heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked. From ourselves comes nothing but lust, hatred, and the love of dark. ness, It is only consistent to infer, when thishag been assumed, that human nature cannot produge a Christ. But, when this has been assumed, the question has been begged. Instead of framing our theory from instances actually observed, in cluding Christ, it has been framed by summarily excluding all great teachers as either the direct” or indirect channels of a supernatural impulse Christ must be God, because all men are deyila, The skepticism involved in such “ belief is obvious. It implies a denial of the natural good. ness of man—a refusal to believe that purity, love, and heroism, of a certain order can spring sponte neously in the soil of human nature. Wheresuch growths are to be found, they must be taken have been transplanted from a supernatural pat dise. They are the sporadic plants which have strayed beyond the guarded walls of Eden, and can only struggle against the foul, indigenous prod ucts by the constant care of the Divine Gardener, Every living theology is saturated with such skep ticism ; for our conviction of the necessity of a pernatural aid is measured by our sense of bumal impotence. The doctrine of the corruption @ human nature is the central doctrine of all ous theological creeds. The belicf in God this sense, simply the opposite pole of dist man. They are reciprocal dogmas, allied as light and the shadow. The doctrines of tion and the atonement are realized in pre as this need is felt, and die away or are ized into sheer no-meaning wherever it b faint. And therefore the belief in the suj ral character of a religion is but the other a skepticism as to human yirtue, when not ing upon a supernatural basis, enlightened pernatural revelation, and stimulated by and fears of a supernatural world. This brings us in sight of that ground tility to “ unbelief” which has the greatest® with ¢ object upon | Ultima: one. we Mm one fi truth 3 comes bility | beauti a resp tance | mate i phatie: what ‘ objecti ity. I that tl of beli blunt | liars, a into tk presert presery univers by mer by seri therefo: ly have in artic by its d Per! phers a rality u that an: of a sc way. | lished b tion anc ification ciation | of theo! of succe of the tl scheme explicit] for mors in meth body of within N accessib tion, ¥ sciences, basis, if \

Page 563

THE SKEPTICISM OF BELIEVERS. with a very large class of believers. A legitimate tually admit, that no other basis is trustwor- objection to pait with the ancient creed may rest upon philosophical, or moral, or esthetic grounds. Ultimately, it may be said, the questions are all one. The true, the good, and the beautiful are, we may admit, in some sense identical. The one final question is, therefore, ‘‘ What is the truth?” The wsthetic objection to change be- comes contemptible when it admits as a possi- bility that a belief known to be false may still be beautiful. The moral objection becomes at best a respectable prejudice when it implies a reluc- tance to press philosophical doubts to their ulti- mate issue. But, while accepting this most em- phatically, it may be worth while to point out what are the assumptions involved in the moral objection without examining their ultimate valid- ity, It i asserted, in a great variety of forms, that the sense of duty is based upon some kind of belief in theology. Whether embodied in the blunt assertion that men would be murderers, liars, and adulterers, but for hell-fire, or diluted into the more abstract theory that we cannot preserve our loftiest ethical conceptions without preserving our belief in the divine order of the universe, this doctrine is not merely proclaimed by mere bullies of the pulpit, but is expounded by serious thinkers worthy of all respect, and therefore represents a force with which we clear- ly have to reckon, Let us endeavor to draw out in articulate shape the positions tacitly assumed by its defenders, Perhaps the most important task for philoso- phers at the present day is that of placing mo- rality upon a scientific basis, We cannot expect that any moral theory will yet deserve the name of a science. But we may hope to prepare the way. We may confirm principles already estab- lished by empirical methods, show in what direc- tion and in what sense they are capable of mod- ification, and save them from a dangerous asso- ciation with the decaying and inconsistent theories of theological metaphysics. The first condition of success is the rejection of the main contention of the theologian. We must get rid of the whole Scheme of thought which asserts, more or less explicitly, the necessity of a supernatural basis for moral beliefs. If morality is to be scientific in method, though not a completely codrdinated body of scientific truths, we must find our data within Nature, that is to say, within the sphere accessible to the ordinary methods of investiga- tion. Morality, that is, like political or sanitary sciences, must be placed upon a sound inductive basis, if we admit, as most serious thinkers vir- \ | thy. The constructive method follows from this primary assumption. Morality must rest upon the truths which, if fully ascertained, would form the science of “sociology.” We can, it is as- sumed, determine with sufficient accuracy what are the laws which regulate the development of the social organism, and what are the conditions imposed upon it by its environment. We can infer what are the individual instincts which con- tribute to its growth and stability; and what, consequently, are the laws, a recognition and acceptance of which would be favorable to its healthy development. Laying them down we should virtually construct the moral code, Fur- ther, we should investigate the process by which the race has gradually felt out certain rules es- sential to its welfare. We should find that they have neither been imposed from without nor de- duced from abstract speculation. The race has discovered that the practice of murder is injurious to its welfare, as it has discovered that intoxica- tion is prejudicial to health—by trying the ex- periment on a large scale. The so-called intui- tions will of course be deprived of their super- natural character, and regarded simply as as- sumptions verified by experience, and now capable of independent proof, though not originally dis- covered by abstract reasoning. - They will have the weight due to the experience of ages, and in their main outlines may be taken to be just as much beyond the reach of possible refutation as any of the primary data of observation. They are as certain as any of those simple rules which are confirmed by daily and hourly experience— as certain as the laws that men are mortal, that fire burns, and water drowns; and such certainty, if it does not satisfy metaphysicians, is enough to regulate practice. We should infer, again, that the development of society is conditioned by, and tends in its turn to stimulate, the growth of those higher instincts which are unintelligible in regard to the isolated unit, but essential ele- ments of the great binding forces of society. We should see how their growth is interwoven with the growth of the intellectual and emotional fac- ulties, and determine the conditions favorable to their strength, and calculated to make them con- tribute to individual as well as to social welfare. We should then be in a position to examine the nature of the most efficient sanctions of morality. How is an observance of the rules essential to the welfare of the race to be enforced upon its individual members? The unbeliever has to ad-

Page 564

¢ THE POPULAR SCIENCE 560 mit that antisocial instincts exist, and will exist. He is not concerned with the difficulty, which has perplexed theologians since the days of Job, as to the unequal distribution of rewards and penalties in this world, nor with the solution reached by postulating a complementary world in which all the wrongs will be redressed. He may hope that the antisocial forces will finally be crushed out; but he sees that the process must be slow and stern. If, on his view, justice does not always strike the individual sinner, it falls unrelentingly on the society. If a disregard of morality is ‘nothing but a disregard of the con- ditions of social welfare, the larger organism is certain to suffer in the long-run for an erroneous or degrading standard. The negative guarantee for the triumph of good principles is, in the last resort, that evil means social degeneration and ultimate destruction. But as the unbeliever holds that the social instincts are in the strictest sense natural; that they tend to strengthen and adapt themselves to the growing needs of society ; and that they survive the decay of the particular dia- lects in which men have uttered their emotions and their speculations, he may reasonably hope that society will develop itself and reach a higher moral standard by a direct growth and at a small- er cost of error and consequent suffering. The ceaseless struggle between good and evil implies the existence of impulses tending both ways, but it may be hoped that, as the race becomes more intelligent and more distinctly conscious of its aims, the victory of good may be won at a small- er cost of error and opposition. If this be a brief indication of the main lines of the unbeliever’s moral theory, we have to ask at what point it conflicts with the believer's tenets. It is undoubtedly possible to state the believer’s theory in such®a form as to minimize or entirely remove the opposition. Diminish the anthropomorphic element as much as possible; identify God with Nature: and theology becomes little more than a guarantee for the solidity of our methods, If the belief in the uniformity of Nature implies a belief in the divine ruler of Nature, and, conversely, the belief in the order implies merely a belief in a regular order, the question becomes one of those already noticed. We do not ask whether, but why, we believe. One party thinks it necessary to get behind ex- perience ; it is not content with knowing without also knowing that it knows, or satisfied with the certainty of a doctrine unless it can be also called necessary. The other party is content to regard belief as an ultimate fact, and to assume, MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. without finding an a priori deduction for the go, _ called uniformity of Nature. I am content to observe that so far there need be no controversy — as to practice ; the believer and the unbeliever are at one in their methods and results, though dif fering as to the cause of their validity, It ia mere waste of time to bandy charges of skep. ea ticism and credulity. But, further, I must say that a theology of this neutral tint and abstraey character is not one which really governs men’s — minds. It is only in so far as the scientific com ception is modified that the difference is really important, The question of whether or not it requires a certain guarantee is little better than a scholastic puzzle, except so far as it helps the reintroduction in a disguised shape of ancient fallacies. ; When we turn to that kind of theology which undoubtedly makes a relevant contention, we are at once met by a significant difficulty. A belief may fairly be called skeptical in the practical sense which confirms equally a number of com — flicting theories. Morality, you say, depends upon theology. Then, is all theological morality identical? It is little better than a juggle to tell us that you alone have an absolutely certain rule if it turns out that you give an equally plausible foundation for mutually contradictory rules, L Now, there is no dispute between theologians, or between anybody worth notice, as to the valueof certain well-known rules. Nobody explicitly de nies that chastity, truthfulness, and mercy, are good qualities. Widely as systems differ, the — ordinary code—kill not, steal not, lie not, and so forth—may be regarded as definitively sanctioned — by the experience of the race. But goa step further: consider any of the really open queh ~ tions, and you will find that theologians can t ae diametrically opposite positions. There is a theory of morality which may not be expre in theological language. There are theolog utilitarians and theological intuitionists. One the” ologian says that man could not have discovert the moral law without a revelation ; that morality is a science of observation, a that God simply orders us to pursue the grt happiness of the greatest number; a third morality to be deducible by the pure reason, # infers that revelation and experience are am superfluous. On one system, the essence of | ology is the proclamation of future rewards . penalties. On another, the utterly unsell | of God is the only foundation of true virtue, ¥™ | ts destroyed so far as it is adulterated with | sonal interests. One theologian regards # ¢ plates, and th theolog moralit ing of moral ; theory virtue | But hor God is | devil is of a pr period Kingsle was the importa fond of

Page 565

THE SKEPTICISM OF BELIEVERS. tues of the heathen as splendid vices ; another, as proofs of the universality of the divine influence. One argues that all natural impulses are good, because Nature is God’s work; his opponent re- plies that all Nature is under a curse, and man’s heart corrupt at the core. One makes it the foun- dation of his system that God rules the happiness of man here; another peremptorily declares all happiness here to be an illusion, One holds as- ceticism to be sheer folly; another holds that it is the only road to heaven. The antinomian thinks that, as God has once for all elected or re- jected him, his actions are of no importance ; the sacerdotalist thinks that by accumulating meri- torious observances he can establish an inde- feasible claim upon his creator. One thinks it blasphemy against God's omnipotence to claim any shar¢ in the work of salvation ; another calls it an insult to God’s justice to suppose that salva- tion will not be conceded to good works. One sees in God’s mercy an assurance that all men will be ultimately happy; another infers from God’s righteousness that the vast majority will be sentenced to endless torture. Whiie there is a general agreement as to a certain moral code, there is room for the most contradictory doctrines as to the mode of ascer- taining that code—the creed which it contem- plates, the sanctions by which it is to be enforced, and the nature of the agents subject to it. The ism.” theologian alone possesses a sound basis for morality ; but which theologian? On the show- | ing of any one, his opponent builds directly im. | moral doctrine on the very same bases; and a theory which serves equally to confirm vice or | virtue has surely one of the marks of skepticism. But how should it be otherwise when one man’s | God is another man's devil ? When, indeed, the devil is simply a deposed deity, or the product | of a process of “ differentiation” dating from a period at which there was no difference? Mr. Kingsley’s special merit, says one of his admirers, was the clearness in which he drew this rather important distinction. His school of theology is fond of declaring that the God of the Calvinists, that is, of a very large section of their fellow- Christians, is in fact the devil, or at least pos- | sessed of diabolic attributes. If devil-worship | and God-worship are so intricately blended, the | resulting system of morality is not likely to be very coherent. It may be too much to say that | the scientific morality gives a simple and cohe- rent answer to all the doubts which infest the- | ology. It would set aside some disputes as mean- | ingless, while others will still continue to be se- 36 | | | 561 riously debated. But by excluding the arbitrary data resulting from the heterogeneous elements blended under the common name of theology, by settling the method and by limiting inquiry to questions capable of verification by experience, it at least brings the controversy within the pos- sibility of final solution. The ultimate root of thé theological contradictions is that they involve reference to the region of the arbitrary, where no test from experience can be applied; and the most opposite theories are equally plausible. The theologian contends that his doctrines alone, however much they may have been per- verted, can lay down an elevated code or provide sufficient sanctions. The first assertion usually takes the form of a denunciation of “material- I cannot here touch upon the metaphysi- cal side of that perplexed controversy, nor repeat in feebler language the reasons which have been set forth by more competent thinkers for feeling tolerably at my ease in presence of this terrible but very indefinite bugbear. We are considering the moral problem; and the theological conten- tion is virtuaily that, if the old bonds are dis- solved, the race will discover the whole duty of man to consist in eating, drinking, and securing the maximum of sensual pleasure. Virtue will be discovered to be a sham, or, as Mandeville put it, the offspring begotten by flattery on pride. We shall accept as the highest good -what Mr. Carlyle somewhere defines as an unlimited possibility of pigswash. Nobody, it seems, can deny the reali- ty of the senses, or doubt that sensual indulgence is pleasant within certain limits. But the more ethereal essences, self-sacrificing heroism, devo- tion to ideal aims, the love which finds in itself its own surpassing reward, will turn out to be mere phantasms and fine phrases. They will vanish from this mad ¢haos of a world, and so- ciety become a blind scramble for the greatest share of the enjoyments appreciable by the lower animals, If man has been developed out of a monkey, he must still be a monkey. What is in the full-grown animal must have been in the germ. The monkey is a prurient lump of fleshly appetites. Man is the same being, plus the facul- ty of lying. If the lies are seen through, he will be the same being without disguise, and may gratify his passions without useless periphrasis. One question naturally occurs. Are the doc- trines imputed to the unbeliever true? If so, the sooner we admit it the better. Every saint and hero in the world is a humbug. He is a brute like the rest of us, a Yahoo trying to throw dust in our eyes. Morality is a clumsy system of rules,

Page 566

¢ 562 adopted by mutual consent to facilitate the dis- tribution of pigswash. When we have come to an understanding, we shall be able to simplify our code. Even the lower animals learn to be- have peaceably when the conditions of life force them into quasi-societies; and man can make rules better adapted for the purpose. The purest selfishness will secure the obedience of the ma- jority to an arrangement in which all find their account. And as, on this showing, nothing but selfishness has ever really existed, we need not doubt its efficiency when it acts with less dis- guise. Buf the doctrine—as everybody will re- ply—is false. The disgust produced by a frank cynicism proves the existence of qualities invisi- ble to the cynic. Virtue, it is said with unan- swerable force, could not be invented unless it existed. The hypothetical pig (for I hold the actual pig to possess some rudiments of higher instincts) could not conceive of the existence of any appetite but hunger for pigswash. The ar- gument is conclusive, but proves the futility of the doubt. If the higher instincts undeniably exist, can experience fail to prove their existence ? Why shrink from accepting a test which, by its very nature, cannot contradict the testimony of consciousness? This appeal to experience is simply an appeal to that testimony by a definite method. I am conscious of some infusion of pure and lofty instinct in myself, and of sym- pathy with higher manifestations of them in others: Why should I fear that by any possible mode of interrogation my consciousness will be puzzled into a false answer? No scientific teach- ing can prove that my senses don’t exist, and | just as little can it prove that my moral ordinary sense does not exist. It is, indeed, true that a scientific investigator may, or rather must, deprive this moral sense of its supernatural character. He must endeavor to trace it backward to more rudimentary forms, to determine the conditions of its development, and possibly to show that what we take for a simple is really a complex instinct. But to assume that something has been developed, cannot by any dexterity be twisted into a proof that it does not exist. The belief that the moral sense is the normal product of certain existing forces, in- stead of being an instinct mysteriously dropped into us from without, strengthens, instead of weakening, our belief in its importance ; for such a belief alone can enable us to define the true functions displayed by it, and thereby lead to an external estimate of their vast importance. The conscience is no longer an inexplicable power, THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. giving arbitrary directions upon inscrutable gn, thority; but it is the name of a feeling, orages of feelings, developed in all social progress, and seen to be essential to the vitality of the rage Nor can any analysis tend to throw a doubt upon : the very facts which it begins by assuming, that men are capable of regulating their conduct from lofty and unselfish motives, and that conduct, so regulated, drives the most important wheels in the social mechanism. The essence, then, of the unbeliever’s conten. tion is that the conscience or moral sense is g faculty to be explained (so far as we can“ex plain” anything) by the ordinary methods, be cause it is part of the normal process of human _ development. So far as the believer traverses that contention, he is a skeptic in his theory of human nature. He denies the possibility of vir. tue except under some external compulsion, He denies the reality of virtue except as conduet regulated by reference to a supernatural world, With him, if it is not disguised vanity, it isdis guised fear. Man is a pig, though deterred by the rod of everlasting fire from unlimited devo. tion to his trough. This doctrine, indeed, is re pudiated or masked by the higher theology, By using the same word alternately to describe Na ture or a force which opposes and controls Na ce ture—for a whole, that is, or a part—roomis secured for any quantity of evasion. It need is only be said that, so far as the believer admits ~ virtue to be natural, he is at one with the unbe liever. So far as he asserts it to be supernatural, he illustrates once more the skepticism impliedin the argument from the moral character of Chri — tianity; he disbelieves, that is, that any good ~ impulses can arise spontancously from the com — rupt race of man, The tendency comes out more clearly when we turn from the questions about the reality to questions about the sanctions of morality. The believer cannot bring himself #0 admit that motives drawn from the world us can be adequate supports of virtue. If be does not hold by hell-fire—a subject which in seriousness we have ceased to mention to eam polite—he still maintains that man must larger stake in the universe than that of Bi ephemeral existence in the visible world; unles he can look forward to an indefinite vista of turity, his virtuous instincts will be asphyzi They will dwindle when the imagination is fined within the narrow limits of space and Our loftiest aspirations are but “ survivals” f@ the time when they could be nourished by and fears of wider date. The unbeliever,™ if its it is | appe tions a ch Nor, as it then bette canni be e If, on real | witho If th can, | strict B anoth look. to the to his not vi mora! Vent ¢ es on ishes Is it and o as pla it? | clings ent O

Page 567

THE SKEPTICISM OF BELIEVERS. said, is under the disadvantage that he cannot argue effectively with the man who deliberately prefers evil to good. He may prove the sinner’s conduct to be injurious to society, but not to be injurious to himself. The believer, and the be- liever alone, can demonstrate vice to be a bad speculation. Now, it must be frankly confessed that, if hell existed, and could be proved to exist, men would act differently. If we believed in hell, that is, as we believe in Paris, we should be other than we are, though whether better or worse depends upon further considerations. The undeniable fact that the belief produces so little effect as preachers are always telling us, proves that the | argument has some weak point in practice. In- | Allow me to as- | deed, one remark is obvious. sume tlie reality of my dreams, and I will produce conclusive argument for any course of conduct | whatever; but the assumption is rather a bold one. My argument, you say, would be powerful if its data were sound. That does not show that , it is better for practical purposes than one which appeals to less weighty but more real considera- | tions, A penny in cash is more satisfactory than | a check for millions upon an imaginary bank. Nor, indeed, is the argument in any case so good as it looks. If virtue is a sham, and hell exists, then you can demonstrate that it would have been better for men not to have been born, but you cannot create in them good instincts. be coerced, but not changed without a miracle. If, on the contrary, virtue is a reality, it supplies | real motives, which may therefore be sufficient | without attempting to fabricate infinite motives. If there is such a thing as an altruist impulse, it can, like all other impulses, be set in motion by strictly finite considerations. But the force of the argument is destroyed by another remark, which it is convenient to over- look. A law is not effective in proportion simply to the severity of the ruler, but also in proportion to his justice. A tyrant makes obedient slaves, not virtuous subjects. In your anxiety to enforce morality you outrage the conscience. You in- vent a judge who punishes savagely, who punish- €s one man for the sins of another, and who pun- ishes frailties for which he is himself responsible. Is it Strange that some men refuse to be cowed, and others invent devices for evading your law, as plausible as those by which you would enforce it? The ordinary common-sense of mankind clings to the conviction expressed by the irrever- ent Omar Khayyam: “He's a good fellow, and “twill all be well.” They can | 563 Isn’t he? Some believers think so, and infer that God will deal with his creatures by healing their diseases instead of tormenting the sick. A more numerous class has discovered that God, with all his severity, can be propitiated on easy terms. The proper ceremonies or the right state of emotion will induce him to clear all scores, and write paid at the bottom of theaccount. Science seems to say that Nature never forgives. What has been has been, and what will be depends upon what is, But Omnipotence can make things be as though they had not been, and therefore a miraculous mercy will check the operations of miraculous vengeance. The worst of using dreams in place of efficient motives is, that dreams are surprisingly pliant to men’s wishes, It is doubtful whether the conscience has been more stimulated by its fears of retribution or deadened by visions of pardon. Hell is a power- ful weapon, for some purposes, to those who be- lieve in it, but in practice it tends to provoke either revolt or evasion, as much as to enforce obedience. Such considerations may help to explain why ' it is that the moral standard of the race has been so little affected by theological stimulants. If a theologian could prove that vice involves absurdi- ties so great as to make it impossible, we might be grateful to him. But no one can assert, and the theologian persistently denies, that the unlimited application of this imaginary scourge has really made the race better. Thinking of all the atro- cities perpetrated under the religious régime, of its frequent effect in absolutely deadening the | conscience, of the false standards which on any hypothesis it has often substituted for the true | one, of the indirect injury done by crushing the | intellect or the moral nature from a cowardly | fear of possible abuses, one may be almost tempted to doubt whether its effect has been elevating or deteriorating. The truth is, that we are touching upon a problem of extreme com- plexity, which is obscured by all kinds of con- fusion. What, one may ask, is the relation be- tween the creed and the moral standard actually recognized by a race? To approximate to an answer, we should have to distinguish between true and sham beliefs, to make allowance for the tacit repeal of one set of doctrines ostentatiously advanced by another set covertly insinuated, and to estimate the innumerable indirect influences of the creed upon the whole social structure. One consideration, however, will be enough for my present purpose. Nobody will deny that men’s actions are

Page 568

564 THE POPULAR SCIENCE governed by their beliefs and emotions; but when we attempt an accurate analysis of motives, we are met by the difficulty of allowing for the complex reactions between the reasoning, feeling, | What we call | and active parts of our nature. beliefs may be really dreams ; and, in early stages of thought, the element due to genuine obser- vation and that contributed by the imaginative faculty are inseparably blended. The alteration of a genuine belief may alter conduct as the al- teration of the external facts would have done. | The facts, it may be said, are changed for the observer; and, therefore, his mode of behaving will change. But the alteration of a dream can- not be taken as the ultimate, though, of course, it may be the proximate, cause of such a change, for it must be itself due to some change in the character or surroundings of the dreamer. The dream represents men’s desires; it shows what it is which they hope or fear, or what is for any reason impressive to their imaginations ; a change in it must be taken to imply some change in those hopes and fears produced by an indepen. | dent process. Thus a changed belief as to a future world may greatly modify our conduct, so far as that belief was a real attempt to interpret experience. If, as Paley maintained, virtue meant simply ac- tion regulated by prospects of a future life, the destruction of that belief would destroy virtue. | It would not directly alter character, but it would close one channel for the display of selfish im- | pulses, and might indirectly come to modify char- | acter also. The doctrine of the unbeliever must be different. On his showing, the belief in an- other life was probably due, in the first instance, to an attempt to interpret experience. So far as we now interpret it differently, our conduct may be altered. But it is plain that all that colors — the belief, all that makes the future life an object of hope and fear, must be differently explained. ' | Since heaven and nell were not revealed from | without, they must have been suggested from within. A given person may, of course, have believed in hell on the authority of his Bible, and have been guided by his fears as he would by any other fears. But since the whole phenomenon— the belief of a race or society in a “future state of rewards and punishments”—can rest upon no ground of outward experience, its genealozy is clear. It proves what men hoped and feared, not what they inferred from external facts. There is no presumption, then, that by destroying it you destroy the desires on which it existed. You simply force them to take a different form. De- MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. | stroy the belief in the pagan gods, and you de | stroy the old poetic machinery, but you do not therefore destroy the poetic impulse. The believer may, therefore, hold consistently | that men are kept in order by external threats, and that the virtuous impulses, if they exist in the natural man, would droop and die without such support. To the unbeliever, this explana tion is not open. Fetters framed by’ men for themselves cannot be tue ultimate cause of the restraint. It would be as unphilosophical to suppose that a man can lift the platform which supports him. We cannot look outside the world to explain the maintenance of a certain moral standard, any more than we need look be yond the solar system to explain why the earth does not fall into space. The existence of these imaginary worlds becomes with the unbeliever g conclusive proof of two things: first, that men, or the leading minds among mankind, must have ' hated vice, for the thought of its punishment wag agreeable ; secondly, that they aspired to a better state of things, for they constructed an ideal | world where justice should be perfectly adminis. ‘tered. If a man works because he believes that ‘he is to be paid, the work may be done against the grain. If he believes that he is to be paid because he likes to work, the work must have some independent charms. Is it possible, then, that the closing of this outlet for the imagination will cause the atrophy of the instincts which prompted its construction? The unbeliever hopes and believes better things, He thinks that men’s hopes and aspirations will not fail, though directed to definite reality, in stead of the boundless imaginary world. He re ' gards it as a fact capable of strict scientific proof that altruistic instincts exist; that men have desires which can only be explained when man is regarded as a fraction of the social integer; and that those desires, depending upon condi pearance or modification of the dreams. The pride of reason is apt to revolt. It is not my rf present purpose to justify the doctrine, or oe show (as I hold that it may be conclusively ~ shown) that it involves no real offense to reasom It is enough to say that, so far as it is am es8@B ‘tial part of the unbeliever’s theory, whereas it~ may be rejected by his antagonist, the belie may most fitly be called skeptical. He dee | a fact to be contradictory because it will not tions other than dreams, will survive the disap — ‘ existence of such instincts may appear a paradox &) to some reasoners. A belief in them is the my® tery of the unbeliever’s creed, against which the tible cum: ultin race with pone lible, antes cann can | of in of th man of th the h self-c certa’ any 1 healt stitut attem leads price bitrai term, is me arbitr expre final | jectiv. dent :

Page 569

THE SKEPTICISM OF BELIEVERS. 565 in with his doctrines, and therefore throws a we can only reply that such words are meaning- doubt upon the validity of experience. The | less. skepticism in this case is merely one mode of The unbeliever, then, cannot admit that he stating the skeptical doctrine already illustrated | has really Jost anything. If it be still asked what —namely, the disbelief in the natural goodness | he has gained, he may reply that he has escaped of man. So far as the supernatural code or | from a skepticism of the most distressing kind. sanction is asserted to be necessary, the insuffi- | That creed is least skeptical in the practical sense ciency of the natural is more or less explicitly | which is most conducive to hope. When the maintained. early Christians believed in a coming millennium, Which creed, then, is most skeptical in the | or modern revolutionists in the perfectibility of sense already defined—least calculated, that is, | the species, each creed must have been stimulat- under existing circumstances, to produce cohe- | ing. The vision of the early triamph of the right rent and consistent action? The unbeliever | was not the cause, but the effect, of a faith, loses the use of certain phrases, or reduces them | flushed with excessive confidence, and capable of to intelligible meaning. The moral law, says the transforming, if not of regenerating, society. The believer, is eternal, immutable, supreme, infalli- | difference is characteristic. In dropping the be- ble, and founded on the nature of things. It is | lief in a millennium for a belief in progress, the just as eternal, says the unbeliever, as the laws | unbeliever holds that he is dropping the shadow of Nature upon which it is founded. As all | for the substance. The hopes of the believer reasoning assumes the continuity of past and | point to dream-land and therefore to a world of future, we can never look forward to a time when | catastrophes and surprises. They suggest con- the law will be essentially changed. It is im- | vulsions instead of development. Everything is mutable in the sense that, while the conditions | to be changed in a moment, in the twinkling of remain, the law must remain; but it is suscep- | an eye, at the sound of a supernatural trumpet. tible of modification and adaptation to new cir- | The world has been, and therefore may be, the ultimate conditions of social welfare, and the | tions, to be anticipated only in virtue of super- race can never fail to observe those conditions | natural knowledge. God came upon earth to without ruin to itself, and therefore to the com- | reveal the one truth, and to establish his divine ponent individuals. It is certain, if not infal- | kingdom. Strange to say, the light has grown lible, for, though we renounce supernatural guar- | dim as knowledge has advanced, and, when the antees for our moral beliefs, and admit that they | next catastrophe occurs, faith may have disap- cannot be deduced from a priori necessity, we peared from the world. The new kingdom has can place them on a level with other conclusions | so little attracted the allegiance of mankind that of inductive science. It is founded in the nature | the moral standard has improved slowly, if at all, of things, if by things you mean, for example, | and has often improved by absolute defiance of man and his surroundings ; but we know nothing | the acknowledged representatives of the ruler. of the transcendental nature of things, which is | The only hope is in another catastrophe which the home of the arbitrary, the absolute, and the | may shatter to pieces the whole existing order, self-contradictory. We cannot be more than | and introduce a new system, in which good and certain, nor say what is “absolute morality,” | evil, hitherto so intimately blended, will be eter- any more than we can say what is that absolute | nally divided. So strongly does this conviction health which is independent of our physical con- | color the believer's view, that the last defense of stitutions. The attempt to get beyond this is an | orthodox theory rests on a scientific argument to attempt to get off our own shadows; and only | prove that the universe must have gone through leads to a show of absolute conclusions at the | a complete catastrophe within some finite period, Price of finding them to be meaningless and ar- | and will probably have another before long— bitrary, And, finally, to use a much-abused | which is very consoling, and proves the existence term, the moral law is clearly “ objective,” if it | of God. 18 meant by that phrase that it does not vary What better proof that belief is, in fact, arbitrarily with the fancies of different men, but | skepticism ?—that it obtains a show of certainty expresses truths about human nature as sure and | by banishing all certainty from the world of ex- final as the truths of astronomy; though, if ob- | perience to place it in an arbitrary world of ab- Jective be used to imply an existence indepen- | stractions? The assumption, which underlies all dent altogether,of the constitution of our minds, | scientific reasoning, of the necessity of judging ; , cumstances. It is supreme as it expresses the | Scene of tremendous and spasmodic transforma- |

Page 570

’ 566 of the future from the past, is systematically rejected. The belief in the millennium has van- ished and the outlook for this world is hopeless or uncertain. The devil is getting the best of it here, though he may receive his deserts here- after. Faith grows dim as knowledge increases ; or, in other words, reason destroys all ground of hope. Progress is a failure, for the past was bet- ter than the present. In presence of all the great movements which stir the world, the believer's attitude is one of doubt, suspicion, or absolute hostility. Increase of knowledge makes him tremble for his creed. Social changes involve the decay of the one sacred authority. If he forces himself to believe that, in some sense, a reconciliation between the old and the new is yet possible, he is forced to equivocate, to strain words into no meaning, and to look with doubt upon his allies. He is haunted by vague dread of materialism and atheism, and fancies that science will somehow be able to juggle him out of confidence in the most explicit testimony of his consciousness. Belief in progress is handed over to the unbeliever, not only because the win- ning side naturally believes that things are im- proving, but because he alone can assign some ground for the belief. Measuring the future by the past, he can infer that the evolution of which we see the earlier phases will pass through others, as yet but dimly discernible, though dimly encouraging. The ultimate result, then, of the believer's skepticism as to human nature is that the belief in progress has been transferred to his rival. Now, the belief in progress in some one of its many shapes is the most characteristic product of modern habits of thonght. It is simply the doctrine of evolution applied to political and social theories ; and it must permeate and trans- form all such theories in proportion as they be- come scientific. A similar transformation must be effected in our moral conceptions. Theologi- cal language may, of course, be accommodated to this new doctrine, as there are no doctrines to which it cannot be accommodated. But the in- stinctive repugnance of theologians to such a belief rests upon a sound logical instinct. The theologian naturally denies the validity of the methods and assumptions upon which the belief in progress primarily rests, for he regards a knowledge of the unknowable as an essential condition of foreseeing the future. And the im- agination still acts more powerfully than the logical faculty. The vision of a supernatural world becomes vivid precisely in proportion as THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. our interest in this becomes dim. If the two conditions are not logically opposed, yet in prac. ? tice one waxes as the other wanes. We cannot really walk with our eyes fixed both upon cloud. land and upon solid earth. Dreams and realities — may blend for a time, and the dream be trang. formed instead of abruptly dispelled. But we — have ultimately to choose, and, as we choose, we __ must become skeptical as to this world or the _ other. By progress, it only remains to be said, we cannot mean a continuous and indefinite process of improvement. Periods of darkness and par. tial decay may always be destined to intervene between periods of growth and enlightenment The planet itself will ultimately, we are told, be — come a mere traveling gravestone, and before that time comes men and their dreams must haye vanished together. Our hopes must be finite, — like most things. We must be content with hopes sufficient to stimulate action. We must ~ believe in a future harvest sufficiently to make it — worth while to sow, or, in other words, jhat honest and unselfish work will leave the world ae te, rather better off than we found it. Perhaps this is not a very sublime prospect. Life, says the 9 most candid of theologians, and his arguments certainly support his conclusion, is perhaps buta poor thing. But it is a tolerable world so long ~ as one can believe that one’s fellow-creatures = have plenty of healthy instincts, and enough of a really noble instincts to secure a steady, if check. ered, social growth; that those instincts donot ~ depend upon our attaining impossible knowk e edge, and that they will survive all the petty ~ systems founded upon irrational guesswork. It is something to feel a certainty, based upon @ perience of the case, that we have nothing to fear from unlimited freedom of inquiry, and that we may hope, not merely an indefinite increase of ~ man's power over the external world, buta and more rational social order and more reaching sympathies. Extended knowledge a more accurate appreciation of the conditie human welfare, and a more intelligent culti of the emotions and sympathies upon wii depends, We can work and think without ing that some infidel Samson will suddenly down the pillars of the temple. We cannot! ter ourselves that our personal stake in the verse is more unlimited in regard to the future than in regard to the past and the distant; ™ possibly the reflection is consoling to some ple who think that they will have had ab enough of themselves in the threescore years

Page 571

THE BRITISH ASSOCIATION. ten! That, perhaps, is a matter of taste; but, in any case, when all intellectual progress is seen every day more clearly to depend upon the sys- tematic interpretation of experience and the resolute repression of all incongruous elements of speculation, it is desirable that we should gaze in the direction in which alone experience can 567 enlighten us, and accept realities instead of dreams. The skepticism which rejects the phan- toms is less paralyzing than the skepticism which, when it expresses itself frankly, rejects realities, and, when it does not, attempts to mystify us by a jargon which hopelessly confounds the two. —Fortnighily Review. THE BRITISH ASSOCIATION. T a gathering like that of the British Asso- ciation, which this year revisits Plymouth after a long absence, the value of the work done in the several sections is in truth quite indepen- dent of what may happen at the general meet- ings, which have a comparatively spectacular character, and whose object is to provide a sort of medium between the intimate scientific work of the Association and the diffused interest of the educated public. At the same time this object is an important one, and the remembrance of the proceedings left in the minds of outsiders in any Corinth; a specialist, however eminent, has not necessarily the gift of large and lucid exposition ; and if he has not, the temptation to take refuge in the technical details of his own province is almost irresistible. Dr. Allen Thomson was him- self aware of the danger, and made a sort of apology by anticipation. As far as he is pereon- ally concerned, the apology must be fully ac- cepted. He began with a general review of the history, position, and prospect, of the Darwinian theory, which left nothing to be desired. This first part of the discourse, though not strikingly given year—and consequently the amount of | brilliant in form, was an excellent specimen of support beyond the palé of the properly scientific a kind of scientific literature of which England world which may be counted on to furnish the | has especial reason to be proud. It was quite sinews of war—must depend in great measure | fair, again, for the president, being what he is, to on the impression made by the opening address. It is a thankless office to have to record, as we are now compelled to do, that this time the im- pression was not a very favorable one. In one word, the president’s discourse was much too technical for the occasion and the audience. It would be ungenerous to cast any personal re- sponsibility for this result on the eminent spe- cialist who was chosen for the office. The gift of interpreting the results of highly-special re- searches for the benefit of those who are not pre- pared beforehand by special knowledge is by no Means a common one—in fact, it is itself a spe- cialty which very few have mastered ; for which reason people who are anxious to parade them- selves as amateurs in science are much in the habit of cheapening it. The notion that Prof. Huxley | | | | _ technical lecture on embryology. and Prof. Tyndall are mere popularizers—because, forsooth, they can expound as well as discover— has almost attained the rank of a vulgar error. Some remarks to that effect were heard at this very meeting in the Guildhall of Plymouth. Those who imagine that such remarks give them 4 scientific air may be assured that there is no more certain stamp of a narrow and superficial habit of mind. However, we cannot all go to lay special stress on the evidences of Darwinism in biology; and a passing notice of the current controversy On spontaneous generation was in | every way fitting. Here Dr. Thomson declared himself in favor of those who hold that no pro- duction of really new organic life has been shown to take place under the present conditions—in other words, he adopted the germ-theory ; at the same time he was careful to point out that the problem of the first origin of life on the earth remains quite open, and that no conjecture yet advanced docs more than put back the difficulty. So far all was well; but presently the turn of the discourse became further specialized, and the audience found themselves listening to a severely Its main pur- port was clear enough, indeed, to those who knew in a general way what to expect. To others we think it must have been obscure. The presi- dent’s speech was now of blastoderm, ectoderm, and endoderm, epiblast and hypoblast; and the less physiological part of the audience began to wonder if they had not strayed by mistake into the biological section. Ignorance being the mother of fear, there were signs of alarm lest something improper should be coming; one or

Page 572

568 THE POPULAR SCIENCE two very discreet persons were observed to walk out. If they had staid, they would probably have carried away nothing worse than a more or less hazy notion that Haeckel and Von Baer were very great men, and that the amphioxus and ascidians have become families of much greater consideration within late years. From indica- tions we shall presently have to mention, it seems that Plymouth orthodoxy is still susceptible on the topic of evolution ; and it might perhaps have ‘had a calming effect to assure the good citizens of all respectable denominations that the am- phioxus is a particular béle noire of those partic- ularly naughty people the positivists. We have not heard, however, that Prof. Huxley has been | in high favor at the Vatican since Dr. Congreve put him under the ban of Humanity. To return to Prof. Allen Thomson, the gen- eral tenor of this more special part of the ad- dress was to set forth the parallel between the development of kinds, as conceived by the Dar- winian naturalist, and the embryonic develop- ment of the individual as it may be seen in any | of the higher animals, from the microscopic ovum upward through the various stages that lead to the finished form. On the evolution hy- pothesis, every such stage is the record of a con- dition once present in adult ancestors of remote generations; and this furnishes an explanation— how complete must be left for specialists to de- cide, but certainly the only explanation yet known —of phenomena in embryonic life which other- wise seem purposeless and unaccountable. Prof. Allen Thomson left no doubt as to his own opin- ion; he pronounced the evidence of embryology in favor of the continuous development of species to be not only strong, but practically conclusive. It is impossible for an embryologist not to be an evolutionist; no theory which does not include the leading ideas of evolution—namely, variabil- ity, adaptation, and hereditary transmission—can bring the facts of embryology within a general law. The connection and continuity of all or- ganic life force themselves irresistibly upon the “ faithful student,” him who follows, according to Plato’s precept, whithersoever the reason of the thing leads him, not looking to the right hand or the left. Such Were the general features of the address, which, valuable as was the matter, somewhat failed, as we have said, in immediate effect. It was read with a tone of calm and equable famili- arity proper for a discussion among experts, but hardly calculated to fix the attention of a mixed audience on the details of embryonic develop- Association in such difficult matters as had been MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. ment. There was likewise another drawback, and one wholly beyond the president’s control, The wise men of Plymouth seem to regard Dan winian doctrine as dangerously strong meat for their fellow-citizens, and the speeches that intro. duced and followed the discourse of the evening were apparently designed, instead of setting off and heightening its effect, to extenuate it as much as possible. The mayor introduced Dr. Allen Thomson in a rambling oratiop-(not unjustly re. ceived with bare civility), in which he took obca- sion to mention in an emphatic manner that, if’ the British Association studies the book of Na. ture much, the men of Plymouth study the book of Revelation more. It is true that Plymouth is distinguished above other towns for the variety, vehemence, and eccentricity, of its sectarians, It was reserved for the Mayor of Plymouth to dis. cover that the temperament which has produced three rival sets of Plymouth Brethren is peculian ly favorable to the formation of a sound judgment on scientific speculation. After this he launched into a display of classical allusions, in which Ajax _and Prometheus got sadly mixed up. However, Dr. Allen Thomson was Prometheus, and, if he | did not meddle with fire, nobody would peck him, | The suggestion of a “ winged hound of Zeus” in the background who tears presumptuous men of science was not in the best taste. Then, after the address, the Earl of Mount Edgcumbe pro- posed the usual vote of thanks to the president, | and said he thought the wisest course for the | put before them was to “take their president's: advice, and, instead of coming to rash conclu-) sions, reserve their judgment so long as that branch of science remained in the region of hy-._ pothesis.” This was a pretty bold piece of ae ~~ commodation, considering that the president, 80, far from giving any advice of the kind, had said). as distinctly as words could say it, that in opinion only one judgment was possible. Wheth-~ er the Earl of Mount Edgcumbe really meant that he disagreed with Dr. Allen Thomson on his ¢ ground, but did not like to say so, or whether had any more subtile meaning, we shall presume — ably never know. Last came Dr. Acland to ond the vote of thanks, and professed hin specially thankful to Dr. Allen Thomson for having trespassed “in a light and useless way”. on the forbidden ground of metaphysics, terms of this compliment seemed intended to ply a censure on Prof. Huxley and Prof. for their well-known Belfast addresses, and to gest in a delicate way to the good folk of Py wd Se SN MES ie 0 i given t were 0 with w sion, were le last hor by boy gymen, were Pp out exc who ha and hal hever j proceec ence, Sort of pitchin; and no! deavore Like th

Page 573

TREATMENT outh how grateful they ought to be to the As- sociation for not troubling them with any such superfluity of naughtiness this year. Now, it may be observed, simply from the Association's point of view, that the high problems of mind and matter, at all events when handled by mas- ters of exposition, are far more interesting than the development of epiblast and hypoblast, and much more likely to serve the objects for which it is chiefly worth while to have opening address- esatall. But this also is to be observed—and is far more important—that men of science need not and will not submit to purchase toleration by renouncing the right they have, no less than all other men, to discuss questions which lie at the foundations of science, and are of the deepest in- terest for all thinking persons. As on the one hand they will not go out of their way to meet the so-called challenges of people who have not learned the elements of scientific method, so on the other hand they will from time to time pause in their special inquiries, when and where they think fit, to consider the bearing of established facts or probable hypotheses on the general con- OF ANIMALS. 569 ception of the world to be formed by a reason- able man. We believe that no doctrine about physical events, whether it be the conservation of energy, natural selection, molecular theory of gases, or anything else, can furnish proof or dis- proof of any metaphysical doctrine, though it may show in particular cases that something pro- fessing to be metaphysics is really bad physics. But it is perfectly idle to deny that the state of physical knowledge at any given time does mate- rially affect the notions of mankind, both physical and metaphysical, about the order of Nature as a whole. Else why has science, as it has always had, determined enemies in those who are or fancy themselves committed to keeping up par- ticular sets of notions? The pretense of ignoring or deprecating these wider influences is unworthy of men who serve knowledge with a whole heart. Their business is to go straight onward, without fear and without favor, neither courting nor shrinking from speculative consequences, and least of all affecting to be, alone among all men, incompetent to discuss them. —Saturday Review, TREATMENT OF ANIMALS. By W. C. N our youthful days in the early years of the present century, little consideration was given to a systematic kindness to animals. Horses Were overwrought without mercy, when ill-fed and with wounds which should have excited compas- sion. If they sunk down in their misery, they were left to die, the chances being that, in their last hours, they were inhumanly pelted with stones by boys; no one, not even magistrates or cler- gymen, giving any concern to the cruelties that Were perpetrated. All that we have seen, with- out exciting a word of remonstrance. A wretch who habitually turned out his old, overwrought, ‘ and half-starved horses to die on the town-green, hever incurred any check or reprobation. His Proceedings were viewed with perfect indiffer- ence. People, while passing along in a demure fort of way to church, would see a crowd of boys pitching stones into the wounds of a dying horse, and not one of these decorous church-goers en- deavored to stop these horrid acts of inhumanity. Like the Pharisees of old, they passed on the other side. Such within recollection is a small sample of the unchecked atrocities of our young days. Cats were pelted to death. Birds’-nests were robbed. Dogs had kettles tied to their tails, and were hounded to madness by howling multi- tudes. Oxen were over-driven to an infuriated condition, and their frantic and revengeful career formed an acceptable subject of public amuse- ment. Barbarous in a certain sense as these compara- tively recent times were, there had already been shown instances of a kind consideration for ani- mals. The poet Cowper, it will be recollected, wrote touchingly of the hares which he had domesticated. Sir Walter Scott’s tender regard for his dogs has been recently noticed in these pages. There was here and there a glimmering consciousness that animals had some sort of claims on the mercy of mankind. What strikes one as curious is that society had retrograded in this respect. The oldest laws in the world, found in the early books of the Old Testament,

Page 574

’ 570 enjoin a kind treatment of animals. If we see an ass fall which belongs to some one with whom we have a cause of difference, we are to throw aside private feelings, and hasten to help the animal. We are not to take a bird when sitting on its eggs, or on its young ; a most humane injunctioi. In various texts the Hebrews were enjoined to have due regard for the comfort of the ox, the ass, or any other animal which labored for them. In these venerable records mercy is enjoined toward all living creatures. The modern world, with all its pompous claims to civilization, strangely drifted into an entire neglect of these bexeficent obligations. Throughout Christendom, any laws enforcing a kind treatment of animals are few in numb2r, and of very recent date. Even within our re- membrance, clergymen were not usually ip the habit of inculcating that species of kindness to domesticated creatures which we read of in the Old Testament; nor were children ordinarily taught lessons of humanity within the family circle. The oldest statutory laws concerning animals are those for the protection of game; but these laws proceeded on no principle of kind- ness. They were intended only to protect certain birds and quadrupeds during the breeding-season, with a view to what is called “ sport,” the pleas- ure of killing them by licensed individuals—the license for indulging in this species of luxury being, as is well known, pretty costly. It is not our wish to hold up “sport” of a legitimate kind to ridicule. The chief matter of regret is the coarse way in which game is sometimes pur- sued and killed even by licensed sportsmen: their operations in what is known as a bdattue, when vast numbers of animals are driven into narrow spaces, and shot down and maimed without mercy, being, as we think, no better than wholesale butchery ; and not what might be expected from persons of taste and education. Although in the early years of the present century there were no laws for the specific pur- pose of preventing cruelty to animals, thoughtful and humane persons were beginning to give at- tention to the subject. In 1809 Sir Charles Bunbury brought into the House of Commons a bill for the “ prevention of wanton and malicious cruelty to animals.” Mr. Windham, a cabinet minister, little to his credit, opposed the bill, and it failed to pass, The next attempt at legisla- tion on the subject was made by Lord Erskine in the House of Lords in 1810. His measure was opposed by Lord Ellenborough, and had to be withdrawn. There the matter rested until 1821, THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. when Mr. Richard Martin, member of P, for Galway, brought a bill into the House of — Commons for the “prevention of cruelty to horses.” It encountered torrents of ridig if and, after passing a second reading in a thip House, was no further proceeded with. Mr. Man tin, however, was not discouraged. He felt was right, and returned to the encounter, 1822 he introduced a new and more compre’ ay ei col sive bill. Instead of horses, he -used the word “cattle ;” this bill passed through all its stages and became an act of Parliament. This act ‘f 1822 was the first ever enacted against cruel 2 improper treatment of animals. Let there be” every honor to the memory of Richard for his noble struggle on behalf of defen creatures. In 1825 he brought in a bill for suppression of bear-baiting and other cruel Not without surprise do we learn that Sir Robert — Peel met the bill with determined opposition, and — that it was thrown out. To think that 80 emi nent a statesman as Peel should have been a porter of bear-baiting! No fact could beter present an idea of what was still the backward state of feeling among educated persons on the subject of cruelty to animals. B The year 1826 found Mr. Martin still at bis post. He framed a bill to extend protection tt dogs, cats, and other domesticated animals, fr cruelty. In this it might have been expec would have been successful. But no. ments to move the House of Conall unavailing. Mr. Martin died in 1834. Not 1835, when more enlarged ideas prevailed, there an act to throw a protecting shield cattle in the market, on the way to the slaug! house, and in the roads and streets generally over all such animals as dogs, bulls, bears, @ cocks, kept for purposes of baiting or fight over all animals kept in pounds or ind without a sufficiency of food or drink; and all worn-out horses, compelled to work broken down with weakness or disease. It was reserved for the beneficent the present queen to see a comprehensive act Parliament for the prevention of cruelty to mals, This was the act of 1849 (which was tended to Scotland in 1850), that now forms# basis for prosecuting cases of cruelty, and be called the charter which conferred on domé cated animals a right to protection. the backwardness of England in establishing: a charter, it is not without pride that one & that England was, after all, the first cou modern times to enforce the principle # prote defici gene! great by ea land ; out Ww fish ; weath boun of Na on sh like b ner fr Consi dalou: the ne protec of put some | rapid] As large | of the such ¢ the me

Page 575

571 TREATMENT OF ANIMALS. lower animals are entitled to be protected by law. | former owners or sent to new homes. Many That principle, as we have shown, is not new- | owners who recover their favorites through the It was recognized by the ancient Hebrews, and it | agency of this institution not only refund the is pleasing to feel that at length modern common- | expenses incurred, but assist the funds by sub- sense has legislatively assumed its propriety. Latterly, there have been several additional acts of Parliament, chiefly as concerns protection to sea- birds and small land-birds ; but, while well meant, these acts are very imperfect. The eggs of sea- birds not being protected, the nests of these ani- mals may be rifled with impunity. As regards small birds, a number are left out in the list of protected animals—the skylark for one. These deficiencies are unfortunate. Sca-birds, though generally looked on with indifference, are of great public utility. They benefit agriculturists | by eating the worms and grubs in newly-ploughed land; they hover over parts of the sea and point | out where there are shoals of herrings and other | fish; they are useful to the mariner in foggy weather, by their warning cries near the rock- | bound coast. How beautiful that arrangement of Nature, in making provision for birds to live on shelving rocks by the sea-shore, there to act like beacons, in warning off the bark of the mari- | ner from a coast that would cause its destruction ! | Considering that wonderful provision, how scan- dalous, how short-sighted, the practice of rifling the nests of sea-birds! A supplementary act to protect the eggs of sea-birds cannot, as a matter of public duty, be too soon passed. Already, on | some parts of the coast, sea-birds are said to be | rapidly disappearing. As every one knows, dogs are often lost in large towns, and roam about miserably in search of their master or mistress. A sight of them in such circumstances is exceedingly pitiable. In the metropolis, a humane plan for succoring lost dogs has been established. Some years ago, a_ benevolent lady, Mrs. Tealby, was enabled, by the | aid of public subscriptions, to set on foot a tem- | porary Home for Lost and Starving Dogs, which | has existed since 1860, It is situated at Batter. | sea Park Road. Any dog, when found and | brought to the Home, is taken in and succored under certain necessary conditions. If a dog, after being housed and succored, is applied for by the owner (with satisfactory proof of owner- | ship), the animal is given up on payment of the | expenses of its keep. If no owner comes for- | scriptions in the name of their recovered pets— as, for instance, “In memory of Pup,” “ For lit- tle Fido,” In name of darling Charlie,” “The mite from an old dog,” and so on. This deserv- ing and well-managed institution is well worth visiting. Only, the visitor must be prepared to see painful demonstrations from some of the un- happy inmates. On the approach of the visitor, each animal eagerly hastens to see if he be his dear master. And when a sniff and a glance render too evident the fact that you are not the person wished for, something like a tear steals from the poor doggie’s eye. The happiness shown when one of the animals finds his lost master is equally expressive. Looking to the great good done in the cause of humanity by this meritorious Home for Lost and Starving Dogs, it may be hoped that efforts will not be wanting to establish similar institutions elsewhere. There is another admirable establishment worth referring to. It is known as the Brown Institution, from having been founded by the be- quest in 1851 of a large sum of money by -Mr. Thomas Brown. Its design was the advancement of knowledge concerning the diseases of animals, the best mode of treating them for the purpose of cure, and the encouragement of humane con- duct toward animals generally. The institution combines the quality of an infirmary and a dis- pensary for animals belonging ‘to persons who are not well able to pay for ordinary medical attend- ance, and therefore does not trench on veterinary establishments. Several thousands of animals are treated annually. The institution, which is under the direction of the Senate of the Univer- sity of London, is situated in Wandsworth Road, near Vauxhall Railway-Station. As a hospital and dispensary for poor horses, dogs, and other animals, the Brown Institution is unique of its kind. As far as we know, there is nothing like it in the world. What a prodigious step in ad- vance is the Home for Dogs, and the insiitution now described, from the condition of things at the beginning of the nineteenth century ! In speaking of the improved treatment of defenseless creatures within recent times, a prom- ward, every unclaimed dog is sold for the benefit | inent place is due to the Royal Society for the of the institution, or otherwise disposed of ac-| Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, located in cording to circumstances. The Home is growing , Jermyn Street, London. Standing at the head in usefulness. In one year recently more than | of all organizations of the kind in the United thirty-three hundred dogs were restored to their | Kingdom, this society may be considered the

Page 576

572 without whose agency the laws we have enu- merated would, as regards England, stand a poor chance of being enforced. The business of this society is conducted mainly by the employment of persons all over the country to find out cases of cruelty, and to bring the offenders to justice. The society diffuses handbills and placards in places where they may come prominently under the notice of persons likely to infringe the law. It further has issued various publications cal- culated to stir up the feelings in behalf of ani- mals. The handbills and placards deserve special notice. Sheep salesmen are reminded that con- victions have been obtained against persons for ill-treating sheep by cutting and lacerating their ears, as a means of identifying them from sheep belonging to other consigners. Shepherds are warned, by a cited example, to abstain from a specified mode of treating sheep for certain mala- dies; because pain is inflicted, which a veteri- nary surgeon knows how to avoid, but which an ignorant though well-meaning shepherd may not. Farmers are reminded that it is a punishable offense to crowd too many sheep together on going to market; instances being cited in which eleven sheep were crammed into a small cart, with their legs tied tightly together. Cuptains of freight-steamers are informed that penalties have been enforced against a captain for so over- crowding his vessel, on a voyage from Holland to the Thames, as to cause the sheep much pain and suffering; carriers and cattle-barge owners are under the same legal obligations. In regard to cows, one placard cautions per- sons sending them to market with the udder greatly distended with milk, and from which the poor animals evidently suffer much pain. Cattle- rearers are told that penalties have been en* forced against one of their body for sawing off the horns of fourteen heifers so close to the head as to cause blood to flow in considerable quan- tity, and to make the animals stamp and moan; the object of such a mode of cutting being to in- crease the market value of the horns. Butchers are reminded that it is a punishable offense to bleed calves to death merely for the sake of giv- ing additional whiteness to veal. Consigners and carriers are alike reminded that the act of 1849 imposes fines or imprisonment as a punishment for conveying animals in such way as to subject them to unnecessary pain or suffering ; the neg- lect to give proper food and water to the ani- mals, whether coming to market, at market, or THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. watchful guardian of the rights of animals, and ! in removal from market, is announced in an. other handbill to be an infringement of the same statute. Drovers, by another handbill or placard, are cautioned against urging on cattle which by lame ness are unfitted to travel along the roads and streets; and against striking animals on the legs — so violently as to lame them: both are practices to which drovers are too prone, and both are punishable. Farmers, graziers, and salesmen are alike warned that the season of the year should be taken into account in the transport of shorn sheep. “It is hardly conceivable that respects. ble farmers and graziers, merely for the sake of profit, can in the months of December, January, February, March, or April, cruelly strip a dumb animal of that warm woolen coat which the goodness of God has provided more abundantly in winter to protect it from the cold weather; or that any English salesman will lay himself open to a criminal charge of aiding or continuing the offense by exposing shorn animals for sale at such inclement seasons.” Horses and donkeys find a place in the safe guards which the society endeavors to provide, by disseminating placards and handbills pointing out the penalties for cruelty or neglect. It isan offense against the laws to work a horse in a omnibus, cab, or other vehicle, when in an infirm or worn-out state. It is an offense to beat a horse in a stable with a degree of severity amounting t@ cruelty, merely to make it obedient, or, still worse, through aa impulse of angry passion. It is am offense to set a horse to drag a cart or wagon loaded with a weight beyond his strength; many coal-merchants and their carmen have been pro® ecuted and fined for this unfeeling conduct. It is an offense to cruelly beat and override poor 4 donkeys ; useful animals which seem fated tobe the victims of very hard treatment in the world, — It is a significant fact that one placard is a dressed to “excursionists and others:” those who have witnessed the treatment of donkeys their drivers, at Hampstesd Heath, Blackh and the humbler grades of sea-side places holiday people assemble, will know what means. The society aid the inspectors of or are aided by them, in bringing to justice t drivers and others for working horses and f in an unfit state in coal-pits. It was not likely that dogs would be left of sight by the society ; the maltreating of animals is the subject of some of the cauti¢ placards, especially in localities where rough pé sons, prone to dog-tormenting, are known t he num whic tort remi man) and | ona perat and | T prote inten that | were placa kill o in ne: those ishab) warni ty-six the gi Febru which fancie was ir chaffir singin bill, ¢ cruel fender live fo hangir sunshi

Page 577

TREATMENT numerous. Cats are the subjects concerning which other warnings are given, in regard to torturing or cruelly worrying. Fishmongers are reminded that it is a punishable offense, which many persons commit, of “ putting living lobsters and crabs into cold water, and then placing them on a fire until the water is heated to boiling tem- perature, thereby causing them to endure horrible and prolonged suffering.” That the feathered tribes should share the protection which the issuing of these placards is intended to subserve, is natural enough; seeing that the Sea-bird, Wild-bird, and Wild-fowl Acts were due in a great measure to the society. One placard states that it is a punishable offense to kill or wound any such birds (including the young in nests) within the prohibited period; and that those who sell such killed birds are also pun- ishable. Another placard administers a similar warning in regard to wild-fowl, enumerating thir- ty-six species, all of which are to be safe from the gun, the snare, and the net, from the 15th of February to the 10th of July, under penalties which are prescribed in the act of 1876. Bird- fanciers are reminded that one of their fraternity was imprisoned for fourteen days for depriving a chaffinch of its sight as a means of improving its singing. Poultry-dealers are, in another hand- bill, cautioned against plucking live poultry, a cruel practice which, if proved, subjects the of- fender to three months’ imprisonment. Carrying live fowls to market by their legs, with their heads hanging downward; and exposing fowls to hot sunshine with their legs tied together —have brought the offenders into trouble. In another placard the patrons of pigeon-matches are warned that occasional cruelties practised by them or their servants come within the scope of the law. In one of the society’s publications, the cruelty of bearing-reins for carriage-horses is significant- ly pointed out. The society has been encouraged in its benev- olent exertions by a letter from her Majesty the | Queen, addressed in 1874 te the Earl of Harrow- by, in his capacity as president. There was an assembly in London of foreign delegates repre- senting similar associations, on the occasion of the holding of the half-century jubilee of the parent society. Her Majesty requested the presi- OF ANIMALS. 573 dent to give expression publicly to her warm in- terest in the success of the efforts made here and abroad for the purpose of diminishing the cruel- ties practised on dumb animals. “The queen hears and reads with horror of the sufferings which the brute creation often undergo from the thoughtlessness of the ignorant, and she fears also sometimes from the experiments in pursuit of science. For the removal of the former the queen trusts much to the progress of education; and ir regard to the pursuit of science, she hopes that the advantage of those anesthetic discover- ies from which man has derived so much benefit himself, in the alleviation of suffering, may be fully extended to the lower animals. Her Majes- ty rejoices that the society awakens the interest of the young by the presentation of prizes for essays connected with the subject, and hears with gratification that her son and daughter-in-law show their interest and sympathy by presenting those prizes at your meetings.” Looking to the distinguished patronage of the society from her Majesty downward, its vast array of supporters, and the large number of societies which it has helped to originate at home and abroad, we naturally rely upon it for promoting a consolidation and expansion of the laws against cruelty to animals. These laws, as has been seen, are composed of shreds and patclies, brought into existence with difficulty, and in many respects imperfect. The time appears to have come when the whole should be combined in a statute ap- plicable to all parts of the United Kingdom. That certain actions should be deemed cruelties punishable by law in England und not in Scotland, is anything but creditable, and not a little ludi- crous.’ This is a point to which the attention of legislators should be seriously invited. From the fragmentary and confused condition of the stat- utes, we have experienced much difficulty in ascer- taining what, as a whole, the law really is. This chaotic state of things detracts, we think, not a little from the glory which may be freely claimed by the English for their legislation in behalf of animals, A consolidated act with all reasonable improvements would be something to point to with satisfaction, and probably go far to insure a legalized system of kind treatment of animals all over the globe.—Chambers’s Journal.

Page 578

’ 574 T is a specialty of places of public entertain- ment in England that the approaches to them shall be made as deterrent as possible; that the persons whose duty it is to admit the public shall wear an aspéct of gloom and grudge, as of men who know how mistaken one is in sup- posing one is going to see anything for the chil- ling entrance-fee, and would prefer to warn the public off the premises, but, such an act of chari- ty being forbidden, would at least suggest by their grumpy carelessness the vanity of human expec- tations with regard to the particular entertain- ment beyond their respective doors or turn-tables. Who has not noted the surprise, the discomfiture, the sudden falling of the spirits, of foreign vis- itors, when they face for the first time the bare- boarded, backwoods’-hut-like approaches to the temples of art, science, and bric-d-brac, at South Kensington ; the insecure, slanting passages, like nothing but the improvised covered way to Mr. Myers’s circus-stable, which lead to the jocosely- styled Horticultural Gardens flower-shows; and the squalid disorder of the Low-Level entrance to the Crystal Palace, which combines a rickety and dangerous staircase from the outside with some dirty pens inside, through which the aapi- rant to the delights of the palace hurries, over loose, filthy, unevenly-laid boards, but in which he is confined on his way back to the train, under conditions similar to those of a “ lock-up,” where the tenants are habitually disorderly? We have always put up with things of this kind—was not there a perceptible undercurrent of misgiving when decent entrances to certain theatres were “introduced,” by managers whose minds had been influenced by foreign customs in this re- spect ?—and we probably always shall put up with them; but still we must air our grievances concerning the entrances to the Aquarium at Westminster, the dreariest place by daylight— that is, unless our experience was exceptional— . within our knowledge. Not the gentle melan- choly of which Dickens writes as mostly charac- teristic of places where one is encouraged by ad- vertisement to expect a “happy day,” but a stronger feeling, akin to dismay, takes possession of the visitor who has passed through the creak- ing turn-table and the doors, with the rough handles which he is to “push” or “ pull,” ac- cording to circumstances, and finds himself in the dingy vastness of the Aquarium, where the THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. MR. PONGO. tanks are thinly occupied by a few common _ specimens of fish, often not of the kinds ind f cated on the cards supposed to guide the visitor _ to their contents, and where the smaller case — containing the tortoises, water-serpents, and baby. alligators, are exceedingly foul-smelling, Dust and dreariness—both of which, of course, may be — accidental—are the pervading elements of te @ “ entertainment,” as of so many others ; the floor 4 when we visited it was as dusty as that of any metropolitan station; the walls and pillars we a disfigured with advertisements; the flowers and shrubs are of the commonest kinds; the galleries # are narrow walks between dust-laden rails and tables, covered with ghastly models of fish, and specimens of the blighted hopes of the Zodlogical Gardens. A plaster cast of an infant hippopote mus, with one leg broken off short, and a “ prep a aration” of monkey, are among the cheering objects which one encounters on one’s dustyway to the inconvenient corner at which one finds the : narrow door through which one passes to a ~ . audience of the distinguished gorilla, Mr. Ponge At a dirty table stands a boy, who dis dirty cards of admission to a space ina ell formed by a rough inclosure of boards, leaving@ narrow passage—exactly like the prisoners? way in a police-court, with the coarsely-papered wall — of the gallery on one side—which is fitted @ three sides with rows of chairs, the two-shi seats being in front, and offering no advantage whatever over the one-shilling seats, except i persons of lively imagination, who discern in the red rope at their back. A space, with# raised floor, inclosed within wire-work, and ff nished with a couple of chairs, a horsewhip,s ladder, and a brown blanket, forms the scene OF the exhibition of Mr. Pongo, and his fri August, the chimpanzee, and the dog Flok. the audience collect, the depression of disil is to be read in their faces. What was the sity for stowing away the object of so much m sonably expected attraction in a dirty corner, @® surrounding him with deterrent accessories ? outer edge of the gallery is shut up with a cating curtain, lest a glimpse of the bewil¢ delights below chould be caught by the assemblage who wait for the appearance of go, and a boy, shrill and irrepressible #8 Ginery Dunkle (of Troy) himself, screams 1% sant admonitions about the taking of ti gently minds | Withou

Page 579

MR. PONGO. 575 even while Mr. Pongo’s German attendant is la- | the brimless hat. He is not four years old, but boriously enunciating the few sentences in English | he looks fifty, and there is not the contradiction. in which he relates the history and describes the | between his face and his manners which exists in habits of his interesting charge. the case of most monkeys, for his demeanor is Mr. Pongo is a very nice beast, but he is not | likewise middle-aged. Not, perhaps, that he re- so clever as August, nor so sympathetic as Flok, | members the Gaboon, his captivity, and his and one feels about him after a little while as one | slaughtered relatives, but that he thinks solemn feels about the heavy child in a nursery—that he | spectators who don’t talk to him a bore, and the is good and safe, but hardly amusing. There is | corner of the Aquarium: gallery dull. He is said something disconcerting about him, too, though | to be fond of children, and he certainly bright- itis in one’s own mind, not in him; it is the in- ened up when some came in, but they were shy clination to treat him rather as a human being of him, and did not respond to his hint that a of the unintelligent than as an animal of the ex- little applause would be agreeable. He gravely ceptionally intelligent kind. One speaks to him | climbs the ladder up which August skips with with marked distinctness and emphasis, and pets | derisive ease, and tests the strength of the wire- him, not with the flippant smartness one would work screen of his cage with nice attention; but bestow upon “Nature’s Punchinello,” his com- he seemingly makes up his mind each time that panion, but gravely, and with an effort to make | it will not “ bear,” and relinquishes the attempt him understand, as one might pet one of the | to follow the dauntless chimpanzee, who rushes harmless “ cases” at the Earlswood Asylum. In | about overhead doing daring trapeze-feats, dan- the quiet heaviness of his manner there is some- | gling himself by the ropes, just out of reach of the thing that makes one feel patient and painstak- | barking and jumping dog, and mocking the much ing, as with a creature of slow brain and percep- | superior strength of Mr. Pongo by his far greater tion; and when he claps his dreadfully human | agility. Sometimes he has a friendly rough-and- hands, with the black skin in wrinkles on them | tumble with Flok, or gives August an admonitory like ill-fitting gloves, and pounds them on the | cuff and roll-over; but for the most part he sits floor, demanding notice and applauding himself, | on the fluor, watching their play, or arranging his one claps and nods at him just as one would | blanket, in which he packs his feet up exactly as at a deficient child. He is singularly dumb, | we have seen children pack their feet up in their too, rarely uttering any sound at all, while | blankets on winter nights, and -he uses his hands one of his friends chatters freely, and the | in these operations in a thoroughly human way. other barks in all the exuberant delight of | Very like a man and a brother is he also when he games of play, of which Mr. Pongo is for the | drinks out of a bottle, grasping it in both hands, most part only a spectator, decidedly at a disad- putting his head well back, and emptying the last vantage where general liveliness is in question. drop down his throat. It is quite a pleasant di- When seated on the ground, with his gray back, | version from the close resemblance when, his at- his round, neatly:formed head, with comparative- tention being attracted to another chance of se- ly small and close-sitting ears, turned toward one, curing the much-disputed blanket, he transfers his long arms folded, his spare small legs, so dis- | the bottle to his foot, holding it firmly with the proportionate in size to his powerful arms, hid- toes. His slight, flat, small-heeled feet are more den, his lean thighs tucked close to his thick, | like those of a man than the feet of any other bulging, ridgy sides, he is wonderfully like a very | monkey, we are told, but the likeness ceases with strongly-built child to whom “ rickets” has come | the toes; these are fingers, and have all the wnaccountably, and in contradiction of his appar- _ movements of fingers ; nor is the face human be- ent constitution. Mr. Pongo’s face is amiable, | low the brow and eyes. The absence of a nasal and his attendant declares him to be “ very good- | promontory; the wide, sunk black nostrils, like natured ;” the eyes are serious and quiet, by no | those of a hippopotamus on a very small scale; means so melancholy as the eyes of most monkeys | the semicircular sweep of the mouth; the thick, with whom we have previously been acquainted ; | calf-like tongue, and something in the action of and when he hitches himself against the wires of | the jaw and throat, when the animal lifts up his his cage, his legs extended, one arm lying negli- | head and one sees him from the side, which also gently across his lap, and the other indolently | reminds one of a calf, form an unlikeness to the raised while he lazily scratches his head, he re- | human race as forcible as the resemblance in minds one of Punch’s pictures of an Irish Fenian, | other respects is striking. without the ferocity, the tattered tail-coat, and Mr. Pongo is in excellent health now, but has

Page 580

5 576 had two illnesses since he was sold to Dr, Falken- stein, of the Prussian Natural History Expedition, for two gallons of rum, and exchanged his chain in an African village for the more tolerable con- ditions of his European career. Perhaps he was too young when the hunters took him to have any dreams now of the deep, cool, dark forest, the great luscious fruits, the glorious climbs, and bounds, and fights, the long migrating journeys of the gray-coated community, the booming, in- articulate speech which was the language of his tribe; and it may be that he is happy enough in his artificial life. and many of the luxuries of civilization. He goes to bed at eight every evening, “in a very com- fortable bed, and sleeps till eight in the morning,” his attendant told us, “ always lying on his side, with his hand under his cheek on the pillow, like a man,” and he eats numerous meals with unfail- ing appetite. Once a day he has an ample repast of roast meat and potatoes; and his breakfast, THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.—SUPPLEMENT. It includes all the necessaries | B 73 a | air of enjoying the proceeding; he rolled his ~ tongue about, and when the sentence, “ His preg. y ent value is £5,000!” was spoken, he withdrey | his arm, gave the speaker a friendly cuff, as who ‘ should say: “‘ What! you're at it again, are you? — Fetch ’em with figures, my boy!” and dived rap. idly over and under the rung of the ladder, look. ing at the audience upside-down from between — his own legs, with a composed gravity infinitely ~ | comical. He never attempts to stand upright; he is too heavy, his attendant explained, and his legs are not yet strong enough to support hig weight. But it is expected that he will grow to ' a height of six feet, and then stand upright,ag the full-grown gorilla has been seen by travelers — | to do. At present his mode of progression ig | like that of a tumbler who is about to be picked — up suddenly by a pinch behind from the clown in | the ring. He walks on his feet and his hands— | the latter turned in, fist-shape, and looking like é small club-feet—and his back slopes gently down luncheon, and supper, consist of milk, wine-and- | from his broad shoulders to his thin, misshapen ~ water, bread, rice, eggs, fruit, and vegetables. | flanks. Mr. Pongo is an interesting if not pre He is on the best of terms with his attendant, and | cisely a fascinating animal, and the strongest — it was very funny to see him lying negligently on | proof of his quaint suggestion of kinship with his his back in a slanting-upward position on the visitors is, that one is never free from a queer — ladder, his eyes turned up to the ceiling, one | sense of bad manners in asking questions about — hand dangling downward, and the other thrown | him before his grave, black face; and that one ~ round the neck of his friend, as the latter repeat- ed his brief formula to a freshly-arrived batch of spectators. Mr. Pongo had quite an irresistible leaves him with a wish that he might have some a thing to do, or at least something to read. d — Spectator, Siberian Natural History.—Dr. 0. Finsch, late- ly returned from a scientific expedition to Siberia, has opened at Bremen an exhibition of the ethno- graphic and natural history collections made by him during his travels. The specimens have been duly classified by Dr. Finsch himself, and, ac- cording to Die Natur, whose account of these valuable collections we follow, give a good gen- eral idea of the kind of life led by the inhabitants of Western Siberia; in this respect they surpass even the Imperial Museums of St. Petersburg and Moscow. The inhabitants of the whole re- gion of the Obi, lying north of the confluence of the Irtish with that stream, live exclusively by fishing, hunting, and reindeer-breeding. The rein- deer is the principal source of their wealth, but the herds have been ravaged during the last forty or fifty years by splenitis, and thus the people have been reduced to great straits. For instance, we are informed that Ivan Taisin, Prince of Od- dorsk, who twenty years ago owned 7,000 rein- deer, now has only 700. Dr. Finsch’s ethno- | graphical collection consists of the following — groups: 1. Women’s and children’s clothing, at | ticles of feminine adornment, needles, and thread,” etc. ; 2. Household furniture and culinary ute ~ sils; 3. Men’s clothing; 4. Instruments used im © hunting and trapping; 5. Sundry other imp ments, together with requisites for smoking; & ~ Fishing outfit; 7. Articles used in public sp and in gaming; 8. Reindeer-harness ; and, 9, OO jects used in religious worship. Besides, is a complete state dress of a Tungu notable, also sundry specimens of Turkistan and Siberiall manufactures. The natural history collection’ cludes a portable herbarium, a great herbar of plants from the Altai region, mosses, arctic bet ries, butterflies, beetles, bees, flies, locusts, sf shells, reptiles, fishes, and birds, the last in gret variety. Then there is a collection of b skulls, and a number of paleontological specimel Finally, the economic products of Siberia # represented by specimens of skins, farm-pre manufactures, ores, and metals. ,

Page 581

THE EXPERIMENTAL SCIENCE SERIES. In neat 12mo volumes, bound in cloth, fully illustrated. Price per volume, $1.00. In active preparation : It. SOUND. It“. HEAT. IV. ELECTRICITY. V. MAGNETISM. NOW READY: L LIGHT; A Series of Simple, Entertaining, and Inexpensive Experiments in the Phenomena of Light, for Students of every Age. By ALFRED M. MAYER and CHARLES BARNARD. This series of scientific books for boys, girls, and students of every age, was designed by Prof. Alfred M. Mayer, Ph. D., of the Stevens Institute of Tech- nology, Hoboken, New Jersey. The full title of the first book of the series is given above, and from this book may be learned the aim and scope of the whole series. Every student of physics can remember the mysterious and awe-inspiring machines of the school laboratory, the great air-pumps, the strange and compli- cated electrical apparatus, and all the cumbersome and expensive machines used to display the simple laws of Nature. Perhaps he remembers the jealous care with which these things were guarded, and can recall the teacher’s frightened and blundering use of the fearful galvanic battery and the dreadful exhausted receiver, with its awful expiring mouse. These things were indeed strange, mystical, and altogether incomprehensible. It was small wopder that the young student learned to look upon the simple phenomena of Nature as a deep, dark thing, only to be grasped by great minds, armed with huge and expensive machinery. Prof. Mayer, looking directly at Nature free from the absurdities of the school-men, saw that the laws of Nature need no complications of brass and iron to show themselves to bright boy-eyes and clear girl-brains. Three postal-cards and a lamp will illustrate the progression of light as well as the most costly machine in all the laboratories, and an iron top, costing five cents, will show the laws of color as well as the best lantern in existence. This, then, makes the aim of this series. Every book is addressed directly to the young student, and he is taught to construct his own apparatus out of the cheapest and most com- mon materials to be found. Should the reader make all the apparatus described in this first book of the series, he will spend only $12.40. The remaining books of the series, that are now in active preparation, will treat in the same cheap and simple manner of Sound, Heat, Electricity, and Magnetism. The series appears as the joint work of two authors. Prof. Mayer performed every experiment in the presence of Mr. Barnard, and Mr. Barnard wrote out and prepared the book for the press. Prof. Mayer is well known, both here and in Europe, as one of the leading physicists, and Mr. Barnard is well known as a writer in all the leading magazines, and as the author of a number of juvenile books, , D. APPLETON & CO,, Publishers, 549 & 551 Broadway, N. Y,

Page 582

APPLETONS JOURNAL: AN ILLUSTRATED MONTHLY MISCELLANY OF POPULAR LITERATU f The Brightest, most Readable, and Cheapest, of the High-Class Magazines. Contains Serial Novels, Short Stories, Illustrated Papers of Travel and of Picturesque P Social Sketches, Essays, Poems, Papers upon Industrial and Scientific Subjects, all by the best writers. Subscription, $3.00 per Annum. Single Copy, 25 Cents. A splendid Steel Engraving of “CHARLES DICKENS IN HIS STUDY § GADSHILL” is offered exclusively to subscribers, in addition to the JOURNAL for one yeq for $4.00—that is, for $1.00 additional, each yearly advance subscriber to the JOURNAL may | ceive a superb engraving worth fully five times the amount. y This steel engraving is in line and stipple. It is not a fancy picture, but an actual repres¢ tation of Charles Dickens’s study at Gadshill, while the portrait of the distinguished author strikingly faithful. 4 The size of the plate is 20 X 14, printed on heavy plate-paper 24 X 30, making a /arge handsome engraving, suitable for parlor or library. The execution of the plate is of a order. The ordinary price of a steel engraving of this character in the print-shops would not be than five dollars. This engraving is entirely new. It has never been for sale in the print-shops, and obtained except in connection with APPLETONS’ JOURNAL upon the terms given below. be mailed to subscribers postage prepaid. — SPECIAL CLUB RATES. REGULAR PRICES. , APPLETONS’ JOURNAL - - - - - + = (+ per annum. APPLETONS’ JOURNAL, with plate of Dickens in his study - - 7 POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY - - - - - - * POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY SUPPLEMENT .- - - ° We will send the above-named magazines to one address for one year, for $9.50; with plate of Dickens in his study, $10.00. POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY and APPLETONS’ JOURNAL - one year, § POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY and APPLETONS’ JOURNAL with plate of Dickens inhis study - - - - - e- & oae POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY and POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY SUPPLEMENT - - - - - - - - APPLETONS’ JOURNAL and POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY SUPPLEMENT - - - - - - - . . . a APPLETONS’ JOURNAL and POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY SUPPLEMENT, with plate of Dickens in his study - * ‘ “ Any person sending us four subscriptions to either magazine, with amount for the be entitled to a copy gratis; that is, five copies of APPLETONS’ JOURNAL will be sent as you direct upon receipt of $12.00; five copies of THE PopULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY for $20.00, appress D, APPLETON & CO., Publishers, 549 & 551 Broadway, WN.

Page 583

43 Miniature of Premium Plate engraved to accompany “ Appletons’ Journal.” AT GADSHILL. f > Q 2) E ” 2 = % n Zz W x 2 a 7] fa) ra a < x 0

Full Size of Subject, 14 x 20. Printed on finest Plate-Paper, Size 24 x 30.

Page 584

44 THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHL Conducted by E. L. YOUMANS. Contents from January, 1877, Th: Earlier Forms of Life. By Prof. C. H. Hircucocs. Theories cf Primitive Marriage. By HerBert SPENCER. Huxley's Lectures. I{I. (Illustrated. the. Study and Teaching of Biology. By MakTIN, The Parallel Roade oe Glen Roy. (lllustrated.) Science in America. By Prof. Jounn W. Draper, M.D., LL.D. f. H. NEWELL Mental Overwork. By KoBErT penqumeneet, M. The Medical Profession in Modern Thought. By Prof. H. Mavups.ey, M.D. Soon Sharks. tow 4 = A Pacific Coast. By Pav. Sketch of W William T — Wit ith + eed ' The Trial of eo. By A. Mézik Distance and Dimensions of the Sun. a. By Prof. C. A. Youne. Se Education as a Science. 2 By ALExanpver Barn, LL. D. The Production of randy. Ups and Downs of the amy Island Coast. By E. Lewis, Jr. (Illustrated.) _An American Astronomical Achievement. By Ricnarp A. Procror. Nature and Life in Lapland. 4 C. CHAMBERLA | enn of Mind- GeorcE M. Beane, M.D. reased-Air Locomotive. By. M. GaRIEL. (Iilustrated.) Gas Manufacture and Gas Companies. By Wm. E. Simmons. Sketch of Prof. J. P. Cooke, Jr. (With Portrait.) Education a a ,Setenee, IL By DER Barn, LL. D. Formation of and Hailstones. By Prof. OsBoRNE REYNOLDS. Ravine rated.) On the Study dy of Biology. By Prof.T. H Hox How was regarded in Old Times, rem the of FLAMMARION. eeeated How the Earth was explored in 1876. Ke Judge Daty’s Is the Moon a Dead Planet ? By Epmunp Nersaun, F. R. A.S. Size of the Principal Telescopes in the World. The Journ ings and Dispersal of Animals. The Early of North America. By A. R. Grore. woe Sketch of Thomas Edward. (With Portrait.) Ay | an Infective Atmosphere. By Prof. Joun, spunea, © .R.8. (Illustrated.) Saeee ee of the Air to our Clothing. By Dr. Max von Pet- Audubon’s Lil Lily rediscovered. By Prof. Samve. Lockwoop. The Plant-Eaters of North America. By Prof. SAanBorN pees. (Llustrated.) The Science vs. the Art of Chemistry. By Prof. Iza Remsen. Vital Statistics. CHARLEs P. ag M.D. World-Creations. By ERRIMAN, Esq. Accoutrement ofa Field-Geologist. By Prof. GrtErr, F.R.S. Illustrated.) Annihilation ofthe Mind. By Prof. J. Trowsriper. The First akg ae Scientific Treatise. ” By Prof. 8. P. The Ball-Paradox. By Txos. S. p Cong, © C.E. (Mlustrated.) Laboratory Endowment. By Prof. F. W. CLARKE. The Ori in and Curiosities of the yteS ~ Numerals. By D. The Weientfaa i Labors of William Crookes. (With Portrait.) Gar-Pikes, — .w Young. I. By Prof. Burt G. WILDER. (Illustra aioe Ot Sdyiism, tet Teg 8 Steniion. IL. Wru1am B. CarPENntE sores. 5 oy hee E. Summons. (Illustrated. vitation, ani How it Works. By GRANVILLE F. its of Ants. By Sir JouHn Luszock, Bart. OSTER. Each number contains Correspondence, Editor’s Table, Literary Notices, Popular Miscellany, and Trrus: $5.00 per annum, postage free, or 50 cents per Number. Appetons’ Journat and Tae Porutar Science Monraty, together, for $7.20 per annum, postage | by the publishers. D. APPLETON & CO., 549 & 551 Broadway, % to September, 1877, inclusive: ana Ly Star in the Constellation of the Swan, By Al &E GUILLEMIN. (Illustrated.) a Marbles. By Joun D. Cuampuin, Jr. a “ e Wonderful Divisibility of Gold and Other By ALEXANDER E. OUTERERIDGE, Jr. t Movements of Jupiter's Cloud-Masses. By Ru é PrRocror. Toadstool Eating. , & vuxius A. PaLmER, Jr. Sketch of President Barnard. (With Portrait.) On the Evolution of the Family. I. By Herserr§ Our — Owls. By Prof. Samve. Locxw t Oop, ( Initiatory Forces. By GrorcE ILEs Mesmerism, Odylism, Table-Turning, ani and spittin By Wru1am B. CaRPENTER, LL. ; On the | yt of Standard Time LY the Tnited iy . HOLDEN. ‘ Matter and Mind. Frances Emmy Waite, M.D. Gar-Pikes, Old and 2m ll. By Prof. Burt G. W (Ilustrated.) Relation of the Air to the House we live in. By Dr, VON NEOFER. (illustrated.) Spinoza: 1677 and 1877. By EsT RENAN. ransmission of Excitations in Sensory Nerves, Dy De Pavut Bert. (Illustrated.) Sketch of Alfred Russel Wallace. ‘ss Portrait.) On the Evolution of the Family. Il. By Herserr § ‘ The Tides. By Prof. Exias SCHNEIDER. (Illustrated) On —_—_ Air in its Hygienic Relations. By Dr. r PETTENKOFER. (Illustrated.) ‘ A Brief Historical Sketch of the Discovery of the ¢ tion of the Blood. By GrorGE JACKSON FISHE Over-Consumption or Over-Production? By O.B. Atmospheric Pressure and Life. By Dr. Pavt Brrr. | lustrated.) Heat and Motion, and Political Economy. | On Heredity in Nervous Diseases. By at ] a? of Life. By Prof. a The Zodiacal Li By Prof. C. E. BramE. Sketch of Dr. Ba = Stewart. (With Partai) ; The Climatic Influence of Vegetation.—A Plea for our! ests. By F. L. Oswaxp, M. D. Education 4 a Science. III. By ALEXANDER E The Norwegian femme oe its Migrations. By Pa CroTcH, M F. (INustrated.) Matches. By JoHN A. Gaxver, A. B. ies of Protoplasm. By MicHAEL Fosrss, The Electric Candle. By ALFRED Niavpet. (il The Status of bay and Children. By HERBERT SPm A Pe tiveopbical mperor. By CaLvERT Vaux. Bad Odors in Reservoired Drinkiug-Water. By A Run throu The Sewing-Machine in by nmeed ~ etrospect and Pros id Forms te ny Fishes. By E ond Sasmeael (Illustrated. 3 On Drops. By A. M. Wonrarnoron. (Illustrated. Civilization and Morals. By J. N. LARNED. 4 Aboriginal Pottery of the Salt-Springs, ef LS Guise (Iilustrated.) Science and War. H. ay PRITCHARD. The Labor-Question. By R. G Imagination. Dr. Exuiott Cougs, U. 8. A. LATTIMORE. " the Museums of Europe. he T.M. . Domestic ) The Observatories of Italy. By Prof. G. Rayer. Does it take Time to think? By T. F. BROWNELL. % Tinois. Instinct and ppeetiges ence. By W. K. BRrooxs. J . Eccies. Sketch of Prof. Simon Newcomb. (With Portrait) i

Page 585

45 APPLETONS’ AMERICAN CYCLOPADIA. NEW REVISED EDITION. Entirely rewritten by the ablest writers on every subject. Printed from new type, and illustrated with sev- eral thousand Engravings and Maps. Tar work originally published under the title of Tar New American CrcLopapia was completed in 1863, since which time the wide circulation which it bas attained in all parts of the United States, and the signal developments which have taken place in every branch of science, literature, and art, have induced the editors and publishers to submit it t0 an exact and thorough revision, and to issue a new edition entitled Taz American CrcLopa€pis. In preparing the present edition for the press, it has accordingly been the aim of the editors to bring down the information to the latest possible dates, and to furnish an ac- curate account of the most recent discoveries in science, of every fresh production in literature, and of the newest inventions in the practical arts, as well as to give a succinct and original record of the progress of political and historical events. The illustrations, which are introduced for the first time in the present edition, have been added not for the sake of pictorial effect, but to give greater lucidity and force to the explanations in the text. They embrace all branches of science and of natural his- tory, and depict the most famous and remarkable features of scenery, architecture, and art, as well as the various processes of mechanics and manufactures. Although intended for instruction rather than embellishment, no pains have been spared to insure their artistic excellence ; the cost of their execution is enormous, and it is believed they will find an excellent reception as an admirable feature of the Crctorapia, and worthy of its high character. This work is sold to Subscribers only, payable on delivery of each volume. It is now completed in sixteen large octavo volumes, each containing over eight hundred pages, fully illustrated with several thousand Wood Engravings, and with numerous colored Lithographic Maps. PRICE AND STYLE OF BINDING. In Extra Cloth, - - per vol., $5 00] In Half Russia, extra gilt, per vol., $8 oe In Library Leather, - « 6 00 | In Full Mor., ant., gt. edges, “ 10 00 In Half Turkey Morocco, “ 7 co|ln Full Russia, : s * 10 oe *,* Specimen-pages of Taz American CrcLopapia, showing type, illustrations, etc, will be sent gratis, on application. D. APPLETON & C0., Publishers, 549 & 651 Broapwar, New Yous,

Page 586

READY SHORTLY. HOSPITALS: THEIR HISTORY, ORGANIZATION, AND CONSTRUCTION. Boylston Prize-Essay of Harvard University for 1876. BY W. GILL WYLIE, M.D. “*aN OUNCE OF PREVENTION 18 WORTH A POUND OF CURE.” One vol.,8vo. Cloth. Illustrated. - i ooo Price, $2.50. D. APPLETON & 00., Publishers, New York. BOYLSTON MEDICAL PRIZE QUESTIONS. Tur Bortston MepicaL ComMITTEE, appointed by the President and Fellows of Harvard University, consists of the following physicians: J. B. 8. Jackson, M. D., Henry J. BicEtow, M.D., D. H. Storer, M.D. Ricwarp M. Hopees, M. D., Morritt WYMAN, M. D., Catvin Exuis, M.D., Samvet Cazor, M.D. At the annual meeting, held June 7, 1875, it was voted that no dissertation worthy ofa prize had been offered on either of the subjects proposed for 1875. The following are the questions proposed for 1876: 1. Civil Hospital Construction (not of Lunatic Asylums) ; Location, Materials, Arrange- ment, Warming, Ventilation, Drainage, Lighting; with Designs. The author of a dissertation on this subject, considered worthy of a prize, will be enti- tled to a premium of Three Hundred Dollars. Dissertations on the above subjects must be transmitted, postpaid, to J. B. S. Jackson, M. D., Boston, on or before the Wednesday in April, 1876. Each dissertation must be accompanied by a sealed packet, on which shall be written some device or sentence, and within which shall be inclosed the author's name and resi- dence. The same device or sentence is to be written on the dissertation to which the packet is attached. The writer of each dissertation is expected to transmit his communication to the Pres- ident of the Committee, J. B. 8S. Jackson, M.D., in a distinct and plain handwriting, and with the pages bound in book form, within the time specified. Any clew by which the authorship of a dissertation is made known to the committee will debar such dissertation from competition. Preference will be given to dissertations which exhibit original work. All unsuccessful dissertations are deposited with the Secretary, from whom they may Ri mm Dee the sealed packet unopened, if called for within one year after they have m received. ‘ By > order adopted in 1826, the Secretary was directed to publish annually the follow- ing votes : e That the Board do not consider themselves as approving the doctrines contained in any of the diseertations to which premiums may be adjnd d. 2. That in case of publication of a successful diseertation, the author be considered as bound to print the above vote in connection therewith. At the annual meeting, held June 5, 1876, it was voted that a prize of three hundred dollars be awarded to Dr. W. Gill Wylie, of New York, for a dissertation on “ Civil Hospital Construction.” It was also voted that a dissertation on “ Hospital Construction,” bearing the motto “ Mille mali species, mille salutis erunt,” was of such a high order of merit that the committee recommend its publication by the author. Ricuarp M. Hons, M. D., Secretary, Boston, Mass. Cid te SAIL eae TM ae

Page 587

47 COLLECTION OF FOREIGN AUTHORS. Tue design of the “Collection of Foreign Authors” is to give selections from the better current light literature of France, Germany, and other countries of the European Continent, translated by compe- tent hands. The series will be published in uniform 16mo volumes, at a low price, and bound jn paper covers and in cloth. NOW READY. SAMUEL BROHL AND COMPANY. A Novel. From the French of Vicror CHERBULIEZ. 1 vol., 16mo. Paper covers, 60 cents; cloth, $1.00. GERARD’S MARRIAGE. A Novel. From the French of Anpré Tuevrier. Pa- per covers, 50 cents; cloth, 75 cents. SPIRITE. A Fantasy. From the French of Tatornite Gautier. Paper, 50 cents; cloth, 75 cents. THE TOWER OF PERCEMONT. From the French of Grorcz Sanp. Paper, . 50 cents ; cloth, 75 cents. SAFAR-HADGI; or, Russ and Turcoman. By Prince Lusomrsxi. IN PREPARATION. DON ENRIQUE DE RAMERO. [From the German of Jonann von Dewaut. D. APPLETON & 00., Publishers, 649 & 651 Broadway, N. ¥. *,* Either of the above volumes sent by mail, post-paid, to any address in the United States or Canada, upon receipt of the price. ; D. APPLETON & CO. Have just published: L ° PHYSIOLOGICAL ASTHETICS. By GRANT ALLEN, B.A. 1 vol., 12mo Il. AMERICAN ADDRESSES, WITH A LECTURE ON THE STUDY OF BIOLOGY. By THOMAS H. HUXLEY, AUTHOR OF “ ORIGIN OF MAN,” “‘ LAY SERMONS,” ETC. Cloth, $1.25. Ii. THE CHURCH OF THE APOSTLES. By the Rt. Rev. WM. INGRAHAM KIP, D.D., LL. D., BISHOP OF CALIFORNIA. 1 vol., 12mo IV. AN ELEMENTARY TREATISE ON THE INTEGRAL CALCULUS. Containing Applications to Plane Curves and Surfaces, with numerous Examples. By BENJAMIN WILLIAMSON, M.A., FELLOW AND TUTOR OF TRINITY COLLEGE, DUBLIN; AUTHOR OF “ DIFFERENTIAL CALCULUS.” 1 vol., 12mo

Page 588

48 THE INTERNATIONAL SCIENTIFIC SERIES. NoW READY. Mo. 1. FORMS OF WATER, x Clouds, Rain, Rivers, Ice, and Glaciers. By Prof. Joun Tywpaur, LL.D, F.R.S. vol. Cloth. Price, $1.50. 62. PHYSICS AND POLITICS; ©, Thoughts on the Application of the Principles of “ Natural Selection ” = eOthe Prien, a Society. By Watrer Baceuort, Esq., author of “The English Constitution.” * 3. FOODS. By Eowaxp Sur, M.D., LL.B.,F.R.S. 1 vol. Cloth. Price, $1.75. 64. MIND AND BODY, The Theories of their Relations. By Axex. Barn, LL. D., Professor of Logic in the University of Aberdeen. 1 vol.,12mo. Cloth. Price, $1.50, “« 6S. THE STUDY OF SOCIOLOGY. By Hexsenr Srencer. 1 vol., 12mo. Cloth. Price, $1.50. - 6 THe New NEW CHEMISTRY. By Prof. Jostau P. Cooxs, Jr., of Harvard University. 1 vol., 12mo. Cloth. » % “« 7. THE CONSERVATION OF ENERCY. By Prof. Barrour Stewart, LL, D., F.R.S. 1 vol., 12mo. Cloth. Price, $1.50. “« & AGRRBAL. LOCOMOTION ; ©, Walking, Swimming, and Flying, with a Dissertation on Aéronautics. By Baut Perrionew, M. D., F.R.S., F.R.S.E., F.R.C.P.E. 1 vol.,12mo. Fully illustrated. Price, $1.75. “ 2 RESPONSIBILITY IN MENTAL DISEASE. By Henry Maupstey, M. D. 1 vol., 12mo. Cloth. Price, $1.50. * 10. THE SCIENCE OF LAW. By Prof. Sueipon Amos, 1 vol.,12mo. Cloth. Price, $1.75. * «tt. ANIMAL MECHANISM, A Treatise on Terrestrial and Aérial Locomotion. By E.J. Margy. With 117 Illustrations, Price, $1.75. “ 12. THE HISTORY OF THE CONFLICT BETWEEN RELICION AND SCIENCE, By Joun Wu. Draper, M. D., LL. D., aathor of “ The Intellectual Development of Europe.” Price, $1.75, “* 13. THE DOCTRINE OF DESCENT, AND DARWINISM. By Prof. Oscar Scumupr, Stras- burg University. Price, $1.50. “ 14. THE CHEMISTRY OF LICHT AND PHOTOGRAPHY. Inits Application to Art, Science, and Industry. By Dr. Hermann Vocer. 100 Illustrations. Price, $2.00. 1S. FUNGI; their Nature, Influence, and Uses. By M. C.Cooxe, M.A., LL.D, Edited by Rev. M. J. Benxerey, M.A., F.L.S. Wit 109 Illustrations. Price, $1.50. (6. = AND CROWTH OF LANGUACE. By Prof. W. D. Wurrver, of Yale College. , $1.50, “ 17. MONEY AND THE MECHANISM OF EXCHANCE,. By W. Sraxtzy Jevons, M.A, F. R. S., Professor of Logie and Political Economy in the Owens College, Manchester, Price, $1.75. * 18. THE NATURE OF LICHT, with « General Account of Physical Optics. By Dr. Evczne Lommat, of Physics in the University of Erlangen. With 188 Illustrations and a Plate of Spectra in Chromo- Uthography. » $2.00. “* 19. ANIMAL PARASITES AND MESSMATES. By Monsieur Van B » Professor of the University of Louvain, C te of France. With 83 Illustrations. Price, #1. 50. * 20. ON FERMENTATIONS. tr P. \ eaiianandian, Director at the Chemical Laboratory at the Sor- bonne With 28 Illustrations. Price, $1.50. * 21. THE FIVE SENSES OF MAN. By Juuivs Brxnsrein, 0. 0. Professor of Physiology in the Uni- versity of Halle. With 91 Illustrations. Price, $1.75. ‘© 292. THE THEORY OF SOUND IN ITS RELATION TO MUSIC. By Prot. Prem BiaseRna, of the Royal University of Rome. With numerous Woodcuts. 1 vol.,12mo. Cloth. Price, $1.50, PROSPECTUS.

D. Arpierow & Co. have the pl that they have made arrangements for publishing, and have recently commenced the issue of, a Series oF nk. =. or small sm under the above title, w ch will embody the results of recent inquiry in the most in departments of advancing scie! The character and scope ot this series will be best indicated b reference tothe names and tidy Germany, France, ad te Se ee ee oe ~ weedy ye LY United States, has been and negotiations are pending for poor wren from other em: h secured The works will be issued simultaneously in New York, London, Paris, Leipsic, Milan, and oP The “yo Screntivic — is entirely an American proj and was originated and organized by Dr. E. L. -_ who spent the greater part of a year in Europe, arranging with authors and pub! The f g volumes are as follows: Prof. W. Kinepon Currrorp, M. A., The tn Principles of the | Dr. Evcene Lommet (University of Er The Nature p A, Te iples of mT ¢ ty langen), ¢g

(Carvery of ), Outlines of } ihe Bienes Valleys, Mountains, Plains, Rivers, Lakes were of , and how have P. Bert of Physiology, Paris), Forme of Life and Rupours Vircuow (Berlin University), Mortnd Physvolo- other ical Canditions. E. Aretave (Professor of Constitutional and A:

Prof Gravee B Beunann, History of the Theorres of Life. Law at Douai, and of Political Economy at Lille), The Chemiserye a a _ P. Lon wrtbrcdaan Gf Metionn Pert Modern Epidemics. RAIN Prof. Wurtz, Atoms and the Atomic Theory. pay Eas WN Prof. Dx Quatreraces, The Human Race. at the Sorbonne), On Fermentations. " nee Lacaze-Dututers, Zodlogy nnce Cuvier. - | pay ee Functions 4 of Organic Chemistry. 1 ons. DeBRay Prof. C. A. Younes, Ph. D. (0 Dartmouth College), The Prof. ConFIELD, M. A., M. D. (Oxon.), Air in ite Relationte Prof. Gepan N. Kooo (Columbia College, N new Yat York H ern Chromatics and its Relations to A Prof, A. Garp, General Embryology. D. APPLETON & CO., Publishers, 549 & §§1 Broadway, N. Yo

Page 589